The Best Four Years of Adam Becker - 13. Freshman Year - Chapter 13

7 o’clock on the dot, we were all standing next to the girthy trunk of Old Elmer, the house’s live oak. The doors opened to the Iota Chi house, and Morton stepped out. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit, his hair neatly combed, his expression stern and sour. The anti-Morton.

“Four lines,” he barked. “Four people in the first two, five people in the second two.”

We arranged ourselves as quickly as possible. We were all in suits, too--for the most part, the suits we were in for the date party, except Tripp who, for some reason, had come to Tulane with three suits.

Everyone looked nervous as hell. Not because we were bracing for the worst--no one thought Iota Chi was going to beat us to death or anything--but because we didn’t know what to expect tonight, for the next semester. Fraternity stuff. So closely guarded.

All I knew was that, at some point, I’d see Kevin Malley. See you Friday, he said. A party of some sort? I didn’t know what that entailed, but there was some sort of comfort in knowing that nothing could be that bad if Kevin Malley was going to make an appearance sometime after we were done with whatever we were doing.

“Come on,” Morton hissed. “Move your fucking asses.”

He was doing an excellent job of looking mean--it was utterly believable, if I didn’t know him better.

Once we were lined up, Morton knocked three deliberate times on the door.

Tommy Pereira opened the door a crack.

“Who asks to enter the Mystic Realm of Iota Chi?” he asked, his voice low and affected.

“Brother Omicron Tau Omicron,” Morton said. “And--” He quickly counted us. “Eighteen outsiders to Iota Chi, if the brotherhood allows it.”

Tommy turned around. “Brothers, will we allow the outsiders entry to our mystic Realm?"

There was a long pause--then a resounding, booming yes, shouted in unison, and the doors swung open all the way.

“Go, go,” Morton whispered, pushing us through the door.

Well, here was the glamour.

Mystic Realm. Slightly cheesy, maybe, but there was certainly the majesty lacking from when I got my bid: every wall in the foyer was draped in black curtains, a giant Iota Chi seal hanging on the wall in front of it. Candles everywhere, lining the floor, the stairs, but pitch black otherwise.

We were led into the middle of the circle, ringed by all of the stone-faced Iota Chi brothers, the most serious I'd ever seen them. I was standing near Chris Baker, who was pointedly refusing to make eye contact with me, and kept biting his lip when it looked like his face would creep into a smile.

I noticed Rob Winslow at the top of the stairs in a red velvet cape, holding a scepter with a ludicrous stuffed vulture on the top. Once we were situated, he came down the stairs to stand directly in front of us, reading from a big leather-bound book, like an old dictionary or an old Bible--I couldn’t read the faded gold text on the cover, in the dim candlelight.

We took some sort of oath, which was mostly in Latin, and then Rob Winslow walked around and fixed us with our pledge pins--gold lyres, the significance of which we’d know when we’re “ready.”

Then Morton marched all eighteen of us upstairs to one of the bedrooms, along with some older brother I had met once during my rush week blitz, but whose name now escaped me.

“Okay, you guys,” the other brother said, closing the door. “I think I know everyone, but I’m Harry Capuano and I’m the pledgemaster this semester. This is Brett Morton, the deputy pledgemaster.”

His voice was deep, booming. Harry Capuano was terrifying as hell. He was about six-three, broad shoulders, looked like he could snap any of us in half like a Kit Kat, and he was scowling at us, irritated, looking at us like we’d just cut him in a really long line.

“So here’s the drill,” he continued, folding his arms. “I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make sure you get initiated into this fraternity, and that you’re worthy enough to wear my letters. It’s going to be tough, and all eighteen of you won’t make it. The brotherhood doesn’t want eighteen initiates. They don’t want mediocre brothers. And if they think you’re going to be one, it doesn’t matter if you’re a fun guy or you bring around some hot pussy or if you can do a long kegstand--you’ll be depledged.

“You’re required to come to everything. If you’re not in class, you’re to be available at short notice. We’ll give you a calendar, but sometimes you’ll have to run unexpectedly. That’s all up to the brotherhood. First assignment is tomorrow, downstairs, at 12:30pm. Dress is coat and tie again. And please don’t wear the same fucking tie you’re wearing tonight.”

