Secret Society Girl (30 page)

―And, if you don‘t mind, I think it‘s best that you stay there. I‘ll be in my room, rereading Kant.

To, um, cleanse my thoughts.‖ A second after the door closed behind her, I heard the not-so-muffled strains of rock music emanating from her stereo. She was even doing her best not to listen in.
Now
she decided to respect the bounds of society secrecy. Now, when I was ready to forget the whole mess.

I dropped my head into my hands. ―We don‘t all think like you, Clarissa. In fact, I think it‘s safe to say that most liberal arts students have been taught Machiavelli with a decidedly negative slant.‖

―I must have missed that lecture.‖ And still, the same penetrating stare. No wonder I‘d thought she was an unmitigated bitch. She was aggressive, outspoken, ambitious….

―They‘re fools for denying you, Angel,‖ I said, and the invocation of her society name didn‘t even make her flinch. ―You‘re a Digger to the core.‖

―Natch.‖ She winked. ―And now, the question remains: Are you?‖

I didn‘t answer. ―Historically, what do they do if people quit?‖

Her eyes glinted. ―You of all people should know this, Amy. We grind their bones to make our bread.‖

I smiled in spite of myself and Clarissa leaned forward and covered my hand with her slim, manicured one. ―Come on. You know you want to be a part of that.‖

―I‘m sorry,‖ I replied. In this, Brandon had not been correct. ―I have to think about it.‖

And think I did. For the next few days, I concentrated on little else. Certainly not the commencement issue of the Lit Mag (even Brandon spent most of our office hours flirting, as if making up for lost time), nor focusing on my classes, though I was once again consuming WAP

in earnest. With Reading Week nigh and no access to the tomb‘s library, I couldn‘t afford to dawdle.

I was miserable. As I‘d expected, there were no fabulous, heretofore unclaimed internships waiting for me to stumble across at the Career Center, and an e-mail to my old supervisor at the Eli University Press went unanswered. In an attempt to circumvent what I suspected might be one of her concerns, I sent the following:

Pursuant to last, I wanted to assure you that I am in no way connected to
that
organization nor
any activity that might upset aforementioned group. Thanks and look forward to hearing from
you.

—Amy Haskel

To which I received:

Amy,

I"m sure I have no idea what you"re talking about.

(Just drop it, okay?)

Yours, etc.

You may wonder why I confided none of this madness to Brandon. I have no reasonable excuse. I think, on some level, I still believed in that oath. Besides, who knew if my revelation might drag him into the shitstorm as well? I did tell him that I‘d lost my internship, which prompted a brainstorming session resulting in a list of twenty-five new places to query about a summer job and some half-baked notion that I‘d follow him to Hong Kong, where he was working as a consultant, live in the garret he was renting, and write.

It‘s a testament to my low level of rationality that I actually considered this.

Lydia, of course, was no help at all. In fact, I was pretty sure that my so-called best friend, despite her diligent application to Kant, spent much of the week gloating over the way my society experience had obviously gone south. Let‘s just say that not once during my week of despair did she offer me a gumdrop and a shot.

Thursday night, after dinner, Lydia dressed in faux society wear (the dark hoodie and jeans she‘d so roundly ridiculed me for donning the week before) and flounced out our door, waggling her fingers at me with a too-bright ―Toodleoo!‖ (Okay, maybe I‘m exaggerating just a bit, but honestly? You couldn‘t miss the smug.)

I sublimated a pout and settled in with my books. If only I‘d been tapped by Quill & Ink, none of this would have happened. My current tragedy was entirely due to Malcolm‘s mistake. If he hadn‘t screwed over Genevieve, he‘d never have been forced to tap me. And then I‘d be in a minor but respectable literary society. And I‘d have a job. And I‘d be fine.

Of course, I could have declined the Rose & Grave tap. I could have stood there in the bathroom, surrounded by boys in robes, stared into that candle, and told them what they could do with their black-lined envelopes. I could have even left the initiation early, before I‘d taken any oaths.

But I hadn‘t done any of that. Because I wanted to know what it was to be a Digger.

And now, I thought, rousing myself from this short period of self-doubt, I knew that it sucked.

I nodded to my textbook, reassured that my decision was correct, and uncapped my highlighter.

Madame Rostov, you‘ve been warned.

The phone rang.

Ever full of distractions, my life. Oh, the agony. Was it any wonder this stupid book had not been read? I lunged for the phone, crossing my fingers that the caller was a) Brandon, and b) bearing pizza.

―Amy Maureen Haskel?‖

Uh-oh. ―Yes?‖

―We‘re calling to inform you that should you choose to pursue this matter any further, we will be forced to broaden our attack to your parents‘ employment and/or position in their community.‖

―Wait!‖ I said. ―I‘m not pursuing anything—‖

―Good evening.‖ And then, of course,
click
.

Bastards. They wouldn‘t even let me explain myself. And the killer thing about being harassed by a clandestine cabal is that they aren‘t even listed in Information. Forget about *69, too.

There‘s no way to get in touch with these guys to tell them that you‘re no longer part of the rebellion.

And, as long as I was questioning their methods, what was with the whole ―parents‘

employment and/or position‖ crapola? Was that a scripted call? Were they giving everyone the same line? Making sure their bases were covered just in case our folks were of the leisure class?

They should have cast their net wider. ―Your parents and/or other familial figures of importance.‖ George, for instance, probably wouldn‘t be too peeved if his dad was brought down a peg or two.

