There was a knock on the slightly open door. “Hi, Professor.” It was the Harris girl. What was she doing here? These weren’t office hours.
“Miss Harris. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I sent you an email.”
“Sorry, I must have missed it.” Lulu Harris had taken to sending quite a number of emails to Eph, mostly about class, but sometimes they veered off-piste. A recent one included side-by-side pictures of Lulu in two different outfits and asked him which one was more “literary.” She was going to New York for a book party or something. Eph thought the email was odd but harmless. He answered, “Number two, but I confess I am out of my depth.”
“I thought I’d catch you to hand in my paper,” said Lulu.
“It’s perfectly all right to email your paper in, you know.”
“I know, but I wanted to hand it in personally.” She nudged the paper across the desk. Louisa May Alcott and the Birth of the Modern Woman.
Hmm, interesting title. At least he wouldn’t have to print it out. Crap—he realized the bottle of Jack was sitting right there. No way to hide it without being obvious.
“Looks interesting. I look forward to reading it.”
“Thanks.” Lulu stood there.
“I appreciate your bringing it by.”
“Of course.” She was still standing there. Eph eyed his bottle, desperately wanting another glass, but not until Harris left. “My dad likes this music.”
“So does mine, and I seemed to have inherited his musical tastes, if nothing else.”
“Cool.” Lulu saw a picture of D’Arcy on Eph’s desk and picked it up. “Who’s this?”
“She’s someone I care for.”
“Girlfriend?”
Eph thought it odd to be getting personal questions from a first-year, but he had left the picture on his desk, so he supposed it was fair game. “Yes.”
“She’s gorgeous.” Lulu closely examined the picture before putting it down. “You know, that whole thing in your class, it was a total setup. I mean, it was so obvious. Any idiot could see it. They even sat in different places to make it look spontaneous, but I’ve seen those guys hanging around.”
“Thank you. It’s been an unwelcome episode.”
“I can imagine.”
Lulu eyed the bottle of Jack. This was getting uncomfortable. Eph made a mental note to pour his drink directly out of his desk drawer next time.
“Sooo, can I have some?”
“What?” Eph hoped Lulu meant something other than what he thought she meant, but then she nodded toward the bottle, smiling.
“Oh, uh, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“I’ve been drinking since I was fourteen. I think I can handle it.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure we’d be violating about twenty-five different clauses in my employment contract.” Why is she smiling like that?
“Oh, you’re no fun.”
“It’s true. Please don’t tell my girlfriend. She doesn’t know.”
“Hmm, she’s lucky.”
“I think it’s clear that I’m the lucky one.”
Lulu twirled her hair and then looked back at the bottle. “Are we celebrating something?”
“What do you mean?”
“Rumor has it you’re in the clear.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“You mean, other than because I was the one who got you off? Other than that, I’d say it’s because there was something about it a half hour ago in the online Devon Daily.”
Eph was at a loss for words. Someone must have given the paper the scoop. He swiveled his laptop around and called up the Daily. There it was.
Devon Daily
December 4
Breaking—Russell Cleared of Wrongdoing
Ephraim Russell, an Assistant Professor of English, was cleared of any wrongdoing today by a panel chaired by Diversity and Inclusion Dean Martika Malik-Adams. There had been accusations from some students regarding the use of violent and offensive language in Professor Russell’s classroom, including some that was considered racist. In a prepared statement, Dean Malik-Adams said, “While some of the language used in Professor Russell’s class was regrettable, it appears that there has been no specific violation of any university codes, therefore no action will be taken by the university at this time. We look forward to more specific guidelines forthcoming from the Committee on Safe and Open Classrooms.”
Dean Malik-Adams could not be reached for further comment.
“You made the recording,” Eph said.
“I usually record my classes on my phone, in case I miss something. I get distracted easily.”
“I guess I should thank you.”
“I guess you should.”
“Well, thank you. I mean it.”
