by Kiley Roache
“Should we go in?” someone else says before I can respond.
Everyone kind of shrugs.
“They said eight, right?”
Just then the door opens. The lights are off inside, but the late summer dusk lights up Peter’s face.
“Come on in, guys.”
I follow them into the dark, empty front section of the house.
“You’re late, pledge bitches,” a voice says.
Two other figures are waiting for us.
All the rowdy, obnoxious boys from Rush Retreat pile into the room silently.
“All right,” Peter says. “As most of you already know, I’m Peter Ford, and I’m the current president of Delta Tau Chi. I hope you enjoyed our wake-up call this morning. If you didn’t, you can leave now. As you know, hundreds of young men rush DTC every year, and you are one of the chosen thirty we have allowed the privilege of pledging.
“After tonight you will officially be pledges of the Cal Beta chapter of Delta Tau Chi. This does not mean you are yet a brother. At the beginning of the next semester, the actives will vote, and if you complete your pledge tasks properly this semester and are voted in, you will be initiated into the brotherhood. It is not an easy path that lies ahead. If you don’t want to take on the honor and responsibility of membership, you know where the door is.”
I look at him like I’m listening intently, when I’m really just trying not to roll my eyes.
“All right, then, down to business. As you all probably already know, we are on probation. That means even small mistakes can get us in a lot of trouble. There will be an email going out to all of you in a few minutes with my cell phone number. If you ever are in trouble, you do not call your mother. You do not call your RA. You call me. I can’t emphasize enough how incredibly dead you’ll be if we lose our house because one of you idiots over-or underreacted to a situation while you’re blackout drunk.”
He gestures to the other actives. “Marco here is your social chair. You’re gonna wanna be nice to him, because when there’s a sorority girl you really start to like, he’s your wingman. And Bass...” He turns around and Sebastian, the drill sergeant from this morning, steps into the light. “Bass is your pledge master, or ‘new member educator,’ if anyone from the university ever asks. He is here to welcome you, and by welcome, I mean make your life a living hell.”
A smile spreads across Sebastian’s face that makes me shiver despite the stuffy room.
Peter turns to Bass. “I think that’s about it for introductions, so I’m gonna let y’all take over now.”
“Okay, pledges, welcome to bid night,” Marco says.
Peter disappears behind a black curtain that has recently been put up, dividing the main room in two.
“What are you wearing, pledge?” Marco steps toward a boy wearing basketball shorts and a freshman orientation T-shirt.
“That’s the geediest thing I’ve ever seen,” Bass says.
Only about half the room seems to know what he means, but my extensive research pays off. GDI, which stands for God Damn Independent, was a term originally used by those outside Greek Life to answer the question of what frat/sorority they were part of. It was typically used by those who, like the lit club members here, are very social but chose not to go Greek. But soon after its advent, Greeks started using it in a derogatory manner, pronouncing the acronym phonetically and implying that the GDIs wanted to be a part of Greek Life but weren’t cool enough to make the cut, so they were trying to spin their lack of affiliation.
The pledge opens his mouth, but no words come out for a solid thirty seconds.
“Take it off,” Bass says.
“What?” The boy’s eyes go wide.
“Down to your boxers.” Marco steps back and looks at the rest of us. “You know what? None of you are dressed in a way I want associated with this fraternity.”
“Everybody strip,” Sebastian says.
“Let’s go.”
“Pile your clothes by the door.”
The first to listen to this order are the ones who had shown up in tight-fitting or cutoff shirts, which they take off to reveal six-packs.
I hang back for a second with those on the scrawny or chubby side of GQ, who seem considerably less excited about this whole idea.
Marco isn’t paying attention to those of us who are loitering but is yelling at those who are already half-dressed to line up, while making rude comments about their bodies, which is not encouraging to those of us who are already reluctant.
I know I’ll have to do it, too, that this is what Peter was warning me about...and I will, I will—I just don’t need to be one of the first. No need to draw attention to myself.
“You, too, Davis,” Sebastian says. He’s leaning against the wall where people are piling their clothes. I want to ask why he singled me out from among the rest. But I know why.
His words seem to hang in the almost-silent room. All eyes turn to me. My face burns, but it’s not the coy blush they undoubtedly assume it is; it’s rage.
I cross the room and slip off my tank and then my yoga pants.
The sports bra covers way more than a regular bra would, and the athletic spandex shorts I’m wearing as underwear are equivalent to a pair of cutoff yoga pants. It’s an outfit someone could conceivably exercise in on a warm day.
Sebastian shakes his head. “Who told you about tonight?”
“What?”
“Who told you secret information about pledge rituals?”
“No one. What are you talking about?”
“So I’m supposed to believe that’s what you normally wear under your clothes?”
I look around at the guys, most of them wearing loose-fitting boxers that go practically to their knees. I’m less covered up than most of them, but of course he doesn’t care what they look like.