He paused, revisited the mental script in his head.

"And your pledge pin must be on you at all times, and visible, if you're out of your room. If we see you without it, you'll be punished.

“And you’ll have a test every Saturday at nine in the morning, on what you need to learn. If you don’t keep your scores above water, you’ll be depledged. And if a single brother votes you down during our pre-initiation meeting, you’ll be depledged.” He looked over to Morton. “Anything else?”

“You guys are going to do great,” Morton added. “We’re really here to make sure you guys are prepared to be brothers. Feel free to ask us anything.”

Good cop, bad cop.

Transparent. Still, a better role for Morton: he wouldn’t be able to keep his stone-faced anger from earlier up for longer than a single evening.

Still, Harry Capuano: terrifying.

“You might not always get an answer,” Harry added. “If we tell you, ‘You’ll know when you’re older,’ don’t fucking push us.”

Morton nodded vigorously in agreement. “Last thing. You need to select your pledge class coordinator. Raise your hand if you want it and we’ll have a vote.”

Erik was the only one who raised his hand, tentatively.

“Makes it easy,” Harry said. “Fontenot, you can delegate, but buck stops with you.” He looked to Morton. “Time to get shitfaced?”

“Time to get shitfaced,” Morton agreed, opening the door.

We came out of the bedroom to all of the brothers, lining the hallway, each holding a plastic flute of champagne high above their head, screaming. Rob Winslow, now looking far less majestic without his red velvet cape and scepter, in a suit like everyone else, was squatting on the newel post, hosing us down with an erupting bottle of Andre, cackling like a maniac. In a few quick motions, we all had champagne, and everyone was racing back downstairs as the music cracked on.

Crowded together in front of the fraternity crest on the foyer wall--the black curtains had been ripped down, put away--and people began pouring out of the kitchen. Friends of friends--not an open party, but the usual suspects. I didn’t see Kevin, but I figured this was where I would.

I finished my champagne. Then shotgunned a beer at Rob Winslow’s insistence--”Pledge, fifteen seconds or less.” I made it in twelve, to applause. Then filled a champagne flute full of red vat, and went to find everyone else.

“Congrats, man,” Chris Baker said, slapping me on the back. “Welcome.”

“Pledge! My glass is empty!” shrieked Morton across the room, to no one in particular, before downing a shot with Tommy Pereira.

It was pandemonium in the first degree, a sprint compared to the marathon that tended to be Iota Chi parties. Everyone consuming as much booze in as little time as possible.

“Yeah, I’m excited,” I said, wiping vat from my mouth with the back of my suit sleeve. “I think it’s going to be fun.”

By this point, I’d seen Kevin Malley from across the room. Unexpected: he had cut his hair short, buzz cut almost to the scalp, which made him look even more rugged than his shaggy hair, somehow. Masculine. Kind of soldierly, almost, or at least like a movie star playing a soldier--he was too attractive to be real.

He was talking to Ryan Wyatt, who was gay and no one really cared, aside from the same gentle razzing they gave everyone else. Being gay made him stand out from the pack and, in fraternities, any difference like that is cause for the good-natured joking that occupied everyone’s time.

I wondered if Ryan knew Kevin was gay. Or, hell, even vice versa. Ryan was not the kind of guy who gave off any vibes, at least in the few minutes I’d spent talking to him, during the whirlwind of rush week.

And then I wondered if they both knew the other person was gay, and they had slept together. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t like to think about Kevin Malley with another guy. That was my man.

Kevin caught me staring, raised a beer in my direction, and headed over.

It was my first time seeing him in public, since we’d started things; everything else had been confined to the bedroom for the past week.

He had his usual smug, insular smile streaked across his face, and I really wanted to bounce back into bed with him at that very moment. Not just because he was hot and he was hung, but because he liked me, because we’d messed around now three times, twice in the last week.

But actually, I was surprised how easy it was seeing him out and about. That time I saw Patrick ManFind, Patrick Sullivan, whatever he was, made me shit myself. Seeing Kevin Malley move effortlessly through the Iota Chi house didn’t make me uncomfortable. Maybe because I trusted that he wouldn’t tell anyone about what we were doing. Or maybe just because it was Kevin Malley and you couldn’t help but not feel comfortable around a guy like him.

