I pick up an article off the top; it’s from CNN.com and entitled “Are Frats an ‘American Apartheid’?”
“I also have arranged for a series of interviews with average Warren students. They won’t find out what the study is about until they have decided to participate and signed a nondisclosure agreement, of course, to maintain the objectivity of the study. And while you’ll be involved, you obviously can’t be in the room without giving your cover away, so we’ll figure out something with that. But I thought it’d be best to have the greatest breadth of information possible for background.”
I nod.
“Let’s do our due diligence, pay attention to nuance and see exactly what this problem is and what the best course of action may be.”
Her words still ring in my ears as I practically skip across campus, pulling out my phone to text Jay and Alex.
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.