Wingman: College Craze Preview

Sixty-Three.

That was the number circled below a list of sixty-nine questions, the last one being only a question mark. The other sixty-eight were similar, asking about other life experiences that Grayson West had mostly only read about or seen in movies. He frowned before looking back up at the top of the page.

The VSU Purity Test, read the title in bold letters. Below it was a small introduction: Welcome to your first day at Valley State University! These next four to seven years will be the best of your life. Have fun, but not too much fun. Check off every item you answer YES to. And don’t forget: Go Chipmunks! Beneath that, an underlined sentence issued a blatant warning: Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a competition. Attempts to get a zero will likely lead to death.

Grayson scowled. “My score hasn’t changed since August. It feels like I failed, but at least it’s not for credit, I guess.” His eyes glanced toward the computer, which rested on a cheap vinyl desk. On an open web page, Grayson stared at his fall-semester grades:

CHEM 1020, General Chemistry II: A

CHEM 1020L, General Chemistry II Lab: A-

ENGR 1000, Connections to Engineering Seminar: A+

MATH 1920, Calculus II: A

PHYS 1220, Physics of Electricity and Magnetism: A

PHYS 1220L, Physics of Electricity and Magnetism Lab: A

PSY 1010, General Psychology I: A+

“At least I got all A’s,” Grayson said aloud to the empty room, because talking to himself had become a habit. He glanced down at the spring semester’s classes—ones that would begin tomorrow.

ENGR 1110, Introduction to Engineering Design: In Progress

ENGR 1120, Programming for Engineers: In Progress

MATH 2010, Linear Algebra: In Progress

MATH 2120, Differential Equations: In Progress

MUS 1030, Music Appreciation: In Progress

SOC 1220, Introduction to Sociology: In Progress

Instead of excitement, a sense of icy dread washed over him at the thought of the new semester. Grayson leaned back, staring at the off-beige and aged-yellow walls, looking more like an old fast-food joint than a college dorm room, though it smelled more like dust than burned cheese. Thumb-tack holes and mismatched paint were covered with red-and-white VSU banners, giving the room a clownish theme. The marred flooring wasn’t any better, bubbling from a water pipe rupture three years ago. Nor was the bunk bed, whose exposed and sharpened steel had been deemed safe with the addition of foam padding.

“Home sweet home.” Grayson tried to laugh, but the sour words made his lips pucker. The statement had become more true since move-in day, when his older brother had silently driven Grayson to campus, pushed him out onto the grass, and left without so much as a goodbye.

Shivering as much from the memory as the January frost, Grayson walked over to the rusty air-conditioning unit that hung beneath his dormer window. Living on the top floor, his window-facing wall slanted inward to match the sloping roof, giving Grayson another reason to complain—not that he needed one. Barely bothering to look through the window at the small lawn and the identical dormitory opposite his, Grayson flipped open the control panel before remembering that the temperature knob had been removed years ago. He turned the fan speed from low to off, but it still allowed cold air into the room. Grumbling, Grayson kicked the unit with a bare foot, only succeeding in smashing his toes. He hobbled back to his chair, cursing until the pain faded.

After several minutes of silence, Grayson pulled his phone from his pocket and called his father.

“Hello? Hello?” Grayson’s dad asked before releasing a body-shaking laugh. “Sorry, this is just a recording. I’m not here right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll respond as soon as I can.”

The tone buzzed.

“Hey, Dad,” Grayson whispered, his voice even quieter than usual. “I, uh, I’m getting ready for the spring semester here. Don’t know if you heard, but last semester I got all A’s.” He attempted to sound cheerful, but his laughter faded quickly. “I know you’re busy, but I’d love to hear from you. Even if it’s just to lecture me, I just…” He scratched his head, uncomfortable with the silence. “I just wish you’d call me—”

The door opened.

Grayson hastily ended the voicemail as his roommate entered with a red suitcase and black backpack. “Oh, welcome back, Dalton.”

With close-trimmed auburn hair and freckled skin, Dalton was thin but tone, skinny but strong—probably from a lifetime of physically intensive chores on a farm somewhere. “Geez, still hung up about that test, Sixty-Three?” Dalton asked with a shit-eating grin, his eyes spying the paper on Grayson’s desk. He didn’t laugh so much as snort. “You must be the only guy who gets paler over breaks. What’d you do, stay inside the whole time?”

“You could say that,” Grayson replied, flipping over the test and turning his chair toward his roommate.

“Did you even go home, Sixty-Three?” Dalton asked in his southern drawl, morphing and elongating the words as he sloughed off his backpack. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and fell onto the lower bunk in the corner of the room, the springs groaning.

Grayson didn’t bother to lie—Dalton always saw through it. Instead, Grayson shrugged with hunched shoulders, staring down at the scuffed vinyl flooring as his stomach churned. He hadn’t gone home, going so far as to lie about having a research position over the break to avoid any additional questions. Though his mom had come down a few times to eat with him, the conversations had been filled more by silence than words. Horrible silence.

