I’m leaning against the back porch of Delta Tau Chi, sipping a Natty and looking out at the lake, when a familiar-looking guy walks up to me.
“Hi, I’m Marco,” he says. He’s tall and athletic looking, with tan skin, beautiful in an all-American way, with broad shoulders and a strong jawline.
“Cassie,” I say. I don’t think I know any Marcos, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen him before.
He has a clipboard full of questions, like all the other actives, but slips it under his arm.
The Rush party has just begun, and people are mostly still milling about, some aggressively kissing ass, while others seem to be working up the courage to talk to an active. I went for the “this is all beneath me” vibe and have been just hanging out.
“Are you having a good time?” Marco asks.
“Moderately,” I say. “How about you?”
He smiles. “Yeah, this time of year, everything feels very forced, you know?”
I nod.
“Things should be fun and simple.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Torres!” someone across the way yells. “Where’s the vodka?”
“My room—fridge!” he yells back.
And I realize how I know him. I’ve seen that name on the back of a jersey. I’m talking to the quarterback of the Warren football team.
“Shots?” he says, turning back to me.
I shrug. “I’m more of a tequila girl, but I’ll settle.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Tequila it is.”
My phone buzzes, and I’m looking down to check it when he says, “So, Cassie, have you ever done body shots?”
I look up, and for a second, although my mouth is open, no words come out. “I—”
“Hey, Marco.” Peter is walking over to us, smiling.
He pulls Marco aside and whispers to him.
“Really?” Marco says.
Peter nods.
“Well...” Marco says, walking over to me, “I’ve just been informed you’re not a Delta but a possible pledge, so I guess I should be vetting you instead.”
I want to say, Instead of what? But I know the answer and have no interest in making the moment more awkward than it is.
“Okay, then. Let’s do this.” He pulls out his clipboard and flips the pages. “Um, okay.” He scratches his head. “Well, the question I’m supposed to ask all the pledges tonight is, ‘Where did it happen?’ Meaning, uh, like where did you fu—make love for the first time. It’s, uh, meant to be ambiguous to mess with the pledges, so they aren’t sure how to answer. But, uh, we can skip over that.”
“No, it’s fine.” I wave my hand. “I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else.”
“Uh, okay.”
“It hasn’t happened yet for me, but the first time I did...like, other stuff, it was in a car.”
He raises his eyebrows and nods, giving off an aura of professional interest. “All right, then. Sooo...what teams do you root for?”
After I tell him my preferences—football: Colts; hockey: Blackhawks; baseball: White Sox—we cover my favorite cheap beer: Natty; nice beer: Corona, with lime; and drinking game: “Does shotgunning count? Okay, then Rage Cage.”
“Kate Upton or Scarlett Johansson?” becomes “Channing Tatum or Chris Hemsworth?” and I ask why not both.
“Ass or boobs? Um, let’s say abs or arms?”
“Hmm, I feel like that’s not quite equivalent.”
“I know, right?”
I try not to laugh as I watch the genuine struggle of this athletic god as he flips through the pages of his questionnaire, trying to figure out the heterosexual female equivalent of ass versus boobs.
He calls in backup, and before you know it, we’ve got a running back, two wide receivers and half the d-line gathered around. The other freshmen are throwing daggers.
“Some girls like nice hair, like the boy-band types,” one guy says.
They all nod in agreement.
“You’d be surprised how insane girls can go about calves,” another suggests. “That’s why I never skip leg day.”
“Calves or hair? Is that for real what we’re going with?” Marco asks.
“No, no, no,” star wide receiver Donald Stewart says. “Y’all are being ridiculous. You know as well as I do that it’s all about the D. We might not like to admit it, but you know it’s true.”
I almost spit out my beer.
“Hold on.” Stewart holds up his hands. “I’m texting my girlfriend.” Everyone leans in. “She says, ‘What is wrong with you?’” He stares at the screen indignantly. “Nothin’, baby, just trying to value your opinion, my God.”
“I think women focus in less on one feature,” I say. “So it’s hard to compare. I think as a girl you kind of find someone attractive more as their entire appearance, and also, like, their personality, the way they carry themselves.”
“Yeah, why do we focus on one thing so much?” Donald says. And for a second I think they might be about to have a breakthrough, to realize the difference between appreciating the sexuality and beauty of people and objectifying them and reducing them to one body part.
“Why do we even have to pick between ass or boobs?”
“Yeah, why not both?”
Aaaand they missed the point.
“We should start a revolution.”
“Hashtag assandboobs?” I say drily.
They all laugh.
“What’s going on out here?” Peter steps out onto the porch.
“We’re changing the world,” Marco says.
“Ass and boobs, Mr. President,” Donald says with dreamy eyes. “Just picture it, ass and boobs.”
“Get back to your freshmen.” He shakes his head in dismay but is still smiling.
* * *
I’m barely back in my dorm when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unrecognized number.
J: Freshman! It’s been great to get to know you. A few of us are going to get sushi/go sake bombing tomorrow at 8. Meet @ the house but don’t tell anyone. We don’t need a dirty Rush violation and neither do you. Keep it real—Jake (I’m the Rush chair always wearing a hat)
Yes! One step closer to a bid and, in turn, securing my scholarship.
I lock the door, then grab my laptop on my way to bed. From my desk, someone—and by someone I mean Leighton—could read over my shoulder if they opened the door. But when I sit on my bed I can position myself against the wall and gain some privacy.
I open a private browsing session so nothing shows up in my history and go to the Stevenson website. I log in using my password and a verification code sent to my phone, and open the folder for my field journal entries.
The journal was Madison Macey’s idea. The Stevenson people loved the personal experience part of my proposal, and they want a lot of my voice. What it’s like to piss in a bathroom that has urinals, how the guys eat, and so on. The color of the story, as they say. “The fluff” is what Price calls it.
No Files Uploaded. Well, at least for now.
Entry 1, I type.
Entry 1: The fraternity Rush process seems wholly superficial. Perspective members compete for the attention of actives by “bonding” over objectifying women, whether it be ranking the school’s women’s sports teams on attractiveness or debating the virtues of Kim Kardashian’s rear end vs. Nicki Minaj’s.
Potential New Members (PNMs) also recount their sexual exploits to impress the actives, who seem to value the number of women a PNM has slept with as a good indication of whether he will fit. The phenomenon of “Eskimo brothers”—a term used to describe two men who have had intercourse with the same woman based on quasi-historical misunderstandings of Inuit practices of polyamory by young men throughout the country—seems to be the pinnacle of this ranking system.
Drinking to extreme levels is also valued, second only to sexual prowess.
Sororities are often invited to these events and encouraged to speak to PNMs in a move that seems to associate interactions with these women as a possible benefit of membership. Rush posters often advertise sorority guests alongside food—e.g., the lovely ladies of KAD and sushi, or Pi Beta, steaks and cigars.
An hour later, I submit my entry and close my computer.