Chapter Nine
Michael Danes was a senior from Theta Chi, and the current head of the Prescott College Interfraternity Council. He was a high achiever, the captain of the lacrosse team, was aiming to pursue postgraduate studies in linguistics, and the look on his face as he sat across from the representatives of Alpha Delta and Phi Sigma clearly said he did not have enough time for this shit.
Deacon privately agreed. He’d rather be having teeth pulled than trying to mediate some sort of truce with Chris and Bengal.
“Okay,” Michael said, lacing his fingers together. “This is how it is. In half an hour, the dean is gonna walk in this door and ask me what the hell is going on between your houses.”
Deacon tried to keep his face impassive as he thought of Romeo and Juliet again. This was the part where someone was banished, right? And someone died, and then there was a plague on both their houses.
“Because if this goes any higher up the chain,” Michael continued, “and it gets official, then getting dragged in front of me is the least of your worries.”
James looked worried, pissed, and righteous all at once. Not an easy look to accomplish.
“Mike, c’mon,” Bengal said, spreading his hands. “Dude. We didn’t even do anything.”
“You put shit in our AC,” James said through his teeth.
Bengal rolled his eyes. “You can’t prove that.”
“Shut up,” Chris told him. “Look, Michael, we can sort something out.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Michael said. He leaned back in his chair. “So who started it?”
That was an interesting question, and one that Deacon didn’t exactly want to answer.
“They did,” Bengal said. He pointed at Deacon. “When he crashed our party.”
Michael actually looked surprised. He’d confided to James and Deacon before the meeting started—they were early, while Chris and Bengal were late—that this was a formality, that the Alpha Delts were out of control, and the only thing the Phi Sigs were guilty of was living next door to bad neighbors.
“That’s not relevant,” Deacon said. “You wouldn’t have even known I was there if your guys hadn’t stolen our dog.” He looked at Michael. “I had to step in to get her back.”
“You stole their dog?” Michael asked Chris.
“It was harmless,” Chris told him, a hand on Bengal’s arm to stop him from speaking. “She wasn’t hurt, and we would have taken her back.”
“And then they put shit in our AC,” James said. “And some of their guys came and started a fight on our lawn.”
Well, that was murky territory. Deacon still wasn’t sure what had happened there. Matt was volatile when he was riled, and after the dog-shit incident, it wasn’t hard to imagine he’d called the Alpha Delt guys out.
“Come on,” Bengal said, shaking his head. “The fight was no big thing.”
“No big thing?” Michael said. “When campus police get involved, it’s already gone too far.”
Bengal slumped in his chair and sighed.
Deacon exchanged a look with James. At least it wasn’t hard to come across as responsible and serious when Bengal was the competition. He could make a toddler in the candy aisle of the supermarket look good. And Chris, who must have realized he’d made a tactical error in bringing him, elbowed Bengal to sit up straight.
“So right here is where we draw a line in the sand,” Michael said. “Right now. No more bullshit. No escalation.” He pointed a finger at Chris. “The dean’s already caught a whisper about some of your pledge activities, so you need to keep that shit legal.”
Chris was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He nodded.
Was it legal, Deacon wondered, to humiliate your pledges by making them dress up in frilly skirts? Was it legal to force them to drink a bottle of picante sauce because they wouldn’t tell you who they were seeing? Such a wide fucking chasm between what was legal and what were the actions of a decent human being, and Bengal exploited every inch of it.
Deacon wasn’t sure if any of Mark’s future brothers had been smart enough to put it together yet. Mark’s admission to Blake that he was gay, and Deacon’s reason for being at their party. But why would they? The Alpha Delts probably deluded themselves into thinking their parties were so epic that everyone wanted to attend, and that Deacon was no exception. When in reality, if Mark hadn’t wanted him there, Deacon would have gone to the library instead just to get away from the noise.
“So here’s what I think,” Michael said at last. “You guys need to demonstrate to the IFC, and to the dean, that you can work together. And James, weren’t you saying last week that the place you booked for your semiformal had fallen through?”
