I gave him a slight nod. Well, if he knew enough about the proceedings to wear black, maybe he also knew what it meant that I wasn’t walking him through that door. Let him ponder that one for a bit.
“Hey there, Amy,” Michelle said, popping up next to me as I watched Topher buzz the entrance to Clarissa’s building. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. It’s kind of a hike to this side of campus.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, giving her a sly once-over. Good. Khaki A-line skirt, green sweater, hair freshly done. I looked down at her feet. Green ballet slippers. They’d do. The Diggers would like her. “Want to go in?”
Unfortunately, Topher was still standing in front of the door to the elevator inside the lobby, so we three rode up together. He and Michelle exchanged not a single word, but their mutual glares said plenty. I remembered what Arielle had told me about his way with women—or lack thereof. Was I about to tap two people into a society who already had reasons to hate each other? I’d have to add this to the list of questions I needed Jenny to answer for me.
Too late to do anything about it for the time being. We arrived at Clarissa’s door and she answered it, resplendent as usual, in a black shift dress that shimmered like scales whenever she moved. As she had promised me while I helped her set up for the party, she raised not an eyebrow at my last-minute addition to the guest list.
“It’s great to meet you!” she hostessed, shaking Michelle’s hand in true Upper East Side fashion. “Any friend of Amy’s is a friend of mine.”
“That’s how it works, you know, Shelly,” Topher said, and wandered off to the champagne. Michelle lifted her chin.
I spotted Arielle across the room, talking to Demetria and one of her guests, excused myself to Michelle, and headed over.
“Hey, Amy,” said Arielle. She was holding a plate piled high with munchies. “I see you brought Topher.”
Arielle, apparently, was similarly aware of the inner workings of this event.
“He was in the elevator with me,” I replied.
She shrugged and bit into another canapé. The other junior must be Demetria’s front-runner, Tamar Adamo, the leader of the Eli Women’s Center. She was a tall, thin girl with a very freckled face and a buzz cut.
Demetria, dressed in black silk cargo pants and a black wife-beater, was grinning broadly. “So, we having fun yet?” She surveyed the room. “I think the problem with this party is that at least half of the people here are already acting like they are at their Fortune 500 company’s holiday bash.”
“Now, why would they be doing that?” Tamar asked in a facetious tone.
Apparently we all knew exactly what we were doing here.
“Do you ever wonder,” Demetria said suddenly, “what the purpose is to keeping the existence of a society secret?”
Arielle gasped at her. “Aren’t you not supposed to talk about that?”
“Secret societies?” she said. “Why not? I can talk about them all day long.”
“In general, of course,” I said, shooting her a warning glare. Just because they knew didn’t mean we should go about breaking all our oaths. Just play the game, Demetria.
But my fellow knight forged ahead. “I don’t know if I mentioned this to you earlier, Amy, but I’ve decided to take a new approach to this whole endeavor.”
“No,” I said through clenched teeth, “you hadn’t mentioned it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Oops. Yeah, probably because I figured that you and our other friends wouldn’t be keen on the plan.”
“Which is?”
She took a sip from her champagne and smiled serenely. “Glasnost.”
I grabbed her arm, almost sloshing champagne on Arielle. “Excuse us for a second,” I said, and pulled Demetria away. “What are you doing?” I hissed to her.
Demetria’s back was straight, her expression firm. “Ushering in a new era. I am the bearer of the light and the truth. Old Eli would be proud.”
“Old Persephone wouldn’t,” I said. “Obey your oaths. Stick to the script.”
“Bullshit. There’s not a person in this room who doesn’t know what we’re doing here. Why pretend?”
“Because—” I floundered for a reason. “Because that’s what we do.” I searched around in desperation for someone to back me up. Where was Jamie?
Across the room, talking to … Michelle.
“Hold that thought, and don’t do anything you’ll regret,” I hissed to Demetria.