“You really stayed here the entire time? Wow. What a nerd,” Dalton said, the words less venomous and more pitying, which was worse. “I don’t know how you do it, man. Always so tense, always grinding. You’re going to have a heart attack by the time you’re twenty-three, you know. And… did you lose weight? You look like a buck twenty, man. What’d you lose, twenty-five pounds? Jesus Christ. What you need is a drink. In fact…” Dalton paused as if remembering something. Then he grinned. “I have an idea. Sigma Theta Delta’s throwing a rager tonight. You should swing by.”

Grayson opened his mouth to argue, but Dalton continued, “Before you say something stupid like, ‘We have classes tomorrow,’ think about this: classes haven’t even started yet. No homework. Nothing you could stroke out over. Just a fun night. You won’t even have to pay for the booze. My treat, Sixty-Three.”

Having been deprived of social interactions for the break, Grayson’s nod was too enthusiastic.

Dalton’s red eyebrows raised. “Wait, you’re serious? You’ll actually come?”

“Yeah, I need…” Some friends, he thought as his voice trailed away, grateful his lips hadn’t betrayed him. Instead, Grayson finished, “A break.”

“Wow, new semester, new you, Sixty-Three. Maybe you’ll lower that purity score you’re always jacking off to.” Another laugh. “The party starts at 9:00 PM over at the Stud House—”

“The Stud House?”

Dalton snorted. “You really don’t know anything outside of books. The Sigma Theta Delta house is the Stud House. We just added the U for shits and giggles. And that makes us brothers the Studs.”

Not the STDs? Grayson thought but didn’t say. Dalton wouldn’t see it as a joke, most likely. And it wasn’t worth starting a fight over, especially not when Dalton could kick his ass. Plus, Grayson needed to make some friends—not lose the few he had. Not that Dalton’s even a friend…

“Anyway,” Dalton eventually said, “our house party will be dead until 9:30, maybe 10:00. Just show up when you start to see a line.”

Grayson looked over at the clock. 6:30 PM. With a nod, he said, “Sounds good.”

“Great.” Dalton got off the bed and yawned before walking to the door.

“You’re already leaving?”

“Yeah. Got party stuff to do. Plus, I’ve got to drop off my stuff.” When Grayson frowned, Dalton explained, “I’m a brother now, Sixty-Three. I’ll be moving into the Stud House later this week, so there’s no point in me leaving my stuff here.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. Pretty soon you’ll have this shit hole all to yourself, and you can study your little heart out.” He winked before pulling on his sunglasses, despite the darkness outside. Opening the door, Dalton added, “See you tonight, Sixty-Three, if you actually show up.”

Then it closed, and Grayson sat in silence, still clutching the phone, until he could no longer stand it. He turned back toward his desk and opened his computer to review his transfer application to Kingsford University, which he’d started over the break. After re-reading his essays, he stared at the last unfulfilled requirement:

Submit a letter of recommendation from an engineering professor from your current institution.

“No way Dr. Elizabeth Hanson even remembers me from her intro class.” Grayson had been a fly on the wall. Less than that—a bug under her shoe. “But I’ll make sure she remembers me this time,” he added, having purposely signed up for her spring semester courses on engineering design and programming. “And when I get that recommendation, I’ll leave this place forever. Off to Kingsford.”

***

Grayson left the room at exactly 9:00 PM, silently observing the derelict dormitory: the chipped paint on the stucco walls, the splintered wooden archways, the water damage around the drinking fountains, and the mold growing in the community bathrooms. He avoided the shoddy elevator and took the stairs. Stepping around the puddle that had formed on one landing, Grayson passed the white-capped mushrooms in the corners of the stairwell and pushed open the emergency exit door, whose alarm had been disconnected years ago despite the warning sign hanging above the door’s push bar.

Outside, Grayson’s breath turned to fog as he stared at the commuter parking lot that served as the backyard landscape. Following the cement path to the front of the dormitory, Grayson glanced up at the pink and brown night sky, lightless as the stars were hidden by light pollution and the moon by clouds. Even in the dark, lamps lit the lawn adjoining the eight first-year dormitories, revealing the moss-ridden water fountain at its center and the clumps of dirt and yellow grass around it. From all directions, freshmen hurried into dormitories with twelve and twenty-four packs of beer. Grayson nodded to the few he knew and, instead of following them to a pre-game or a party, walked across the rusted train track that separated all the freshmen from the main campus.

While the lawns were greener and the buildings were newer, many complexes—from the dining halls to the science quadrangle—were under construction despite long-passed completion dates. One construction banner he passed was nearing its third year of delay. Others had even longer delays. Grayson had to leave the sidewalks and walk into the street to travel around the fenced-off areas. During the day, it would have been dangerous, but given the time of night, cars were few and far between.