James nodded warily. “That’s right.”
Michael raised his eyebrows at Chris at Bengal. “Lot of room at the country club, right?”
“You want us to share our venue with Phi Sig?” Chris blinked.
Deacon groaned inwardly. He couldn’t think of anything worse than sharing a semiformal with Alpha Delta. It’d be keg stands, vomit, and topless sorority girls as far as the eye could see.
“I want you to share the venue, the planning, the costs, and the whole thing. I think that would show the dean that you’ve fostered a spirit of cooperation,” Michael said. “Problem?”
Bengal opened his mouth, and Chris elbowed him again.
“Problem?” Michael repeated.
“No,” Chris said. “No problem.”
Deacon and James shook their heads.
“Okay,” Michael said. “Then we’re done here. You guys can learn to play nice, and I can tell the dean he won’t be getting any more complaints from the campus police.”
They shook on it. Bengal looked as though he’d rather swim through raw sewage than shake hands with a Phi Sig, but Chris was at least half-decent about it. He was smarter than Bengal, after all, and must have known they were skating on thin ice when it came to both the IFC and the dean.
“Jesus,” Michael said when Chris and Bengal had left. “You really crashed an Alpha Delta party, Deacon?”
The Phi Sigs and the Theta Chis had a good relationship. There was a long history of friendly academic rivalry between their fraternities. And Risk tournaments.
“I was invited,” Deacon admitted. “And okay, it was stupid to go, but if I hadn’t been there, who knows what would have happened to Anabelle?”
James nodded. “Those assholes.” Then he made a face. “Wait, we’re done with the interview part, right?”
Michael showed him his palms. “Absolutely. And I agree with your assessment, as it happens.” He looked at Deacon. “Are you serious? You were invited? What kind of idiot invites a Phi Sig to an Alpha Delt party?”
Deacon’s kind of idiot.
“He’s a pledge,” Deacon said. “He didn’t know any better.”
And wouldn’t have cared if he did. But Deacon kept that to himself.
“A pledge,” Michael said thoughtfully. “He tell you what’s going on over there? Rumor has it their pledge activities are crossing the line into hazing now that Bengal’s in charge.”
Yeah, that would be about right.
“I haven’t heard much.” Deacon wasn’t going to break Mark’s confidence. “But if he wants to make a complaint, I’ll send him to you.”
He figured Michael could tell he knew more than he was saying. And the stuff with the picante sauce crossed a line. Not just because it was sadistic and dangerous, but because Bengal had no right to demand to know who his pledges were hooking up with. No right at all. But it wasn’t Deacon’s place to tell Mark’s secrets. And he knew Mark would never forgive him for making Mark out to be a victim, whether it was true or not.
“Okay,” Michael said at last. He looked at his watch. “So, I’ll tell the dean it’s sorted out. And you guys let me know if the Alpha Delts cause you any more trouble.”
“Thanks, Michael,” James said.
A few minutes later, crossing the quad, Deacon said cautiously, “Well, that went okay.”
James snorted. “Yeah. I’m just wondering how to break it to everyone that we’re now sharing a semiformal with the biggest assholes on campus.”
“At least we can split the costs,” Deacon said.
“Which is about the only good thing to come out of it.”
Deacon nodded and tried not to imagine how disastrously this could turn out. They were in for interesting times.
* * * *
Mark was definitely going to fail American lit. Young Goodman Brown had made no sense even on his second read-through. Mark couldn’t tell if the whole incident in the woods had been a feverish delusion or a hazing ritual gone horribly wrong, and neither could young Goodman Brown, apparently. Well, shit. When people on the Internet couldn’t agree on what had happened in the story, how the hell was Mark supposed to figure it out?
He shoved the book under his pillow and pulled his comforter over his head. He listened to his roommate snore and snuffle for a while; then, figuring he wouldn’t get any sleep anyway, Mark checked his text messages in the ghostly light of his phone screen. Nothing new from Deacon, which was no surprise. After the shit Deacon had been doing with his fingers the other night, he probably wasn’t able to text yet. He probably had his fingers in splints. Because Jesus, just thinking about Deacon’s fingers inside him made Mark half-hard.
