Malcolm was busy spreading vegetable cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel that already bore a slab of sausage. Gross. “Sorry I brought you here last night,” he said. “You zonked out back at the mansion, and my room was much closer to the limo drop-off than yours.”
I choked on my mocha. “What?”
He looked up. “I know. I’m weak. These muscles are all for show.” He flexed his biceps and grinned, then took a big bite of his disgusting breakfast.
“I—fell asleep?”
“Yeah. And it was only six-thirty, too. Don’t you ever pull all-nighters?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s been the bane of my college existence that I can’t do it. But it helps in that I don’t have the luxury to procrastinate. I have to get my work done in advance.”
“Well, you’ll have to learn to stay up now,” Malcolm said. “Our meetings sometimes last all night.”
This chitchat was all very well and good, but let’s get to the point here. “Malcolm?” I asked. “Am I correct in assuming that”—I gestured to the bed—“nothing happened last night?”
He blinked at me. “Do you often wake up in strange boys’ beds with no memory of what you’re doing there?”
“No.” I pursed my lips. “Which is why I feel a bit out of my depth here.”
He leaned in, took me by the shoulders, and looked in my eyes, speaking very slowly and clearly, as one might to a lunatic or some other manner of unstable, amnesiac freak. “You were tired. You fell asleep. I carried you in.”
“But my clothes…”
“I told you, pomegranate juice stains. And when I mentioned that last night, you were more than happy to let me throw your clothes in the wash.”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“Little wonder, your eyes weren’t open.”
I collapsed back against the pillows, awash with relief and…okay, a small tinge of disappointment, too. Like I said, Malcolm is über-hot.
Malcolm scooted up by my side and propped his head on his arm. “Did you think we’d hooked up?”
“No,” I lied.
He laughed. “No offense, babe, but you’re not my type.”
“Um, offense taken!” I stuck out my chin.
He shook his head again, eyes wide. “Dude, what do you remember about last night? You do recall joining Rose & Grave, right? That whole most famous secret society at Eli thing?”
“That whole oxymoronical thing? Yes.” I started counting off on my hands. “You chased me around the tomb and shut me in a coffin and threatened to drown and/or rape me.”
“That was a joke,” he clarified.
“I took three oaths. We all got stupid nicknames. I ate lobster. I learned a secret handshake—look!” I did it to him, and he looked decently pleased with my progress. “Everyone went swimming. And then…”
Oh.
He started nodding at my slack-jawed face. “I think it’s coming back to you.”
“I told you about the pier.”
“And?”
“And you told me that…” I took a good long look at Malcolm Cabot, at his stylish jeans, his fashionable hair, his shit-eating, aren’t-you-an-idiot-Amy grin. Then I looked at the poster of the scantily-clad Angelina, who was hanging off an equally scantily-clad Brad Pitt. Then back at Malcolm. “You told me that you’re gay.”
He touched the tip of his nose. “Bingo.”
“Offense no longer taken.”
“I thought not.” He returned to his cinnamon-veggie bagel horror.
“Remind me, though, how come no one knows this? I mean, it’s not like we’re prejudiced at Eli.” If anything, the opposite was true. Eli had one of the highest percentages of gay men in the whole Ivy League system. One in four, maybe more was the slogan I’d been hearing since I first stepped on campus.
Malcolm sighed. “My dad, the big conservative. If he or his constituents knew my orientation, the shit would hit the fan.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. If Dick Cheney can have a lesbian daughter and still be a good conservative, why can’t Governor Cabot?”
“Dick Cheney never campaigned on the issue that homosexuals are the spawn of Satan and should all die writhing in the pits of hell,” Malcolm said, a wealth of bitterness suddenly entering his tone. “He never went on record saying that AIDS was a curse from God sent to punish fags for their sins.”
I looked down into my mocha cup. “Oh.”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it,” he said. “It was worse when I was younger, and insecure, and trying desperately to fix myself.”
