The Best Four Years of Adam Becker - 16. Freshman Year - Chapter 16

I woke up on Mardi Gras Day with a throbbing head and a sore ass.

Because Kevin had fucked me the night before.

“We should go to Biloxi,” he had said, leaning back against the headboard, smoking a very self-satisfied bowl after it was done. My underwear had been cast off in Kevin’s haste to penetrate; I was drunkenly trying to get my arm far enough under the bed to reach them.

“Why Biloxi?” I asked, finally snagging the catch. “We can’t gamble.”

He shrugged, exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “Just to get away. I have a car.”

“I think people might get suspicious if we go away for a dirty weekend,” I replied, pulling on my underwear. “But it’s a thought.”

"You don't want people to get the wrong idea," he said. "But won't your not-a-date with that Tri-Gamma pledge on Friday distract and divert?"

He handed me the bowl, an olive branch to show he was discussing, not attacking. I accepted.

“Yeah, word gets around,” he said, rustling back into the pillow. “I fucked you anyway. Someone should tell her you’re a big old bottom.”

I ignored that last part. "Nothing's going to happen," I told him.

“I know nothing’s going to happen,” he replied, curtly.

"It’s Boot happy hour with a zillion other people. I deposit her back at J.L. and then I can come back over here." I tried to get him to smile, dribbled out a pathetic, "Please.”

He grunted.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said, his voice curt because he was mad.

He didn't say anything; he took back the bowl, squinted at it. "It's cashed. This shit's no good."

"I thought you were out of weed."

"I was out of product," he explained, setting the pipe down on the nightstand. "To sell. I never run out of weed. I'm like the U.S. with oil. If the world goes to shit, I always have ANWR."

"I don’t know--will that logic still hold under the Hillary Clinton Administration?"

He swatted that away. "Please. John Edwards. Country isn't ready for a woman or a black man. That’s just a fact." He sat up, flipped the conversation back like a switch. “I’m not mad--I just think says volumes about you, that you’re willing to entertain the thought of this girl.”

“I’m not,” I told him. “I was backed into a corner--Morton, Baker, Veronica, everyone was standing right there where this girl threw herself at me. What was I supposed to do?”

Kevin didn’t have a response for that, because there was no response for that: he wasn’t out. He didn’t have very much in the way of moral high ground, and we both knew that painstakingly well.

“Regardless,” he said, and there was a brief pause as he tried to figure out what his next gambit was; I could see him growing frustrated that he wasn’t completely in the right and I wasn’t completely in the wrong.

I seized on the rare opportunity to catch Kevin speechless:

“Please,” I told him. “Like you didn’t just idly sit by and let people think you were banging Veronica.”

“Idly,” he replied. “It’s completely different. Inaction versus action. You’re throwing other people into the mix now.” He paused. “Whatever, I’m through being mad at you. You do what you want. I’m just along for the ride.”

I chose not to pull at the loose strings of what seemed to be oblique forgiveness. “Are you going to light another one?”

He shook his head, his eyes fluttered shut. “Too tired.”

“I’m not used to seeing you so winded,” I told him. “I thought you’d be singing ‘Borderline’ after this again.”

He opened his eyes, rolled them, closed them again. “One time, and I never get to live it down.”

“Never,” I told him.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said. “I’m really not mad.”

“I know. I should head back though. Tripp’s going to wonder where I am.”

He didn’t get get up. He just nodded, his eyes still closed. Our collective energy was mostly spent by then--after the drinking, the fucking, the weed. So I let him fall gently to sleep, and I put my clothes on, turned off the lights, and made my way back to Sharp.

When I got home, Tripp was asleep already--no explanation necessary for my whereabouts the night before. He wouldn’t remember the last dregs of the evening, of where I was. His mind would fill in the blanks as needed: stopover at the Boot for pizza, maybe. Went to the new Rathskeller, the late-night cafe in the basement of the University Center. Even just smoked a bowl at Kevin Malley’s. Let him use his imagination. He wouldn’t ask.

And when I woke up, Tripp was already gone--his backpack was too, which meant he had gone to studio, because architecture majors didn’t sleep, even on Mardi Gras Day.

His wooden models, on the shelf above his bed, twinkled in the scathing midday light.

My phone was on the floor, 55% battery--I hadn’t plugged it in the night before. I flipped it open. Voicemail from my mother, which was never a good sign.

“It’s your mother,” she said, in a tone that insisted on guilt; I had talked to her roughly 72 hours ago, which meant the Amber Alert could not be very far behind. “Call me back when you get a chance. I want to book Justine’s tickets to visit Tulane, and I need to know which weekend works best.”