Mark had always loved arse play. He was sixteen the first time he’d topped another boy—a fake ID, a few beers, and a lot of bravado—and sixteen and a half the first time he’d bottomed. Two years of sexual experience wasn’t enough for Mark to pick a preference. Twenty years wouldn’t be, since Mark liked it all. But he loved arse play and loved how Deacon indulged him in it.
Shit. Mark slid a hand down his abdomen, under the elastic of his boxers. He rubbed his palm against his dick. Four fingers. Deacon had put four fingers inside him, and Mark had wanted more.
At what point in your life did you decide you were the sort of guy who wanted to be fisted?
Um. No. The shiver that ran through him was not all good. So maybe put that idea on the back burner for a while. A decade or so.
Well, maybe not a decade. Because that shiver wasn’t all bad either.
But Mark wasn’t ready to look the idea in the face yet.
And Deacon thought Mark was reckless. Mark saw the edge there and took a step back instead of flinging himself off it, thanks very much. He could be responsible. Okay, there was the unsafe-sex thing in the microfiche room of the library. And that was dumb. Really fucking dumb. Embarrassing dumb, and even now Mark couldn’t help imagining himself months down the track having to explain to his mum how he’d just made a mistake that one time…just that one time. And there was no way she’d get that. Because Clare had never let the fact that Mark didn’t have a father in his life get in the way of sex education. She’d been showing Mark how to roll condoms onto bananas long before he’d known it was other bananas he was interested in.
But Deacon had said he was clean, and Mark trusted that. Deacon didn’t do dumb things. Not usually anyway. Deacon wasn’t Mark.
Deacon was…
Mark frowned. What was that in the library anyway? That talk that came before the awesome—and stupid—fucking. What Deacon had said: “But if we’re going to keep hooking up like this, I want to know where we stand. You and me, are we an item?” What was that?
Mark took his hand off his dick. Figured he needed the blood for thinking right now. Because Mark was happy to play star-cross’d lovers with Deacon and everything—it would be a shame not to put the balcony to use, after all—but a relationship? What was a relationship anyhow? Friends with benefits was a relationship, wasn’t it? Everything was a relationship, from a philosophical point of view. Even hooking up with a stranger in a pub toilet was a relationship. Shortest relationship known to mankind, maybe, but still a relationship. Human interaction, a bit of conversation, and a mutual exchange of bodily fluids. It still counted.
Fuck’s sake, Mark was eighteen. He was supposed to be a slut. Then at twenty-five he was supposed to regret it. Then at thirty he was supposed to settle down. And then from forty through to the grave he was supposed to get nostalgic for his slutty salad days. That was the pattern.
Mark sighed and closed his eyes. Although…a relationship with Deacon would be nice. Mark would fuck it up somehow, but it would be nice while it lasted.
His phone buzzed, and he felt a wild surge of hope that it was Deacon. He pulled his phone out. It was still buzzing, and the caller ID said Jackson.
Great. Fucking great. Jackson calling him to ream him out for being a queer and bringing his big-gay-arse-queer-cock love into the Alpha Delt house. Now all the couches had gay on them. The bowl of nuts on the coffee table—of course Mark had gone for the nuts. Blake, who had patted Mark fraternally on the back the day Mark had gotten sick running laps—Blake was probably gay now too.
Okay, he needed to quit feeling sorry for himself and answer the damned phone. Better to get this over with now. Then he could spend tomorrow working out how to tell Jim he’d been kicked out of Alpha Delt. His roommate grunted as the phone kept buzzing. Mark steeled himself and answered it. “H’llo?” he muttered.
“Mark.” Jackson’s voice was curt, as it always was when they spoke. “I need you to come to the house, please.”
“It’s three in the fucking morning.”
“I know that. But it’s an emergency.”
