“Excuse me. Sorry.” She bumped her way to a slab of plywood on top of old kegs—a makeshift bar. Fraternity pledges stood dutifully dispensing beer from a silver keg into red plastic cups for girls they could never hope to lay a hand on that year. They would wait for their time on the other side of the bar.

“Water,” Amy yelled across the plywood.

“Water?” a boy with a pimply face asked.

She couldn’t look at him; his blemishes made her feel soft inside, sorry for him. “Yes, water. I am dying here. A big water.”

“What?” He obviously couldn’t hear a word she said over the thumping Rolling Stones screaming about finding satisfaction.

“Water. Water. Water,” she screamed as the vibrating bodies of the crowd swayed in an animalistic grind to the music. Everyone in the room moved to the same universal rhythm, while she stood rigid and unaffected.

The pimpled pledge searched for water and finally held out a lukewarm cup. Amy took it, chugged its contents, and nausea plowed through her. She pushed her shoulder up against a side door: escape. The door opened and she fell ungracefully on her Levi’s into the yard of the imitation antebellum mansion. She looked toward the sloping front lawn, through the magnolia trees frozen in their winter waiting, to the white pillars anchoring the roof to the front verandah. The architecture mixed two separate Southern historical periods. She scoffed at the sloppy counterfeit.

“There would never be a party like this at a real Southern home,” she whispered to herself, lifting her face to the cool air. The smell of night-blooming jasmine cleansed the stench of the party from her head.

“Excuse me.” A hand reached down and touched her shoulder as she sat on the hard, cold earth. She started, but the air fanned out to allow room for this voice. She didn’t hesitate when she reached for the hand belonging to the disembodied sound, allowed it to lift her from the ground.

Amy stumbled to her feet. “Huh?”

“Are you, my darlin’, implying that we, the KAs of the South, are not truly Southern?”

“You heard me?”

“Ah . . .”

Amy laughed, decided to join in the playful banter. “Well, sugah . . . are you a true Southern gentleman?” She found herself answering this boy as if she knew him, and in an odd way, she felt she did. The full moon lit one side of his face, his jawline a shadow across his neck, his eyelashes casting a feather on his brow. His hair corkscrewed around his right ear and a thin layer of stubble covered his chin. It wasn’t any single attribute, but the combination that caused her insides to quiver—something broke loose, leaving part of her exposed.

He laughed. “Am I a true Southern gentleman? Ashley Wilkes, maybe?”