Secret Society Girl (29 page)

―If only it were that easy.‖ (Honestly, I wasn‘t sure if he was joking.) ―She says that she‘ll drop the article on me if I provide her full access to the secrets of Rose & Grave.‖

I let out a short bark of laughter. ―Did you tell her that we can‘t even get ourselves into the tomb at present?‖

―Of course not!‖ He looked offended. ―That‘s not for barbarians to know.‖

I considered bringing up the several dozen barbarians in the audience milling around High Street yesterday. Plenty of people already knew it. In fact, I‘d be surprised if there wasn‘t an article about the commotion in the
Eli Daily News
right now.

―I told her that Diggers don‘t stoop to blackmail.‖

―Oh, no?‖ I mocked. ―That‘s exactly what the patriarchs are doing to us!‖

―Okay, fine.
I
don‘t stoop to blackmail.‖ Malcolm lifted his chin momentarily, then slumped back in his seat. ―But that doesn‘t mean I could sleep last night. Oh, God, Amy, what am I going to do?‖

Why was he asking me? Go ask one of the
real
taps. The smart ones. Josh or something. Or one of the seniors. I‘m sure Poe could think up some way to have Genevieve
disappeared
for threatening a Digger.

Of course, since even the Diggers‘ governing body had Malcolm on their shit list right now, that quarter was probably not going to be the most helpful providing means-by-which-to-threaten.

Those resources were all tied up in making sure I had no summer job. ―Who else have you told?‖

―No one. I didn‘t want to worry them right now, when we‘ve got all this other stuff to deal with.‖

―Then why come to me? Why tell me all of these things—some of which you‘ve already said are supposed to be a secret.‖

Malcolm looked down at his hands. ―Well, I was kind of wondering if…
you"d
go out with me.‖

―What!‖

Malcolm rolled his chair forward and clasped my hands in his. ―Amy, don‘t you see, that would solve everything! If we told everyone you‘re my girlfriend, then her article would come off as just her bitterness over our breakup. I could tell my dad that‘s why she did it—which is kind of the truth anyway—and also that she‘s all upset because I didn‘t tap her. My dad would buy that.

He totally would. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that.‖

I looked at him in shock. ―He wouldn‘t think you were just pulling the same mustache trick or whatever?‖

―Beard. And no. We‘d make sure he didn‘t. I can be very affectionate, and very convincing.‖

Yeah. He‘d been doing it for years.

―He‘d have her silly article,‖ Malcolm went on, ―but also have us in front of him. He‘d see me being straight with his own eyes. My dad‘s really into personal verification.‖

―Eww,‖ I said. ―I sincerely hope you don‘t mean what I think you mean.‖ Like, letting him find us in bed. Gross.

―Not unless it‘s unavoidable.‖ He noted my stricken face. ―Amy, that was a joke!‖

I whipped my hands away. ―No!‖ I stood up, tried to put as much personal space between us as possible. ―Absolutely not.‖

His face fell. ―Amy, please. You don‘t understand. If this happens, then my life is over.‖

Or it was started. ―Maybe this is a blessing in disguise? You won‘t have to pretend any longer that you believe all your dad‘s conservative Republican crap.‖

Malcolm blinked. ―But Amy, I do believe it. You know that, right?‖ (I
so
didn‘t know that.)

―Well, not the part about homosexuals and minorities, but the rest of the party platform. I am a Republican. Small government, free trade, go Army. I‘m in the NRA, for crying out loud.‖

―Oh.‖ Well, that put a different spin on it all. ―You know, there‘s a name for people like you.‖

―Pink elephant?‖ He gave me a wry, lopsided smile. ―Come on, Amy, please.‖

―I can‘t, Malcolm.‖

―Please. I know you don‘t think I deserve any favors right now. I mean, I brought you into Rose

& Grave, and you lost your job. But things will get better, I promise. We‘ll figure out this stuff with the patriarchs and then, well, you‘ll be surprised at the kind of opportunities you‘ll get out of this. Isn‘t that why you joined?‖

―You‘re saying I
owe
you this for making me a Digger?‖

―I‘m saying you owe me this because of your oath.‖ He stood a little straighter. ―
I do hereby
most solemnly avow, within the Flame of Life and beneath the Shadow of Death, to bear the
confidence and the confessions of my brothers, to support them in all their endeavors, and to
keep forever sacred,
et cetera? Have you forgotten already?‖

―No. And when the society starts treating me like a member, I‘ll go back to keeping my promises.‖ Of course, even I knew that‘s not really how it worked. At least, not if the new taps‘

argument was going to be:
We"re the society. We"re the active members. The current students.