“Look who’s an Iota Chi,” he said, clinking my champagne flute with his beer. “Finally.”

“Pledge,” Baker corrected. “He’s an Iota Chi pledge.”

“Right,” Kevin replied. “I always mess that up.” His smile grew a bit. “So how was Christmas, Becker? Since I haven’t seen you since December.”

We both exchanged polite, uncomfortable smiles. Of course, we hadn’t publicly been seen together since December, though that was not necessarily the way I thought he was going to take the fiction. It seemed weird to regurgitate my vacation stories--of which there were none--to someone who I’d hooked up with less than seventy-two hours before.

“Really good,” I said, indulging the small talk. “Really good. Back in D.C. for it and everything.”

“Nice,” he said. “Snow?”

The weather? Really?

“No snow. You get any?”

“Ha,” he replied, smirking. “Not in the desert.” He looked to Chris Baker, mercifully switched the subject away from banalities like weather. I wanted him naked so bad. “Veronica wants to know how long this party’s going to go. She’s on her way, but said she might just go straight to Old Bruno’s.”

“Not too long,” Chris said. “Like, an hour? We don’t have that much shit here. We’re supposed to all be going to Quill’s, in case Bruno’s is carding. Just tell her to get her ass here.” His phone started ringing. He reached into his pocket. “My mom,” he said, holding it up. “It’s Charlie’s Zeta induction tonight, and she’s being all--well, I’ll be right back.” He answered the phone, forced his way through the crowd, out onto the porch.

“So,” Kevin said, folding his arms.

“So. Got a haircut?”

He touched the short hair around his temple. “Figured I’d switch it up.”

The conversation slid back downhill--it was just the two of us; conversation was so easy in bed, or online, but not in the middle of a crowded Iota Chi party.

“Was it always this awkward to talk in public?” he asked me, finally.

“I think it’s you.”

He smirked, that sly half-smile of his. “Maybe it’s me. You leave me speechless. That must be it.” He bit the edge of his beer can and, with his mouth full, said, “So, have you heard about the depraved acts the Iota Chis make their pledges do?”

For a second, I felt my heart drop, and then I smacked him on the side of the head. “You’re retarded, Malley.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, trying to suppress a smile as much as he could. “I came back from class, and there was Baker, sitting on his bed, looking like he had unspeakable things done to him.”

“Oh, unspeakable things?” Morton said, appearing behind me. “Like all the buttfucking the pledges take? Yeah, it’s a bitch at first, pledge, but you learn to take it like a man.” He could barely get the last part out without breaking into a goofy grin, giggling, and then turning to go talk to a group of girls nearby.

Kevin and I were both silent for slightly too long. “Quick, say something to make this more awkward,” Kevin muttered. Then, louder: “Tripp, man! Congrats.”

I spun around, and there was Tripp, holding a shot glass that said “Pay It Forward” on it, and tottering a little bit.

“Five shots,” he said, his voice slurring. “I have to hand it off now.”

“To me? Where’s Erik, or something.”

“Shit, son,” Tripp said, closing his eyes, shaking his head in disapproval. “Drink it like a pledge, man. Man, pledge”

“Close,” I said.

“Drink it like a man, pledge!” he shrieked.

“You can’t call him pledge,” Baker said, reappearing behind Kevin, his phone call not taking nearly as long as I had thought--I couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Baker would have to say about Zeta. “Only we can call you pledge, pledge.”

“Pledge,” Tripp spat, defiantly, before spinning around and wobbling off in the other direction.

“Yeah, five shots,” Chris said. “That’s Scott Branch’s thing. It's called 'Four Horsemen and Hell Follows.'"

“Sounds charming.”

“It sucks,” Chris said. “We've all been there. Hard to escape it tonight if you're a pledge. Shots of Jim Beam, Johnnie Walker, Jack Daniels, and Jameson. Washed down with a shot of Everclear. That’s the hell that follows. Then you hand it off.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll hold your hair back for you tonight, Becker, I promise.”