Interesting that this was a call from Jackson, and not Bengal barking, Get your sorry ass over here for some push-ups, bitch! or Blake’s cheerful Hey, little bro, rise and shine. We’ve got plans for you.
But then Jackson had a family stake in this one.
The kind of emergency where you all beat my ass for trying to change the tenets of Alpha Delt to service, leadership, and cum-guzzling? Or are you worried I’d like an arse beating too much?
“Look, if you’re gonna kick me out, can we just do it over the phone?”
“Christ, Mark, just come over,” Jackson snapped. “We think you can help.”
“With what?”
“With Brandon.”
* * * *
Mark made it to Alpha Delt in record time. He did knock, but as soon as he determined the door was open, he pushed inside. Jackson and Bengal were in the kitchen. Brandon was seated at the table, his head in his hands. Blake stood next to him and was urging him to breathe into a paper bag. “This always helps me, bro. When I exercise over my VO2 max.”
Brandon took the bag. His hand shook so bad the paper rattled.
Jackson looked up and saw Mark. “There you are.”
“What the fuck did you do to him?” Mark demanded, moving toward Brandon. “Jackson? What the fuck did you do?
“Same thing we did to five other pledges,” Bengal said. “Except he was the only one who couldn’t take a damn joke.”
Mark pushed Blake aside and sat in the chair next to Brandon. “Hey, mate. What’s wrong?”
Brandon wouldn’t look at him. Just dropped the paper bag on the table and buried his face in his hands again. He was breathing almost asthmatically. Mark felt an icy fear that maybe Brandon wasn’t speaking to him because he knew.
Mark looked at Blake. “What happened?”
Blake glanced at Jackson.
Mark turned to Jackson as well. “What. Happened?” he asked, enunciating each word.
“He was in the middle of a pledge activity, and he freaked.” Jackson looked uncomfortable. “We knew you guys were friends, so—”
“What pledge activity?”
Jackson didn’t respond, and Mark looked back at Brandon. “Hey, Bran?”
“Get him out of here,” Bengal said flatly. “He’s dropped out of Alpha Delt. Help him get home, all right?”
“I’m out too,” Mark said immediately. “Assuming you weren’t going to tell me that anyway.”
“No,” Jackson said sharply.
Mark turned, startled.
“Just…” Jackson closed his eyes and sighed. “We’d like you to stay in.”
“And I’ve got no fucking interest.”
“We’ll talk about it later, okay? Tomorrow, lunch?”
“I have class.” Mark reached out, wanting to put a hand on Brandon’s shoulder but afraid of how it might look, how Brandon might take it. “Brandon? Let’s get you home, all right?”
Brandon froze. God, what had these freaks done to him?
“Can you get up?”
To Mark’s relief, Brandon got slowly to his feet. His eyes were red and he looked a little unsteady, but there didn’t appear to be any serious physical damage.
“Mark?” Jackson said. “I know you don’t have class all afternoon. Will you meet with me?”
Mark glared at him. “Two o’ clock.”
“The coffee shop on High Street?”
“Whatever,” Mark muttered.
Jackson stepped toward them, his expression less cold, more sincere. He held out his hand to Brandon. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Brandon stared at his hand for a moment, then shook it. Mark guided Brandon gently toward the door, trying not to rush him, as much as he wanted to get out of there. As they left, he heard Bengal say, “What’re you apologizing for? We’ve been doing this shit since the beginning of time.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jackson responded.
Once they were out on the street and away from the house, Mark stopped. “Bran? What’s the matter, mate? You need to go to the health center?”
Brandon shook his head and sucked in a breath. He let it out shakily. “Sorry, Mark. I’ll be fine. Seriously.”
“What happened back there?”
“I don’t, um… I overreacted.”
“Fuck that!” Mark exploded. “I don’t know what they did, but I’m sure you didn’t overreact. They’re fucking twisted, and I’m glad as shit to be out of there.”
“No, no. Mark.” Brandon grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t quit.”
“What are you talking about? You quit.”
“But you shouldn’t.” Brandon scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “This is a personal thing.”
