“Welcome to your first house clean.” Peter stands in front of the whole house, all of us assembled in various states of undress and hangover. I rub my eyes. The kid next to me—Pledge Bambi, who I’ve just met—yawns. Well, at least until Peter’s eyes fall on him, and then he snaps his mouth shut and stands up straight. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He is pretty tall and lanky. Not to mention his baby face and big eyes.
“I want to see all of these cans recycled, the kitchen restocked, dishes washed, the floors scrubbed and vacuumed—including the bathroom.”
The crowd emits a collective groan, but Peter continues unfazed, rambling about disinfectant and no-streak window cleaner.
I scan the room. Examine the half-congealed pot of mac and cheese on the floor underneath the only still-upright table. The sea of empty beer cans that makes the floor hardly visible. The not-so-empty beer cans spilling onto the tile. Oh God, at least I hope all that yellow liquid is beer.
I look up to the ceiling, trying not to throw up. Is that...a bra hanging from the fan?
“All right.” Peter claps his hands and smiles. “I think that about covers it. See you in a few hours.” He spins on his heel and walks toward the door. The other actives do the same.
“Well, this sucks,” Bambi says. The rest of the pledges mumble in agreement while dispersing.
I head into the kitchen to grab a few trash bags before making my way to the TV room, which has hopefully been hit less hard by the trash tornado than the main party rooms.
A few people had the same idea as me, including Jordan, who’s in a white undershirt and penguin pajama pants, hair perfectly disheveled.
I clear my throat. “I, uh, come bearing trash bags.”
“Thanks,” Jordan says, taking one, but he seems distracted.
I lean down to pick up a few cans of Natty Light, shoving them in my own plastic bag, extremely aware of the tiny sleep shorts I’m wearing, which are basically just boxers.
“I can’t figure out why this couch is like this,” Jordan says.
I stand up and walk over to examine it. Half the couch is a darker green than the rest, seemingly soaking wet.
“I know!” A guy I don’t really know very well—I think his name might be Alan, or maybe Aaron, walks up. His eyes are wide in wonderment. “I fell asleep there, and I woke up soaking wet. It was so weird.”
“Do you think one of the actives threw a bucket of water on you?” Jordan asks.
“Wouldn’t he remember that?” I say.
“Nope,” Alan/Aaron says with a stupid smile. “I was so blacked that whatever it was, I slept right through.”
“Jesus,” I say under my breath.
Jordan rubs his chin, examining the couch like it’s a clue in a murder mystery. “Do you think...” He turns to... Al—let’s just call him Al. “Could it be, uh, pee?”
I squeal despite myself and jump back from the couch.
Al turns bright red. “It is not pee.”
“Okay, okay.” Jordan holds up his hands to calm the witness. “There must be a reasonable explanation for this.”
“Like a leak?” I suggest.
We all look up.
“I don’t know,” Jordan says. “The ceiling looks fine.”
“Well, maybe it dried,” Al says.
I scrunch my nose. “I don’t think—”
“What’s in the room above?” Jordan asks, already on the move. He stops when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “Cassie, run up the stairs and walk forward on my instructions.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, dropping my bag of tin cans and running past him toward the stairwell.
“This is a serious investigation, ma’am. I do not appreciate your sarcasm.”
I roll my eyes as I race up the stairs, but a smile sneaks onto my face. When I reach the top, I yell back downstairs that I’m ready.
“Okay!” he yells back. “Step forward as I count. Take one step!” he says in a booming, dramatic voice.
I laugh and do as I’m told.
“Two! Three! Four!” We step forward together, a floor apart. He stops when he gets to twelve. I take in my surroundings quickly before sprinting downstairs.
“No dice,” I say, panting as I rejoin them. “Just a bedroom, no bathroom or water fountain.”
The color drains from Al’s face. “Maybe—maybe a pipe burst.”
“And what, targeted only the couch you were on and then resealed itself?” I say.
“Face it, man.” Jordan shakes his head. “The investigation was airtight. You peed.”
“I did not pee!” Al looks around frantically. Duncan passes by the door. “Hey, dude, come in here,” Al calls. “You’re my roommate. Tell these guys, how many times have I blacked out? I don’t pee myself, right?”
Duncan leans into the room, his body so large it’s like he is supporting the door frame instead of the other way around. “Uh...yeah, you do. Like every time you drink.”
“What?” Al goes ghost pale.
“Oh my God,” I say, backing up. “Oh my God, and I almost touched it.”
“Yeah, dude.” Duncan sighs. “You didn’t know that? Why do you think I gave you the bottom bunk? I’m almost three hundred pounds. Do you think I like climbing that little ladder?”
“Wh-what? Why has no one told me this?” Al asks.
Duncan shrugs. “We thought you knew.”
“How did you not know?” I ask. “What have you thought before when you’ve woken up soaking wet?”
“I—I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “You black out and you wake up and things are weird. I thought maybe I’d spilled water on myself, or that they did as some sort of prank...”