Did I expect to wake up in Kevin Malley’s bed? Not really. Maybe a little bit. I certainly didn’t remember getting there. Room was spinning when I woke up, but I knew exactly where I was. I was already drunk by the time the party moved to Old Bruno’s. I vaguely recall Michaela and Jordan being there, with a bunch of their floormates--Rachel Weisberg, all over Tripp--but that was probably one of the last things I recall. Drinks were free-flowing. Shots were mandatory.

Chris Baker had obviously lied when he said he wouldn’t buy us drinks after we pledged, because he seemed to have one to thrust into our hands every single minute last night.

Fraternity life 1, Peter Adam Becker 0.

I closed my eyes. My head felt like it was in a trash compactor--pounding. I rolled over, expecting to see a naked Kevin Malley, but I didn’t. In fact, I wasn’t even naked--my shirt was off but I was still wearing my suit pants. Which made the whole situation a little hazy.

There was a throat cleared from across the room. Kevin was sitting at his desk, on his computer, in black pants and a white button-down, a silver name tag, "Kevin, San Bernardino, CA" pinned to his pocket.

“Shit,” I said. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said, not looking at me. He was typing something.

I was lying on a pillow that looked like a giant Nintendo controller, which had definitely not been on his bed any of the other times I’d been in his room.

“Oh, God,” I said, craning my neck to look back at it. “You’re a nerd.”

He looked up, grinned. “You literally made the exact same joke last night,” he said. “I like it. Finally got around unpacking my Christmas gifts. By the way, Morton says I can make you clean my bathroom. You’ll see why when you go in there.”

“Oh, God,” I said, parts of the night flooding back to me. “Puke?”

He turned around, a big smile on his face. “Let’s just say all of your bodily fluids come out as projectiles.”

I grunted; I was not in the mood for jolly Kevin or sexual innuendo. “When did you come up with that one?”

“About an hour ago,” he said, huge smile barely contained on his face. “I’ve been waiting to use it. I was hoping you’d be up before I had to leave. Your puke mostly made the bowl, though, it looks like--it’s not that bad. Few bits here and there.”

He went back to his computer. He had AIM up, and he was chatting with someone, but it was too far away for me to tell who.

“So, like,” I said. “What, exactly.” I searched for the right word, couldn’t find it; my brain was not braining this hungover, this early in the day. “Happened.”

He spun around. “Well, you got kicked out of Old Bruno’s because you puked on me.” He paused. “Oh, Baker says you have to do my laundry, too.”

And I wondered who knew I was here--who knew that I had crawled into Kevin’s bed, wrapped myself around a Nintendo controller pillow, and passed out next to him.

I tried to word it correctly: “So,” I tried. “How much does Baker know about last night, exactly?”

“Come on,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “I told him you were too drunk to get back to campus, so I let you crash here. Which is pretty much exactly what happened."

“But, we,” I said. “Like.”

Kevin scoffed at the notion of that. “You wish,” he said. “I practically had to carry you home. You weren’t going to handle anything more athletic than standing.”

“You didn’t have to take me home,” I told him. But I appreciated it. I debated telling him I appreciated it, but I didn’t.

“Well, we left the bar together,” he replied, casually. “You because you were kicked out, me because I was covered in vomit. And you kept saying that you wanted to come back here, and I kept saying I would rather kill you and hide your body in Audubon Park, but you insisted. Promised me an apology blowjob, and, well. You know I have trouble turning that sort of thing down. So we got here, and you took off your shirt, and then--let’s just say you didn’t get me too aroused before you had to bury your head in my toilet.”

“God,” I said, settling back down into the Nintendo pillow. My head was still spinning--by far the most hungover I’d been since I started Tulane. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Kind of my fault too. I should’ve known your gag reflex was the last thing I should be testing. But I’m holding you to that promised apology blowjob, though. You’re now two blowjobs in debt, if I recall correctly.” He looked at his watch. “But you have to go pretty soon. You’re crashing sororities.”

Go? Crashing sororities? At this point, I wasn’t even positive I was going to be able to stand on my own two feet, or even sit up in Kevin’s bed, let alone go to a pledge event at Iota Chi.

“What?”