The thought of Justine visiting me at Tulane was stress-inducing. Not because I didn’t love Justine. Not because I didn’t think my college friends would like her--I figured the Iota Chis would like her more than they liked me--but the whole situation was just an unwelcome mixing of yin and yang. I could just imagine Tripp and Jordan exchanging glances every time Justine called me Peter; I could just imagine her meeting Kevin Malley, me hanging on every conversation between the two of them, wondering what had been read between the lines.

I did not call my mother back; I called my brother.

“Someone’s up early on Mardi Gras,” Philip greeted. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not--it was one o’clock in New Orleans, two o’clock in New Haven--but I had just woken up, so I didn’t want to push my luck either way. “Fun day planned?”

“No,” I said. “Hangover day. We all have class tomorrow.”

There was shuffling on the other line, like he wasn't fully dedicated to this conversation, like I'd caught him in a moment where he was engulfed in a better option.

"Is this a bad time?" I asked.

"No, it's fine," he said. "I'm just cooking."

Words I'd never thought I'd hear from Philip's mouth.

"You're cooking? What are you cooking?"

The unmistakable clang of a pot falling to the ground.

"I'm making mac and cheese," he said. In defeat, added, "Whatever. I'll order pizza." Ambient noise disappeared as he took me off speakerphone. "What's up?"

“Not much,” I said. “Justine wants to visit.”

“Cool,” he said. I had a sneaking feeling that my exact trepidation might be lost on Philip. “So you talked to Mom, I guess? She booked Justine’s train to New Haven this morning for March.”

My mother liked to have a project, and liked to see it through to completion, which meant I was the hurdle standing in the way of checking the box on Justine’s travel itinerary.

“She got her the freaking Acela,” Philip replied. I could hear chips crunching in his mouth. “She never gets me the Acela. I have to slum it in coach on the Regional for five hours.”

“It’s Justine,” I told him, and there was a grunt of affirmative solidarity--Justine was the baby, the only girl. Special privileges that came along with that cachet.

“It’ll be fun, though,” he said. “You had fun up here last year, didn’t you?”

My trip to visit Philip at Yale hadn’t been, exactly, what I would consider fun. I got tipsy off some sort of cherry red vat in their fraternity house, and after that it seemed to be pretty okay, but I was very cognizant of the fact that Peter Becker did not belong at the Zeta house at Yale. Everyone there was a work of majesty--handsome and accomplished, fun, smart. Philip was, of course, the president, the ringleader, because it was Philip and he couldn’t help but be at peak Philip all the time. I just wondered how everyone was silently contrasting me to Philip.

“Yeah, it was a blast,” I told him, of course. “I just don’t know what to do with her. What are you going to do with her?”

“What do you mean?” He said. “You take her around. You do the campus tour, you let her buy you a nice dinner on Dad’s credit card. Get her drunk at the fraternity, make sure no one sleeps with her, and then you put her back on the train on Sunday. Exactly what I did with you when you came up here. The logistics are pretty minimal. Justine’s not going to embarrass you.”

"I don't know," I said. "It's not that. It's just weird having her down here."

"Peter," he said, and then he stopped. "Look, just do what you normally do. Even you can make college looks so glamorous to a high schooler.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I just meant she’s not going to be bored. You’re in New Orleans.”

No, of course he didn't seem to grasp the situation, but what was I thinking: it was Philip. Philip, who inhabited the Land of Oz, a technicolor daydream.

"I guess you're right," I said, instead. There was an awkward pause, as I figured out whether or not I should continue to push the topic, futile as it seemed. "How's Yale? How's Lindsay?"

"Yale good, Lindsay good," he replied. "Dad threatened to pull strings to get me a legal internship at the Heritage Foundation."

I giggled at that. "That's so you."

"Could you imagine?" he laughed. "I told him to pull different strings. If I'm going to reap the benefits of nepotism, it's not going to be at the freaking Heritage Foundation.”

“He keeps trying,” I replied, “to make you his Dubya.”

Philip started to go on at length about the other internships he was looking into--Reid’s House Majority office, the EPA, the Department of Justice--and then there was a long pause, rumbling in the background, Philip faintly yelling, “Sausage and pepperoni,” to one of his housemates.

He came back into the conversation a few seconds later: “Sorry, Tom was ordering Papa John’s. What was I talking about?”

“Justine,” I replied.

“Right,” he said, but we weren’t, so he didn’t quite know how to leap back into the conversation. “Just, you know. You’ll be fine. She’ll have fun.”

“Thanks,” I told him.

 

The rest of the shortened week was like waiting around for nuclear winter. Jackie Hughes texted me on Thursday to confirm; I texted her back to make sure her friend, Lauren, was also confirmed. Lauren was the key component to this situation--without Lauren and Tripp, it was a date. With Lauren and Tripp, it was a group of people hanging out at the Boot for happy hour, surrounded by hundreds of other people in groups hanging out at the Boot for happy hour. Lauren was my exit strategy, the fulcrum that this whole evening rested on.

