"Don't do that on your next birthday," Kennedy said. "I was having enough problems."
"Don't blame me if you can't make a basket."
Kennedy said talk of his liaison with the pompon girl had reached the mainland almost as soon as he did. He said "after Terri heard it from sorority sisters," he confessed everything. "Every time I make a move in the Kappa Gamma house it gets back to Terri."
"Everybody's against you," Terri said. "When my mom heard about it, she lectured me 30 minutes on the phone. My little sister wouldn't even talk to me."
Terri was conciliatory. She said the truth was that the accelerated social life at a big university—the prospects of new entanglements—had not changed Jim that much. "He's really the same solid person. He gets it from his family."
She said campus morals probably hadn't changed that much over the years, but the kids today were "more open." A favorite campus legend, Kennedy said, was that of the six columns that have stood over the Red campus "almost forever." The legend is that every time a girl gets through Missouri still a virgin, the school erects another column.
"It'd be easier if it weren't for the parties," he said, "and the fact there's about a two-to-one ratio of girls to boys on the campus."
"There is no such thing, and certainly not for you. For you it's one-to-one."
"I can't make any promises."
Terri screwed up her face.