“Oh,” he said. "Yeah, you have to be at the house at 12:30 for a ‘surprise assignment.’” He put the last bit in air quotes. “You’re crashing the sorority bid day cocktail hours.” He shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m not an Iota Chi. I can spoil the surprises if I want to. You have to, like, break into their houses and steal some sorority shit. And they’re going to try to take your pins, or something. Some dumb Greek shit.”

I grabbed my chest, instinctively, looking for mine, even though I realized I had my shirt off.

“It’s still on your blazer, I think.” He kicked his laundry basket in the direction of his bed, big grin on his face. “Before you leave. Don’t mix colors and whites, pledge.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. I focused on getting out of bed; Kevin watched in schadenfreudal amusement. I lifted my head first, propped myself up on my elbow, clawed my one foot off the side of the bed, slowly wriggled my way into some sort of standing position.

I felt like shit. Absolutely shit. Kevin’s room was so bright, and so spinny.

I didn’t exactly see where all of my clothes had landed, except for the pants I was wearing. My shirt was on the foot of the bed, thankfully vomit-free; the tie and the blazer were incognito.

“Do you think they’ll notice I’ll have the same thing on as yesterday?” I asked him, as I buttoned up my dress shirt. “Harry said I couldn’t wear the same tie as yesterday.”

Kevin didn’t say anything; he went over to his closet, and opened the door. I watched him, as I fastened the buttons on my shirt as quickly as I could. He was studying the ties he had on the back of the door--he had far more ties than I’d thought he would; maybe fifteen or twenty, all hanging in a rainbow of silk arrows. He pulled out a green and blue striped one.

“Here,” he said, pulling it off the rack. “Tulane colors. Everyone will think you’re festive, and no one will notice.” He came back over to me, draped it around my neck, and then started tying it for me, even though I didn’t ask him and I knew how to tie a tie.

I thought I was a mess, but it turned out the rest of the straggling pledge class was just as bad. At least I was there at 12:30. Patrick, Ben, and Will didn’t get there until 12:35, which Harry documented in a black leatherbound notebook. Erik and Tripp came in around ten minutes after that, also documented. Everyone looked like they had been exhumed.

“When I say 12:30, I mean fucking 12:30,” Harry hollered, once everyone was there. “Come on, you guys. This is day fucking one. It’s not fucking hard. You know, I was just going to give you guys a quick briefing on next week and let you take the afternoon off, but if you make my job hard, I’m going to make your job hard.”

“What are you thinking?” Morton chimed in, on cue.

“How about... pins?” he said. “Like, say, each pledge has to steal me two sorority pins from their bid day.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Morton said. “I wouldn’t want to be you guys.” He looked to Erik. “That’s thirty-six pins among all of you, Fontenot. You're not done if someone doesn't have two."

“Yeah, you all get two, or none of you get two,” added Harry. “And be back here by 3. Not fucking 3:05, like this time. And at least one pin from every sorority."

The theatrics were really quite well done. I wondered how many times that had been rehearsed. How many times this scene had been re-enacted for pledge classes past.

“Come on, you guys,” Erik said, sternly, clapping his hands together. “We can do this.” Pretty mediocre pep speech from our Dear Leader. He turned to me. “Where the fuck were you last night?”

“I passed out on Kevin Malley’s couch,” I told him. “I couldn’t, like, get back to campus. I was pretty drunk.”

“I was, too,” Tripp said. “Shit, man, I thought you hooked up or something. You kind of disappeared.”

“No,” I said. “I got kicked out, ran into Kevin.”

“Ran into him with your barf,” Morton added, with a smile, walking by.

“Yeah,” I said, gingerly willing to admit to this story if only because it was far less incriminating than anything else anyone could suspect. “I puked on Kevin Malley at Bruno's and we got kicked out.”

Tripp started giggling. I saw Patrick ManFind turn around and glare at me, and I remembered his whole thing with vomit all of the sudden. I wondered what had happened with him or Ben last night. If one of them had puked all over, too. I didn’t want to hate Patrick, but part of me kind of did, and part of me hoped he had been sitting somewhere last night covered in lots of vomit.

“Oh, and by the way,” Harry added. “Sorority bid days are invite only. They can bring one guy a piece. Should’ve added that.”

“Fuck it,” Ben said.

