“This,” he points to a framed headshot of a girl with a toothy smile and auburn hair to the right of the magazine covers, “is our current dream girl. Her name’s Katie Coleman. She’s a Gamma Delta.”

I step back. If you blur your eyes together, they all look the same, with only slight variations of hair color: white, fit, with sweet smiles and tasteful amounts of makeup. But there’s something wistful in Tripp’s voice, and I think he might be a little in love with Katie Coleman.

“And what does it mean—to be the Kap-O dream girl?”

He’s still staring at the photograph. “Well, it’s an honor to be chosen,” he says slowly. “You know, out of hundreds—thousands even—of other girls. And the dream girl helps promote our events, makes sure all her sisters come to our parties. Sometimes she even brings Chick-fil-A to our meetings.”

“She brings you lunch?” I taste something like vomit at the back of my throat.

“Yeah—breakfast, too.”

“Why would she—” but Teddy pinches my arm before I can finish.

“Why don’t you show us Jay’s room,” he suggests, and starts walking as if he knows the way.

Tripp jogs to catch up with him, and, I think, so he doesn’t have to talk to me.

I’m left staring at the grooves on the black frames and the bright eyes in the photographs—boys on boats, on the fifty-yard line at Sanford Stadium, stretched between columns of the house, all with their choice girl of the year in less-than-respectable positions. I look hard at the girls’ smiling faces for any flicker of doubt or resentment—No, I think, I don’t see it. But what about the other girls Tripp mentioned? It’s hard for me to imagine anyone biting at the bit to hand-deliver breakfast to a bunch of boys with swooped hair and polo shirts, but who knows? I also can’t imagine wanting to perform secret rituals, commit to some vague set of rules just for the hell of it, or share a house with thirty or so other less-than-hygienic people—male or female.

I think of the new brothers filling out college applications. Opening acceptance letters. The excitement on their faces. Their first day here, dragging suitcases through unfamiliar halls, pulsing with anticipation and a sense of belonging. Learning new skills—how to work the laundry machines and pull an all-nighter for a morning test—jostling to make an impression—who can do the most push-ups, tap a keg, build an ice luge. They’re just boys, a voice whispers. But that’s not entirely right either.

“Jay’s room is on the third floor,” Tripp yells from the door at the end of the hall.

“I’m right behind you,” I call back, hoping he’ll get the hint and not stand there waiting for me.