Luckily, she was “very excited.”

“I just don’t understand why Tripp has to go along,” judged Erik, tousling his hair front of our mirror, which he had been doing for the last few minutes. “If you want to fuck her so badly, you should take her to Fresco’s or something. It’s not like you have to get her drunk. She practically said she wanted to hop on your dick.”

Jackie Hughes had not said anything of the sort, though I lacked the ability to dog-whisper girls like Erik did.

“I just,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t want there to be pressure in case things go south.”

Erik rolled his eyes; Tripp sprung to my defense, because it was Tripp. “I’m happy to go,” he said. “Lauren’s a cute girl.”

“She’s alright,” Erik replied. “Ginger.” He looked away from the mirror, at me. “Just, happy hour at the Boot. Everyone’s going to be at the Boot.”

I was going to admit that was kind of the point: high visibility. And okay, I wasn’t saying this was a flawless plan--it wasn’t; it was the direct result of being backed into a corner by Veronica Tandy and a bunch of Iota Chis who thought the reason I “wasn’t getting laid” because of a Chris Baker code orange level of discomfort around prospective women. But if I was going to check off these boxes, it was damn well going to be visible.

“Whatever,” Erik said. “Does she have any actual hot friends she’s bringing along, or do I have to stay on the other side of the bar from the herd the whole night?”

The three of us walked across the quad towards the Boot at a little before six; Erik went to the Iota Chi house first, and we beelined for Josephine Louise House, stood uncomfortably at the front desk--it was the all-girls’ dorm, so men couldn’t sneak by as easily as we would’ve been able to in a co-ed dorm--and waited for them to come downstairs.

I hadn’t dated a woman before--Sarah Bernard was the closest I’d gotten, and that had been a calamity almost from start to finish, insofar as it ever started or finished--but the waiting time would kill me. Ten minutes rolled by before they came downstairs. The beauty of Kevin Malley was he’d answer the door in basketball shorts and no shirt, holding a beer or a blunt, and he wasn’t especially concerned with who he was impressing.

Jackie Hughes did look pretty stellar though. Overdressed for the Boot at happy hour--she was wearing a black cocktail dress, pearls, and a decent amount of makeup illuminating her pretty face--but clearly she was planning on making a statement tonight. Which was, of course, terrifying, because I was relatively sure what that statement was going to be.

Lauren cleaned up well too; her freckles had been glossed over with foundation, hair curled. Tripp looked pleasantly surprised with his unexpected windfall.

“I feel like I never see you at Boot happy hour,” Jackie said, as we started walking; despite my best efforts, Tripp was hanging behind, in a misguided attempt to give me a little organically-occurring alone time with Jackie.

“Well, it’s not right across the quad for me,” I told her. “Do you go a lot?”

“Most weeks,” she said. “I have class until five on Fridays, which sucks, so I’m usually ready to start drinking pretty early. It’s three-for-one, so it’s worth it.”

I shouldn’t have felt awkward, but I did feel awkward, because I knew I was either going to have to bang her or end things with her, or figure out a way for her to lose interest in me, and none of those seemed especially palatable. Girls didn’t usually show interest in me--or, at least, I didn’t notice if they did, because I didn’t show interest in them--so it was always a nice compliment when they did. And I know that’s not exactly a good way for me to think, but still. The thought of sex with one of them, the thought of spelunking those catacombs, was just distasteful.

“Sounds good,” I said. I didn’t have a lot of topics about which to discuss with Jackie Hughes. “How was the rest of your Mardi Gras?”

Her eyes seemed to dance at the mention of our recently-passed holiday. “It was so awesome. We wound up on Frenchmen Street for Lundi Gras. So much better than Bourbon Street.”

“We were on Bourbon,” I told her.

“Oh, well, that must’ve been a blast too,” she said, diplomatically. “Where’d you go?”

“Pat O’s,” I said. “Piano bar.”

She clapped her hands in enthusiasm. “We’ll have to go. Seriously, I love that place. I played piano for about six years when I was growing up--not like that, I mean, but still. Fun to watch.” She was babbling; she had an excited smile on her face, like a puppy, and I suddenly felt very queasy about this whole thing. I could imagine her, putting on her makeup in the mirror, thinking about how this night was blooming with potential. Except her date was thinking primarily about Kevin Malley’s dick.

It was harlequin.

“I played piano, too,” I replied. I glanced back to see if Tripp and Lauren were coming to rejoin the two of us; Tripp flashed me a subtle grin, which meant he wasn’t, so Jackie and I just continued to walk the rest of the block in uncomfortable silence, until we reached the Boot. ”Here we are,” I said, filling dead air, as the bouncer checked our IDs.