“Wait, wait,” Patrick said. “We have to know, like, a bid in every sorority between all of us. Send someone in and, like, steal a bunch.”

“Yeah,” Erik chimed, taking over the idea fully-formed as if it was his own. “Start texting your bitches and figure out who got bids. If you know someone, go over and get her to let you in. Take as many pins as you can.”

“Birdrock’s officially a go for Tri-Gamma,” Tripp said, holding up his phone. “Dibs.”

“So, what, do you think we just tell them we need a pin?” asked Tripp, as he, Patrick, Eddie Darien, and I walked down to the Tri-Gamma house, a few blocks up Broadway from the Iota Chi house.

“They’re not going to give it to us,” Patrick said. “If it was that easy, we wouldn’t have to do it.”

Somehow, Patrick had been put in the Tri-Gamma group with us, because he was tagging along with Annie Rue, the girl he had sucked face with at the rush week date party, who had accepted Tri-Gamma that morning.

“Well, we need eight for the four of us,” said Eddie. I hadn’t met Eddie Darien before last night, but I had seen him around; he was a distinct figure. He was about six foot six, which made him stand out in most crowds. He had thick eyebrows, bushy hair, and terrible posture, which made him look kind of like a mythical giant trying to blend into the human world.

“Yeah, but more, really,” Tripp said. “Because you know someone’s going to fuck up. And you heard Harry--we need thirty-six for all of us, not really just two apiece.”

Veronica Tandy, in a white sundress and a flying saucer of a straw hat, holding a mimosa, was on the porch when we got there, and ran down to greet us.

“Becker!” she greeted. “I’m so glad you texted me!” She gave me a hug, and rasped in my ear: “I’m going to watch you like a hawk, little man.”

I pulled out of the hug. She was grinning maniacally. “You’re mean sober.”

“Oh, I’m a good sport,” she said, chipperly. “I’m letting you in. But I know the shit every fraternity pulls today. I don’t know what you’re here to do, but our girls are well-briefed on all of this. They’re going to eat your balls for breakfast.”

“If we’re lucky,” Patrick quipped.

Veronica glared at him, then looked back at me. “Why do you smell like ass?”

“Rough night,” I said.

“Oh, God,” she said, rummaging in her purse. “You puke all over Kevin and you don’t even have the decency to brush your teeth before you crash our reception?”

She pulled out a box of Altoids, handed me three of them.

"How'd you hear about that?"

"God, drunko. I was sitting right next to him. You nearly got me too. And now you’re wearing his Tulane tie, so I know you didn’t stumble back to campus this morning.”

She grabbed my hand and led me up into the house, while the other guys waited for their girls to bring them inside.

She wasn’t letting go of my hand, which made things difficult. She wasn’t a rookie at this, and I just hoped the other girls would be more unsuspecting.

“Jackie,” she said, bringing me over to some brunette. “This is Adam Becker. He’s up to no-good.”

She was a freshman, obviously. She was wearing a white sundress, like the rest of them, but also Mardi Gras beads with a hanging medallion that read, “I Tried Tri-Gamma.”

“What are you here to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Veronica answered for me. “Last year, Iota Chi had to steal the brass raven from above the mantle. While we were in the room. You can ask Morton how that one went.”

“I’m just here to meet some Tri-Gammas,” I said, as earnestly as I could. “I hear good things.”

“Bullshit,” Veronica said. To Jackie, she added, “Iota Chi, Sigma Alpha, and Gamma Beta are the three fraternities who always pull shit today. So just, like, be on the lookout. Can you keep Becker company?”

“Sure,” Jackie said. Veronica let go of my hand, grabbed my wrist and pulled it over to Jackie’s. Jackie’s hand tightened around mine; her hand was smaller, more damp than Veronica’s.

“Don’t let him go,” Veronica said, and she skulked off.

“I’m Jackie, sorry,” she said. She had a silky Southern accent, vaguely New Orleanian, not nonexistent like Veronica’s, but not quite as rich as Tripp’s. “Jackie Hughes--I went to high school with Veronica.” She let go of my hand, gave a nervous giggle. “We don’t have to, like, hold hands.”

