THE BETAS WERE not known for their sense of industry, or, for that matter, anything else that required real effort outside of athletics. Occasionally, though, something fired their collective imagination. There was that time they’d taken the empties from an entire semester—the ones usually thrown into a pit in the basement until one of the goats could return them for deposit money—and constructed a near-perfect fifteen-foot replica of the Great Sphinx of Giza. For almost a day they danced around it, wrists bent, hands pointing like funky Tuts. It was meant to be the centerpiece for an Egyptian-themed party where guests were invited to come dressed as their favorite plague. But, perhaps inevitably, someone slammed into it, right into the missing nose. He was followed by others, who destroyed the structure in mere moments, leaving a pile of over two thousand cans. The party was nonetheless a great success, the empty cans being repurposed into something like a children’s ball pit.
Today’s events, Teddy knew, required a similar level of motivation and creative thinking. Milton Strauss had approved recommendations from the Committee on Fraternal Life at Devon, and it was a death sentence. For all their outward indolence, the Betas were motivated on levels most took care not to show. They had all made it to Devon, after all. Something got them there. Secretly, many had excellent GPAs, and most were elite Division I athletes. Some harbored ambitions for Wall Street or law school. Others wanted to teach. Being shut out of leadership positions and recommendation letters was a nonstarter. Something had to be done.
Technically, they were having a meeting, but mostly they were lying around the living room hungover. The smell of stale beer permeated the woodwork.
“We are so boned,” said the Mound.
The others moaned their agreement.
Billy Curtis asked to be recognized. “We and the other fraternities are all off campus, and none of us publish membership rolls. How the hell are they gonna know who to fuck over?”
That very question was the subject of great speculation. Rumors were going around that Devon would employ snitches who might employ devious means to ferret out offenders. One rumor had them loitering across the street, monitoring the comings and goings of members—block watchers, like in old East Germany. Someone else heard that anyone up for leadership roles would have to sign an affidavit swearing he didn’t belong to any all-male organizations.
That rumor had credibility.
“Well, there is one way out,” said Tug. He knew that the committee had cited the single-sex nature of fraternities as the core problem. The statement said, in so many words, that men spending time with men created a ferment of sexual predation. “Toxic masculinity” was the phrase everyone was throwing around. The statement further suggested there was a way forward for any fraternity agreeing to expand its membership to women, who would presumably exert a civilizing influence. “We could admit women.”
Tug was met with a blizzard of red Solo cups heaved in his direction, drops of yesterday’s beer hitting his face.
“Mound’s right,” said Der Führer. “We’re boned.”
“There is another solution,” Finn Belcher said, looking up from his phone.
“Brother Belch, by all means,” said Tug. “You have the floor.” Belch had the highest GPA in Beta, so the brothers generally listened to what he had to say.
“So, you know how the university recently decided to allow anyone to self-identify?”
“Huh?” Der Führer asked.
“Self-identify. You are what you feel you are. When you apply to Devon, you can now check any box for gender. It’s the new thing.”
“They said that?” asked the Mound.
“Yes, it was everywhere. Didn’t you read … never mind.”
“Yeah, so what of it?” asked Der Führer.
“Okay, so hear me out on this. One of us changes our official Devon identity to female. By their own rules, they’re not allowed to question it. Seriously, it could work.” Finn smiled, pleased with his cleverness.
“But who would it be?” said Billy Curtis. “I ain’t becoming no chick.”
“Fuck no,” said Mound. Nor will I.
“But, Mound, you already have experience with transgender bathrooms,” said Digger. “You’re halfway there!”
Everyone laughed.
“You wouldn’t have to become or even act female, numbnuts. Just say you were,” said Finn.
“So who would it be?” Tug asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe we could draw straws.”
“Not fuckin’ doin’ it,” said Mound. I respectfully decline.
That pretty much did the idea in. The brothers all shouted it down. Some made lip farts of disapproval.
Tug threw up his hands. “So we’re finished. Is that what you’re all telling me?”
Belch looked up, a thought percolating. “Wait, we still have till the end of the year, right?”
“Yeah, as far as we know,” Tug answered.
“And you said that commie dude told you there’s a Crawl during the Fling?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s left in the treasury?”
“Six hundred and forty-seven bucks. Why? What are you thinking?”
“Anyone know how to make papier-mâché?”
No one did, but the answer was found quickly on the internet. Finn outlined his idea and there was vigorous approval all around. “And one other thing. I almost forgot about this.” He held out his phone for all to see. “Like I said, I was pretty hammered at the time.”
There was a whoop of excitement as it dawned on the brothers what they were seeing. “Holy shit,” Tug said.
It was agreed. If they were going down, they were going down like Betas.