Making them strip is a show of force and power, meant to remind the pledges how vulnerable they are to the whims of the actives, to establish where they rank.
I’m just an added bonus, a nice view for the actives while they torture the rest of the pledges. It makes me want to scream. I just bite my lip and make a mental note. I have to keep my head down until I can use my real weapons.
I start to walk to the other side of the room to line up, but then turn back around. “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a girl undress in real life or just in videos, but we don’t typically wear thongs and push-up bras every day.”
“Don’t talk back, pledge.” He pushes off from the wall, turning to the rest of them. “Speak only when spoken to by an active!”
Marco opens the curtain, and noise erupts from the back half of the house. We file into a large, dark room, where the actives are standing on tables around the edges, wearing all black and banging pots and pans.
They’re all screaming, some saying, “Pledge, pledge, pledge!” Others are impossible to understand.
They’re all clearly intoxicated.
Once we’re all in the room, they begin a rousing rendition of a song that’s 30 percent Greek letters, 30 percent swear words, 30 percent references to drinking and drug use and a token 10 percent references to brotherhood.
Have you ever been stone-cold sober and half-naked in a room full of almost blackout drunk guys screaming out a song you’ve never heard but they know by heart?
It’s a new level of awkward.
I feel like I’m at a concert on another planet.
When the song ends, one of them starts chanting, “Shot list! Shot list! Shot list!” Soon more of the actives are laughing and joining in.
Marco says something, and two people shine flashlights on him like a spotlight. I don’t know if it seems more like a cult or a bunch of small children trying to tell scary stories.
“Okay, everyone shut up. Pledges, time for the ancient and sacred tradition that i
s the shot list. The scrolls, please.” He reaches back, and someone hands him an iPhone.
He types on it for about a minute before he looks up. “...all right! Here we go.
“So here’s how the shot list works. Throughout pledging, actives can add you to the shot list when you do something. You get shots of Fireball—” Marco reaches under a table and pulls out a red handle “—as a reward when you do something good. However, when you do something bad, you get a shot of Taaka.”
In case you’ve only ever drank like a civilized human being who doesn’t despise their liver and don’t recognize that last word, Taaka is plastic-bottle vodka that’s cheaper than dirt but tastes worse.
It tastes the way nail polish remover smells.
When the devil sees people committing murder or cutting you off in traffic and cries tears of joy, those tears are made of Taaka.
“We’ll do this every week until initiation. Your points will also be tallied so we know who the top pledges are when it comes to picking participants for certain events. Do you all understand?”
“So it’s kind of like the house points system in Harry Potter?” someone says.
“Yes,” Marco says. “So for that, Pledge Nerd will get a shot of Fireball for demonstrating an understanding of the system and a shot of Taaka for making such a dorky comment.”
We pass the bottles back as Marco continues.
“Parker, for throwing up in the water everyone was standing in, a shot of Taaka.” He grins. “Parker, for rallying and winning the next round of shotgunning, a shot of Fireball.”
The bottles are passed to Parker, but Marco doesn’t stop. “Jackson, for the geediest Instagram caption ever.”
Every active in the room yells, “Hashtag blessed!” in a level of unison that was clearly well rehearsed and is quite impressive, considering the collective level of intoxication.
“We almost took your bid back for that one, Jackson. A shot of the ol’ Russian.”
He continues like this, reading roll, the names followed by crimes and praise, while the handles are passed. Finally they run out, at which point Sebastian is ready with new ones.
There’s a lot of Taaka for stupid comments made during Rush or social media posts they found, as well as for antics after leaving this morning.
One guy gets a Fireball shot for having a girl in his bed when they went to roll him out this morning and another gets Taaka for taking ten minutes to wake up.
And then Marco says, “Davis.”
I step forward.
“For being a badass bitch and joining not just a frat but the best motherfucking frat in the country... Fireball.”
The actives cheer, and although it’s probably my imagination, they seem louder than they were for everyone before me.
Someone hands me the handle. It’s half-empty. I pour myself the first cinnamony shot.
I toss it back. It burns a little in my chest but tastes like candy.
Marco steps closer. “Davis, because I got an angry text from every sorority on campus today, one shot of Taaka.” But his smile makes me think he might just be glad I pissed them off.
God save my soul, I think as I stare down the liquid evil. I try to toss it back quickly to minimize the pain, but I gag and think for a second that I may throw up and earn myself three more.
But thankfully I don’t. My eyes water and I wrinkle my nose, but in the dark I don’t think anyone sees.
The guy after me asks for a chaser, and Bass laughs before adding a Taaka shot for the question.
“Louis.”
I turn around. And there he is. He must have come in after we were already in the room.
I look at him in a way I shouldn’t. Because this is supposed to be a moment of brotherhood and bonding, and I’m trusting the guys around me—even though I know it won’t hold true for all of them—to stand in the same room as me in these skimpy workout clothes and not sexualize me but see me as one of their comrades.