Stopping in the middle of the road as his phone buzzed, Grayson pulled it from his pocket with a too-excited smile, but the expression faded as soon as he realized his mom was calling. Not his dad. He silenced his phone and let the call go to voicemail.

“I’ll call back later, Mom,” Grayson told himself, though even he didn’t believe the words. Instead, he let the thought vanish like the stars overhead and walked to Frat Row. He followed the pumping music that vibrated the pebbles on the road until he found a line of college kids in neon clothes standing outside of a three-story frat house with the letters ΣΘΔ.

A frat called STD, Grayson thought again, looking dubiously at the house. Seriously, doesn’t anybody else see the irony in that?

Apparently not. The rest of the college kids waited impatiently to be let into the party, because a fence had been rolled out around the frat house’s perimeter. Its entrance remained guarded by two Studs sitting at a white table beneath a pop-up canopy tent.

By himself, Grayson went to the back of the line and stood awkwardly as excited cliques of students talked around him. When he eventually reached the front of the line, Grayson pulled out his ID card and handed it to the Stud.

“You bring any girls with you?” the Stud asked as he handed the card back

“Uh, no.”

“Then you need an invitation to come in. Name?”

Grayson frowned. He just had my ID card. “I’m Grayson West.”

“Not your name,” the Stud said, sounding bored. “Who invited you?”

“Oh, uh, Dalton. Dalton Cox.”

“Oh, you’re here to see Cocks?” The Stud grinned mischievously, looked through a list of names, and crossed Grayson’s off. “In you go, kid. Have fun.”

Grayson walked past the table and the throng of partiers who were dancing outside. He pushed his way through the front door and into the living room, bumping shoulders with a red-head.

“Hey, watch where you’re—oh shit! Sixty-Three, in the flesh,” Dalton said, slapping his shoulder. “I can’t believe you actually came! Hold on, man, I’ll get us some drinks.”

Dalton disappeared before Grayson could reply and was quickly lost in a sea of students. Rather than dance or introduce himself to others, Grayson stood stiff against the wall until Dalton returned with two red cups.

“Welcome to the Stud House,” Dalton drawled. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

Grayson surveyed the room. It was trashed. Spilled soda and alcohol caused his shoes to stick to the floor. The walls were marred with scratches, hastily patched holes, and cracked pictures of fraternity classes. Most of the furniture had been removed for the party, and the couches that remained were wrecked from previous nights of debauchery. On the far wall was a raised platform where the DJ performed, and oversized speakers boomed so loud that Grayson’s heart rattled in his chest.

“Sure is,” Grayson said, still staring warily at his own cup. “What’s in this?”

“Jungle juice.” Dalton shrugged as if it were an obvious answer.

Grayson raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“Sixty-Three, how do you not know what jungle juice is?” Dalton asked, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “It’s just a mix of fruit punch and alcohol.”

Grayson smelled the liquid and almost gagged. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sixty-Three, would you lighten up?” Dalton asked, his brow furrowing. He gestured with his cup, some of the liquid sloshing over the rim. “Look at everyone else. We gave them the same shit. I have the same shit.” Dalton took a long drink from his glass. “There. Satisfied?”

No, Grayson thought. Instead, he said, “Yeah.”

“Then just drink it like I am.”

Grayson frowned but drank. It didn’t taste as bad as he expected, but it still burned his throat.

Dalton’s frown tugged upward, and his tense shoulders relaxed. “Good man, Sixty-Three. We’ll lower that score before the night’s over. Who knows, maybe I’ll have to start calling you Sixty-One!”

They wandered around the room, joining the gathering mass of college kids in front of the DJ booth. Dalton said a few things, but Grayson couldn’t hear much above the noise of the trap music. Frat brothers kept greeting Dalton, who always introduced Grayson as Sixty-Three. For a reason he couldn’t express, the Studs looked at him strangely—as if expecting him to grow a third arm.

To avoid their gazes, Grayson drank more.

Eventually, Dalton pointed over at the mantel on the wall next to the DJ booth. “See that?” A giant golden chalice emblazoned with the ΣΘΔ letters shined with the display lights around it. Having a handle on either side, it looked more like a trophy than a drink container. Dalton stared at it lovingly. “That’s the Holy Grail, Sixty-Three. When brothers are initiated, we drink from that chalice. It’s our most prized possession. Want to drink from it?”

“No,” Grayson said, thinking of all the lips that cup had touched throughout the decades. Talk about STDs.

“Good, because I wouldn’t let you—the Holy Grail is for Studs only,” Dalton said with a wheezing laugh. He pushed Grayson toward the stairs. “Come on, Sixty-Three.”