You"re just alums.

―
I"m
treating you like a member,‖ Malcolm said. ―I‘ve never done anything else. I‘m your
brother
.‖

―Malcolm, even if I wanted to, I couldn‘t. I have a boyfriend.‖

He gave me a look of disbelief. ―What? Since when?‖

―Last night.‖ I toed the throw rug with the edge of my sneaker, wondering exactly how much he knew about my interlude with George.

―So, clearly a very committed relationship,‖ he mocked.

I swallowed. ―It‘s not like that. We are committed, it‘s just been a long time in coming.

It‘s—Brandon.‖

―Ah.‖ He nodded in recognition. ―Well, good for him for finally tying you down. You‘re quite a catch.‖

―Don‘t be mean.‖

―I‘m not.‖ His expression softened. ―You are. Why else would I want to date you?‖

―Because the fact that I‘m female makes me better fit for presentation than most of your lovers?‖ I scoffed. ―Sorry, Malcolm. But I don‘t buy that you have any great preference for me.

I‘m a woman, and I‘m available. Same as the reason you put me in Rose & Grave.‖

He sighed. ―What will make you believe that I want you there, Amy?‖ He pointed toward the tomb that stood beyond the slate of the Calvin College wall. ―Not as a warm body, but for what you have to offer?‖

―What is that?‖ I raised my hands in supplication. ―I fit a slot you desperately needed to fill.‖

―Sometimes that‘s how belonging works.‖

―Not good enough.‖

Malcolm was silent for several seconds. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice of despair. ―So that‘s just it, then? You‘re quitting?‖

―Going to cut my losses, yes.‖

He turned away from me. ―Then I really did make a mistake.‖*5

Since there wasn‘t much to say after that little judgment, I left. Heading back to my room for the second time that morning, I wished (and this one‘s a first, let me tell you!) that I could turn my brain off. Just for half an hour. My whole body seemed to buzz with thoughts. Every step brought with it increasingly gruesome forecasts of the consequences of my actions and bleaker visions of my future, which had heretofore seemed so 78 degrees and sunny, with a chance of perfection.

By now, Brandon would have hied himself off to class and I had a little over two hours to do my homework before section. But if you think I was actually going to get a crack at schoolwork, then you haven‘t been paying attention. Apparently, one of the reasons societies tap folks with good GPAs is that once you‘re in, school is the last thing on your mind.

Waiting for me in the veritable Grand Central Station of my common room sat Clarissa Cuthbert, in white Capri pants and a shimmery pink halter top. Silver hoops dangled from her ears and a pair of sunglasses the size of a small nation (and likely costing as much as said small nation‘s GNP) perched on top of her smooth blond hair.

We really needed to start locking this door.

―Hi,‖ I said flatly. ―Lost any jobs today?‖

―You, too?‖ Clarissa asked. ―Isn‘t this ridiculous? I‘ve been trying to get my dad on the phone all morning. His company does a lot of business with the marketing firm I‘m supposed to intern at this summer. It‘s how I got the job in the first place. I know he‘ll figure it out. They can‘t get away with this.‖ She took her cell phone out of her pocket, shook it, and checked the reception.

―I wish he‘d get out of this meeting, already.‖

―Bully for you.‖ I sank into our weathered armchair. ―How nice it must be to have strings to pull. I‘m still screwed.‖

Clarissa clasped her knees. ―We‘ll work it out,‖ she said, a determined gleam in her eyes.

