Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Ahmad hops up and goes to the whiteboard on the wall. He erases a giant drawing of a cock and balls, because what else do people put on a frat-house whiteboard? With the marker, he writes the heading IDEAS, and underneath it: Paperclip Challenge.
“Now, who else has an idea that won’t bore me stupid?” Judd demands.
“I have a great one,” Owen Rickman, one of Judd’s football teammates, pipes up. “I call it Bloody Knuckles.”
Judd nods in approval. “Sick name. Tell me more.”
“Okay, so we haul those fuckers out of their beds at, like, two in the morning and take ‘em outside. They line up in front of the back wall of the house and rub their knuckles against the bricks.”
I won’t lie—I’m fascinated.
By the sheer stupidity of this idea.
“What’s the point of that?” asks Tim Hoffman, a senior.
“See how long they can last, how tough they are. Their knuckles will be torn up, bloody as fuck. It’ll be so gory, dude.”
Judd is nodding again, his dark eyes gleaming. “And the guy who lasts the longest is rewarded with having to scrub all the blood off the wall and patio.”
Tim snickers. “How is that a reward?”
“It’s not,” Judd says, rolling his eyes. “Because there’s no such thing as rewards during Hell Week. These losers need to suffer.”
Why? I almost blurt out. Why do they need to “suffer”?
To be honest, I’ve never understood the concept of hazing. It’s supposed to be about bonding, right? Creating long-lasting friendships with your fellow brothers?
But we already live in a house together. We eat our meals together. We study together. We share bathrooms. We’re each other’s therapists. We hold our brother’s metaphorical hair back (or literal hair, if we’re talking about Jon Munsen’s long surfer locks) when he’s hugging the toilet after a kegger.
You’re telling me all that doesn’t generate a lifelong bond? We need to watch our brothers scrape their knuckles raw on a brick wall in the middle of the night in order to solidify these friendships?
“Yo.”
I turn at the sound of Jako’s low voice. He must have just come from the gym, because he’s wearing a sweat-soaked tank top, track pants, and runners.
“Hey,” I murmur back, so as to not disrupt Judd’s meeting.
“You mind if I change quick-fast?” Jako asks. “I’ll come back down in five.”
“No prob,” I tell him.
As Jako bounds off, I glance back at the dining area.
“Mithani, add Bloody Knuckles to the list,” Judd is saying. “Next idea?”
Rounding out the group is Paxton Grier, the heir to a tech fortune. His dad is a Silicon Valley dude who invented an algorithm that compresses massive photo files, so it stands to reason his son is equally smart and innovative, right?
“My brother’s frat does this thing called the Watermelon Sex Picnic.”
I stifle a sigh.
Ahmad guffaws. “That sounds like the name of an emo band.” They high-five each other.
Judd, of course, is hanging on Grier’s every word. “Tell me more.”
“We get a bunch of watermelons and take the pledges on a picnic, so, like, basically just setting up some blankets or tarps to contain the mess.”
The mess? Oh boy, I already don’t like the sound of this.
“We cut holes in the watermelons, strip the losers naked, and make them fuck the melons.”
Owen hoots.
“And the guy that lasts the longest has to eat all the leftovers.”
Ahmad starts gagging. “Oh shit. That is so gross.”
“I love it,” Judd declares. “Write that down on the board.”
I genuinely feel queasy, and this is coming from a man who swallows when giving a blowjob. A man who was sexting with another dude right before this meeting. But the idea of forcing other guys, whether they’re straight or gay, to eat a bunch of semen-covered watermelons is incredibly alarming to me.
Despite the fact that I’m not even on the committee, I step forward and clear my throat. “Don’t write that down,” I order Ahmad.
Judd directs a scowl at me. “You’re not the president of this fraternity, Bailey.”
“Yet,” I mock.
“No, you’ll never be,” he growls. “And you’re not the pledgemaster either. I am. You don’t call the shots here.”
“No, but you know who does call the shots? The cops.” I loosely cross my arms over my chest. “Forced sexual contact during hazing is against the law.”
“They’re drilling watermelons,” Judd sputters. “Not each other.”
“They’re being forced to engage in a sexual activity, which most of them will do because they’re eager to get into this frat. It’s a power move for us and—” I stop, realizing I need a different tack with Judd. He craves the power. So I need to appeal to his…sense of self-preservation, I decide. “And if even one of those pledges talks about what happened or considers it sexual assault and tells the cops, you can say goodbye to Alpha Delt.”
“Snitches get stitches,” Owen says darkly.
“Yes, beat the shit out of them badly enough that they get stitches,” I tell him, smiling politely. “The cops will love that, too.”