Lulu leaned forward. “Do you, Professor?”
“Of course.”
Lulu grabbed the bottle of Jack and smiled. “Then I think we should both celebrate.”
“Hey, you’d better put that away. Seriously.” Eph glanced at his office door, which was still slightly ajar.
Lulu just smiled. “Sure thing, Professor.” Instead of putting the bottle down, she tilted her head back and took several large swallows without the slightest grimace. “Frankly, Professor, I think I deserve more than just a thank-you.”
“If this is about grades…”
“It’s not about grades.…” She took another swig.
“Give me that!” Eph snatched the bottle out of her hands.
“You know, all the girls think you’re hot.” She leaned forward and teased with the top button of her blouse.
Oh, shit. Harris’s intentions were now abundantly clear, even to Eph, who’d always been the last person to know when a woman liked him. “Well, yes, naturally … I mean, no … which is to say you’re…” Eph was aware he was starting to sound like an idiot in front of this eighteen-year-old girl. Lulu stood up and walked around the desk. “Listen, I’m flattered, really, but…”
Lulu, apparently not interested in whatever Eph was saying, suddenly lifted a leg and straddled his lap. She then planted her mouth firmly on his, which was hanging conveniently open. It was on there like a suckerfish, tongue thrusting down his throat. All Eph could do was make a panicked, muffled sound. Mmmffft! Then Lulu leaned back and flashed innocent eyes, while simultaneously gyrating her hips. Eph tried desperately to not be aroused, a battle he was quickly losing.
“Something wrong, Professor?” Voices echoed outside in the hallway, sending sudden waves of panic through Eph. The door was still open. In another era, teacher-student dalliances were common, but the conventions regarding such things as student pelvises grinding on teacher laps had undergone a radical transformation.
Eph lurched, sending Lulu sprawling to the floor.
“Ow, fuck!”
Damn, did anyone hear that? Eph looked fearfully toward the door. “Shit! Sorry. Look, I can’t … my job, and besides, you seem very nice, but I have a girlfriend.” He helped Lulu back to her feet. “I’m flattered, really, and thanks for bringing your paper…” Thanks for bringing your paper? “I think it would be best if you left.” He sat back down.
“So, what, I’m not pretty enough for you?”
“More like not old enough. Sorry, really. You’re very … attractive, but I could get in trouble.”
“Attractive? What am I, thirty? Well, fuck you, Professor.” She made her way to the door, but suddenly turned and came around the back of Eph’s chair. In one quick motion, she lowered her head next to Eph’s and swung her iPhone around with her right arm. She pursed her lips like a duck and tapped the phone with a practiced thumb.
“Hey! Uh…” protested Eph, confused.
“Thanks, Professor!” And just like that, she was gone.
A few minutes later Eph’s laptop beeped, indicating he had a new email. It was from Lulu. The photo of the two of them.
Eph reached for the bottle.
Th
e Brothers of Beta House
DESPITE DETERMINED EFFORTS over many decades by Devon administrators, fraternities remained a part of the school ecosystem. There was a time, back in the 1970s, when the administrators had almost succeeded in purging them, but then the drinking age was raised to twenty-one and off-campus fraternities sprouted like invasive weeds.
Tonight was party night at Beta Psi. Various pledges—goats, they were called—scurried around, making preparations and taking the edge off the general state of disarray. Beta’s interior, with its uneven couches and secondhand furniture, was in a long-term war against entropy, with entropy consistently enjoying the upper hand.
The older brothers were mostly relaxing, enjoying that wonderful lull before the evening’s coming pleasures. It was almost Winter Break, what used to be called Christmas Break, and with most of their exams in the rearview mirror, the Betas were in a partying mood. Tonight was sure to be a rager. They had that EDM guy, RoofRaza, plus the goats doing all the work.
Swipe, swipe … swipe. Digger was working Tinder hard. He, Tug Fowler, and the Mound, all seniors, were prone on the common-room couches.