Mark nodded. “Look. I don’t think I’m getting any sleep tonight. You wanna go get greasy pub food?”
Brandon managed a slight smile. “Bar food. We have bars, not pubs.”
“Christ,” Mark muttered, grinning. “And next you’re gonna tell me we get fries there, not chips. Come on.”
Over a basket of fries, Mark got more of the story from Brandon. The Alphas had set the basement up as a “gay room,” where six pledges were stripped to their underwear, doused with cold water, and forced to stand in front of a fan. After that, three of the pledges were asked to put on tight spandex shorts, and the other three were blindfolded and forced to rub their faces against the fronts of the other guys’ shorts.
“Fucking shit,” Mark said.
“I wasn’t doing…what I was supposed to do,” Brandon said, dunking a fry repeatedly in ketchup but not eating it. “So, uh, Bengal, he started asking me if it was because of you.”
Mark’s stomach flipped. “Me?”
Brandon glanced at him, then looked quickly back down. “Like, if you were my boyfriend, and if I didn’t wanna put my face…because it would be cheating on you or whatever. He said you were gay, that you’d told Blake you were, and they asked if we’d ever fucked. What kind of shit we did. Tried to make me say you’d…” Brandon stopped. “Shit. Fuck. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just a joke.”
“Listen to me,” Mark said, trying for the moment to ignore the fear rising in him. Brandon hadn’t said he hated Mark. Hadn’t told Mark to stay the fuck away from him. That was a good sign. “It is a big deal. If it’s a joke, it’s not fucking funny.”
“I know. I just… Now what do I do?”
“You have a good, frat-free first semester. And you pledge somewhere else in the spring, if you really want to.”
“I could have made it through,” Brandon said quietly. “I could have. I don’t know what happened. I lost it.”
“They’re creeps,” Mark said. “You can find better friends than that. I’d like to murder my fucking cousin, personally.”
“Jackson was all right. He’s… He wasn’t a bad big. It was mostly Bengal who thought up, uh, fucked-up stuff, you know?”
“Except it’s all fucked-up, Bran,” Mark said. “Not just the shitty stuff they make guys do, the whole thing. It’s like they’ll push and they’ll push and they’ll push, but the second you push back, suddenly you’re the arsehole because you can’t take a joke. That’s what’s fucked-up. You can’t win. The whole system is rigged so that you can’t win. Fuck ’em. I’m out.”
“Don’t,” Brandon said. “Please don’t quit because of me.”
“I don’t want to be in their club.”
“Don’t quit,” Brandon said. “Then they’ll blame me for it, won’t they? You’ve gotta be in a fraternity, Mark, or you’re nobody.”
Mark stared at him. “That’s what your dad says, Bran, not you.”
“Well, I’m a nobody, aren’t I?” Brandon squashed a fry on the table. “I couldn’t even make it through some dumbass pledge game.”
“There is so much wrong with what you just said that I don’t even know where to start,” Mark said. “Seriously, mate, I have no idea.”
Brandon shrugged and hunched over.
“You,” Mark said, pointing a fry at him, “are the smartest bloke I know. You don’t need some bullshit frat to tell you that. Also, you’re funny, and you have a magic brain.” There was a small container of individually wrapped toothpicks on the table. Mark picked up the container, which was inexplicably shaped like a cactus, and upended it. Toothpicks spilled all over the floor.
“What’d you do that for?” Brandon asked.
“For your magic brain,” Mark said. “Count them!”
“I have an eidetic memory. I’m not Rain Man,” Brandon said.
Mark looked at the toothpicks on the floor. “Shit. I’ll pick them up,” he said to the glaring bouncer. He dropped onto the floor. “I’m picking them up.”
Classic Mark. Make a dick of yourself to take the heat off someone else.