It was still early enough, so we got the last booth, along the front windows--it was a little cramped; we made do. I could feel Jackie’s thigh and shoulder brushing against mine, and I wondered whether that was intentional or due to the construct of the bench we were sharing--possibly both; Tripp was going through great pains not to flop over onto Lauren; he was a gentleman.

I volunteered myself and Tripp to get drinks, and we disappeared over to the bar. I shouldn’t have felt awkward, but I did feel awkward, because I knew how the night was going to end, and she clearly did not. Girls didn’t usually show interest in me--or, at least, I didn’t notice if they did, because I didn’t show interest in them--so it was always a nice compliment when they did. And I know that’s not exactly a good way for me to think, but still. The thought of sex with one of them, the thought of spelunking those catacombs, was just plain distasteful.

“It looks like it’s going well,” Tripp said, while we waited for the bartender to make our drinks. “Jackie is a smokeshow.”

Smokeshow was an Erik word, but I let it pass because it was awfully complimentary.

“I mean, do you expect anything less from me, Tripp?” I grinned.

“I know, you’re picky,” he replied, collecting his and Lauren’s drinks. “I’ve got it.”

We went back to the booth, set the drinks down on the table, and crammed back into the discomfort of our seating arrangement.

“I love happy hour,” Jackie said, plucking up her vodka-cranberry. “Day drinking always feels great, even when it’s a little chilly outside.”

“You’re a true New Orleanian,” I told her. “Even if you’re from the North Shore.” She stuck out her tongue, playfully at that. I looked to Lauren, because that tonguing made me concerned that I was being too flirty. “Are you from Mandeville too?”

“Atlanta,” she replied.

“We’re all Southerners,” Tripp said. “Except Becker. I’m from the Mississippi coast. Pass Christian.”

“D.C.’s the South,” I replied, but the Confederate majority around the table did not seem to take that sort of cultural appropriation with any sort of legitimacy.

“Becker’s really from Vegas though,” Tripp explained. “I mean, and Maryland. He claims both depending on who he’s arguing with.”

“Well, you know, a child of the world,” I said, because that seemed a lot easier than explaining what my dad did for a living, even though I was reasonably sure Jackie Hughes would’ve gathered it up through the grapevine. “I like D.C. though. The city’s a hole, but the suburbs are pretty nice.”

It suddenly dawned on me that the last thing I wanted to do at this moment was talk about Hamlet, Maryland, or my family life, so I quickly pivoted the conversation back to Tulane scuttlebutt. “How are you liking Tri-Gamma so far? Sorority life and all.”

“It’s pretty great,” she said. “I got two gift baskets already. Apparently that’s sorority pledging--they send you gift baskets, where everything has three puffy-painted Rhos on it.”

“Wow,” Tripp said. “That’s so the opposite of fraternities.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Jackie told him. “That sorority rushing is hell, and fraternity pledging is hell.”

Tripp looked at me, as if I was required to say something at this juncture; I took a long sip of my drink, and Tripp thankfully pounced back onto the conversation.

“Hasn’t been hell so far,” he told her. “A few things. They make us run and work out and drink and all that shit, but it’s not bad either.”

“Well, yeah, but wait until you lose your pin like Adam.” She winked at me. I smirked back at her, which at the precise moment seemed like a neutral ground, but she seemed flattered; I immediately regretted it.

“I don’t lose things,” Tripp grinned. “Please. You tried your worst on me already.”

“Oh, a challenge,” Jackie said. “You know, I think Adam was saying the same thing, and he didn’t even notice I’d made off with his pin until, what, hours later.”

“Ha, ha,” I replied. Had I felt less uncomfortable, I would’ve made some sort of pithy comment, some sort of casual joke, but I couldn’t really think of anything. I felt like I was being a bore, but I didn’t really know how to snap myself out of it. I felt like I was in high school again, packed awkwardly in the backseat of the BMW between two of Philip’s friends, all of them talking in some foreign tongues that I could only claim rudimentary knowledge of.

At that moment, the contingency from the Iota Chi house descended on the bar; I could see them over by the front door, taking out their IDs for the bouncer: Chris Baker, Morton, Matt Rowen, Tommy Pereira, Erik, and, because of course he was going to turn up to entertain himself from across the bar, Kevin Malley.

Kevin looked right at me and then, immediately, looked back to the bouncer.

Part of me wanted to go stand up, throw Kevin against the side of the wall, and kiss him. And then, whatever, everything was settled. No games, no Jackie, no anything.