I stare at him. “But the smell?”
He shrugs. “They pee out the window out of laziness a lot, so our room just kind of always smells like that.”
I struggle to comprehend that and try to think about what side of the house their room is on to avoid walking near their window as Al continues to grapple with this new knowledge of himself.
Jordan pats Al on the back. “It’s gonna be all right, man. But, uh, cleaning this room? We’re gonna leave this one up to you.”
“Good luck.” I smile shyly as I cross the room. I walk up the stairs, hoping I can wander a bit and avoid cleaning until the worst has been dealt with. I nod to the naked calendar as I walk past. This month is Carmen Electra. And then I stop in my tracks.
The hall is empty, and quieter than it has ever been, but something else is off. All the doors are shut and presumably locked. Except for one.
Okay, Madison Macey. You want embedded? You want an inside perspective like never before? How about a tour of the president’s bedroom?
I look around, but no one else seems to be on this floor. I pat my pocket, making sure I have my phone, as I slip inside and slowly close the door behind me.
The room is just as I remember it from Rush. Much plainer and light-years cleaner than the rest of the house. American flag and ROTC poster. Bed made with military precision. Books stacked neatly on the desk near a desktop computer.
I walk over to the desk and click the mouse. The computer lights up, but it’s password protected.
I glance at the door. I could try for the password, but I could spend hours doing that and get nowhere. And I probably have only minutes.
I open the top drawer. Pens, playing cards, highlighters, phone charger, condoms, Post-its. I close it and try the larger drawers on the side. The first one is full of spiral notebooks and thick volumes with titles like The Spread of Nuclear Weapons and Political Order. I close it and open the next one. Lying flat is a file with “Pledges” written across it in neat handwriting.
I set it on the desk and flip it open, feeling as if I should be wearing gloves or something. I glance toward the door.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I flip through. First a copy of the flyers they’d posted around campus. Then photos of each pledge, seemingly from their Facebook pages, along with a few sentences about each.
Joe Walsh: Asshole, but legacy. Yes.
Duncan Morris: Football, automatic yes.
Ben Worthington: Awkward, but his dad gives hella money to the alumni association. Yes.
Chris Lewis: Pretty boy. No.
I take a picture on my phone and flip the page to see myself at prom smiling. I remember Jay snapping that picture as I laughed and blew him a kiss.
Cassie Davis: Opportunity. Yes (Pending).
Opportunity? For what? PR? Or...ew...like sex? And pending, what does that mean? Was that pending a vote during Rush? Am I still pending?
I flip through the rest of the pages, looking for more. But there are no more notes about me.
The last page is an Excel printout. Pledge names on the x-axis, active names on the y.
It seems to be the system they use to create the pledge list. Who’s rewarded by invites to exclusive parties, who’s punished with shots.
Most people get pretty similar results across the board. Those who go out often or play sports get high marks from everyone. Duncan has sevens and eights. And Alan Morris (so it is Alan) gets sixes and sevens. Although once this peeing thing breaks, he’ll probably drop.
Others are less luckily. Ben “Bambi” Worthington gets twos and threes.
I find my name and trace a line across the page. One, seven, three, eight, three, four, six, two. I seem to be the only pledge where there’s no agreement.
Even more interesting are my votes from the executive section. Marco Torres: eight. Sebastian Elliot: one. Peter Ford: zero.
What the hell? He must really not want me here. There isn’t another zero in the goddamn chart.
I snap a picture, close the file and put it back where I found it, then slide the drawer closed quickly.
The next and largest drawer is full of similar files, but upright. The other one must belong here, but Peter must have taken it out recently.
I flip through them quickly. Budget, Alumni, Nationals, Housing, Rush. About what I’d expect. Initiation Material, Emergency Contacts. Then...
My fingers freeze over the last file, whose tab is bent, so I almost didn’t see it.
Cassie Davis.
Why in God’s name is there an entire file devoted to me?
“Ahem.”
My head snaps up, and I see Peter, hand still on the doorknob, staring at me.
I pull my hand back like I’ve touched fire and stand up straight.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asks.
“I, uh...” I glance around. “Aren’t we supposed to clean in here, as well?” I look for anything out of order, but find only a single pen on the desk. I place it in a mug carefully before looking back up at him. I tell myself to smile.
“No, it’s just the common spaces.” He steps forward, studying me.
I step back, my hand brushing the wall.
“Didn’t you listen to my speech this morning?” He steps between me and the desk, clicking the drawer closed with his heel.
I laugh nervously. “I did, but you know me...” I make a stupid face and bonk myself on the head. “Dumb freshman.”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder why we let you idiots live here.”
Yeah, you even gave me a zero.
“Get back to work, pledge. I don’t think the first-floor bathrooms have been cleaned yet.”
Ugh. First-floor bathrooms are the ones open to the public during parties, which undoubtedly means vomit.
“On it.” I smile as I walk past him.
The door slams as soon as both my feet are in the hallway. The lock clicks into place immediately.
So much for finding out what was in that file.