The first time he remembered, he was in grade two, and Baz had called their teacher, Mr. Frankston, “Dad” by accident. The other kids had laughed, and Baz had started to cry. Then Mark had got his head stuck in the class guinea pig cage—something he’d discovered was possible the day before much to Mr. Frankston’s consternation, and put the knowledge to good use when he needed to create a diversion. Then, when the kids were laughing at Mark instead, and Mr. Frankston was trying to pry the cage off Mark’s head so he could send Mark to the principal’s office, all Mark could see was Baz’s shy smile.
It looked a lot like Brandon’s did now, which was worth getting thrown out of the bar for.
“You won’t quit the fraternity, will you?” Brandon asked him earnestly as they headed back to campus.
Mark didn’t answer.
“Don’t,” Brandon said. “I don’t want you to quit just because I couldn’t handle it.”
Mark bit back what he really wanted to say.
His mum said there was no arguing with some people. Usually she was talking about her brother Steve and his habit of voting conservative, but the point was valid. All the logic in the world couldn’t change some people’s fixed opinions. And Brandon had one. Brandon thought that you had to be in a fraternity, that there was something inherently worthy about being in one, and if experience couldn’t show him the truth, neither could Mark.
And if Mark ditched the frat now, Brandon would blame himself.
“I’ll stick with it,” Mark said. “Until they throw me out, right?”
Which would probably be tomorrow anyway.
* * * *
Mark forswore his usual battle of wills with the barista at the coffee shop on High Street. Their feud had started the day Mark had tried to order a flat white, and the guy thought he was making it up. Mark’s insistence that a flat white was different to a café latte didn’t unmuddy the waters at all. And his refusal to put his change in the tip jar after their first run-in had only deepened their mutual animosity. Mark would have stopped going there weeks ago, except for his stubbornness.
Today he didn’t have the time or the energy to restart the war, so he ordered a Coke and slunk into a booth to wait for Jackson.
Jackson arrived right on time, nodding at Mark and going to order a coffee before sliding into the booth across from him. “Thanks for coming.”
Mark didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He slurped his Coke loudly instead.
Jackson chewed his lip for a moment. “How’s Brandon?”
“What do you even care?” Mark asked.
A guilty look flashed across Jackson’s face. So maybe he did care. Mark didn’t know if it was because he felt responsible, or because he was worried he might be in trouble. Because hazing was bad, m’kay? Not bad enough to stop doing it, obviously, but bad enough to panic that you might be in the shit when it went wrong.
“He’s a nice kid,” Jackson said at last, stirring his coffee furiously. “I wouldn’t have let him go down there if I’d known…”
“Known what?” Mark asked. “Known what they’d do, or known he’d freak out?”
Jackson’s silence spoke for itself.
“Question.” Mark folded his arms over his chest. “There were only six pledges there last night. Why?”
Jackson didn’t meet his gaze. “Dude, c’mon…”
Mark snorted. “Right. Because you chose the ones you knew wouldn’t complain. And I wasn’t invited because I’d already told Blake I’m gay, right? Because you put me in your little ‘gay room’ in the basement, and I’d probably fucking like it, is that it? Get a hard-on instead of humiliated, yeah? Well, guess what, Jackson? The only time I like rubbing my face up against a guy’s dick is when we’re both into it. You arseholes don’t even know the difference. You know what your hazing game is called in real life? Sexual assault.”
“Dude,” Jackson said quietly. “Mark, please.”
Mark stabbed at his ice with his straw. “And that’s what they’d call it all the way from the dean’s office to the local courthouse too, am I right?”
“The room wasn’t my idea,” Jackson said.
“You were supposed to look out for him,” Mark said. “You were his big bro.”
“I didn’t know he’d freak out.”
“It still would have been sexual assault if he hadn’t,” Mark said.
Jackson opened his mouth to answer, then clamped it shut again.
Ding. Mark could see the lightbulb moment. So there was a human being inside that popped collar after all. Who would have guessed it?
“Well, go on,” he said.
Jackson raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“I take it you’re here to throw my extraordinarily gay arse out of the frat,” Mark said. “Now that you’ve had the chance to think about it overnight, right?”
“No,” said Jackson. “We don’t want you out. Out of the fraternity, I mean. Out out is okay.”
