Chapter Four
Mark looked at the quiz score. A 65. He still had to think for a second about what the hell that was in American grades. Because in Australia, it wasn’t half-bad. But here it was, if not failing, close to it.
He tossed his quiz in the bin on the way out the door and yawned as he leaned on the wall outside the classroom, waiting for Blake. Alpha Delt had assigned Blake to be Mark’s big, and before Mark had been able to ask big what—adventure? Idea? Pain in the arse?—Chris Wilson had explained all pledges got assigned big brothers. Mark didn’t even want to get into how weird that was.
A 65.
Big deal. There were eight of these quizzes throughout the semester, and individually they didn’t count for much. He’d do better on the rest of them. Maybe try actually reading the material.
Except when was he going to find time to read with all the pointless tasks he was doing for the Alpha Delts? “Take a picture of the outside of the chemistry building and send it to Chris Wilson. No, you idiot, there are two chemistry buildings—go out in the dead of night in your boxers and undershirt and get a picture of the right one. Oh, and put this around your neck.” It was a dog collar with I’M AN ALPHA DELTA BITCH written on it. “Cook three pounds of spaghetti.” What? Didn’t they have a chef for that? Turned out they wanted him to eat until he threw up. After his second bowl he’d politely—he thought—declined to have more. So Logan White had shoved his head into the pot and held him there, then eventually let him up, gasping and with his face covered in mushed noodles.
“Go and get us toilet paper.” He’d done it. “Now open it—with your teeth, bitch. And put a roll on the holder. Don’t fucking touch it with your hands.”
Bad move refusing that one, because Bengal had tried to shove his head in the toilet. Tried. Mark had elbowed him in the groin, and Bengal had been laid up for about half an hour. Then Mark had been forced to stand on one foot and sing an apology song to Bengal.
He would have laughed in Bengal’s face and walked right out of the house, except that he owed Brandon.
Even though Mark would have been fine showing up empty-handed from the “grocery run,” he couldn’t ignore the fact that Brandon had gone out of his way to make sure Mark didn’t fuck up his chances with the Alpha Delts. So Mark was trying to show he was grateful by being on his best—okay, better—behavior.
Besides, he didn’t want to walk away from Alpha Delt. He wanted them to kick him out. Didn’t want anyone to be able to say he hadn’t had the balls to handle pledging. But if he could prove the brothers didn’t have the balls to handle him—that would be something.
It would have been one thing if the brotherhood had kicked him out right away, saying they weren’t going to waste time on someone who didn’t have the right attitude or whatever. But they’d kept him. Even when he mocked their requests. Even when he nailed Bengal in the balls.
Why?
Could he really be such a novelty?
The pledge who couldn’t handle it and ran away was pretty common.
The pledge who obeyed until his body betrayed him and then broke down—also common.
But the pledge who fought back…not so much.
Chris Wilson seemed to like it, at least.
Bengal had been no fan of Mark’s after their bathroom scuffle, but he was the pledge trainer, and he took pleasure in breaking pledges.
Maybe he liked a challenge.
The prick.
Mark opened his eyes as a bag knocked against him.
“Sorry,” the girl said, lifting it over her shoulder. An attractive girl, serious-looking, with glasses. Her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Jeans and a T-shirt.
“No worries,” Mark told her.
Her answering smile was hesitant as she moved away, as though she thought he wasn’t sincere. As though she thought a frat pledge in a polo and khakis couldn’t possibly pass up a chance to say something rude.
He should have made friends like that. Well, not that girl specifically, since Mark didn’t know her from a bar of soap, but that sort of person. The ones who carried books around and didn’t care if they didn’t look like they’d stepped out of the pages of a Ralph Lauren catalog before coming to class. The type that hung out at the library and actually talked about what they were supposed to be learning. With a group of friends like that, Mark would never have got a 65 on a quiz, and never got spaghetti stuck up his nose either.
Blake wandered out of the classroom. He beamed when he saw Mark waiting. “Hey, pledge.”
Mark grunted at him.
“So you’re my bitch for the afternoon,” Blake announced.
A couple of other students turned and looked, and Mark sighed. “Apparently.”
If he had to be anyone’s bitch, he didn’t want to be Blake’s. Wouldn’t mind being Deacon’s for a few hours, though. Fucking pledging. He didn’t have time to study. He had even less time for hooking up. Apart from a few filthy text messages, he hadn’t spoken to Deacon in days. And the filthiness was only on Mark’s side. He got the impression from Deacon’s carefully neutral responses that Deacon wasn’t completely into sexting.
