Chapter VIII - Road Trip
A break from Westmore may be just what Ethan needs, but only if it were that simple.
The rumors turned out to be true. For weeks, older brothers had teased them with knowing smirks: Wait until the Road Trip. Nobody could get a straight answer on what it was—only that it was tradition, that it broke pledges down and bound them together, that it was the weekend they’d remember longest.
The week after Homecoming the orders came. Forty-eight hours. Disposable cameras issued to each pledge. Lists of stops clipped to cardboard. Clay stood in front of the Annex, tapping his pen like a drill sergeant, brothers howling behind him.
“You guys are going on a little scavenger hunt, a little trip around the Commonwealth. And you better hit every fucking stop. Bring back proof or it didn’t happen,” he barked. “Film developed and back here by noon Sunday, double prints.”
The phrase itself felt archaic—nobody outside drugstore counters even used it anymore—but everyone knew what it meant. Two sets of every humiliation: one for the scrapbook, one for the box they’d drag out at reunions.
Ethan’s stomach sank. He was already worn thin from line-ups and chores, the endless pressure of remembering names and histories, the hazing masked as “tradition.” The whole last week had been a blur, he was still raw from Homecoming. Now came this—the capstone of their first semester, a forced pilgrimage across Virginia.
They decided to squeeze into one car, Ethan’s old Cherokee. Six of them jammed in: Ethan, Connor, Teddy, Marco, Mark, and Tyler. Connor looked smug: “Lucky you. I know the territory.” Born and raised in Richmond, he’d clearly been waiting for this. Marco cracked a joke about how many times they’d get lost. Teddy just sighed, shifting his tie. Mark groaned about the smoke before the first mile was done. Tyler offered to drive and slid the keys into the ignition like he’d been expecting it all along, calm, steady.
They pulled out just after dinner Friday, coats and ties—what Clay referred to as their “uniform” for the weekend—already rumpled. The autumn air was sharp, headlights bouncing off dark trees as the highway swallowed them whole. The first stretch was all nervous energy—Connor shouting over the Discman, Marco digging through his CD binder, Teddy passing a joint across the back seat, Mark grumbling about the windows, Ethan staring out the window and catching Tyler’s eye in the rearview mirror.
They reached D.C. after midnight, staggering into a shitty motel off New York Avenue. The clerk didn’t even look up as they shuffled to the counter, still in ties. “One room or two?” he asked, flat as if he’d said it a thousand times. Tyler smirked. “One’s good.”
Ethan’s face burned, wondering who he might have to share a bed with.
They crammed into doubles, snoring, coughing, the stench of smoke and sweat filling the air. Ethan lay awake on the sunken mattress, listening to Tyler’s soft snore next to him. His mind spun: Eli, Catherine, the kiss, the quarter he kept as his talisman. Eli had become the imagined reward through every hazing, and now he felt further away than ever. Tyler shifted, now facing him, his arm brushing against Ethan’s. Though Ethan’s first instinct was to freeze, afraid one of the others would notice, he let himself drift into the warmth and finally fell asleep.
Dawn came gray and wet. They dragged themselves across the Mall, breath puffing in the cold. Tourists eyed them curiously as they posed at the Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Arlington Bridge. Marco made rabbit ears behind Teddy’s head. Connor snapped, “We need proof, not art.” Ethan forced smiles for the cameras, dreading the day the film would be developed.
Tyler, being from Woodbridge, knew enough to steer them to the city. After a quick snap in front of the White House, they headed to Georgetown.
Marco shrugged. “We can take the Metro.”
The rest of the group erupted into laughter. “There’s no Metro stop in Georgetown,” Connor finally said.
Ethan drove, narrow streets reminding him of Charleston. They found M Street and, by sheer dumb luck, a place to park.
“Let’s see,” Tyler said, ticking off the list. “St. Elmo’s Bar, the *Exorcist* stairs, JFK’s house, us on the towpath…”
“Hold up,” Mark interrupted. “Does anyone actually know where these are?”
The Exorcist Stairs were easy enough, and everyone there was snapping pictures. After several people laughed in their faces, another student clued them in.
“The bar in the movie is based on The Tombs. There is no St. Elmo’s Bar—the sign was just an exterior shot on a set. And JFK? He lived all over Georgetown. Pick a house.”
They played along, grabbed a shot in front of The Tombs, posed at one of the Kennedy houses on N Street, and got back on the road.