Of course, I wouldn’t do that. I knew I wouldn’t do that. No one there knew about me, no one there knew about Kevin, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to be that brave and bold anyway. I was not the kind of person who could get away with a grand gesture--or, really, any sort of gesture. I tried to make eye contact with Kevin again, but he was avoiding me, or at least just not looking at me, and then they checked his ID and he disappeared into a crowd over by the bar.

“Okay, no,” Jackie was saying, the conversation pivoting again without me. “I know it’s going to be a total guy movie, but I swear, I love that stuff. I already bought advance tickets on Fandango.”

“Oh, you did not,” Tripp replied. “300? Damn.”

“I have a thing for action movies,” she said. “I know, it’s horrible. But I grew up watching those kinds of movies with my dad. Like, Armageddon. Independence Day. Really, anything where something blows up. My mom would always try to get me to be a Disney princess for Halloween, but I wanted to go as Sarah Connor.” She looked at me. “Do you want to see 300? I have an extra ticket. March 9th, midnight.”

“Oh yeah, maybe,” I replied, diplomatically. “Could be fun.”

“No one from J.L. will go with her,” Lauren replied.

“No one will go with me!” Jackie said, with mock sadness, her smile breaking through the manufactured clouds. “Girls here suck. I hate girls.”

“Should’ve gone for the co-ed dorm,” Tripp replied.

“Um, yeah, I’ve seen how the Sharp folk live,” she replied, with mock dismissiveness. “I’ll take my crown moldings in J.L., thank you very much. Even if it means putting up with estrogen.”

I had visual on Kevin again, holding a whiskey-coke, that malicious little half-smile on his face, like he had just set a car bomb and was waiting for it to go off in front of him. He was chatting with Baker; he was paying no attention to Baker; he was paying all of his attention to me, even if he was just through cursory glances. Every time he glanced over in my direction, his smile grew, just a little bit, even as he didn’t miss a beat with his conversation with Baker.

“I mean, I knew it was an old building,” Jackie said to Tripp, “but that’s cool. You should be a tour guide.”

“Tripp’s architecture stories definitely require a captive audience,” I added. I didn’t know exactly what they were talking about, but I had a general idea, considering she delivered the boilerplate response to most of Tripp’s commentary about the architecture of Tulane University. Jackie and Lauren laughed; Tripp gave a mandatory chuckle, but I could see him turn a little bit embarrassed.

“Well, I think they’re interesting,” Jackie said, politely. “I like architecture. I don’t know if I could spend all of my time in studio like you guys do, though.”

Baker went back to the group; I saw Kevin walk across to the other side of the bar, disappeared back into the crowd.

“Tulane’s a nice campus,” I said, to pull the topic back before it threatened to careen off into Tripp’s architecture major. “My sister’s actually coming down to visit in a few weeks. She’s applying here.”

“You should bring her around Tri-Gamma,” Jackie said. “We can’t talk to her when she’s a freshman, but I don’t think there’s a rule about prospective students.”

If Justine coming to Tulane next year was the worst case scenario, Justine weaseling her way into Tri-Gamma, where she would be surrounded by a hit parade of Jackie Hughes, Michaela, and Veronica behind my back would be an unparalleled holocaust of my mental stability. More terrifyingly, it was not outside the realm of possibiliy: on paper, Justine was definitely the kind of girl who would go Tri-Gamma, a pretty, intelligent, decent human being.

“Maybe,” I said, again. “That could be fun.”

Oh, fuck no, Kevin was now chatting amicably with Landon Marsh, that gay Lambda Nu. Too amicably, and I wondered how they knew each other, and I wondered if Kevin was just doing it because he knew I’d be watching him, trying to figure out what he was doing.

Of course Kevin was toying with me. Totally something Kevin would do. He was a cat, I was the wounded bird he caught sunning on the window sill.

And yet, maybe he was flirting. Planning on taking him back home, because hey, Baker’s off with some chick across the bar, so I might as well get laid too.

I didn’t know if I had the moral high ground to be jealous, especially considering where I was at this particular moment--actually, I was fairly confident I had no moral high ground whatsoever--but I was jealous anyway. Of course, Kevin was not my boyfriend. We were not in any sort of commitment, but the thought of him and Landon Marsh, tangling in the sheets, sharing an after-sex bowl, was infuriating.

“You’re being quiet, Adam,” Jackie said to me.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Not feeling 100%. I’ll be okay.” I looked to Jackie. “Want to come up to get another drink?”

She looked down at her drink, which was about half-full still, but she nodded anyway, and we went over to the bar. I parked at the bar, as close as I could get to Kevin and Landon without looking too conspicuous. I kept my eyes focused on the bartender, but I could feel Kevin staring at me out of the corner of his eye as he talked to Landon.

I could not hear what they were talking about--their voices lost in the din of happy hour at the Boot And I kept trying to listen, even as Jackie was talking to me. I was desperate to hear what they were saying--if it was innocuous, if it was more.

