However, there’s not a single person at school I would bare my soul to or who I would call in an emergency. I don’t have anyone I’d consider my “best friend.” Not Jeanie, not Macy. They’re just two of the many friends I have on rotation. They both work with me atWashington Square News, the student newspaper.
“Is there anyone specific you’re trying to score a date with?” Jeanie asks.
“I’m writing an op-ed on the Zeta Psi auction and whether date auctions are a reasonable way to fundraise. I don’t suppose either of you wants to come? I’m not bidding—keeping it professional and all—but there’s bound to be some guys worth going for.”
Jeanie and Macy agree immediately, both almost as spontaneous as I am.
Thankgoodness I dressed in my usual abundance of layers. But even with my patchwork coat, plaid sweater vest, button-down, and green beret, the evening chill begins to set in. Only a fraternity would plan an outdoorrooftopfundraiser in February. Still early on in the semester, there are more people than I usually see at an event like this. Everyone bops between the keg and the DJ, who is really just one of the members of the frat with his iPhone hooked up to the Bluetooth speakers. And apparently, he has an affinity for mediocre house remixes of Rihanna songs.
Despite arriving almost thirty minutes late, we came at the perfect time for the betting to start. A guy in a backwards hat, a Vineyard Vines shirt, and giddy, glazed-over eyes takes the microphone. “Alright, alright, everyone!” he says, a constant chuckle bubbling under every word. “Welcome to our annual Zeta Psi date auction. We’ve got afireselection for you all tonight. Some nerds, some jocks, some romantics. No matter your taste, there’s gotta be a Zete for you.”
The crowd claps and hollers as the influence of the cheap beer works its way into everyone’s bloodstreams.
“Now remember,” Jake says, putting on his best serious face, “either person on the date can end it at any time. But whether you’re only together for the party or if you keep the party going all night, it’s for charity. So. Don’t. Be. Stingy!”
The betting begins with the leadership of the frat. The president is dressed in a full suit and carries a red rose, the treasurer comes out dressed like Tom Cruise inRisky Business, complete with black Ray Bans and boxer shorts, and the secretary strums a guitar, serenading each girl who raises a hand to bid on him.
Every guy has a shtick, and I work frantically, taking as many pictures and notes as I can.
After almost an hour, I start to lose interest—and the feeling in my fingertips. I take a break from pictures to ask one-off questions to those around me, hoping for good snippets I can throw into the article.
But then, he takes the stage.
I almost don’t recognize him. A big, black cowboy hat sits atop Sutton Davis’ head, and he dips his chin down to try to avoid drawing attention to himself. Aside from the hat, Sutton is dressed simply, in a sage-green sweater and tan pants, not much of a cowboy. While the other guys were sure to make a show of commanding the stage, Sutton hardly moves. Even so, the crowd chatters in excitement.
“Hello,” Macy says in a singsong voice, giggling as she grasps my elbow.
“Next up,” the announcer shouts into his microphone, somehow still just as energetic as he was at the start, “we have Sutton Davis, a Zete alum! Sutton is asexycowboy, hailing from the small town of West River, Montana. After this semester, he will be graduating with his master’s degree in English and American Literature. If you’re interested in learning about riding bareback, Sutton Davis is the guy for you.”
Even from across the rooftop, I can see Sutton’s cheeks glow red. Clearly, he didn’t approve of the double entendre.
“Let’s start the bidding at twenty!”
Immediately, six hands shoot into the air.
“Thirty?”
Even more hands.
“Forty-five?”
I push through the crowd to get closer to the stage. Jeanie and Macy follow at my sides. “One hundred!” I yell, cupping my hands on either side of my mouth.
The announcer catches my eye and says into the microphone, “One hundred to—is that you, Laine Rodriguez?”
I smile, not bothering to figure out where I know the announcer from.
Sutton looks up, his eyes connecting with mine, and his eyebrows immediately furrow low.
“One-fifty!” someone behind me says.
“Two hundred!” I yell back. I can practically hear my wallet cursing at me.
“Who is that?” Macy asks me.
“My TA for Shakespeare. This could be my only shot at a tutoring session.”
“Two-twenty-five!” another person yells.
