I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm standing here, naked, heart pounding in my throat, facing a bunch of idiots chanting "Alpha Centauri!" like it's a sacred hymn. I try to cover my dick with both hands, but the embarrassment is an electric current zapping through me. The air in the frat house's main room reeks of spilled beer and wood, and every shout from the brothers drills into my ears. I keep asking myself when my life took such a fucked-up turn to land me here, exposed like a damn trophy.
For a second, I think about bolting, leaving this humiliation behind and not looking back. But then I remember what's at stake: free 24/7 tutoring, a private room in this ostentatious house for nothing, meals covered. My Tressider café paycheck barely buys books, and my parents are stretched thin with Stanford's tuition. I don't have room to complain. Moving into Alpha Centauri doesn't sound half-bad if it means surviving. But standing here, vulnerable in front of these arrogant assholes, their laughter slicing the air like broken glass, makes me want the ground to swallow me.
I shuffle among the other pledges, a parade of tense bodies and clumsy hands trying to cover what they can. Some look more lost than me, probably freshmen who have no clue what they signed up for.
"Move it, princesses!" some jackass yells from a worn leather couch, his voice drowned by the roar of laughter and clinking bottles.
The sticky floor creaks under my feet, the stench of beer mixing with a whiff of cologne floating in the air.
Then Noah Whitman, that damn blond with his king-of-the-universe attitude, saunters over. His eyes rake me up and down, gleaming with a mix of mockery and something else I don't want to figure out. His smile, infuriatingly hot, hits like a slap.
"Nice ass," he says, his voice cutting through the noise.
The comment lands like a punch. A traitorous heat stirs in my groin, a reaction I didn't ask for, and I grip my hands tighter to avoid looking like a fool. Fuck, why does he have to mess with me like that? His slow, almost theatrical wink makes my face burn and my pulse race. I glare at him, praying my anger hides the mess this idiot's stirred up in me. Calm down, Ethan, I think, because the last thing I need is Noah thinking he can fuck with my head.
"Alright, ladies, care to lend a hand?" Noah's voice booms through the room, amplified by the polished mahogany walls glinting under fake chandeliers.
The brothers erupt in cheers, some banging on a table littered with red cups and crushed cans.
"That's it, Noah, spice up the show!" someone shouts from the back, followed by laughter echoing like a sloppy chorus.
A group of Delta Kappa Delta girls struts in from a side door, their steps clicking on the floor. There's as many of them as there are pledges, rocking tight shorts that hug every curve and white tees with Greek letters barely covering the essentials.
"Come on, boys, we don't bite!" one of them chirps, her giggle slicing the air.
The vibe heats up, the brothers cheering like they're in a dive bar, the sweet scent of perfume mixing with the beer stench.
I turn slightly to see who's behind me. It's a stunning blonde, her smile teetering between flirty and polite. She winks, and I can't tell if it's part of the game or something more. Heat creeps up my face, and I curse myself for reacting. Being gay doesn't make me immune to female beauty. I've been with women before, and it was fine, but nothing compares to being with a guy. I'm strictly gay, but a wink like that… shit, it's hard not to feel flattered. Focus, dumbass, I tell myself as the noise drags me back to reality.
I hear the hiss of spray cans in the girls' hands. A cold blast hits my back, making me flinch. The paint chills my skin, and I pray this shit washes off.
"Careful, it stains!" one girl teases, while another laughs and mutters, "This one's redder than that flag."
I glance at the other pledges: some are stiff, eyes wide like saucers; others try to laugh, pretending they're not as humiliated as I am. Me, a year into Stanford, I feel like the biggest idiot for being here. This is more degrading than I imagined.
The girls finish and slip away, leaving a trail of perfume and paint fumes. Morgan, Alpha Centauri's president, steps up, his stance straight out of a movie. His gaze is pure steel.
"Alright, pledges," he says, his voice cracking like a whip. "This is an initiation ritual, but if campus authorities stop you, the excuse is simple: you're protesting for free expression. The messages on your backs are your manifesto, so we're not getting in trouble. Got it?"
He pauses, scanning us with a look that brooks no argument. No one dares speak. The silence is heavy, broken only by the crunch of a can someone crushes in the back.
"No more preamble," Morgan declares. "Let the race begin."
The room explodes like a bomb, and the pledges exchange looks—some pure panic, others a mix of adrenaline and resignation.
"Run, princesses, run!" a brother shouts, and chaos breaks loose.
****
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm running naked across campus, dry air whipping my face and body, lungs burning as I try to catch up to the others like my life depends on it. The sound of my sneakers smacking the pavement echoes in my ears, each step a reminder of how exposed I am, the chafing of the material against my heels irritating my skin. The crowd gathered to watch us make fools of ourselves screams and laughs, their voices mixing with the flashes of phones recording every second of this humiliation.
