We were never late for curfew—or so Brigid thought. We never missed a convocation. We became the students that Covenant University puts on the cover of their brochures, the photos that they handed out to parents and perspective students. We were thin, put-together, happy, God-fearing freshmen. The epitome of the perfect student.

If you want to break their rules, you have to do it from the inside; you have to become one of them.

Friday and Saturday nights were our favorite nights to hang out in the woods, when curfew was later and we didn’t need to worry about showing up to class with a hangover. Ruthie loved the drinking and the secrets; I cherished our time after: lying in my bed, going over every single thing that happened the night before. The instant replay of every conversation, every look, every drink. The laughter. The fun.

The whole thing was made tremendously easier after daylight savings time. There’s a lot of drinking you can do before curfew when the darkness overcomes campus at 4:00 p.m. It got colder, sure, but that only made us more innovative—bringing blankets from our dorm to warm the forest floor; wearing layers like we were going on a skiing expedition. Occasionally we’d sprint to the edge of the forest and back, hold little races with each other to get our blood circulating, to feel the bitter air biting our lungs, the warm sweat snaking down our frosty backs. I always won.

Andrew even “borrowed” a few Styrofoam coolers from his job in the athletics building and spray-painted them black so we could keep them hidden against the stone wall at our spot. Inside, we filled them with Covenant green gloves and hats and blankets. And alcohol.

If someone found the coolers, they’d never know who they belonged to. It was perfect.

Catherine was the one who procured the drinks. Every week her older brother made a trip to the liquor store for himself and his friends who were over twenty-one and lived off campus, a much tougher place for Covenant to police. Catherine would put in an order with him and, once he’d bought it, he’d wait in his parked car on the other side of the wall until Catherine would get onto someone’s shoulders and pop her head over the stones. He would pass the box of beer or handle of vodka or whatever we wanted that week to her, then he’d drive off like nothing happened. I’d never watched it happen, but the thought of it made me laugh. I imagined it looked like someone trying to sneak contraband into a prison.

Ruthie and I had done it. We were having experiences. And we weren’t getting caught.