“You mean anything the powers that be will make me regret?” she said in a snide tone as I walked away.
Michelle glanced over as I arrived. “Hi! I never realized the boyfriend you are always talking about was Jamie, here.”
“You … know each other?” I asked. Jamie was very resolutely not looking at me. I took in his black dress shirt with a subtle black pinstripe and what had to be new black dress pants. Both looked great with his dark hair and gray eyes. Not Johnny Cash but possibly Joaquin Phoenix doing Johnny Cash.
“Sure, from Strathmore,” Michelle said.
“Of course.” I tried to read Jamie’s expression. Nothing.
“I had no idea Amy was bringing you this evening,” he said smoothly. Now he looked at me. Yep, pissed. Because I was the one deviating from the established Digger script by bringing a non-vetted guest not on my short list to this party.
“What a funny coincidence,” Michelle said.
“Hilarious.” Jamie took a sip of his champagne. “So, how have you been?” Well, at least he was planning to be polite.
“Oh, you know …” The two of them launched into a conversation about Strathmore College residents I couldn’t quite follow, not recognizing half the names. I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and tried to pretend both interest and comprehension I didn’t feel. Here was information I’d been looking for since we’d started dating—Jamie’s friends outside the society, Jamie’s past. But knowing that he’d once played—rather pathetically, he insisted, but Michelle denied—for the intramural Ultimate Frisbee team wasn’t exactly giving me the insight into his character I desired. He made no more sense to me now than he had before.
However, at least he wasn’t making any more caustic comments in my direction. If anything, he and Michelle seemed to be getting along great.
Still, Jamie disapproved. Anything that wasn’t established Digger behavior rubbed him the wrong way. And I bet I couldn’t get his advice on the Demetria problem without prompting a lecture that my behavior was every bit as unorthodox. He probably thought I should just suck it up and tap Topher.
Speaking of, where was the little turd? I surveyed the room and spotted him in a knot of people by the buffet table.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” I said brightly. Jamie’s brow furrowed as I flitted off.
My fellow knight Greg Dorian was holding court by the sushi platter with all three of the members of his short list as well as both Arielle and Topher. Greg was a poet and a Linguistics major headed back to his native England after graduation for an advanced degree at Oxford. The knot of people next to the tuna rolls was probably the most concentrated group of literati in the Eli junior class.
I insinuated myself into the conversation, which appeared to be about famous books with scenes at Eli—which were numerous—and whether there should be a course dedicated to the subject.
“Take Franny and Zoë, for example,” Topher was saying.
“Zooey” Arielle took a sip of her champagne.
Topher glared at her. “It’s Zoë. Zooey is not a name.”
“You’re correct, it’s not.” Arielle glared back. “It’s a nickname for Zachary.”
“The chick was Zoë.”
“The chick,” Arielle drawled, “was Franny. Frances Glass. And you give Lit majors a bad name.” She fixed me with a look, as the others whistled and trailed off to refresh their drinks. “Are you kidding me with this shit?” She polished off the glass and handed it to Topher. “See you.”
> Topher look flummoxed, and for a second I could have kissed Arielle. But she was hightailing it to the door.
“Wait!” I hurried after her, heedless of the stares we were probably getting from a guest list that would never dream of ditching the party, lest it reflect badly on them and decrease their chances of being tapped.
I met her in the hallway. “Please don’t leave on account of Topher. He’s an ass; we both know that.”
“But only one of us seems to care,” she said, pressing the elevator button.
“I thought that was a hell of a zinger,” I replied.
“Whatever.” The elevator door opened.
I blocked it. “How come I’ve never heard you talk about books that way before?”
She looked away down the hall. “Look, I may not be a genius like you or Brandon, but I’m not an idiot, either. I’m running the Lit Mag just fine, you know. Ads and circulation are up.”
A genius? Me? I almost laughed aloud but it was undercut by the realization that perhaps the more market-minded Arielle had been a better editor than me. Who was the real genius in that case?