When Morgan gave the order, chaos broke loose. Almost all the pledges bolted like Olympic sprinters, their bodies glinting under the sun. I hesitated for a damn second, heart in my throat, nerves betraying me, but I finally launched after them. As we tore down the stairs of the frat house on Old Campus, the stench of beer and sweat faded, replaced by the smell of fresh-cut grass and the echo of the brothers' laughter. I nearly tripped, my sneakers slipping on the last step, and the crowd's laughter exploded louder, like someone bet I'd eat shit.
"Careful, pledge, this ain't a runway!" some asshole yells from the door, waving a beer can as his laugh cuts through the air.
I keep my balance by some miracle and keep running, heart pounding so hard I barely hear the noise. These guys are fast, too fucking fast. Still, after a few desperate strides, I catch up to the front group, my legs shaking from the effort. This is pure insanity. Outside the house, a crowd's gathered at the entrance, students who must've smelled the humiliation from miles away. Shouts, laughs, phone flashes.
"Come on, keep it up!" an anonymous voice yells, followed by a sharp whistle that makes me grit my teeth.
I focus on not crashing into anyone, trying to keep my junk from bouncing too much with each step. It's humiliating, but I've got no choice.
Then, fuck! A pledge ahead of me slams into a poorly parked bike on the path near Memorial Church. The guy hits the ground with a groan, the bike's metal screeching against the pavement.
"Watch it, dumbass!" the bike's owner shouts, a student with a backpack slung over his shoulder, as the pledge scrambles up, face twisted in pain.
I dodge him by inches, heart racing, sweat dripping down my forehead. I keep running like a madman, the air slicing my bare skin. We hit White Plaza, the campus's heart, with its swaying palms and clusters of students strolling like nothing's wrong. Then a memory hits: Jackson and Julie. I left them here less than an hour ago, before these Alpha Centauri lunatics dragged me to their house. I don't even want to imagine their faces when they see me like this, naked, some ridiculous phrase painted on my back, running like an idiot.
Truth is, I'm way behind. Those seconds of hesitation at the start cost me, and I doubt I'll make the top six. Probably not even the top ten. But, shit! A security guard pops out of nowhere near the Claw Fountain. He tackles a pledge ahead of me, and the poor guy goes down like a sack of potatoes, his yell lost in the chaos.
"Stop, stop right now!" the guard roars, his deep voice cutting the air, but I don't pause to look.
More uniforms appear, charging toward us. This is getting ugly. I veer through White Plaza, dodging students who step aside, laughing and shouting in surprise.
"What the hell is this!" a girl yells, covering her mouth as I sprint by, her friend cackling beside her.
Others clap, like it's a damn show. Then I see them: Jackson and Julie, standing by a coffee cart, milkshakes in hand. Julie freezes, her straw falling from her mouth, splattering the ground. Jackson, that bastard, doubles over laughing, like he's watching the best comedy of his life.
"Ethan, you're letting 'em get away!" Jackson yells, his voice carrying over the noise, eyes gleaming with amusement.
They recognize me instantly, and my face burns hotter than ever, heat rising from my chest. Jackson's seen me naked before. We play soccer together, and crossing paths in the Arrillaga Center showers was never a big deal. He's always chill, with that "everything's cool" vibe that makes him so damn charismatic. With Julie, it's different. We hooked up a while back, more than once, and while I don't regret it, this is next-level humiliation. Running naked in front of half the campus, with them watching, is one of the worst things I've ever done at Stanford.
I've done crazy shit with them, but this takes the cake for my most ridiculous moment. Jackson comes from money and always tries to help, but I turn down his cash. He's a great friend, always hyping me up like a damn motivational guru, and I won't lie—he's good-looking, with that knack for connecting with anyone. But money ruins friendships, and I'm not risking what we've got. Julie's another story. Reserved but fierce and loyal. She's always had my back, like when I started at the café and some asshole customer got pushy. She'd show up, her no-nonsense glare shutting them down. I don't fully get her, but she's someone I trust completely.
This can't get worse. We keep running toward the Dish, the campus blurring into palms, sandstone buildings, and students filming with their phones. More guards appear, blocking the path near Tressider Memorial Union. I pass the café where I work, and I swear I see Rose, my boss, peering out the window, one eyebrow raised as she watches my "nice ass" bouncing across campus.
I hope she doesn't hold it against me later, because even if I make it into this damn frat, keeping my job for extra cash wouldn't hurt. A guard grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. For a second, I think I'm done. I struggle, sneakers screeching on the pavement, and slip free, but in the process, I let go of one hand and know I flashed more than I meant to.
"Told you!" Jackson shouts from the distance, his laughter echoing as Julie covers her eyes, clearly mortified.
Jackson's laugh rings in my head as I keep running, heart ready to explode, humiliation burning me from the inside. I don't know what to do. If I stop, I'm fucked. So I keep going, running like my life depends on it, the campus spinning around me and Alpha Centauri's chaos chasing me like a shadow.