“How’s hunting?” asked Tug, president of the Beta house.
Digger Brooks didn’t look up from his phone, still swiping. Digger was the FOGO on the lacrosse team, which stood for “face off, get off.” It was his job to win face-offs and then run to the sidelines to be immediately replaced by another player. A lacrosse face-off resembled two people with sticks wrestling each other, and Digger’s particular style lent him his nickname back in high school. His skills had earned him a 40 percent break on Devon’s tuition, despite his being from a wealthy family in Greenwich, Connecticut.
“Hey, dill weed. Asked you a question.”
Digger, without looking up: “It’s a digital kennel out there, my friend. When we pre-gaming, anyway?”
Pre-gaming had first emerged in the mid-1980s, long before any of the current Betas were born. Congress, acting as institutional scold, passed the National Minimum Drinking Age Act, which withheld highway funds from states that didn’t raise their drinking age to twenty-one. Most states caved immediately. Louisiana held out for a little while, but Northeastern states folded faster than you could say, “Jäger shot.”
The effect on college campuses was complicated, and not at all what any Washington politicians might have imagined, assuming they’d given it any thought. Colleges were forced to implement compliance regimes to keep an army of avaricious tort lawyers at bay. Complicating matters, most seniors could still legally partake, while underclassmen could not, creating a great schism of haves and have-nots and a compliance nightmare.
No one really thought underclassmen were going to abstain; this was college, and no Devon freshman walked through Phipps Gate without having seen Animal House, howling at the sight of John Belushi smiting beer bottles on his head. The federal fucking government was not going to get in the way of a good party, no sir. But big, campus-wide parties? Those were now a thing of the past. Students slithered into the nooks and crannies, mainly dorm rooms and fraternities, consuming what they wanted behind closed doors where they wouldn’t be caught by RAs and other mandated busybodies. Beer, the college beverage of choice since the first student was forced to read Proust, faded away. Too bulky. No way to sneak a keg into your dorm. Vodka was the new poison, its primary virtue lying in its efficiency—a mere ounce was equivalent to a whole beer, so it was easy to sneak around, and it mixed with about anything. Gatorade, say. No RA would be the wiser if you were sipping from a Gatorade bottle.
There were other, subtler consequences. Unintended ones. Social life became cliquey, balkanized. With the open-to-all, campus-wide parties gone, students now huddled in groups of six or ten or twelve. These groups had an irritating habit, from a progressive college administrator’s point of view, of self-selecting almost completely along demographic lines. No one saw that coming, and no one much wanted to talk about it. The higher drinking age became accepted wisdom along with the parallel conceit that some sort of transcendent diversity had been achieved with new admissions policies.
A few college presidents squawked, mostly because they didn’t like the liability. Some even signed a letter, but Mothers Against Drunk Driving was a powerful lobby, and no politician was about to commit career hari-kari by pushing for eighteen again. Twenty-one was here to stay.
Not that anyone in the Beta Psi house knew much of this. A few may have heard stories from their parents about the wide and varied social life that existed in their day. Devon in particular was once known for some legendary blowouts such as house-on-house chugging contests and a “saloon” night that featured a shot bar.
It might as well have been another planet.
Most of today’s Devonites only knew the world they inherited, and they made the best of it. So, the idea behind pre-gaming was to get drunk in small groups before the party, just in case the party was dry.
Technically, the Betas didn’t need to pre-game at all since they owned their own property and so could do whatever they damn well pleased. Tonight, though, they would get drunk before getting drunker.