By Saturday afternoon they were on 81, deep in the Valley. Lexington loomed—a place Ethan’s mother would’ve called “historic” with reverence. Washington & Lee’s campus sprawled with white columns and manicured lawns. Tyler pulled the Jeep into a lot and they set to make a plan. The list called for Lee Chapel, a photo in front of Lee’s tomb, Traveller’s remains. Other groups of pledges were already there, lined up like tourists.
Connor saluted like an idiot in front of the crypt, Marco pantomimed a musket, Teddy just stood stiff. The General lying in repose behind them. The flash popped, cementing the absurdity. They returned the favor for the next group and headed out.
At VMI they posed outside the barracks, cadets in gray moving past without glancing. Ethan felt the weight of the place—stone, discipline, the smell of polish—and thought how foreign it felt.
They found the fraternity “rock,” a granite monument outside headquarters. Clay had underlined it on the list. “Tradition.” They crouched awkwardly, arms draped over it like tourists. Ethan crouched too, heart sinking. Just a rock. Another piece of invented ritual.
Charlottesville gave them an hour to breathe. They parked on the Lawn at UVA, strolled past red brick and the Rotunda, tried to look casual as Marco lit a cigarette. They ducked into a diner, split milkshakes, snapped photos with tired waitresses. It felt almost normal—students milling, Saturday buzz in the air. Ethan almost forgot he was on display.
The drive east stretched long. Arguments over music flared. Connor swore by Phish, Marco by Wu-Tang, Teddy by classic rock. Tyler just shrugged. Ethan finally let his tape play—Counting Crows bleeding into Nirvana, then Smashing Pumpkins. Nobody mocked him. Connor even hummed along. For once, he felt part of it.
At one gas stop, Ethan and Tyler ended up side by side again at the counter, brushing hands as they grabbed sodas. Tyler didn’t move his away for a moment longer than necessary. Ethan’s stomach lurched.
By dusk they hit Short Pump. Connor straightened in the passenger seat, cigarette dangling, proud on home turf. “Welcome to my kingdom.”
“You mean Goochland. I thought you were from Midlothian,” Teddy jabbed. Connor blushed. Mark snorted, and the car cracked up.
Connor merged onto Monument Avenue and followed it toward downtown. Bronze riders loomed above the wide lawns, shadows sharp under the lamps.
“Second highest murder rate in the country,” Connor said proudly, as if it belonged to him. “Tim Kaine says he’ll fix it. The Fan’s fine—just don’t go past Boulevard after dark.”
The list called for The Arthur Ashe Jr. monument. It had just been installed, the city still raw from the fight over it. “Caused a huge uproar from the minute they proposed it,” Connor said. Marco mimed a serve. Teddy stared at his shoes. The flash went off. Ethan held his smile, then let it drop. It wasn’t an accident. The brothers picked it because it was raw. Pose in front of Lee’s tomb, then here. The first monument constructed in almost 70 years, and not to a Confederate general, but to a Black man, a professional tennis player. The quiet joke was the point.
They continued up Monument, passing Jeb Stuart, until Franklin and the Jefferson Hotel. Tyler straddled the bronze gator under the portico, grinning for the camera. The flash went off, tourists gawking, valets shaking their heads. Ethan froze. The Jefferson wasn’t just another stop. It was the only hotel his grandmother would stay in when she came to Richmond. Watching his pledge brothers howl on the gator felt like desecration. He pasted on a smile, but inside he was horrified.
Leaving the flashers on and a few bucks for the valet, they walked down to the Commonwealth Club, lit gold against the night. Saturday meant tuxedos and pearls drifting in and out, valets hustling cars down the drive. The list said get a photo with the doorman.
Teddy groaned. “Jesus. My dad and granddad are members here, guys, come on.”
Connor lit up. “Knew it! West End royalty.”
The doorman, immaculate in tails, didn’t blink as six rumpled college boys clustered around him. The flash lit Teddy’s red face. Ethan caught it, recognized the look—privilege you couldn’t escape and shame you couldn’t voice.
Leaving the Jefferson, they rolled up Main, past VCU’s red brick and neon. Students leaned on porches, smoke curling. The marquee of the Mosque glowed half-burnt, red bulbs sputtering. Marco jeered at their coats and ties. “We look like undertakers.”
Connor pointed out Sidewalk Café. “We’re stopping there.” They piled inside, splitting Sidewalk Subs, posing like it was a prize hog. The waitress rolled her eyes, snapped the shot. Marco jousted with the bread, Connor smirked, Tyler leaned back calm. Ethan laughed despite himself, though his eyes kept drifting to Tyler’s shoulders against the wood paneling. This is all in my head, he thought—Eli, now Tyler.