―You might,‖ I corrected. ―I‘m out.‖

She gasped. ―But—but, Amy! You can‘t quit!‖

―Watch me. I don‘t belong there, Clarissa. Malcolm told me how—how I got tapped.‖

She gasped—again. ―You mean, he revealed the substance of the deliberations?‖

But I was through taking note of Clarissa‘s freaky Digger know-how. Her father, clearly, had not been entirely discreet. ―More like how they came about in the first place.‖

And now she sat back against the chair and rolled her eyes. ―Don‘t tell me you‘re getting all huffy about that student-paper chick.‖

That ―student-paper chick‖ had a circulation a thousand times mine. ―Look, my very presence wrecks the argument that the seniors tapped ‗the best and the brightest‘ in our class. ‗The model women.‘ I‘m not like the rest of you all. Don‘t you get that? You, of all people?‖ I gestured weakly around our Goodwill-furnished suite. ―In my dorm room.‖

Clarissa laughed weakly and picked at our shoddy slipcover. ―Oh, yeah, about that. Have you ever thought of subscribing to
Martha Stewart Living
?‖

Ugh. Get out! What the hell was she thinking, just waltzing into my suite and making herself at home? Commenting on our furniture? Lord only knew what Lydia would say if she came in and saw us.

Right on cue, Lydia strolled in carrying a laundry basket. She reached inside and tossed a bottle of pop to Clarissa. ―Sorry. They didn‘t have diet ginger ale. I hope Diet Coke‘s okay.‖

Clarissa shrugged and handed my roommate a dollar. ―Better than regular.‖

I had my hands full trying to keep my eyes from gogging out of my head. Lydia opened her bottle of root beer, took a swig, and turned to me. ―Want half?‖

―What? Too early for vodka?‖ I asked, holding my hand out for the proffered pop.

Clarissa turned her attention back to me. ―Did you know that
I
got into Eli off the wait list?‖

―No!‖ Lydia exclaimed, looking up from the counter, where she was matching socks.

―Yep.‖ Clarissa lifted her chin. ―And I‘m a three-time legacy. My dad about flipped his lid. And then—oh, God, this is so embarrassing—he donated a Monet to the Eli Art Gallery.‖

―That worked?‖ Lydia asked.

―I‘m here, aren‘t I?‖ Clarissa spared a look for the bringer of the Diet Coke. ―I got in.‖ And now she turned back to me. ―Off the wait list. Now three years later, it doesn‘t matter.‖

―To the person who didn‘t get in because your dad worked his bigwig magic, it does,‖ I said.

Clarissa shrugged. ―That‘s not the point. I‘m just trying to say that I‘ve been an excellent student and in general a credit to the university. They‘re glad I‘m here. So I belong. Wait list or not, I belong now, and have since the moment I stepped on campus freshman year.‖

I was beginning to grok Clarissa—she didn‘t have the slightest clue how elitist her statements sounded, and she didn‘t feel embarrassed about the silver spoon dangling between her lips, either. The wealthy kids could never win. They were either rich bitches who flaunted their money or trustafarian types who wore hand-me-downs and pretended they didn‘t have any.

Either way was abhorrent to the eyes of those whose wallets weren‘t as fat. At least Clarissa was open about it. Tactless? Maybe, but definitely truthful. And less mean-spirited than I‘d spent the last two and a half years believing.

―You don‘t see anything wrong with manipulating the wait list through a timely application of priceless art?‖ I asked. Which, as it turns out, had a very particular and definable price. It was worth admission.

―Not really,‖ she replied. ―It‘s entirely possible that the donation did nothing, and I would have gotten in anyway. Besides, the ends in this case justify the means. I wanted to get into Eli, and I did. And once I was in, I showed them what I could do.‖ She leveled a meaningful look at me.

―So there.‖

― ‗So there‘?‖ Lydia asked. She‘d stopped folding. ―You‘re going to sit here in the suite of two people who got into Eli on our own merits—who might not have gotten in had there been more Monets to dispose of, and say, ‗So there‘?‖

―Would you drop it about the frickin‘ painting?‖ Clarissa snapped, whirling to look at Lydia.

―It‘s got nothing to do with my performance since. And no, since you asked, I‘m not going to apologize for doing what I could to get in. You can‘t tell me that every hour you spent candy-striping at your local hospital or whatever other volunteer work you did to pad your application was given out of the kindness of your heart.‖

Lydia bit her lip and looked down.

―I thought not.‖ Clarissa flicked back a strand of her hair. ―I‘m just more honest about what I‘m going after. You may have liked changing bedpans, but that‘s not
why
you did it. My father may have been glad to add to Eli‘s art collection, but he had other motives as well.‖ And she looked at me. ―I said it last night at the bar and I‘ll say it again. Intentions are nothing. Methods are nothing. Results are what matter. Now, are you in or out?‖

Lydia gathered up her laundry. ―You guys just went way over my head,‖ she said hurriedly.