“You can start by coming to practice with me,” Blake said and slapped him on the back. Then he wrinkled his nose. “Dude, you’re not really my bitch, you know? You’re my little brother. I’m gonna look out for you, make sure you make it through pledging.”
“Yeah,” Mark said, wondering how Blake was supposed to look after anyone. Mark was fairly certain Blake couldn’t tie his shoelaces without instructions. But at least he wasn’t a prick like Jackson or Bengal or half the other guys at Alpha Delt.
Jackson was Brandon’s big brother through the pledge process. And Brandon, for some reason, had seemed delighted by that.
Mark followed Blake to practice.
American football. Seriously. What was that about? Mark hadn’t watched enough of it to understand the rules. It seemed to involved lots of shouting of numbers, lots of pointless running and blocking, and enough fucking body armor to sink the Bismarck. And why? Most of the guys were already fifteen feet tall and built like brick shit houses.
Mark had played football at home. With nothing but a mouth guard, thanks. He wasn’t big enough to be a forward, but he’d made a fairly decent hooker. Not something that he’d mention here. Because, okay, Americans rooted for their teams, but hooker? Even Mark knew how ridiculous that sounded.
When they were nearly to the practice field, Blake cuffed Mark affectionately on the shoulder. “That track over there? You run laps. You run laps until I’m done.”
“Uh…” No? “Okay.” Mark wasn’t in the best shape ever, but he briefly entertained a fantasy where he started running laps every day and wowed Deacon with his hot runner’s body the first time Deacon saw Mark naked. Which, if Mark had anything to say about it, would be soon. Like, tonight.
Except there was a party tonight at Alpha Delt. There was a party every night at Alpha Delt. He sighed. He’d figure it out later. Blake cuffed him again. “Go on, pledge. Hit the track.” Mark didn’t bother to point out that khakis and a polo weren’t exactly a practical—or fashionable—running outfit. Had a feeling that was kind of the idea.
Mark started running, occasionally looking over at the field to see what the football players were up to.
They were…prancing. There was no other word for it. They ran back and forth across the field, picking their legs up high. How this country had won a world war was beyond Mark. How shall we go about becoming the greatest empire on earth? Say, I know. Let’s have our manliest sport involve butt-slapping, shoulder pads, and prancing.
Mark concentrated on running—not too fast; he didn’t want to burn out, because he had no idea how long practice might go. But as he thought more about his situation, he ran faster.
This is so stupid. Just tell them you don’t want to be an Alpha Delt, and move on with your life. And Jim will understand. He’s not a bad guy.
He wasn’t a bad guy. Which was precisely what made it so hard to disappoint him. He was friendly and generous, but sometimes that goodwill could be overbearing. Mark was used to a more relaxed relationship with his mum, who kind of let him do his own thing and didn’t worry about whether he had friends or an eternal brotherhood. Mark figured Jim felt guilty for uprooting him, and that had something to do with Jim’s tour-guide approach to their life in America. If they went grocery shopping and Mark couldn’t find something right away, Jim asked what he was looking for—as though it might be some obscure Australian delicacy that Mark would have to be gently told didn’t exist in American stores.
Last spring Jim taken them to the Mütter Museum, which was actually pretty cool—wax figures illustrating various pathologies and medical anomalies. But Mark was distracted by his irritation toward Jim, who was determined to make introductions: Mark, this is America. America, this is Mark. I know you’ll get along great, if you give each other a chance.
Mark was breathing hard now, and suddenly he was thinking about Deacon. Deacon’s cock in his mouth—it had been salty with sweat, but so perfect and smooth. The way Deacon had tried not to lose control, had tried not to thrust into Mark’s mouth, had braced himself when Mark swallowed him…
Mark glanced at the field. The players were slamming into padded red dummies. Make that arse-slapping, shoulder pads, prancing, and hurling yourself into inanimate objects. Well done, fellas.
His legs were tired. He kept sucking in air, but breathing wasn’t going so well.
The guidance counselor at his high school had told Mark the first year of college was a confusing time for everyone. But the shit that was bugging him—shouldn’t he be over it? New father figure—that was something you freaked out about if you were five or eight or even thirteen, maybe. But once you grew up and got your own life, who cared if your mother married someone new?
