Secret Society Girl il-1

by Diana Peterfreund

  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. “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.

  14. The City

  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 st
ress. 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—”