Sweet Water(23)

“As long as you use a paintbrush, I guess it’s not. We have to go! There’s only one thing.” Hanna pauses and dusts her face with some powder.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“I guess if you get invited your first night on campus, they call it a ‘paint streak.’”

“What does that mean?” I ask. Hanna is from out of town. She’s supposed to be asking me questions about CMU, not the other way around.

I know which cafeteria items are gross and which are not. I know about the shortcut beside Carnegie Library that cuts the wind in half on frigid Pittsburgh days and that Tuesday is new inventory day at the campus bookstore. But now I realize these are all lame facts, and none that will help me at all in making new friends or fitting in.

“It means you have to run to the fence in your underwear!” Hanna screams. “Find your prettiest bra and panties set; we’re streaking in the quad at midnight!”

And he certainly didn’t teach me about the fence.



We stay up until midnight drinking beer and playing the alphabet game—pop stars (Paula Abdul, Beck, the Cranberries), movies (A Few Good Men, Backdraft, Coming to America), animals (alligator, beagle, caterpillar). We never make it to D before switching categories, and Hanna names only selections with hot men in them. Animals are boring.

It’s a good roommate icebreaker, and I somehow rationalize that if I balance my drinking with a childish, nerdy exercise like the alphabet game, it somehow makes it okay.

And if I’m going to run half-naked, I’m going to need some reinforcement. Hanna doesn’t seem fazed, and I can’t believe she even owns the black Victoria’s Secret getup she’s planning on wearing, let alone is willing to run in it.

I’ve consented to a sports bra and matching underwear—sporty yet sexy, I think. It basically looks like it could be a swimsuit, which, after a few drinks, I’m convinced is a totally decent thing to wear in public. And I want to see Marty again. That’s the real motivation. It’s not like I can get into trouble for it. Not real trouble anyway, like I could for the pot.

Hanna drags me out the door, the sound of my sneakers skidding on the linoleum hallway almost as loud as our laughter.

“No!” I beg. “Can’t we just say we couldn’t find it?” I ask.

“No way! It will be fun!” Hanna insists.

A few students stick their heads out of their dorm rooms, regarding us with curiosity, but not too much—just two drunk freshmen trotting the halls in their undies.

“Nothing to see here, people!” Hanna yells. A bunch of doors slam, and we skitter down the stairwell.

When the midnight air hits us outside, we start running, and I’m okay with that because the exercise warms me up.

When we get to the fence, there’s already a handful of kids painting.

“Shit, we forgot the supplies,” Hanna says.

I look at her cross-eyed and bust out laughing. We got so banged up, we forgot the paint and brushes we’d scored at the bookstore.

Another girl in pigtails and a nightgown carts over a red Radio Flyer wagon full of art supplies. “Here ya go.”

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I’m the fraternity’s little sister,” she says, as if that explains everything. Then she resumes her solo project of the SAE Greek letters and an advertisement for a party at their house tomorrow night.

“Thanks!” Hanna says and takes a brush out of the wagon and dips it in paint. I do the same. Hanna cups her hand over my ear. “She obviously got a mixed memo on proper paint-and-streak attire.”

My giggles transform into frantic gulps as I wonder if Hanna is the one who got it wrong. Maybe it was a nightie and not underwear we were supposed to wear, but then I look around to see two young guys in boxer shorts running for their life to the fence.

This makes me think I’m going to be okay until Hanna paints: The best things in life make you sweat.

“I am not staying up all night to guard that message.”

“You’re no fun.” She dots all her i’s with hearts.

We paint for a while, and it drips everywhere, and I’m too drunk to even form letters that are readable. Hanna’s right, though—this is fun. She’s a bit wild, but I decide she’s good for me, because I would never have had this adventure on my own. I’m drawn to her the same way I was drawn to Joshua. She pulls me out of my comfort zone, makes me realize the spontaneous part of myself I’ve buried for fear of messing up.

“Hey, you made it!” My breath catches in my throat just hearing Marty’s voice.

I whirl around, holding the paintbrush in front of my breasts, terrified. “I did.”

But Marty’s not looking at my exposed, paint-splattered body. He grabs a piece of my hair and picks the paint out of it. “Try to get some on the fence next time.”

He starts walking away. No. “Where’re you going?”

“I can’t stay long. This was a preliminary hazing event. Rush isn’t for a couple more weeks, but those who haven’t figured out the simple riddle of where the fence is may not be worthy of a bid.” There’s a spark of something mischievous in his eyes, that energy buzz I caught earlier in my dorm room. Aside from my summer romance, I haven’t had much excitement in my life, and Marty’s energy consumes me. I want more of it. He’s so sure of himself, confident—everything I lack. His aura isn’t assuming, though, and I like how dedicated he is to his frat brothers. He’s loyal to the people he cares about. Unlike Joshua.