He didn’t know what to do with his life—big deal. Who did? He was hot for a guy he couldn’t see very often—boo hoo. They’d see each other when they saw each other. And then they’d fuck each other. And just the thought of that was gonna give Mark a boner while he was running laps. Great.
Mark needed to stop running, if only for a few seconds. But each time he thought about slowing down, he pictured Blake looking over and seeing him lose this battle. Sometimes the indifferent, I-don’t-give-a-shit-what-you-do-to-me angle worked for Mark during pledge activities. But right now he was overcome with a bizarre energy that barreled over his physical exhaustion and lit up his mind. He could handle this. Could handle pledging, could handle Jim, and Jackson, and his mum’s perpetually upbeat attitude toward America that always felt like a betrayal. He could handle a fucking 65 on his quiz and Quakers instead of surfers and this goddamn prancing kind of football.
When he came around the track again and looked over, he couldn’t see Blake anymore. Granted, the team was a bunch of giant guys in matching gear huddled together, but even when Mark tried to slow down and pick Blake out, he couldn’t. He glanced over at the water fountain, but Blake hadn’t gone off to get a drink. Mark let his pace drop to a walk. God, his whole body was shaking. How long had he been running? He stopped and put his hands on his knees, trying to get the hang of breathing again.
A couple of members of the football team seemed to have noticed Blake’s absence. They were shielding their eyes from the sun and looking around. One pointed to the small brick building that housed two Portaloos. Another guy ran over there and banged on the door of one of the stalls. Mark could hear someone on the other side banging back. The football player hauled on the door for a minute; then it popped open, and Blake emerged.
Mark couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Blake shook his head, grinning, and the teammate clapped him on the back. They headed to the field.
Seriously?
Had Blake gotten stuck in a Portaloo?
That’s my big brother.
He saw Blake look over at the track. And yeah, Mark wasn’t running anymore. And yeah, Blake would have to deal with it. Mark felt dizzy and a little sick to his stomach. What he really wanted to do was text Deacon and say something that would get a reaction. Maybe not something dirty. Maybe something…nicer.
Want to have dinner with me?
Where? The dining hall?
And who said Deacon wanted to do shit like have dinner with him? Maybe Deacon only wanted him for a fuck. Mark had never bothered to give him the impression he was interested in anything else. Was Mark even interested in anything else?
He didn’t fucking know. Maybe he’d fixed on the idea of Deacon because he was hot, he was gay, and he was currently the one guy in Mark’s life who wasn’t trying to fucking haze him. Still, it would be nice to find out if there was something there.
“Hey, little dude!”
Mark lifted his head and glared at Blake, who was jogging over toward him.
“You okay?”
I’m not the one who got stuck in a toilet. Shame he couldn’t actually speak yet. So he continued to glare instead, and gasp for breath, and wait for Blake to tell him he was a useless, weak pussy.
Blake shoved a bottle of water at him, his face full of concern. “Seriously, I meant to tell you to stop a half hour ago, but I got stuck in there.”
Mark took the bottle, straightened up, and began to drink.
“Don’t drink too much.” Blake’s eyes widened. “Slow down. Dude, Mark, seriously, don’t drink it all at once, or—”
Too late.
The water hit Mark’s guts and came right back up again.
He vomited all over Blake’s shoes.
* * * *
Deacon knew long before Mark’s text that there was a big party at Alpha Delta tonight. Firstly, because it was a day ending in Y. And secondly, because a bunch of delivery guys had already turned up with kegs of beer, tables, and…bales of hay? Fuck, if this was turning into a petting-zoo kegger, then Deacon was calling the dean’s office. And the ASPCA. And the cops.
As the day drew on, though, and the only animal that appeared was a mechanical bull, Deacon relaxed. He watched as a bunch of guys erected a marquee on the Alpha Delts’ expansive back lawn. From his room, he could see most of the yard, including the pool. Which had seen more action than the hot tub at the Playboy Mansion, Deacon was sure. When the Alpha Delts partied, nobody partied harder. As someone who’d been kept awake too many nights to remember, Deacon could attest to that.
Deacon was studying when Mark’s text came through.
Wanna come to a party tonight?
Deacon’s first thought was to flat out refuse. No way would he crash an Alpha Delt party, and not just because they were the sworn enemies of Phi Sigma. Because he had standards. But then he remembered how lonely Mark had looked on the phone to his mother the first time Deacon had seen him, how he’d lied about his friends throwing him a party, and figured that if Mark needed a friend, Deacon would be an asshole to refuse.
