At the base of the text it reads: Kappa Phi Omicron Creed, James Ewell Brown “Jeb” Stuart, 1852.

“Right,” Teddy says, and I wonder if he’s noticed the way Tripp’s eyes have glazed over or the nearly sixty-year gap between Jeb’s death and the fraternity’s founding. “Did Jay have issues with any of the other brothers? Any fights or girl problems?”

“Jay?” Tripp seems genuinely perplexed by his question. “Everybody loved Jay. They wanted to be his friend. Hell,” he glances back at the portrait, “they wanted to be him. The girls loved him, too, but he wasn’t really the girlfriend type, if you know what I mean.”

“Gotcha,” Teddy says with a grin.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Teddy can do bro-y if he has to, but it always seems forced to me. Tripp doesn’t notice.

“Did he ever,” Teddy gives him a sly look, “you know, with someone else’s girlfriend?”

“No way.” Tripp shakes his head. “We have rules. And that’s like rule number four—no messing with someone else’s girl.”

I raise my eyebrow. The girl as boy’s property doesn’t surprise me, nor does the assumption of heteronormativity, but the fact that there’s a list of numbered rules somewhere is so quaint it’s almost amusing. I wonder what’s number ten—no drawing dicks on foreheads?

“What’s rule number one?” Teddy asks.

“Never betray the brotherhood,” Tripp says promptly in the manner of a well-trained military cadet.

Then he turns on his heels and leads us through a door on the opposite side of the chapter room.

As I watch him recede, that shiver is back and with it a feeling like I’ve just missed something important.

Teddy and I follow him into a windowless hallway.

“What are these?” I ask, pointing to the framed images on the side wall.

“Oh.” Tripp stops and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s our annual magazine. It’s supposed to be like Sports Illustrated but for Kap-O. You know—highlights of the year, awards and stuff.”

Bless his heart, he blushes when I step forward to examine a cover. A girl front and center sits on the hood of a Porsche with her legs spread, and six or so fraternity brothers spray her with hoses so her small nipples gleam through her tank top.

“And who’s this?”

The flush deepens. “That’s our Kap-O dream girl. We used to have a calendar with twelve, but it got too much, you know, choosing twelve girls. So now we just have one for the year.”

“And what’s her name?”

“Her?” He scratches his head. “I’m not sure. She’s from a few years ago.