“Mmmm,” said Mark. “Because Alpha Delta is all about tolerance and inclusiveness. It’s purely an accident that you’re all white, straight, and rich.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jackson muttered. “I put my reputation on the line to get you in as a pledge, and you throw it back in my face every single day. I don’t know why you pledged, since you obviously don’t want to be there.”
“Me neither,” Mark said. “But knowing how much you want me there just warms my heart.”
“What the hell do you want from me, Mark? I don’t even know you, and suddenly Uncle Jim’s calling every few days making me promise to be your friend!” Jackson flushed. “I wasn’t…um, I wasn’t meant to mention that.”
Ouch.
Mark stirred his straw through his Coke, making bubbling eddies. So he was so unlikable that Jim had to keep reminding Jackson to play nice. That was how it was, was it? It should have stung, but it didn’t. Mark felt a sinking sensation in his stomach instead. Not a revelation so much as confirmation of a suspicion he’d held for a long time. He really was that unlikable.
Jackson bit his lip. “But, um, but we want you in Alpha Delta. We want you to be a brother.”
“Right,” Mark said. “You might, because you’re doing Jim a favor, but the rest of them? Don’t bullshit me. None of them even like me.”
“Blake does,” Jackson said.
“Blake likes everyone. He’s like a dog. With no brain.”
Jackson almost smiled.
“And I’ll bet Bengal and Logan and Chris are just desperate to get me to stay as well, aren’t they?”
“Chris is okay,” Jackson said, his tone defensive. “Anyway, with all this shit with Phi Sig, now the dean’s getting involved, and if it gets out about the hazing…”
“Ah,” Mark said. “How handy for you to have your own tame fag in the frat just when you’re about to be accused of being homophobic frat-boy arseholes, right? Any other minority groups you need to get on board in a hurry? Because I think I met a Latino guy in a wheelchair at the last Minority Meeting. If he’s gay as well, you’ve hit the trifecta. The holy fucking trinity of diversity.”
“The…” Jackson frowned. “The Minority Meeting? Are you being sarcastic?”
“If you have to ask,” Mark said, “then yes, of course I’m being sarcastic. I didn’t go to the Minority Meeting the other night because firstly there is no such thing, and secondly I was busy getting fucked by an extremely hot guy from Phi Sig in the library.”
“Mark,” Jackson said, looking horrified. “Dude.”
“Sorry,” Mark said. “Sometimes even us tame fags have claws, am I right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jackson said. “I came here to see how Brandon was, and to make sure you’re staying in the fraternity. All this shit about tame fags and stuff… Where the hell is that coming from?”
Mark wasn’t sure himself. “Forget it,” he muttered. “You want me out, you’re gonna have to throw me out. You want me in, it better not be just because you think I’m gonna throw some big gay fit about discrimination.”
Jackson shook his head. “Fine. You do what you want, Mark. I really couldn’t care less. Word of advice, though? Maybe stop seeing how many enemies you can make? We’re not all idiot assholes.”
Prove it. “Think I’ll stay in just for a shot at living in the house. I love that fireplace. Once you take the blow-up doll out of the chimney, it’s gonna be real cozy in the winter, huh?”
He didn’t know why it gave him so much pleasure to see Jackson trying not to punch him.
“If you’re determined to hate me, there’s nothing I can do about it,” Jackson said stiffly.
“I don’t hate you,” Mark said, surprising himself. “But this hazing shit is fucked-up. You know that, right? You ought to try a little harder not to scar people for life.”
Jackson nodded, not looking at Mark. “Bengal gets out of control sometimes.”
“And you go along with it,” Mark said, scowling. “Don’t blame it on him.”
“Okay. Fine. We’re definitely not gonna let it get to the level it did with Brandon again, though.”
“And this whole thing with Phi Sig is stupid,” Mark went on. “What’s the point?”
Jackson shrugged. “Used to be a friendly rivalry, I’m told.” He sipped his coffee. “And anyway, we’ll be spending enough time with them in the next two months. Maybe we’ll bond.”