I looked at Malcolm, self-assured, charming, gift-of-gab Malcolm Cabot, and tried to picture how this guy could ever be insecure. Maybe he was very good at hiding it after so much practice bracing for his father’s disapproval.
“Does your dad have any suspicion at all?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Tough to tell. I was the king of overcompensation in high school. I had quite the reputation as a player. Dad was so proud.”
“You still do have a pretty decent rep, you know.”
He shrugged. “Smoke and mirrors, mostly. And I’ve been really careful, really discreet. No one knows except the Diggers in my class. And now you.” He smiled again. “But you’re a Digger now, too!”
“That’s right.” But something still confused me. “You mean, your best friends don’t know?”
He narrowed his eyes. “The Diggers know, and those are basically my closest friends. I don’t even know if I would have told them if it weren’t for the C.B.s.”
“What are C.B.s?”
“Connubial Bliss reports,” he replied. “One of the most important days in a Knight’s Rose & Grave experience. You stand up in front of all your brothers and basically give them a rundown of your sexual experiences to date.”
“A Hit List.”
“Huh?”
I bit my lip. “Nothing. This is something that everybody does?”
“Yup. Rose & Grave tradition. You’ll love it.” He fixed me with a look. “Why? Do you have any deep, dark sexual secrets I should know about?”
I thought about Ben Somebody, but was pretty sure a large percentage of college girls had the same sort of embarrassing incident on their records. “No.”
“Good,” he said, copping a stern, fatherly sort of look. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to issue a bad report to your boyfriend.”
“A, you can’t say a word—you took an oath, remember? And B, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“What about Brandon Weare?”
Right. The badminton thing from Friday. Malcolm hadn’t missed a beat of that interchange, had he? “Oh, well, he’s…”
Malcolm laughed. “Say no more, Amy. I get it.” He popped the last bite of bagel in his mouth. “I figured you weren’t too crazy about him if you’d jump in the sack with me.”
“I wouldn’t!” Most likely.
“Now I’m offended.” He frowned, adorably, and I threw my corner of the comforter over his face and got out of bed. I slipped into my cargo pants, pulled the T-shirt off, and yanked my shirt down over my head as quickly as possible. Not that I really cared if he saw me in my bra—after all, if he was gay, it didn’t matter, right?
I came back to the bed. “Actually, I did want to ask you something about that.”
He spread his arms wide. “Ask me anything you want. We have no more secrets.”
I wondered how true that was. Jennifer didn’t seem to believe it. “Why were you sticking so close to me last night if you weren’t flirting with me?”
“I’m your big brother,” Malcolm said, as if it were obvious. “Every new tap has one.”
“Is there any rhyme or reason to the assignations? Like, who is Demetria Robinson’s big brother?”
“Kevin Binder,” he replied. “Can’t you tell? Black, gay, extremely radical?”
“You mean they were paired up because they’re so alike?”
“I mean she was tapped because they
are so alike.” Malcolm’s brow wrinkled. “You do know that’s how it works, right? We tap people to replace ourselves.”
“And you picked me?”
“Ja. Oui. Si. Hai.” He shrugged. “Didn’t you notice how the tap class is full of tokens? It’s gotten pretty ridiculous the past few years, in my opinion. Everyone is so worried about choosing a representative that they don’t really think about the intangibles. It’s just—ethnicity, religion, political leaning, academic interest. We tap by genres, not souls. Everyone is turning into a walking stereotype.”
Actually, I had noticed that, but figured it was just the usual extension of the Eli habit of wearing your heart on your sleeve. During those four years in college, whatever you were, you pushed it to the max. In order to carve out a niche for yourself, you needed to embody the image you were so desperately trying to create. I might not remember all the new taps’ names (or code names) yet, but I recognized their “type.” “So what stereotype are we?”
“Publishing, of course. And white.”
“But not gay.”