We got our drinks, and I slipped my hand on the small of Jackie’s back. She gave me a polite smile, and I led her over to Kevin and Landon.

“Oh, Malley,” I said, still keeping Jackie close. “I didn’t know you were coming here tonight.”

I could see Kevin was staring quite intently at my hand, the hand on Jackie Hughes’s back.

“Yeah, Becker,” he said, his mouth creeping into a match point smile--he knew exactly what I was driving at, and I was glad he knew. “At the Boot, running into people you know? So bizarre, right?”

“So,” I told him, trying to muster up enough bravado as I could, “this is Jackie Hughes.”

“Oh, so this Jackie Hughes,” Kevin fawned, his voice mockingly saccharine. “Becker’s been telling us so much about you.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, smiling at me. “Yeah, it’s been a fun night so far.”

Kevin’s smile turned downright malicious by this point, and I suddenly resented that he was going to push me at Jackie. And then I felt stupid for trying to come after him with her at all.

“Yeah, he seems to like you a lot,” Kevin replied. “Becker doesn’t say that about many girls, so he must really think you’re special.”

His voice was thin and harsh. It was unsettling.

“Who’s your friend?” I prodded.

“Landon,” Kevin said. “Just ran into him too. The world really is just so small.”

“And how do you know each other?”

“We’re in Great Ideas in Science together,” Landon replied. “Lab, not lecture.”

“I still need to do my lab science,” Jackie said. “I’m probably going to wind up taking it as a senior or something. Be that awkward old lady in the room full of freshmen.”

“You sound like Tripp,” I told her. “He’s putting everything off as late as he can.”

 

So I was a little drunk when I left the bar. Jackie and Claire invited us to some party at a house on Willow Street, but I made up some excuse about not feeling well--I gave Tripp my blessing to go with them, but it was undoubtedly a brush off. Jackie gave me a one-armed hug, and then they took off up Broadway.

Once they disappeared, I walked over to Kevin’s house on Lowerline Street. He must've been sitting in the living room, because he opened it right away after I knocked. I could see, behind him, the TV flickering "Wipeout."

"Hey," he said. His hair was sticking up a bit in the back. Bedhead. He was in soccer shorts that showed off his thick calves, and his shirt was off. He looked so incredibly hot. I mentally traced the line of hair down his flat stomach, and I knew what was lurking inside that delicately contoured bulge in his shorts, which made me want him even more. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to apologize," I said slowly. “For, you know, tonight.”

He looked a little surprised. "Oh, wow. Not necessarily, really. We were both being dicks. I was just having fun." He scratched the back of his head. “Do you want to come in for a beer or something?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. "But, we're cool?"

He threw his head back, and bit his lip. "Yeah, nutcase. We're cool. I just didn’t like your little show."

“You gave as good as you got,” I replied, as I followed him inside.

“How’d you know I was back?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s only 11 o’clock,” he said, looking up at the clock on the wall. “How’d you know I was back home?”

I hadn’t thought of the possibility of him not being home. There was that certain kind of narcissism in drinking, where you assume everyone else is on the same drinking timeline as you are.

“You didn’t go out after Maple Street?”

“No,” he said. “Everyone was going to the Hustler Club and I have to work tomorrow, so I figured I’d sit it out. As much as I’d love to spend a fortune on drinks and look at naked females.”

“I thought you’d be with Landon Marsh tonight.”

He grinned, didn’t say anything.

“So that was just for my benefit,” I deduced.

“I was just talking to him,” he said. “We have a class together. He doesn’t even know I’m gay. But then I saw you and figured there wasn’t harm in putting ideas in your head and watching you torture yourself. And I was right--it was the highlight of my week!”

There was not all that much I could say to that; I gave him a thin smile, which he returned with a sincere one of his own.

“I just,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“You care too much what I think, Becker.” He smirked. “Why do we think that is?”

I glared at him. “I appreciate friendly advice?”

“Ha,” he said. “Well here’s some: just remember there's a difference between a lie of omission by not telling your friends what you're doing, and actually lying to some chick. So tread wisely."

“I’m not lying to her,” I said. “I’m not making any romantic overtures whatsoever. If she reads into it, it’s still just a lie of omission.”

“Your hand on her back.”

“Well, I wanted to put ideas in your head too, maybe.”

Kevin thought for a moment, but chose not to say anything else. “What kind of beer do you want?”

“Whatever you have.”

“Let me put on a shirt, too.”

“Not necessary, when you’ll just have to take it off again anyway.”

He bit his lip, gave me a half-smile. He knew what was coming. I knew what was coming. I wasn’t nearly as drunk as the other times, but I really felt like I wanted this to wash away the night with Jackie Hughes.