“I know you didn’t want me as editor, and I know you don’t want me here tonight, either.” Now she did look at me. “And I think on the latter, your instincts may be right. Now that I’ve been here, now that I’ve seen what you people are really like, who you really would like—I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to be part of it.” She shook her head as if clearing it. “I’ve met the Quill class. I like them. I could imagine spending my nights and weekends with them next year. I could not imagine spending them with Topher Cox.”
“But—” But what? If I tapped Arielle, she’d never have to spend any time with Topher?
“I think what I’m saying, Amy, is thanks but no thanks. How do you people put it again? Oh, yeah: reject.” She pushed past me into the elevator.
I stood there in shock. This was not supposed to happen. Rejected by your safety tap?
Back at the party, things appeared to have deteriorated. Two voices I didn’t recognize were locked in the spare bedroom arguing. Kevin had claimed Clarissa’s bathroom as a make-out spot with one of the potentials he’d brought. Michelle was engaged in a lively debate about the origin of global warming with all four of Mara’s potentials, and Jamie was nowhere to be seen.
I retreated into Clarissa’s bedroom and sank down at the foot of the bed, resting my face in my hands.
How could I be screwing up so badly? My first choice to tap wasn’t eligible, my safety wasn’t interested, my boyfriend thought every move I made was somehow mistaken, I didn’t have a job, I couldn’t finish my thesis, I kept having nightmares about some fourteen-year-old kid I’d probably never even see again, and now I was sitting on the floor of my friend’s bedroom in the middle of a party like it was middle school and I’d just had a fight with my lockermate.
Also, I was getting cat hair on my skirt.
“Amy?” I looked up to see Clarissa standing in the doorway. “You okay?”
I nodded miserably.
She closed the door and came to sit next to me, cathairing up her sequined fantasy. “Good, because I totally call dibs on being the hot mess tonight.” She beat her head against the duvet.
“Not fair,” came a voice from the other side of the bed. “I called dibs long before either of you.” Demetria sat up and stared at us over the top of the mattress.
“What’s your problem?” Clarissa asked.
“I don’t want to submit anyone on my list to their own version of this crap next year. I hate every minute of this and I’ve decided that friends don’t let friends join secret societies.”
This again. I put my head back in my hands.
“You’re kidding, right?” Clarissa asked. Demetria lay back down. “Perfect,” she said. “This is the perfect end to my perfectly disastrous evening.”
“What happened to you?” I said into my knees.
“My favorite choice to tap came in, took one look at the assembled guests, and walked back out.”
“Oh!” I cried. “One of mine did that, too! Said she’d rather join Quill & Ink.”
“In my girl’s case, she can’t go anywhere near her ex-boyfriend, and he’s on Ben’s short list.”
“More society-incest issues.” Demetria’s voice floated over. “And you wonder why I feel this way?”
Clarissa shook her head, her expression dark. “No, apparently they had some kind of really bad breakup and now she literally can’t be in a room with him. Some kind of agreement with the dean—they can’t even be in the same classes. Like an Eli restraining order.”
“You’re kidding!” I gaped at her. “This is something we need to look into. What happened? Was there abuse or anything?”
Clarissa shrugged.
“Anything that would make a breakup that bad—are we sure Ben’s list was properly vetted?”
Clarissa shrugged.
“I bet this is another issue they rarely had before they chose to include women,” I said. And another issue Jamie would probably love to throw in my face.
“Don’t count on it,” said Demetria. “We’re already headed straight toward sexual harassment territory with Kevin’s lineup of boy toys.”
There was a knock on the door and Josh stuck his head in. “Ladies?” he said, surveying the impromptu powwow. “Your absence has been noted.”
Translation: Get back out here. We all had to participate in the torture together.