“Something you want to tell me?” He winked. “We don’t have to be exact matches. Besides, we had to stretch a bit this year because our club decided we were tapping women.”
In Diggers-speak, a “club” was the group of seniors that had been tapped together. The juniors were a club, but we’d be called the “tap class” until we took over the reins next fall.
“How did you choose which ones were tapping the women?”
“Do you really want to know?” He leaned in to whisper. “We drew straws.”
“Did you lose or win?”
“Very funny.” He paused for a second. “Look, it doesn’t matter how we picked you. You’re in now.”
Yeah, but I didn’t match up as well with Malcolm as I’m sure the other taps did with their big brothers. During his junior year, Malcolm Cabot had been the publisher of the daily newspaper—a snazzy business (not editorial, mind you) role at Eli’s most shining and successful extracurricular program. The Eli Daily News (or EDN, as everyone called it) had a gothic castle of an office on campus that rivaled the tomb of any secret society. Their operating budget could have supported several dozen Lit Mags without breaking a sweat. And there were plenty of women on staff there.
“So I’m your replacement.” I folded my hands in my lap. “That would make sense…if you were Glenda Foster.”
He fell back against the pillow and threw his hand over his eyes. “I knew you were going to ask about that!”
“About Quill & Ink?” When he nodded, I continued. “I’m a smart girl. And I knew I was earmarked for that society.”
“Well, I didn’t. I had no idea we were poaching until that day at your interview where you thought that’s who we were.”
“I did wonder why there weren’t any women in the room,” I admitted, though what I was really wondering was how Malcolm had forgotten that Quill always took the Lit Mag editor. Was it some sort of society solipsism? He didn’t concern himself with another society’s wants?
“As soon as we decide to tap you we send a letter of intent out to the other societies,” Malcolm explained.
“Doesn’t that go against the whole ‘secret’ thing?”
“Honestly, you’ll find a lot of the things we do go against it.” He shrugged. “We’re walking paradoxes. Required to wear the pins, yet instructed to leave the room if anyone dares to comment on them? How ridiculous is that?”
He said it, not me. Though, come to think of it, how prestigious can something be for you if you don’t let anyone know about it? The Diggers must have some heretofore unknown method of exerting their influence while keeping their identities hidden. Pretty cool.
Malcolm was still explaining. “The other societies do the same thing to us, though, so if they want to be assholes and reveal our tap list, we have similar ammunition. And there’s no guarantee that they’ll back off, especially if they’re a rival, like Book & Key or Dragon’s Head.”
“But Quill & Ink is no rival.”
“Exactly.” He smiled and lifted his hand off his face. “A letter from the Diggers scares the shit out of them.”
I giggled. No wonder Glenda hadn’t called me in a few days. She was probably afraid of being snuffed.
“You’ll start to notice that a lot from your barbarian friends that suss out that you’re a Digger,” Malcolm went on. “It’s no accident that all my closest buds are society members now.”
Clarissa vs. Lydia? Not going to happen. “What happens if my friends…find out?” Since, you know, Brandon and Lydia already knew.
“We kill them.” He grinned. “Nah, nothing. You’re not supposed to talk about it, but it’s going to be pretty much impossible to hide the fact that you disappear every Thursday and Sunday night from the people you’re close to—from your roommate, Lydia, for example.”
I crossed my arms. “Are you trying to do that Digger thing where you act like you know everything about me in order to freak me out?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, cut it out. I’m not buying. You already screwed up by thinking I date Brandon.”
“True. So, anything else you want to ask? I’m here to ease you into Digger life.”
“Why did you really pick me?”
He stretched, easing his hands behind his head. “Sorry, kiddo, the annals of our deliberation sessions are destroyed. We burn them in a ritual pyre.”
“Why?”
“Because fire is cool.” What a man. “No, really, to save hurt feelings.”
Made sense. I, for one, wouldn’t want to know what kind of bad stuff Poe said about me after that interview. “Why am I named Bugaboo?”