This Jackie Hughes was rather pretty--she was pale and slender, her hair was dark brown, eyes almost black; I could see my reflection in those obsidian eyes. They had life; they weren’t empty. She had an easy smile, a dimple on just one side of her mouth, a nervous tick where she kept tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “Veronica said I’m not to be trusted.”

“Are you to be trusted?”

“Oh, of course,” I told her. “Would I lie?”

She smiled at that, too. Leaned in, put her hand on my chest and let it linger there. She lowered her voice. “What are you here to steal?”

“I’m not,” I replied, casual as I could. “I’m just here to have a mimosa or two. Take in the architecture of this old house. Maybe discuss the finer points of TARP with some sorority girl.”

She grinned, eyes lit up. But she stayed close, leaned in to whisper in my ear. “No, but maybe I can help. I’ve been drinking all morning, and I kind of like to steal when I’m drinking.”

Drunk kleptomania was kind of hot, girl or guy. I wondered if she was flirting with me. I also wondered if this was some sort of gimmick, some way to distract me because most men fell to Play Doh at the sight of a pretty, interested girl, but I mostly wondered if she was flirting with me.

“No, you’re going to tell Veronica,” I smirked. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“Your loss,” she replied, still smiling, grabbing my hand again. “I guess I’ll just have to keep babysitting you until you crack.”

“Imagine my surprise,” Michaela said, sauntering up to us, Tripp scurrying behind her. “When I get a text from my dear friend, Cuthbert Hollis Callender III, asking what sorority bid me today. What a nice gesture, I thought. He must really care about me, one of my oldest college friends, that Cuthbert Hollis Callender III. And--”

“I was being nice,” Tripp protested. He mouthed to me, “Got one,” and held up a clenched fist.

Jackie, unfortunately, saw; she whipped her eyes from his fist, back to me, but she at least didn’t see what he had in his hand. She was a tough one; she was going to be a worthy adversary.

“I don’t think we met,” she said, chipperly, letting go of my hand and extending her own hand for him to shake. “I’m Jackie.”

“Tripp,” Tripp replied. He was too smart to unfurl his hand; he, instead, offered her a fist bump. She reciprocated, did not look pleased about it. “Sorry,” he said, lamely, but he couldn’t really elaborate on that any further, so he switched the subject: “Keeping an eye on Becker, I see?”

Jackie nodded enthusiastically.

Across the room, Patrick had his arms around Annie Rue. The fact that she wasn’t yet on to him was hopeful, but I just couldn’t not be bothered by the two of them. Seeing his ass facing me, on display, as if taunting me that he could put his arms around a girl and then show me that ass I’d seen in its glory just four months ago.

“Imagine my surprise,” Michaela started up again, “when he said he wanted to accompany me to my bid day. And I thought, what a great idea. Who could be more trustworthy, loyal, than good old Cuthbert Hollis Callender III?”

“It’s weird when you say my whole name,” Tripp said. “I was just being nice. I thought you could introduce me to some of your sisters. So we could mix, or something.” He turned back to Jackie. “You must be a freshman. You don’t have a pin. Do only sisters have pins?”

“Yeah,” Jackie said, flashing me a knowing smile--she’d figured out what was in Tripp’s fist; I shot him a glare, but he didn’t seem to notice it; he was pretty fixated on the pretty sorority girl in our captivity. “You get a pin with letters on it when you’re a sister.”

“Funny,” Tripp said. “Ours works the other way around. Pledge pins.”

“Funny,” Jackie repeated. “Can I see yours?”

Tripp snapped his clenched fist over his pin defensively. “It’s kind of fragile.”

Someone’s purse was unattended at the table behind Jackie, sitting on a chair. Pin attached to the strap. I took a step over in that direction. One more step. I was still with the circle, still listening to Michaela, Jackie, and Tripp banter. Still close enough not to look suspicious. Or too suspicious, at least.

I hooked the leg of the chair with my foot, dragged it over closer to us. I reached down, grabbed the pin, and pulled.

Victory.

Jackie was hanging all over me, the drunker she got. Definitely being a little bit flirty, but I didn’t know if it was genuine interest or the booze. Not that it mattered. She was holding my hand again, which limited my mobility.