A goat walked through the common room, carrying a case of Popov vodka, Beta’s most revered of spirits. Tug and Digger nodded approvingly. Popov was described in a well-regarded spirits periodical as a “yeasty, vanilla putrescence,” but it possessed the highest single virtue in the eyes of the brotherhood: it was cheap. Years back, one of the more analytical Betas, pondering how to reduce a spirit’s usefulness to a single number, came up with the “Beta ratio,” derived by dividing a liquor’s proof by its price for a fifth. For instance, a fine single malt like Macallan had a Beta of 1.6. This was inefficient, even gauche. On the other hand, Popov’s Beta was 7.3, a number worthy of approbation. When the house Alcohol Requisition Officer came back with anything new, the first question was always “What’s the Beta?” If it wasn’t 7 or higher, there were repercussions.
The only time anyone had ever seen a higher Beta than Popov’s was when someone purloined several gallons of pure grain alcohol and made jungle juice, a grenadine-laced concoction mixed to look harmless by its friendly red color. House mythology put the Beta north of 10. It was said that Havenport General had to use stomach pumps on several of the female guests. The subsequent banning of Beta from all university activities for two years was enough to cut grain alcohol from the weekly shopping list, even as it cemented Beta’s reputation as the best party house.
Finn Belcher, a slovenly but tech-savvy brother from the Midwest, came in, waving his phone. “I’ve been working on an app,” he announced.
Everyone, it seemed, was working on an app. Jimbo Peters had one that required you blow into a Breathalyzer—attached to your phone—before calling or texting anyone you had previously tagged as an ex. The default blood-alcohol threshold was .08, same as drunk driving, but you could set it wherever you wanted. Someone else had an app where you could calculate your carbon offset based on how much you farted. You had to take the phone out and notify the app with every fart. The brothers, all recruited as beta testers, turned this into something of a contest. In the end, the Mound, a football player of prodigious girth, had no real competition. He was readily appointed House Flatulist.
Unlike most of the brothers, though, Finn was a Comp Sci major and actually had some coding chops. This had the others listening in semi-interest. “You point your phone at someone,” Finn said, “push this red button, and the app randomly pairs a word with douche.”
“A demonstration, if you will,” suggested Tug.
Finn pointed his phone at Tug and pressed down. The phone suddenly spoke in an irritating, nasally voice. “Douche bucket!”
He pressed again.
“Douche nozzle!”
“Again!” said Tug, who sat up with growing interest.
“Douche licker!”
“Or if you want, you can stick with the classic…” Finn pushed a second button repeatedly.
“D
ouche! Douche! Douche!”
“You can also change the voice.” Finn clicked again, this time producing a “Douche!” in basso profundo.
“That is fuckin’ awesome!” squealed Digger. He and Tug high-fived. “I so need that.”
“Of course, it’s not completely random, since you can only pair with nouns, and not every noun is funny when you pair it with douche. Something like douche motherboard would, you know, suck.”
“Would suck balls, sure,” Tug said.
“But a surprising number of words actually work.”
“How many you up to?” inquired Digger.
“Seven hundred and forty-two.”
“Do you have douche rocket?” asked Digger intently.
“Nice one! Consider it added.”
“Does this app have a name?” asked Tug.
“I was thinking of Douche Buddy.”
“Belch, we are humbled,” said Tug. “You are a credit to the fraternal order.”
Another brother wandered in, Bryce Little from New York. “Hey, guys, I know this freshman chick from the city. Smoke show. Mind putting her on the list?”
“Our man Mound is manning the door. Hey, Mound, wake up!”
The Mound was buried in a nearby couch, sleeping.
He reluctantly rolled over. “The fuck.” He meant, Why did you bother me just now and what do you want? Mound was gifted with an economy of speech.
“Bryce’s got some chick he wants on the list.”
“Name.”
“Lulu Harris.”
“Done.” Mound rolled back over.
“Hey, Mound, any good hit-and-runs today?” asked Digger. Mound’s thing was to tour Devon’s newly designated transgender bathrooms where he’d lay down tremendous bowel movements. It was about as political as Mound got. The brothers tracked his progress with great interest.
From deep in the couch: “Fuckin’ A.” Why, yes, I had some success in that matter.
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