“That will be two dollars for using the name outside of the confines of a society meeting, and I can’t tell you that, either.”
“Why not?”
“Part of the delib.”
“If this is the name they’re going to address me by for the rest of my society life, I have a right to know. Some of the other members know.”
“Only the ones with the historical names. You can change it if you want, first thing next year. Don’t you like it?” He looked hurt, as if I were rejecting a gift.
I shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. Just wish I knew why it was,” I continued, slyly. I could guess, though. A bugaboo was a persistent problem, and if their little “lesson” during my initiation was anything to go by, I’d been a legendary pain in the ass during my interview.
“Little minx!” He poked me in the side until I squealed. “Maybe I should have given you that name!”
“Probably would have been preferable!”
He started tickling me in earnest then. “Come on, admit it. It’s a cute name. Bugaboo, bugaboo, bugaboo!”
“Stop! Malcolm, please!”
“Bugaboo!” I rolled back, but he didn’t relent. “Bugaboo!”
“That’s…ten…bucks….” I gasped through the laughter.
He sat back and pulled a ten-spot out of his wallet, grinning. “True. But it was worth it.”
I sat up, totally winded, flushed, and yes, a bit turned on. But come on, hot guy tickling me—what else can you expect? “Are you sure you’re gay?”
He winked. “Shall I tell you how many of Hollywood’s golden boys I’ve hooked up with?”
I raised an eyebrow with interest. “Are you going to name names?”
“No.”
“Come on!” I batted my eyes. “I’m a Digger. We have no secrets.”
He named a name.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“How was he?”
Malcolm thought about it for a minute. “Not bad. Intense.”
Figured. And closeted, just like Malcolm. But, as curious as I was about my big brother’s Hit List, there were other, more pressing questions that took precedence. So I started asking, rapid-fire, like we were on a TV show and I had thirty seconds to find out everything there was to know about Rose & Grave.
<
br /> EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH MALCOLM
“LANCELOT” CABOT, DIGGER
by Amy “Bugaboo” Haskel
Do you really give us grandfather clocks?
When you marry—to our liking.
So I guess that leaves you out.
In most states.
How about the twenty thousand bucks upon graduation?
Negatory. To keep TTA in the black, that’s more like what you’ll end up contributing.
Wait. I’ve got dues?
Call them “Donations.” Post-grad, of course.
Fuck. (Probably have to edit that bit out for prime time.) But I guess membership has its benefits, right?
Lots of them.
Like what?
Like you’re going to ace that Russian Novel final, Amy. Even if you don’t finish the book. We have every exam on file since they stopped giving them in Latin.
And that’s not cheating?
Why? The profs let you have the exams afterward. They should know that Elis are smart enough to catalog them for the benefit of future generations.
What else do we have squirreled away in that little tomb? I’ve heard a lot of rumors.
Let me debunk them.
Geronimo’s skull?
Check.
Hitler’s silverware?
Gross! No! (leaning in to whisper) But we’ve got some other weird Nazi paraphernalia.
(faltering) Does that mean we have connections to the Nazis? (This goes on the top of my new list, Things to Find Out About Your Secret Society Before Taking an Oath of Fidelity. #1: Are we in league with any organized hate groups?)
I hope not! I think some of our boys brought the junk back from World War II like battle spoils or something.
What else?
Some great first editions. A Shakespeare folio. A lot of swiped Eli memorabilia—winning crew boats and the like. Some of the treasures we’ve raided from other societies. Some decently valuable and butt-ugly art. More med school skeletons than you can shake a femur at.
Nuclear codes?
Out-of-date since the Cold War, but yeah.
On and on it went, until I’d amassed the kind of knowledge about my new secret society that conspiracy theorists from here to Addis Ababa would have killed to discover. But eventually, we each realized that, stockpiled exams or not, we had some work to do before the end of the semester. Besides, I don’t think you get a free pass to lounge around in bed all day with a guy unless there’s sex involved.
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