We were five pins in. I got one, Tripp got one, Eddie was too gigantic to have the necessary finesse so he was useless, and Patrick had somehow managed three. He was predictably wonderful at the art of deception.

“I can’t believe Rachel went Delta Delta Rho,” Jackie was saying to Michaela, as if I wasn’t there, despite being completely enveloped in her arms. “They’re such sluts.”

“Can’t believe? First place I’d see her.” Michaela shook her head. “Love the girl to death but, let’s face it, her D-cup was the only sales pitch she had.”

“Meow,” I observed.

Tripp leaned into the conversation, fist clenched again; he must’ve gotten another one. “Another drink, ladies?”

They both nodded.

“Let Becker free,” Tripp told Jackie, “so he can help me carry.”

I expected more resistance from Jackie; she casually let me go.

“Don’t think I won’t still be watching,” she warned me, smile on her face, dimple popping. “No tricks. Clear line of sight to the bar, and I know Veronica’s watching you too.”

I glanced over towards the bar, where Veronica was standing in a circle of other Tri-Gammas; on cue, she was glaring at me from under her unidentified flying hat, a doberman of Tri-Gamma security, shaking her head slowly, viciously, at me.

“Best behavior,” I promised, and Jackie Hughes smiled again at that.

Tripp and I pushed our way through the crowd.

“I’m going to need a distraction,” I told him. “I just can’t seem to get away from her.”

“Relax,” Tripp told me. “I’ve got two, Patrick’s vacuuming them up. You should just focus on getting laid while we do the dirty work.”

It took me a second to figure out he was talking about Jackie. “What?”

“Please,” he said. “You’re so going to get laid.”

“I am not,” I said, with a grin that I knew undercut my credibility.

Look, I was gay. I knew that. I had Kevin, anyway. I had no intention of sleeping with Jackie. I didn’t even know if I could sleep with Jackie, physically speaking. No plans on committing a Patrick Sullivan today.

And yet, it was incredibly flattering, because Jackie was hot, and she was all over me, and if I wanted it, I was pretty sure I could have it. I was so used to Erik being around, being hot, sweeping up all the girls like a snowplow. And I didn’t care because I didn’t want any of those girls but, from a completely self-esteem angle, it was nice today.

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Day’s young.”

The day wasn’t that young; twenty minutes later, Patrick came by to announce that it was almost three, that we had to head back to the Iota Chi house.

“Aw,” Jackie said, setting me free for the last time. She was relatively drunk by this point, a drunkenness that had just started to manifest itself, cheeks red, glassy eyes, bit of a sway. “Don’t be a stranger.”

I smiled, didn’t reply. I did plan on being a stranger, but it was flattering as hell to get an invite; I could see Tripp’s eyebrows go up in congratulatory approval. I figured, at the very least, I could use Jackie as a way to deflect suspicion for a little while.

We made it back to the Iota Chi house five minutes before three; Harry was standing on the porch, arms folded, staring into the distance with a scowl on his face, as if he was expecting us to be late. But we’d learned our lesson from the morning; we could see other groups of our brothers leaving the different houses, coming up Broadway.

Once we were all there, Harry led us back inside. He spread out all the stolen pins on the pool table.

“Thirty nine,” Harry said, dropping the last pin on the table. “Cutting it awfully close, don’t you think?” He looked to Erik. “Who was the best and worst?”

Erik looked a little stunned. “What?”

“Who got the most,” Harry said, “and who sucked donkey dick?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Erik said. Clearly suddenly thinking he stumbled onto a stroke of brilliance, he added, “I don’t think it’s fair to judge my brothers. We live and die as a group.”

“Touching,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “I can see why you’d think that’s the answer I’m looking for, but it’s not.” He pointed to Patrick. “Who’s the worst? Are you the worst?”

“No, I’m not the worst. I got four pins.”

“Ha,” Harry said. “You got three pins. Technically speaking. Because you lost a pin.” He paused dramatically; Patrick did not seem to be following the conversation. “In fact, it appears that two of you standing among us are missing one very important pin. Which makes you two the worst.”

Patrick looked down, grabbed his chest. “Fuck.”

I didn’t even have to look down to figure out why Jackie Hughes had her hands all over me.