A fraternity party? he sent back.
His phone buzzed a moment later. You have to come dressed like a cowboy.
Well, that explained the bales of hay and the mechanical bull.
Are pledges allowed to invite people? he sent back.
Nonfraternity people? He still hadn’t let on to Mark he was in Phi Sig. Gay nonfraternity people? Gay nonfraternity people they’d sucked off in alleys? Deacon doubted very much that was the case. The Alpha Delts usually treated their first major party of the year like an NYC nightclub—guest lists, invitations, bouncers…
Come as Zorro. Dare you.
Deacon laughed when he read that. Dressing up in a disguise to sneak into a rival fraternity’s party? Either Mark had been watching too many dumb college movies, or he really wanted a friend there. Deacon shook his head at his own stupidity as he tapped out a reply.
What time?
Eight, Mark sent back. I owe you one.
Actually, if he was keeping tabs, Deacon was fairly certain that he owed Mark one. And he couldn’t wait to settle his tab.
I’ll see you there.
He closed his textbook and went downstairs to see if there was anyone who could help him out with a Zorro costume.
* * * *
Pledges, it turned out, were exactly like slave labor. While the rest of the fraternity was getting drunk and trying to screw sorority girls, the pledges would be serving drinks. Mark had expected as much and didn’t care. Hell, the sooner those arseholes wrote themselves off, the sooner he’d be able to drag Deacon away into a dark corner and do filthy things with him. Mark didn’t care at all about what he had to do in the meantime. Not until he turned up at the frat house with the rest of the pledges at seven p.m. and Bengal showed them what they were wearing.
Fuck it. Frilly French-maid outfits, complete with stockings.
A few of the other pledges looked sick. Brandon looked mortified. And Mark really, really wished that he hadn’t invited Deacon to the party. Hey, look at me. I’m wearing a French maid’s outfit because this bunch of misogynistic homophobes thinks that the most humiliating thing you can do to a guy is put him in a skirt and call him a woman. And instead of telling them to fuck off, that if I wanted to wear drag, I’d do it fucking proudly, I’m letting them win.
Bengal leered at Mark as he shoved the costume into his arms.
“I wasn’t aware they had French maids in the old west,” Mark said, staring right back at him.
“Go and get dressed, pledges,” Bengal announced as the brothers laughed and whooped. “And make yourselves look pretty!”
Mark rolled his eyes and followed the other pledges upstairs and into one of the large bathrooms.
“Dude,” one of them whispered anxiously. “They can’t really do this, can they?”
This. As though everything else had been perfectly sane and rational—the calls at three a.m. to drive drunk Alpha Delt arses all over town, the all-night toilet-scrubbing marathons, being made to run past the sorority houses in their underwear with free dick written on their chests in lipstick—but this was too much?
Mark pulled his shirt over his head. Bright side? He didn’t have to wear a polo.
The guys undressed silently, awkwardly. Mark sat on the edge of the bath and rolled his stockings on the way he’d seen his mother do when he was a kid. Except she’d made it look easy and not immediately put her toe through one. Oh well.
There was also a suspender belt. Mark got that on over the frilly knickers but then couldn’t figure out how to attach the little dangly things to the tops of his stockings, until one of the other guys, blushing furiously and muttering under his breath, helped him. The corset thing was tricky too. Suddenly Mark understood why drag queens so often traveled in packs. Because there was no way in hell a guy could get himself into this getup on his own. Still, the obvious gaping space where tits should have gone would give him somewhere to keep his smokes and phone.
There were no shoes, which was a small mercy. Mark jammed his stockinged feet back into his sneakers and stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look like a girl. He didn’t even look like a drag queen. He looked like a guy in a dumb outfit. Masculinity: not undermined at all. Sexuality: no more questionable than before. Not even with the hat.
Mark made a face at himself as the pledges began to file out of the bathroom. He could either try for fabulous, or he could do what he’d promised Brandon and behave himself.
Brandon.
Mark looked around for him. Brandon hadn’t filed out like the other guys. He was standing against the wall, looking kind of adorable in his frilly skirt. Except for his visible shaking.
“Hey,” Mark said, walking over to him. “You okay?”
Brandon was breathing so hard he had difficulty answering. “I can’t…I can’t do this.” He sounded stricken.
