More texts back and forth between Jay and Tripp. All the amazing events Jay’s developing. Scheduling concerns. Detailed lists of things he wants to improve for the next party. A group message about some girl all the brothers thought was hot. A few crude comments from a number I don’t recognize concerning what he’d do to said girl. I star the number for Teddy. Jay’s silent on the girl though. I make a note of the date and wonder if he might already be crushing on Katie. Texts back and forth between him and Cade about the state of their room.

Cade: made me wanna gag. Wash your clothes.

A week later, another text from Cade: srsly room is disgusting.

Jay never bothered to respond to any of these, but Cade’s on all the group messages for social events. And there’s one to him on September 13: “Pledge party 2nite. Mandatory. Be there.” I circle it and write threatening Cade? in the margins. More texts back and forth about the Tennessee game. They threw a huge tailgate apparently, and someone borrowed their uncle’s bulldog so they could have their own Uga mascot. Concerns from one number about it being too hot for the dog. And various others, explaining said brother’s place in the food chain: Kap-Os, other men, boys, the dog apparently, women, and pussies somewhere near the bottom. Plans for another tailgate, poker nights, debating what movie to show on their outdoor projector. I’m skimming now despite the ruler and my mind’s wandering. A familiar sensation creeps over my skin—the feeling of watching the neighbor’s kids running through sprinklers in the front yard, siblings eating Popsicles side by side on the front stoop, classmates trading lunchbox items, girls on television getting dolled up in front of mirrors and dancing around together in their underwear—I should have had that. Instead of waiting at the bus stop alone. Playing with dolls—not shopping, or Mommy, but one ginormous family: brothers and sisters and cousins who formed their own soccer teams and went camping and had cookouts in the backyard. Bringing as many dolls and stuffed animals as I could into bed—telling my father it was because I was lonely and watching his face cloud over, recognizing his expression as currency and using it whenever I could.

I look back at the page. I’ve moved the ruler to the bottom with little recollection of what I’ve read. I scan back up. It’s a text exchange between Jay and Michael.

Not cool bro.

You know the rules.

This is bullshit.

No response.

He’s not even here most of the time.

Not my problem. Pay up.

Whatever. Not about $$. About principle.

Two weeks later.

Fucked up to list names at meetings.

Do it every time, bro.

Whatever. Fuck you.

Srsly bro. Don’t fuck with me.