“Well,” he said softly, “I’m not going to be the only one with my shirt off.”

I began unbuttoning my shirt, then threw it at him. Then I undid my jeans, and pulled them down to my ankles. “And I’m not going to be the only one with my pants off.”

He giggled at that, grabbed my bicep. “Well, let’s go in the room, so my roommates don’t come back and see us going all Chippendales.”

He turned and went towards his room. I waddled after him, my pants still around my ankles.

As soon as I got inside, he slammed me against the back of the door. Hand on my chest, other hand behind my head, and he kissed me hard, aggressively. He wanted this. The hand on my chest dropped to the waistband of my boxer briefs, then cupping my cotton-covered dick. I was already hard, which he noticed instantly, with a small, bit lip smile.

“You’re so fucking crazy,” he whispered. He leaned in again, kissed my neck, my jawline, right behind my ear, and I let out an involuntary moan as his hot mouth sucked the skin behind my ear. “I want you so bad.”

I grabbed the waistband of his shorts, and ground his dick into mine. He was already hard, too. I could feel his massive dick poking at me, knocking against mind, and I yanked down his shorts.

He barely fit in his blue briefs--his dick was poking out the top, looking hard and robust. I put my hand on it, ran my hand down the fabric.

“God, I want that cock,” I whispered to him.

Kevin grinned. “Yeah?”

“I mean,” I said, realizing what I had insinuated, “I want it in my mouth.”

He reached behind my head, latched the door, and then pulled down his briefs. His dick stood at attention, out in front of him like a torpedo soldered to her crotch. “Go on, then.”

I got down on my knees, gave it a couple strokes for good measure. The first time I saw this beast, I didn’t really know how to approach it but now, expecting it, in my drunken state, I felt like I wanted to see it in action. Not necessarily in my ass--I think that would hurt way too much--but just in general. I wanted to suck it, and have Kevin moaning, and watch him cum.

My phone was ringing, but I let it ring. I started with his balls. His left ball. Took it in his mouth and sucked on it. Ran my tongue up the shaft. He was rock hard. I couldn’t imagine it being any harder, and he grunted enthusiastically.

My phone rang again.

Kevin looked down, a little irritated. “Want to see who that is?”

I looked down at my pants, which had a white rectangle of light shining out of the pocket. “I’d rather do this.”

He grinned. “Good answer, Becker.”

I licked the tip of his dick. I ran my tongue around the edge of his circumcised head, which was the largest part of his tremendous dick. It tasted salty, a bit, as if he had been a little sweaty. Good salty.

My phone rang again, and I felt around for it over my jeans until I hit the ignore button.

I took the whole head in my mouth. He let out a moan. He was touching his chest, rubbing one of his nipples. I felt him slowly push his dick a little further.

It didn’t seem like I had all that much in my mouth, but I could feel my mouth filling up. He was that big, that thick. I had him about halfway. I felt a sense of accomplishment. And he began to gently rock his hips, just a little bit.

My phone rang again.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, exasperatedly.

I leaned back, let his dick fall from my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said, digging in my pocket. “I’ll turn it off.”

Call from Harry Capuano. Three missed calls, one from Morton, two from Harry. “Shit, they’re all from my pledgemasters. Do you mind?”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Go for it.” He took a few steps back, sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked his giant dick a few times.

"Hello?"

“Where the fuck are you?” Harry yelled. “I need you at the house right now.”

“Right now? What happened?”

"Nothing happened," he said. "I told you day one you had to be here whenever I called you, and so I’m saying get to the house right fucking now.”

Fraternity emergency. So not an actual emergency.

“I’m,” I began, glancing back at Kevin, “indisposed. I can’t really talk right here.”

“Take your dick out of that Boot chick’s vag and get your ass over here,” he hissed.

“I can’t.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Becker. Our letters are not a fucking joke. You didn’t have your pin last week. If you don’t show up, you might as well just go late-rush Lambda Nu. Maybe they’d still take your worthless ass.”

I sighed. “Okay, sorry--I’ll be right over.”

I hung up the phone, and looked over at Kevin, who did not look at all pleased. "So I have to run. Duty calls."

"Fraternity emergency," he said, rolling his eyes. "God, you guys are all so ridiculous with this shit. This is why I'm glad I'm not an Iota Chi."

I came over to the side of the bed, straddled one of his legs, and leaned in for a kiss. He turned his head and I got his stubbly cheek, which I kissed anyway, and moved down to his jawline for one more kiss.

"Why don't we, like,” he said, and, without finishing that sentence, kissed me gently on the lips. “You know, real quick?”

I'd like to say it was tempting to stay with Kevin, but I knew it wasn’t a possibility: the moment was over, and besides, my mind had already darted over to the Iota Chi house, wondering what awaited: good, bad, neutral.