Dalton dragged him downstairs into the basement, where low lights revealed a couple of beer-pong tables crowded by Studs, who laughed, drank, and made-out with their dates. Feeling even more out of place, Grayson took yet another sip of his drink as the room swayed. Then he staggered a step, catching the edge of the table and causing the beer-pong cups to shake before settling. Three Studs glared at Grayson as he said, “Hey, Dalton. I don’t feel so good. I think I’m going to—”

“Stay,” Dalton said, sloshing his drink. “You’ll feel better if you keep drinking, Sixty-Three.”

“Would you stop calling me that?” Grayson mumbled.

“I will if you prove me wrong, Sixty-Three. Drink the drank and shoot your shot. Play a round with us.”

Grayson’s head pounded. His cheeks felt warm. “One game.”

“My man.” Dalton placed his VSU student card on the table to reserve a place in line. “There’s a bit of a wait. I’ll get us another round in the meantime.”

“I don’t think I want—”

“Sure you do,” Dalton said, leaving for several minutes, though it felt like only seconds to Grayson.

As his stomach roiled, Grayson drank from the new cup and coughed, juice spilling on his cheeks. He kept drinking until Dalton eventually shook him and said, “Sixty-Three! Game time!”

People snickered, hearing the name. Grayson’s heart sank. The nickname’s already stuck. He followed Dalton to the side of the table.

“Eye to eye,” Dalton said, handing him a ball.

“What?” Grayson asked.

“I’ll be damned…” Dalton laughed. “Of course you’ve never played before. All right. You need to look that guy”—Dalton pointed to the blonde Stud standing across from them—“in the eyes as you throw the ball and try to land it in a cup, but not the middle cup because that’s a bitch move.”

“Sure.” Grayson threw the ball, not waiting for the Stud, though his ball bounced off the table. The Stud’s ball sloshed into the front cup.

“You lost, so you chug,” Dalton said with glee and ridicule.

So Grayson drank—and kept drinking. He missed every shot, and while Dalton made a few cups, their opponents never missed. By the end of it, Grayson was holding himself up on the table, his legs weak and rubbery.

“Well, better luck next time.” Dalton laughed, slapping Grayson on the back, albeit too hard. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick.”

“Oh suck it up, Sixty-Three. You’re fine. Let’s get another drink.” Dalton grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him toward the table of alcohol. A few girls stood around it, chatting in their neon sports bras and athletic shorts.

“Wow, they let anybody into these parties nowadays,” greeted a brunette wearing a purple headband. Tall and graceful, her hazel eyes stared at Grayson for a moment before dismissing him, as if he wasn’t worth her time.

Grayson swallowed the urge to skulk away.

“Sixty-Three, this is Heather.” Dalton gestured to her with his cup. “She’s the queen of Phi Mu Sigma.”

“Don’t you forget it, freshman,” Heather said, offering a teasing smile.

The Queen of PMS, huh? Grayson held out his hand, trying to maintain some dignity even as the world swayed. His chest fluttered, his heart pumping and pants lifting—

Lifting? Grayson’s eyes widened in horror. Oh God. Not a boner. Not here. Not now. Cheeks flushing, he stuttered, “Nice to meet you.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Heather replied, “A bit too nice. Keep it in your pants, Sixty-Three.”

Grayson broke his gaze, aware that his pants continued to rise, as Heather’s friends laughed. He looked over at Dalton helplessly, all-too-aware of the Stud’s unbearable laughter.

“It worked!” Dalton said. “It actually worked!”

Grayson shrank back, turning on Dalton with a snarl. “What do you mean, it worked? What’d you do to me?”

Dalton howled, his laughs echoing as more people turned to look. “I crushed up a Viagra and put it in your drink!”

“You what?”

“Relax, Sixty-Three.” Dalton wiped tears from his eyes. “It’ll be gone in like four hours.” Then he threw his head back and laughed again.

“You’re an asshole.” Grayson shook his head, which made the room spin more, and clenched his fists.

“Goddamn, you’re such a loser, Sixty-Three. Learn to take a joke.”

Grayson wanted to punch something, punch Dalton, but he was too afraid of the consequences. Holding a trembling fist, he turned and stumbled away toward the stairs, but Dalton shoved him from behind. Grayson’s hands broke his fall. So did his dick, which might have snapped in half. Immediately vomiting, Grayson struggled to his knees and groaned as Studs grabbed his arms and legs, carrying him up the stairs.

“Bye, bitch!” Dalton shouted just before Grayson was out of earshot.

Paraded through the Stud House, he was thrown onto the sidewalk face-first as students laughed at him. As a reflex, Grayson threw up again, clutching his crotch.

“Get lost, Pinocchio-dick,” one Stud said, throwing a full cup of alcohol at Grayson’s back, chilling and momentarily sobering him. Six more followed, as did jeers and taunts.

Long after Grayson pushed himself to his feet and limped away, their laughter haunted him.