From there Connor directed Tyler down Boulevard, pointing like he was leading a tour bus. “Devil’s Triangle,” he said, nodding at the neon of The Triangle Bookstore. The sign buzzed red, the block half-deserted. “Local landmark. Don’t come down here unless you’re looking for trouble.”
Marco whooped, “But it’s on the list!” Teddy groaned, but they all spilled onto the sidewalk in ties and blazers, snapping a photo under the glowing sign. Ethan forced his grin, stomach tight. Teddy explained Devil’s Triangle to the rest, ending with, “We could get shot down here.” Those prints would be sliding past strangers at Target tomorrow morning.
“Alright,” Connor said, triumphant. “Next stop—Carytown.”
They parked and walked down Cary Street, neon glowing off brick facades. Passing the Byrd Theatre, they could hear the organ playing. It was approaching midnight, Carytown in full tilt.
“Of course they want us to go to Babes,” Teddy said, rolling his eyes.
“What is that?” Ethan asked.
“You take this one, Connor.” Teddy smirked.
“It’s a gay bar,” Connor finally coughed out, catching his breath.
Of course it was. Just ahead Babes squatted low, its windows covered with black plywood, faint neon humming. The bouncer smirked at their IDs and waved them off.
“Come on man, we just need a picture at the bar,” Connor pleaded.
“Ain’t happening,” the bouncer said, checking another group’s IDs.
A couple of men in line laughed.
“Must be a fraternity prank. Let them in—they look so cute in their ties.”
The pledges cracked up, but Ethan felt it in his gut. He’d heard the stories about guys being spotted here. The joke barely reached him. Deflated, they posed for a picture with the two men behind them. At least they tried.
The last thing on the list: get a picture behind the deli and snag some rainbow cookies. The Carytown Ukrop’s sat dark, lot empty. “I told you it would be closed.” “Doesn’t matter,” Connor said. “Get the shot.” They rattled the locked doors, posed under the glowing sign. Teddy wheezed with laughter. Ethan hung back, staring at the wholesome façade paired with the boarded windows of Babes just a few blocks over. Finally they called it a night.
They ended the night at a cheap motel off Broad. Neon buzzed, mildew in the curtains. The clerk didn’t blink at six boys in ties. They asked for two rooms. Mark, Teddy, Marco, and Connor paid for their double. When it was Tyler and Ethan’s turn, the clerk asked flatly, “You boys want one bed or two?” The guys waiting for the elevator doubled over in laughter. “They just need one, right guys?” Mark joked. Ethan froze, he could feel his face starting to flush. “Two beds please,” Tyler finally said. Ethan noticed he wasn’t laughing either.
They crammed into doubles. Marco sprawled, Connor snored, Teddy muttered in his sleep.
Down the breezeway, Mark lay snoring in the other bed, the neon bleeding through blinds. Ethan felt the bed shift in the dark. Tyler was now laying beside, knees brushing, then shoulders. Ethan held his breath, and Tyler pulled him into a spoon. Neither said anything. Imperfect, awkward, secret—but real.
Morning brought stale air and pounding heads. They dragged themselves to greasy brunch, eggs sliding off plates, orange juice lukewarm. Connor cracked a grin. “So, you two fuck last night?” he asked once the waitress left. Ethan wanted to crawl under the table. Tyler didn’t flinch. “So what if we did,” he said, biting into bacon. The table erupted. Ethan stared at his plate, face burning — and yet some part of him felt shielded by Tyler’s indifference, even if it only deepened his confusion.
At Target the disposable cameras were dropped, film spooling out behind glass. Families waiting on their prints turned to watch as shot after shot slid onto the conveyor: Tyler on the gator, Ethan outside Babes, the whole pledge class under Ashe. Strangers saw them before they did. Ethan’s stomach twisted. He gripped the counter while the clerk stacked the envelopes. Tyler nudged him under the table later. “They’re just pictures.” But Ethan knew better.
Grabbing the double prints, they hauled back down 360, CDs sliding, Discman skipping, Connor singing off-key. They pulled into Westmore by noon, filthy, sunburned, ties undone. Clay waited with his clipboard, pretending to scowl. Some other brothers started cat calling from the porch. “Go get some sleep guys, nicely done,” Clay waved them off.
Across the grass, Eli stood with arms folded, gaze locked on him for a moment too long. Just enough to remind Ethan of the thread tying them still.
“Hey Ethan”, he finally said, “you guys come tell me all about it.” “I’m beat,” Mark tossed behind him.
Ethan hesitated a split second before turning around.
He reached into his pocket. The quarter sat cool against his palm. Not punishment now—proof he was surviving.
Further Reading
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