Seriously, if I were leading an intimidation campaign, I would not slack off with a mail-merge threat. Every single one of the insubordinates would receive their very own, personalized coercion. Amateurs.

I shook my head. I had no experience in this, and yet would have handled the whole situation with far more aplomb.

I was two pages farther along in WAP before the significance of that thought hit me. When it did, my distraction caused me to color an entire page in Day-Glo pink.

I‘d make a damn good Digger. A much better Digger than any of these sexist patriarchs. Those qualities I‘d been noting in Clarissa? I had them, too. They‘d be so lucky to have a girl like me on their side. I‘d kick the ass of anyone who got in our way, and I‘d do it in 21st century style.

They had no idea how much they needed that in their back-assward, stuck-in-the-1830s little organization.

It wasn‘t like I was asking for so much in return, either. A slight career nudge here and there, a lobster dinner or three, and a grandfather clock. I wouldn‘t even insist upon atomic.

Anyway, the point was, I deserved my membership in Rose & Grave, and I wasn‘t going to let a bunch of old-fart octogenarians tell me otherwise.

A few moments later, wearing my own dark hoodie, I marched out into the night. I even knew where I‘d find them.

Clarissa‘s apartment was in the posh building in town. The one with the doorman and the marble foyer. Where other off-campus dwellers scraped by with dorm-rate rents and closet-sized living spaces (that weren‘t, unfortunately, cleaned by Eli janitorial staff, nor lardered by Dining Services), people of the Cuthberts‘ ilk kicked back in pricey lofts situated oh-so-conveniently above a chichi bar/restaurant that would not look out of place on the Upper West Side.

I buzzed
C. Cuthbert
.

―Yes?‖ I heard voices in the background.

―Hey,‖ I said. ―It‘s Amy. Let me in.‖

Silence, and then: ―Password?‖

Was she kidding me? But then I realized that she was asking for more than that. She wanted commitment. This time, however, I had coffins full of it.

―Password, boo.‖ George. I imagined all eleven of them all crowded around the intercom, waiting for me.

The image made me smile. ―Three, one, two.‖

The door buzzed open.

At three o‘clock on Friday afternoon, Ben Edwards, a.k.a. Big Demon, showed up in front of the tomb in a white passenger van he‘d borrowed from the athletic department.

―Oh, the class,‖ Odile remarked dryly as she hefted herself into the back. And you had to admit, it wasn‘t as nice as the limos we‘d been tooling around in before the membership had lost its funding.

We all piled into the van. The party consisted of the twelve new taps and Malcolm (who avoided meeting my eyes). Apparently, another car would be following later with five more D176ers. I sat as far away from George as humanly possible, but it didn‘t seem as if he even remembered making out with me at the bar, let alone had any interest in picking up where we‘d left off with more flirtation.

The two-hour trip down to New York City was as uneventful as one could expect from a clunky passenger van helmed by an inexperienced chauffeur trying to navigate the streets of midtown Manhattan on a Friday afternoon. In other words: an exercise in terror. We passengers were mostly spared, but poor Ben got the brunt of the stress. I‘m sorry to report that he was never quite the same afterward and we were momentarily concerned that he‘d spend our entire sojourn at the Eli Club cowering in the bathroom, twitching and calling out for his mommy.

Once we‘d parked (and Ben had emptied the contents of his stomach on the parking garage‘s concrete floor), we made our way to the Eli Club, which is located around the corner from Grand Central Station and shares the same Gilded Age architectural decadence. One by one, we shuffled through the cramped revolving door and were spit out ungracefully into an even smaller entrance foyer.

Elegant crown molding, gilt frames, and a sweeping marble staircase and carved mahogany banister defined the formidable lobby of the Eli Club. I‘d heard that the establishment threw parties here for students doing summer internships in Manhattan, angling, no doubt, to gain new members once the interns became graduates. Looking about the premises, breathing in air softly scented with calla lilies, I could understand the draw.

This was the bloody, beating heart of Eli‘s mystique. Rich, elite, old school. No wonder the Tobias Trust had chosen to house their offices here. This is exactly what they wanted Eli to remain, a nest of decadent gentleman‘s clubs and all-male secret societies.

I glanced at my compatriots. Old school was out.

―Can I help you?‖ asked a portly gentleman behind the registration desk. A blue blazer easily two sizes too small strained over his girth. A patch with the Eli crest was sewn crookedly on his lapel. If I were the paranoid type, I would think the whole getup was new.

(The cool thing I‘ve learned about paranoia is, once you‘ve confirmed that they
are
indeed after you, it kind of dissipates.)

―Yes,‖ said Malcolm. ―Suite 312. We have an appointment.‖

The doorman looked blank. ―I‘m sorry, you must have the wrong building. We don‘t have a Suite 3—‖

Malcolm placed both hands palms-down on the countertop and stared at the man. ―Look at my collar,‖ he said calmly. ―Do you think I got this out of a cereal box? Do you think we all did?‖

The man blanched as he took in our crew and their pins. ―Just a moment,‖ he whispered, picking up a receiver on his desk. ―Hello, sir. Yes, I understand what you said, but—sir?‖ He listened for a moment in silence. ―Sir, they‘re wearing
the pins
. I was always told that if they were wearing—that I shouldn‘t—yes, sir.‖ He put down the receiver and looked in our direction without making eye contact with any of us. ―Someone will be out shortly.‖

And someone was—a slight, silver-haired man in a suit, who came within three feet of us and held out his hand. ―Please remove your pins and come this way.‖

Nobody moved.