Next Semester by Cecil R. Cross Page A

presumed were Kappas based on how they were dressed, and the fact that they were all in on the countdown.
    “Kappa!” they yelled in unison.
    The guy sitting at the table lowered his head into his hand.
    “Beta!” they screamed excitedly.
    That’s when I noticed the guy at the table’s knees shaking profusely. He was a nervous wreck. Two of the larger guys in the kitchen grabbed his arm, one at the shoulder the other at the wrist, holding it steady.
    “Psi!” they hollered.
    That’s when a guy holding what looked like a bent wire hanger rushed over from the stove with it red-hot and steaming, and mashed it into dude at the table’s forearm. He held it there for about three seconds, but just watching it felt like an eternity.
    “Aaaaaaargh!” the guy screamed, as his arm sizzled like bacon, the skin peeling back like a banana, revealing the white meat, blood oozing around toward his elbow and down his wrist. I turned away momentarily, becoming light-headed and weak at the knees. I couldn’t believe anyone in their right mind would voluntarily allow someone to burn the shit out of them like that. I was blown away.
    “For life!” everyone said together, clapping and slapping high fives.
    The guy at the table stood up, grimacing in pain as he proudly showed off his badge of honor—a perfect circle with the letters KBS in the center.
    “Want a Jell-O shot?” a girl asked, carrying a full tray of those little really small, plain paper cups you get in the hospital.
    After what I just saw, I figured I needed one, just to get my mind right. My hand was hovering over the tray, when I felt someone yank my arm back with so much force it damn near popped my shoulder out of the socket.
    “What the hell are you doing?” Fresh yelled in his most abrasive whisper tone. “You tryna get yourself killed up in here?”
    “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “You’re the one who brought me over here to get the damn drink!”
    “Do you want one or not?” the girl asked, still holding the tray out in front of me.
    “No thank you,” Fresh said. “We’re good.”
    “You’re trippin’, blood,” I said, rubbing my shoulder.
    “ I’m trippin’?” he asked. “I might’ve just saved your life, fool! Did you not see all of those Jell-O shots were red? ”
    “So they were cherry Jell-O shots,” I said. “Duh. What does that have to do with anything?”
    “Look, just know you don’t need to touch or put your mouth on anything red up in here if you’re not a Kappa,” he whispered in my ear. “That was a setup. And your ass almost fell for it.”
    I was green to virtually all of the dos and don’ts of fraternity life, mostly because I never gave joining one much thought. Back home, the only thing niggaz from my hood ever talked about joining were gangs. And even that was rare in Oakland. Where I’m from, it was all about the neighborhood or “turf” you were from, as opposed to what gang you were in. We pretty much left the gangbanging to L.A., so I never really had to adhere to any organization’s rules and regulations. Besides, I didn’t even know I was coming to a frat house party in the first damn place. I was just out to have a good time.
    “Having fun?” someone asked.
    I figured it was probably someone I knew from Marshall Hall. But when I spun around, I was standing next to a complete stranger. He was a light-skinned, slender guy with a goatee, and stood a little taller than me. I could tell he was intoxicated because he was leaning up against the wall, cheesing so hard I could see his front tooth was chipped. I noticed he was wearing a silver Kappa dog chain around his neck, so I deferred to Fresh to respond to him.
    “Hey, w’sup, Dex,” Fresh said. “This party is juking, folk.”
    “Do I know you from somewhere?” Dex asked.
    “I go to school at U of A,” Fresh said. “I don’t think we’ve ever formally met, though. My name is Lamont but everyone calls me Fresh.”
    “It’s a