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CHAPTER FORTY

MARK WONG

Mark’s shoulder burns like he’s been poked by a cattle prod. He’s been shot. Fucking shot! It’s his own fault. He tried to be a hero, save them all. But he should’ve known he was too big, too clumsy, too slow to save anyone. When they busted out of the van, he thought they might escape. But that hope was short-lived. They’re back inside, the duct tape securing their wrists and ankles even tighter. The captors drove around for a long while, but now they’re parked.

What the hell are these weirdos doing with them? Ransom? Kidnapping shit? Blane’s mom is some big shot. That has to be it. But this duo—in blue Smurf masks they must’ve found in the van, left over from Alpha Kappa’s Smurf party—don’t look like kidnappers. They talk in whispers, but it’s clear they’re arguing about something. Maybe over whether he and the others live or die.

He thought life couldn’t be more of a shit show. After that chick posted about his father on Rizz, freaking everyone out. He should’ve known the hot junior wasn’t into a freshman. But she was into him. Touching his arm, laughing at his jokes, the deep eye contact, making him feel like he was the only person in the room amid the antics of the fraternity party. She nearly spit out her beer when he did the funny Flashdance parody: galloping in place while the crowd sang “Maniac” and sprayed beer all over him from the keg hose. He stole the bit from the movie Tommy Boy , which was fitting because that’s what everyone calls him. It’s something he learned as a kid after his dad’s arrest: Make yourself the clown before they clown you.

He thinks of that party, Blane stumbling over. Shirtless as always. Like the rest of the pledge class, Blane idolizes Matthew McConaughey in all his ripped ab glory. Blane introduces himself to the junior girl, taps cups with Mark in toast of nothing. Or maybe in honor of a girl showing interest in Mark.

“How’s pledging going?” she asks them both.

Blane, in his recently acquired California accent, says, “It’s a’ight.”

“Even the hazing?”

She seems to be fishing. Something the pledge master warned them about. It only takes one report to shut down the house. The brothers are like la Cosa Nostra—they have a code, omertà.

“Nah, just funny shit. Nothing like the movies and rumors,” Blane says.

“What do you mean?” she asks. She’s tipsy, but seems more curious than trying to entrap.

Blane smiles. “Like, they set a weekly quota for how many phone numbers we need to get from girls—it’s designed to increase our confidence, our game.” He grins. “And the other stuff is more comical than anything: The other night they made Urkel hang out with the furries to teach him about accepting our differences.” Blane says this with a hint of sarcasm.

She laughs. “What?”

“You know, the furries—they dress up in animal costumes and have, like, sex parties where they hook up wearing the outfits. They have meetings every Tuesday at Hungry Hound.” Blane takes out his phone, shows her a photo of the pledge they call Urkel buried in a group of furries.

Mark adds, “He said they were really cool. And why not? Everybody’s got kinks.”

“Really?” she says to Mark. “What’s your kink?” There’s a seductive tenor in her voice.

“I’m gonna jump,” Blane tells them, his eyes flashing at Mark.

Later, Mark and the junior girl sit amid the light of a fire someone started in a metal drum on the patio of Hangover.

She talks about her father, who’s overprotective of her, emotionally unavailable to her mother. Both her parents were raised in hard circumstances in Bulgaria, where they were taught that life and love were transactional, she says. And her dad’s business requires him to associate with dangerous men.

The thing about alcohol is that it not only makes you lose your inhibitions, it hinders your judgment. That’s what leads Mark to share his own sob story, thinking it might help them connect. And he tells her a secret he’s kept from everyone. About his father.

It takes only a moment to realize the disclosure was a mistake. How she edges her chair away from his. How she quickly takes off.

Back in the house he finds Blane sitting on the couch playing Street Fighter 7 next to his Big, both focused intently on the game.

“Where’d she go, bro?” Blane asks, his eyes flitting from the television to Mark. He lowers the controller, seeming to sense something went south. He examines Mark for a moment then abandons the game, comes over, puts a hand on Mark’s shoulder.

He’s a good friend, Blane.

“It’s for the best,” Shaggy interjects, eyes still fixed on the television screen.

“Why’s that?” Mark asks.

“’Cause I’ve heard about that girl; she’s crashy, bro.”

“Crashy?” Mark says.

“Crazy and trashy.”