Page 177 of Filthy Elites

“Is that all you’re getting?”

I glance over at the guy next to me, number seventeen. He’s tall and lanky, having not quite grown into his arms and legs yet. He’s studying my plate as we go through the food line in the main dining hall. So far, I have salad and a piece of grilled chicken. Comparatively, his is loaded with pasta, fries, and something coated in a thick batter that may or may not be meat.

“Um… I don’t eat gluten…” He gives me a blank stare. “It gives me the runs.”

“Ah, right,” he nods in understanding. “That sucks.”

I grab a bag of chips at the checkout counter in an attempt to allay suspicion. Number seventeen doesn’t seem to pay much attention anyway; he’s already stuffed a roll in his mouth by the time we reach the table.

I sit between him and twenty-two, a boy with warm brown skin and a shiny silver watch on his wrist. The table is filled with recruits, all seemingly starving from the way they eat. I pick up my fork, hyper-aware of my choice in food, my mannerisms, and the fact that Andrea and a pack of GE’s just walked in the door.

“Anyone have an idea of what’s going down at midnight?” a guy at the end of the table asks.

“Nope,” seventeen says from beside me. “No clue.”

“I did hear a rumor about last year,” says another kid with a fine layer of white-blond fuzz covering his scalp. “They made everyone drink two bottles of scotch to see who was the last man standing.”

Another guy chimes in. “I heard they made everyone do push-ups and then paddled you according to how many you did.”

Twenty-two winces. “As long as they don’t make us circle jerk like the Alpha Ro’s do.”

Seventeen chokes on his second roll.

“Eh,” the blond-fuzz guy says, stabbing his fork into his mystery meat, “it can’t be thatbad, right? They all survived it. I think they’re just trying to freak us out.”

The table of guys nods their heads, feeling comforted by the words. I don’t know if it’s my own apprehension, or the fact I’ve had to keep on the downlow for so many days, but I look up from my uneaten salad and blurt, “Whatever you think it it’s going to be, it’ll be worse. Trust me.”

All eyes swing to me. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’ve made an effort to be invisible the last few days, and it’s been easy to do with so many other recruits around.

“Oh yeah? Do you have some kind inside intel?”

Maybe? No, not really. “It’s just a feeling,” I say, picking up my fork. “Hopefully, I’m wrong.”

But that’s the thing, I realize later that night when Rat stands on top of a stack of hay, shirtless and revealing his disturbing tattoos, and presses the siren on the bullhorn, gathering everyone in a circle.

I’m not.

“Tonight, goats,” he says, grinning darkly, “the gauntlet has no boundaries—no level too high. It goes to the place of urban legends. It’s a place of bonding. Revelation. Brotherhood.” The group of recruits shifts anxiously. No one in this room would admit they’re afraid, but there’s the scent of apprehension in the air. A drop of sweat slides down my back. He continues, “Tonight, we take part in a communion of sorts; The Pledge Cocktail.”

The barn doors swing open and Royer strides in, holding something over his head. Miller and Knox follow, but every pledge looks to the president, trying to see what he’s holding. It’s a trophy? No. A cup? A mug? He moves to the middle of the circle. A few shoulders relax visibly—it’s just a drinking test. Barring alcohol poisoning, half the room has been priming for this challenge.

Until Royer spins the mug around and reveals the writing on the side.

“I Love Cumming.”

The love is in the shape of a heart. On the other side it says, Cumming, Georgia. It’s tacky, hilarious and… confusing.

“What the hell is that for?” the goat next to me asks.

The smug look on Royer’s face makes me nervous. I look for Miller—for a clue—but his face is passive, bored even. This isn’t good.

“Tonight, some of you will contribute to the Cumming Cup.”

“Contribute?” someone says across the circle. “You mean…”

“Jerk off into the cup, yeah,” Rat laughs.

“Shit.”

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