But when Jordan stands up, wearing tight Calvin Klein boxer briefs, I can’t tear my eyes away from his amazing washboard abs and the way they meet his hips, making this kind of triangle thing...
“A shot of Taaka for being late.”
I turn back around and force myself to stare toward the front of the room.
I shake my head, refocusing. I’m working right now, and just because the Fireball is catching up with me, that doesn’t mean I get to let my mind or eyes wander.
They continue through the list, and the actives start to yell out last-minute additions according to our behavior during the meeting.
By the time they reach the last few people, there are three empty bottles on the table, and everyone is moving and speaking in a way they think is more fluid but is really more jolted.
“All right, pledges!” Bass yells to get our attention.
He and Marco exchange a look. “We’ve just realized what a terrible job we’ve done welcoming you to campus,” Marco says.
“They probably don’t know where anything is,” Sebastian says.
“Heck, after the first party they’ll probably get lost doing the walk of shame.”
“Well, shit, we can’t have our pledges stumbling around the quad.”
“I guess we’ll have just have to give them a little tour.”
I’ve learned enough in the last few hours to know when they start speaking like they’re in some sort of twisted skit, things are about to get pretty bad for us.
“Pledges, outside!” Marco calls.
We walk outside, and I’m very aware of how half-naked I am standing on the lawn.
For a while we just wait as all the actives other than Marco and Bass leave. And after that, we wait some more. Maybe that’s the joke, to make us stand here all night, waiting to be told what to do.
“See, Marco, I think the problem with this pledge class is that they already think they can run with us.”
Marco shakes his head in disdain. “Just got your bids and already you think you can represent these letters!” He points toward the house. “You have no idea what these letters even mean yet.”
“They mean nothing,” someone nearby mumbles. “They’re a random collection of letters from another language.”
Sebastian snaps his head toward my side of the group. “What’s that, pledge? Who’s talking back? I do not think I told any of you to speak.”
The crowd rustles as everyone looks around, trying to communicate with their eyes and figure out who the unlucky one is.
“Step forward, pledge, or the whole class goes down with you.”
The boy walks forward.
“Three shots of Taaka for Pledge Smart-Ass.” Sebastian pulls a plastic handle from his backpack.
“On your knees.”
Pledge Smart-Ass kneels, and Sebastian pours the awful liquid straight into his mouth.
“Get back in line.”
The pledge scrambles up and returns to the group.
“Like I was saying,” Marco continues, “you think you can run with us, but you have to learn to walk before you run.” A huge smile spreads across his face. “And you have to crawl before you walk.”
“On your hands and knees!” Sebastian yells.
Everyone gets down. Luckily the grass isn’t muddy, thanks to the drought. We crawl down the sidewalk, two or three across, in a long line. The concrete is a lot harder on my hands and knees than the grass.
“Cassie,” someone whispers.
I turn around; it’s Jordan.
“Yeah?” I face front again, trying to seem unaffected.
They keep yelling at everyone not to talk. Jordan catches up until he’s beside me and ignores the order. Under his breath he says, “You could’ve told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you were rushing the same freaking f
rat as me.”
“What do you mean? I saw you at a ton of the events.”
“I assumed you had a boyfriend here.”
Oh.
“Well, I don’t.” My voice is indignant. Although I guess it’s not that out there for him to think it. And that might explain some of the glaring in Soc 101.
“Title IX and Futbol, no talking!” Sebastian says.
I turn to Jordan. “Is that us?”
“I guess we have our pledge names now,” he says.
“Futbol?”
“I’m on the soccer team.”
That doesn’t seem half as bad as mine.
“Title what?” he says.
“Nine,” I answer. “The amendment that enforces gender nondiscrimination in schools. It’s why girls sports have equal funding.”
“Ah,” he says. “Like, girls in sports, what’s next, girls in frats?”
“I think that’s the joke,” I say.
We continue on in silence, over concrete, gravel and asphalt. And it hurts; it hurts a lot considering how drunk I am. This is going to be awful tomorrow.
I look down and flip my hands over; they’re bloody and raw.
We crawl for easily fifteen minutes, while the pledge masters periodically stop and pick someone out of the line to kneel and drink, sometimes with reason, sometimes not. Finally we reach our first stop: the Kappa Alpha Delta sorority house.
The members are standing in front of their house, dressed in all black. I spot Leighton, but she avoids my eyes, whispering something to the girl next to her.
Sebastian has us line up, kneeling in front of a sorority girl armed with a handle for each one of us.
They pour Malibu rum into our mouths and chant.
“Drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink.”
Then we’re crawling again.
We arrive at another sorority house, and although I’m already quite intoxicated, I start to notice a pattern. They have vodka, and the girl who offers me a beverage takes a personal approach.
“Oh, perfect,” she says, walking up to me. “The famous girl-who-joined-a-frat.”
Their president counts down, and right as they’re supposed to pour the booze in our mouths, she whispers, “Slut.”