Free Goat by Brad Land Page B

potato chips, corn chips, tortilla chips and salsa, all piled into plastic bowls that look as if everyone here has groped them. There’s plastic silverware. Not white plastic but a more elegant, clear version. Bottles of liquor on the table. A few two-liter soft drinks. The table covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Two coolers of ice at the foot of the table. One laid open with a plastic cup for dealing out ice, the other shut, says Kappa Sigma Mountain Weekend on top in red and green letters.
    Will Fitch stands with a boy named Chris Sample, clutches a plastic cup in one hand, fumbles nervously in a pocket with the other. Wiry tufts of blond hair stick out from the side of his khaki hat. He doesn’t look cool at all. Neither does Chris. He has his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath his armpits, he’s trying to poke his chest forward. Make himself seem bigger. No dice, I say.
    Will and Chris look like they shouldn’t be here. Like they’re lost. I wonder if I look like they do. They don’t talk to anyone other than themselves. I dig out some ice with a cup. Trying to fix my own drink. I take Jim Beam and Coke, dabble a small amount of bourbon into the cup, quickly fill it with Coke so no one will see how little liquor I’ve poured.
       
    MY BROTHER COCKS his head to one side, listens doggedly as a brother stresses a point with his hands. Brett looks over and waves me toward him.
    I shake hands with the brother. He tells me his name is Ben Moore. He has three inches and forty pounds on me. He takes a sip of his drink and smiles. He swirls the liquid around. Rattles ice against plastic.
    Pretty fun, huh? he says. I nod.
    I can’t think of anything to say. Turn awkwardly to my brother.
    So? I say, look at Brett, hope that he’ll get the conversation going. Ben walks away and begins to talk to someone else. Brett pulls me in close to the wall. I can smell the bourbon on his breath. Sharp and hot. I pull back a bit. He clasps my arm firmly at the bicep.
    You have to meet these people, he says. Stares at me. I look away.
    I’m serious, he says. Squeezes my arm. They aren’t going to let you in just because you’re my brother, you know? I mean it. These guys are funny about that stuff. Now go and shake some hands and make them want you, he says.
    I nod, bring the Jim Beam and Coke to my lips and take a small swallow. The bourbon burns my throat. I crunch an ice cube in the back of my mouth and look around for someone to talk to.
       
    RUSH WEEK LASTS from Sunday until Friday, when bids go out. Sunday I leave the Kappa Sigma thing and walk around the quad to some of the other fraternities, but they all seem the same, so I decide I might as well stick with Brett.
    On Monday when there’s nothing official to go to at Kappa Sigma, I go with Chance McInnis to a bar called TD’s. Brett and I grew up with Chance and he wants me to be in the fraternity. Even though TD’s isn’t technically rush, it’s important, because Chance is a brother, a popular one, and this whole rush thing is about being around brothers as much as possible.
    Chance pounds on my door at nine-thirty. When I open it he’s standing there all smiles and I hold out my hand. He takes it and places his other hand over our locked grip. When he lets go I tell him to go over and sit down.
    Got to put on my shoes, I say. He sits on my bed and I sit in the metal desk chair at the back of my room. He looks around like he’s trying to think of something to say to me. I begin to pull on one boot.
    So this is a cool place, I say.
    Oh yeah, he says. Plenty of pussy here. Says this like it hurts. I bend to tie both boots.
    Yep, he says. Plenty plenty.
    And that’s a bad thing? I say and I know that he’s leading me to ask what’s wrong with him.
    Nah, he says. I guess not. It’s real good. He rubs a hand across his chin. Not for me though.
    Oh yeah?
    Yeah. Got this new girlfriend. Jill. Jill LaSalle. She’s a Kappa.
    That’s