"I really have to go," I whispered. “I’m already late. I wish I could stay here.”

“It’s fine,” he said, coldly, clearly not meaning it. “You have to do what you have to do.”

I touched his bicep. “I'm sorry, man. I'll call later."

He propped himself up on his elbow, as I got out of bed. "You don't have to call," he said. "I’m not your boyfriend. But I'll see you tomorrow, won't I?"

"Where, at Quill's?"

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But come by here first. We can pregame at, say, 8.”

“Is that code for anything?”

He grinned, perking up a little bit. “Alright, so come over at 6. We’ll grab some burritos from Felipe’s, you can work off your proliferating blowjob debt, and then everyone else will come by and drink my beer at around 8 and you can act like we’ve been sitting around talking about pussy the whole time.”

“Perfect,” I said. I kissed him gently. “See you then.”

 

I ran the whole way down Lowerline and Maple Street, and got to the Iota Chi house a little after 11pm. Broadway was eerily quiet, punctuated by the occasional shrill shriek of a drunk girl--everyone was already tucked into their bars for the next few hours.

Morton and Patrick Sullivan were sitting on the porch swing, which had been rehung in the last few days as one of our pledge maintenance tasks. I was expecting a bigger show than just the two of them--certainly more urgency than this would suggest.

“Hey, Becker,” Morton said, casually, rocking back and forth on the swing with an Abita Amber dangling from his hand. “Where were you?”

I was out of breath from the running, even though it was just a few blocks. I was a little out of shape--under pledge rules, I was supposed to be working out twice a week under the supervision of a brother. But no one was supervising any of the brothers, so I had been “running” with Chris Baker, but we’d only run the half-mile to the daiquiri shop on St. Charles and Carrollton, drink and dick around in Audubon Park for an hour or so, and then he’d sign my book for two hours of Cardio.

“Here and there,” I replied.

“Balls deep, Harry said.” He gave me a high five. “My man!”

“Where is Harry?” I asked. “He called me.”

“I know,” Morton said. “He’s downtown at the Hustler Club with everyone else. I called him to say you weren’t picking up, so he brought out the muscle. Because it’s urgent.”

He took another sip of beer, flashed me a placid smile, as if he was pointedly aware of the dichotomy between the urgency he was insisting on and the fact that he was swaying back and forth on a porch swing in the crisp nighttime air.

I assumed this was, like so much of my recent interactions with Brett Morton and Harry Capuano, some sort of street theater: Patrick was sitting, not drinking, resigned to whatever he already knew, so I took the back. “What exactly is so urgent?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Morton said, chipperly. “We decided what your guys’ pin punishment was. We need you two to pick up some contraband for us.”

Patrick offered me a defeated grimace, but I didn’t respond: the thoughts began racing through my head, a torrid of emotion. Was I expected to be a drug mule? Commit something felonious? Who in Iota Chi did so many drugs that they had to be freighted in? My dad was a freaking U.S. Senator. If I got arrested with so much as a beer on my person, it’d be all over Politico. Snide comments from Mother Jones and all that.

“Yeah, no, nothing like that,” Morton grinned. “As if this fine brotherhood would ever expect our pledges to do something illegal. I am hurt. Hurt that you would think so little of us.” He paused, for dramatic license, and waited for me to follow up once again.

“So, gee, what are we doing?” I asked monotonously.

“A top secret mission,” he assured. “A life hangs in the balance.”

He paused again. Patrick rolled his eyes dramatically.

I sighed. “Whose life?”

“An esteemed member of the Winslow family,” Morton told me, “needs to be rescued.”

“That’s all he would tell me,” Patrick told me.

We both looked at Morton, whose intentional mystique evaporated in an instance; he snorted out a giggle, took a big swig of Abita. “Okay, so since you’re both here,” he continued, “Rob Winslow’s parents are going to Italy for a few weeks, and you have to pick up his dog from their house in St. Louis.”

Our reactions dramatically diverged; maybe because I had been bracing for carting drugs across the Rio Grande, I didn’t think driving to pick up a dog was all that horrifying, but Patrick suddenly lurched up into irritated attention.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Patrick asked. “We have to drive to St. Louis to get his dog? It’s, like, twelve hours away.”

“It’s only ten,” Morton correct. “It’s midnight now, so you can get there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Turn around, be back here by eight, and still go rage tomorrow night.” He pulled keys out of his pocket, put them in Patrick’s open palm. “Winslow’s Sebring awaits.”

We stopped at Monroe and Sharp to pack our backpacks--sweatshirts, a couple textbooks, our laptops, a couple CDs for the car--and then off we were, on our midnight road trip from New Orleans to St. Louis.