“What do you mean?”
“Interfraternity Council weighed in on the fight. Apparently we’re supposed to extend the olive branch.”
“And you’re gonna do it?”
“We already have. We’re having our fall semiformal in conjunction with theirs.”
Mark snorted. “You asked them to your prom?”
Jackson flushed a little. “The IFC’s idea, not ours. And it’s not a fucking prom.”
“They turned you down, right? I mean, they’re probably having theirs in a planetarium or something.”
“They didn’t have much choice. Their venue didn’t pan out. It was supposed to be at the Jameson Historical Home. Now they’ll be joining us at the country club.”
Mark tried to imagine Deacon’s reaction to that. Though for all he knew, Deacon adored country clubs. There was a shit ton he didn’t know about Deacon. Mark recalled with some embarrassment spilling that stuff about his mum and Jim to Deacon yesterday. And then Deacon had mentioned his mother’s OCD, and all Mark had said was, “That’s rough,” and then they’d fucked.
“Maybe you need a friend right now, not a fuck,” Deacon had said.
Could he have both? Deacon had said he could. Could he be both? He’d never really tried. Mark supposed being friends—being an item—would mean eventually they’d have to do more than fuck. They’d probably have to talk.
“And now the whole thing’s a joint effort,” Jackson was saying. “The planning committee, the catering selection…” He sighed. “Fuck.”
“Maybe you’ll make new friends.”
“Maybe you’ll make a friend,” Jackson muttered, raising his cup.
“Touché.”
Mark clinked his glass against Jackson’s cup and drank.
“Next chapter meeting, we’ll be discussing plans for the semiformal,” Jackson said. “So if you have any ideas, bring ’em.” He glanced warily at Mark as though expecting Mark to say something obnoxious. “We’ll talk about the pledge retreat too.”
Fuck. They’d mentioned that last week, and Mark had been horrified. Some kind of weekend bonding thing some fraternities did with their pledges.
Mark nodded. “Okay.” He drank more of his Coke and wondered if he ought to make an excuse about needing to get to a class or turn in a form at Student Affairs or do anything besides keep having this awkward conversation with Jackson.
“So…I guess it’s a lot different here from Australia?” Jackson offered tentatively.
Oh hell no. Jackson was not gonna try this lame let’s-kind-of-be-friends shit. Except last time Jackson had actually tried to make conversation, Mark had told him to fuck off. And exactly what had that attitude got him? A stepfather who had to find his friends for him. So he said, “Yeah. It’s taken some getting used to.”
“You think you’ll go back there when you’re done with school?”
“I don’t know.” Mark felt the ache in his throat he sometimes did when he talked about home. The one he tried to cover up with a hundred different shades of sarcasm because…because fuck it, he didn’t need anyone to feel sorry for him.
And again, what had that attitude got him?
“Well…” Jackson’s voice was quiet, and he spoke to the table rather than to Mark. “There’s actually some cool stuff to do around here. Especially in winter. So maybe sometime we can hang out or something.”
Mark wasn’t sure whether to be touched or suspicious. Jackson seemed sincere enough—or at least, sincerely awkward enough—that the invitation might be genuine, and not a trap or a favor to Uncle Jim. As little as Mark wanted to hang out with Jackson, he appreciated the effort it must have taken to offer. “Yeah,” he said. “That’d be cool.”
“Okay. Well.” Jackson shifted and stood. “I’d better get going. Thanks for, uh, meeting with me. And I’m glad you’ll be staying in Alpha Delt.”
“Sure.” Thanks for the dubious honor of being allowed to remain?
“Keep an eye on Brandon for me, okay?” Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s got my cell, but I don’t know if he wants to talk to me.”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why.”
Jackson left, and Mark drank the rest of his Coke. He wondered if compromising his integrity, obnoxious as it was, to stay in the frat was the act of a guy who was finally deciding to make the best of things, or that of a spineless dickhead who’d given up the good fight. In the end, unable to decide, Mark cheered himself up by ordering a flat white.