Mark showed him an encouraging smile. “It’ll be okay. It’s just a stupid outfit.”
Brandon shook his head, and Mark saw that his eyes had filled with tears.
Shit.
“It’s just clothes,” Mark said. “It doesn’t mean anything, you know?”
“I’m not gay,” Brandon said, his voice cracking.
And shit again.
“It’s just clothes,” Mark repeated. “Mate, clothes don’t make you something you aren’t. They can’t. You can’t catch gay from clothes, or people, or anything.”
Not even from guys who hope you’ll stay friends with them when you find out.
He would never have picked Brandon as prejudiced.
Except simple prejudice didn’t explain Brandon’s very real distress.
“Brandon?”
“When I was twelve,” Brandon said, “I had this teacher who—” Then he clamped his mouth shut and shook his head again. “He’s in jail now.”
“Oh fuck, Bran.” Mark wanted to reach out and hug him, but he didn’t know if Brandon wanted the contact. He put a hand on Brandon’s shoulder instead and squeezed gently.
Brandon wiped at his face with the heels of his hands. “And I think my dad thinks I asked for it, you know?”
“I think your dad’s an arsehole,” Mark said. He looked at his clothes lying on the floor. “You want to get changed and get out of here?”
“No. I can do this.”
“You don’t have to,” Mark said. “If you want, we’ll walk right now. We’ll get a pizza and go back to my dorm and play Call of Duty instead.”
“I can do this,” Brandon repeated. “I can do it.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Thanks, Mark. You won’t…um…”
“I won’t tell,” Mark said.
“Thanks.” Brandon wiped his face again and squared his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
The rest of the pledges were still clustered anxiously on the stairs, unwilling to head into the common room.
“What’s the holdup?” Chris shouted from the hall. “Did someone break a nail? Get your asses in here, pledge bitches!”
The pledges entered the common room to hollering, cheering, and the flashes from what must have been a million camera phones. Which was one good thing about having no friends here, Mark supposed. They could post that shit all over social media, and nobody who mattered to Mark would see it. Besides, the Hazing Secrecy Clause or whatever wouldn’t let the Alpha Delts actually identify the people in the pictures.
Not that he cared about wearing a dumb frilly dress that showed off his arse if he bent down. The thing that bothered him the most was the way he’d fallen in line, the way he was letting himself be humiliated because that was the order of things. Because it was the tradition.
It was a stupid fucking tradition.
What Mark didn’t understand, and hoped he would never understand, was why you’d let a bunch of dickheads torment you for months in the hope that they’d let you stay in their little club. It had to fall somewhere between kindergarten and Stockholm Syndrome on the What-the-Fuck-Are-You-Thinking scale.
Mark didn’t care about the dress, but he cared about Brandon, and about what Brandon was putting himself through just to give these ignorant fuckers a cheap laugh. Just so they wouldn’t reject him.
“You’ve got to rush,” Brandon had told him that first time. “If you’re not in a fraternity, you’re nothing, you know?” And then: “That’s what my dad says.”
Brandon had a smile pasted onto his face now, a little brittle, less goofy than the grins the rest of the pledges were wearing as they paraded up and down in the common room while the guys cheered. Mark wanted to grab him by the hand and haul him out of there, and tell him again that his dad was an arsehole, and that Brandon didn’t have to prove anything, not to anyone.
Mark scowled.
A scowl that was wiped off his face the second a wooden paddle connected with his backside. “What the fuck?” he yelped.
Bengal laughed at him. “Keep moving, princess.”
“Fuck you,” Mark muttered under his breath.
“I said move, faggot!” Bengal yelled and swatted him with the paddle again.
Faggot? Nice. He resisted the urge to look back at Brandon, who was following him.
Mark shook his head and walked a few steps. Behind the jeering, cheering group of frat brothers, he could see Jackson standing there, staring. Looking as disapproving and pissed off as always, probably because Mark was being singled out as a troublemaker again. Blake was standing beside Jackson, beaming proudly at Mark. As Mark caught his gaze, Blake gave him an enthusiastic two thumbs up.
Mark almost smiled at that. Blake was oblivious to Mark’s foul mood.
And to pretty much everything else. Ever.
The pledges did another circuit of the room, until the laughing and whooping had died down.
Then Chris stood in the center of the room, cracked open a can of beer, and held it up over his head. “Let’s get this party started, Alpha Delts!”
This time the cheer was loud enough to wake the dead.