Read 30 Guys in 30 Days for Free Online

party.”
    For you see, sister of mine, classes begin this Wednesday, and as such, the upperclass-men have begun to return to campus. And with them, so, too, have returned the subspecies known as
classmaticus greekus—
aka: Homo-Fratien.
    Now, Charlie’s mother was a third-generation Tri-Delt (this has nothing to do with geometry. I already asked), and due to Charlie’s dubious “connections,” she was invited last night to a bash at Sigma Nu. Determined as she was to drag me out of my little post-puke-age pity party, she recruited me to go with her. To Charlie, the party would be an opportunity to “get my flirt on,” as in, to learn to communicate with the opposite sex. Never mind that I’m not totally convinced that I even
have
a “flirt” anymore.
    The evening kicked off innocently enough.
    “Have I told you how much I
love
that shirt?” Charlie asked. She had, actually. Several times. Not that I didn’t appreciate the vote of confidence. It was my favorite shirt: black and stretchy, skimpy but just shy of slutty. Charlie was wearing a sparkly pink halter that tied in about six differentplaces, and of course she looked her typical breathtaking self.
    We were standing on the steps of the Sigma Nu house, a redbrick endeavor in the Colonial style so favored by Woodman University. The house was located on fraternity row, or Picard Street, as it was formally known.
    “Thanks,” I said, glancing down at it and picking off a nearly invisible fleck of lint.
    “Don’t fuss,” she said. “You look great. I love your hair straight. Anyway, I’m sure this’ll be fun. They say the trick is to drink heavily.”
    I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could say anything, a plastic cup sailed out from the window above us, splat-ting onto the pavement with a wet
smack,
and dousing the bottom of my leg with something liquid (probably beer).
    I crouched down to assess the damage. My jeans were soaked.
    A thick, beefy head poked its way out of the window. “HEADS UP!” he shouted, then retreated back inside.
    Thanks, buddy.
    “Oh, no,” Charlie said. “Did it get you?”
    I extended my right leg by way of demonstration and shook it tentatively back and forth, an impromptu hokeypokey.
    “You can’t even tell,” she proclaimed.
    “But … what?” Of course you could tell. The entire bottom half of my jeans leg was
soaking wet.
You would have to be … well, you would have to be not looking to not be able to tell. Or maybe blind.
    “Come on,” she said, with finality. “We’re going in.”
    Inside, the house throbbed with energy. The walls pulsed with canned dance music, and the lights were either out completely or were dimmed way down. The house seemed to be illuminated solely by the psychedelic glow of a long chain of Christmas lights.
    At least no one would be able to see the stain on my jeans.
    “Oh, look, there’s Raegan,” Charlie said with a squeal. She gestured in the general direction of a tall redhead in the distance. “She wants us to come over!”
    I could see no evidence of the fact that Raegan actually did want us to come over(I could barely see Raegen, for that matter) and, more to the point, I couldn’t see any easy way over there. “Ill just wait for you here,” I said.
    Charlie didn’t like this plan one bit. She knit her brows together, thinking. “Okay,” she said finally. “You can stay here.”
    “Mother, may I?” I asked, half-joking.
    “Yes,” she said, either missing my sarcasm completely or deliberately choosing to ignore it. “On one condition.”
    “Which is?”
    “That you talk to someone. Anyone.”
    “Huh?” I asked.
    “It’s simple, Claud. I’m going over there to talk to Raegan. Now, ‘over there’ is far away and it’s kind of crowded, and given that you aren’t really interested in rushing—this semester—I’m going to grant you that maybe there’s no real reason for you to come with me. But if you’re going to stay here, you’re going to