So into the fray, enveloped in fascination and accomplishment and privilege and legacy; a golden, candlelit affair suffused with brandy, champagne, puff pastry, and baby corn. Conversations about New England boarding schools and firms on Wall Street. Debates over departments and endowments and the lineup at the Eli Repertory Theater. A chat about who got a Fulbright for what and whether or not they had begun to hand those things out like candy. All talk aimed directly at impressing the beings who floated through the room in black, nodding politely and listening as the potentials tore one another down in hope of impressing us.
All but a few—those lucky few—who either knew nothing or cared nothing about why they were there. At one end of the room, Michelle was in deep conversation with one of Omar’s choices, who, rumor had it, had once been a spy with the Israeli army. Eli was full of ex-Israeli army folks. I knew the majority of them by reputation only. They were older than most of the teens who matriculated, and tended to be a bit disdainful of the other students’ immaturity and softness. After all, they knew how to kill men with their pinkies. What did three years on the student council or a stint on the prom committee have to compare to that?
I drifted close enough to eavesdrop. Apparently, since leaving Israel, the guy had been involved in an NGO to create water treatment plants in sub-Saharan Africa. Once they started in about the various types of membrane distillation, I was lost, so I drifted back out and looked for Jamie.
But every time I found him, he managed to slip away a few moments later and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Later, as the festivities—for lack of a better word—wound down, Michelle caught up to me in the kitchen, where Clarissa and I were seriously considering drowning our independent sorrows in the dregs of the crate of champagne.
“There you are. Hey, thanks so much for bringing me!” She smiled at Clarissa. “Your friends are awesome. This was almost like going to a Master’s Tea back in Strathmore again.”
Clarissa snapped into hostess mode. “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.” She needed to work a bit to animate her tone.
“Seriously.” Michelle’s expression turned wistful. “I really miss living on campus sometimes, and this is what I miss about it. Getting to talk with all the other students. I mean, my professors are great, and the department, and all of that, but it’s so limiting at times. I feel like I never get a chance to do anything but discuss chemistry.”
My stomach began to cramp. Yes, yes, that was it exactly. That was what I liked about Rose & Grave. The vari
ed points of view, the endless discussions and debates with people whose opinions and experiences differed so much from my own. Not this series of obsequious resume-reciting.
Clarissa’s voice was much more sincere this time. “Thank you, Michelle.”
“And Jamie,” Michelle said. “Where did he go?”
“I’m right here.” Soft, steady voice at my back. I turned and my field of vision filled with subtle black pinstripe, my nose with his singular scent. His eyes glazed right over me, though. Instead, he turned to Clarissa. “Lovely party. Your dad would be proud.”
“That’s a shame,” she said under her breath.
“So, I’m heading out now.” Still not looking at me! Was this his version of good night? Even pissed, it was unacceptable.
“Where do you live?” Michelle asked. “I’m off Orange.”
“Me too,” Jamie said. “On Danbury. We can walk together.”
Clarissa raised her eyebrows at me, but there might as well have been liquid cement in that last glass of champagne. I stood rooted to the kitchen tile.
“Great!” Michelle said, and beamed at me. “Let me grab my jacket.” She bounded off. Clarissa looked from Jamie to me, cleared her throat, and vamoosed.
Jamie watched the door.
“Um,” I said.
Jamie watched the door.
“Don’t be such a baby about this,” I snapped at last.
His eyes met mine, as cold and gray as I have ever seen them. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
I snorted and turned away.
Michelle reappeared, jacket in tow. “You guys ready?” She looked at us, at our crossed-arm stances on opposite sides of the room and uncertainty flashed across her face. “Oh. I’m sorry, I just assumed—”
That I would go home with Jamie.
“I have so much work tonight,” we said in unison. I flinched. He bit his lip.
Michelle laughed. “Okay, I get it. I’m, ah, going to head home anyway. Amy, see you in class tomorrow?”
I nodded, trying to decide if I was more miserable about attending classes on a Friday or about the scene I was sure I was about to endure the second Jamie and I were alone.
Tap & Gown Page 12
