I paused at the door. “If you aren’t, then you should be. I’m a Digger. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
And then I left. Two hours later, she e-mailed me that we had a deal.
Damn, that felt good. A girl could get used to this kind of power.
***
Considering everything that had happened, actually assembling the commencement issue of the literary magazine was far easier than I’d ever expected. Brandon and I arranged our schedules with the express purpose of spending as little time in the same room as possible. He took over the artwork, while I focused on the actual submissions and organizing the way the pieces fit together into a meaningful whole (or as meaningful as a bunch of overeducated David Foster Wallace wannabes could get in the middle of exam week). I left a lot of the layout work to the rising sophomores, and, despite the fact that my hours at the Lit Mag office were filled with much less mirth and far fewer paper airplanes, I’d never had a better time there. Perhaps I relished the opportunity so much because I feared it would be my last. After all, I still didn’t have a summer job. I was pretty sure the next few months would see me plying khakis at the Shaker Square GAP.
The night before commencement, the first copies of “Ambition” arrived, hot off the press, and I flipped through it, surprised at how foreign each freshly minted page appeared to my eyes. Unlike other issues, I hadn’t pored over the font size of every running head, nor labored over the arrangement of the advertisements. Even the cover art had been chosen by Brandon, and, as if sharing some final inside joke, he’d picked a shot of a young man silhouetted against an urban backdrop, looking longingly over the city. It looked, as I’d suspected it would, like a perfume ad. However, I thought it was perfect for the melancholy, stark tone of most of the pieces. Brandon, as always, displayed excellent taste.
I had planned on staying for commencement, both to oversee distribution of the magazine and to attend Glenda Foster’s graduation. Since the dorms were closed, I camped out in the tomb, and found that I was not the only Digger who’d had that plan. The night before, no one got any sleep, as a gaggle of patriarchs who’d shown up early for the following day’s commencement exercises took the opportunity to teach the Digger students the time-honored tradition of Kaboodle Ball, the rules of which, I’m sorry to say, are far too complicated to relate without the aid of charts, graphs, and small, many-jointed marionettes. It’s kind of like hide-and-seek by way of rugby, golf, and Calvinball.
The morning of commencement was clear and surprisingly chilly for the season. I busied myself directing three underclass Lit Mag staffers to the distribution centers, but made sure that I picked up a copy of the Eli Daily News as well. Surprisingly, working with Genevieve hadn’t been the chore I’d anticipated. I think my original assessment was correct. She wasn’t an evil bitch—just ambitious, truly heartbroken, and desperate for payback. I had no expectations that her story would be flattering to the society, but then again, it was a lesser evil.
I was in the third column of the feature when someone cleared his throat in front of me. I looked up to see two figures in black gowns and hats: one tall, slim, and pale, with angry gray eyes; the other tan and blond with an enormous smile he was unable to hide.
“Are you the secret source?” Poe blurted.
I blinked at him. “I assure you, I’m just as shocked to see this piece as you are.”
Malcolm bit his lip, but his eyes transmitted gratitude.
“This story is a scandal!” Poe shouted. “It reveals everything about our inner workings!”
“Come on,” Malcolm said, finding his tongue at last. “All it really says is that Rose & Grave has finally opened its ranks to women.”
“And that there was some inner turmoil about it,” Poe snapped.
“A fine piece of investigative journalism,” I pointed out. “I think the writer lives below Malcolm. She probably heard us at the meeting that night.”
“I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.” Malcolm clapped Poe on the shoulder. “It’s not the first story that claims to bust open our secrets, and it won’t be the last, either.”
“It really doesn’t get into specifics, either,” I added. “Except for this bit about how some of the more age-addled patriarchs staged a little protest outside the tomb. If anything, I think it does a pretty good job of swerving around the real heart of the matter. That source—whoever they are—played this writer like a piano.” I looked at Malcolm, whose eyebrows informed me not to press my luck.
The three of us headed back into the throng of graduates and their families. “Malcolm!” a blond woman shouted, pointing a digital camera in our direction. Must be Mrs. Cabot. The two boys leaned close to me and we all smiled for the photo op, but as soon as the flash went off, Poe’s expression went dour again. When Malcolm trotted off to see how the snapshot turned out, Poe turned to me.
“I wanted to thank you.” No one had ever sounded less grateful.
“For?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself. “For speaking up in New York. I don’t know what I was thinking. Mr. Gehry just had me convinced…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I’d forgotten some stuff. You reminded me.”
“Oh. You’re welcome.” We stood in awkward silence for a few more moments, before I came up with a neutral topic. “So, what are you doing this summer?”
“Not working for the White House.” He smiled mirthlessly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. So, maybe not so neutral, but at least it explained why Poe of all people would betray his brothers. Ambition, I thought, can be a dangerous thing.
Maybe I was glad I hadn’t yet determined the exact shape of mine.
He shrugged. “It’s okay. At least I can look at myself in the mirror every morning. I’ll probably be down in D.C., though, doing…something. You?”
I shrugged. “Trying to decide between two brilliant offers, at Starbucks and T.G.I. Friday’s.” And, because I didn’t see a reason for this interview to drag on any longer than necessary, I added, “Well, congratulations on graduating. I wish you the best of luck with Eli Law next year.” And I hope I don’t see you any more than strictly necessary.
“Good luck to you, too,” Poe said, looking past me toward the tomb on the corner. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
He loped off and I rolled my eyes. Good riddance. What the hell did Malcolm see in that guy?
Malcolm returned soon after. “Did you guys have a chance to talk?”
“We exchanged thinly veiled insults, yeah.”
He sighed. “You know, Amy, you should really give him a chance. He’s not as bad as you think.”
I cocked my head at him. “Malcolm, is he…?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, Amy. He’s a little twisted, but otherwise straight as a rod.” Then he tapped the paper in his hand. “Thank you. I can’t—I can’t ever thank you enough for what you did. I don’t know how you did it, how you thought of it, but…you’re amazing.”
“What are little sibs for?” I nodded toward his parents. “Are you going to tell them?”
Malcolm took a deep breath, and his expression turned somber. “Yes. Sometime. Sometime soon. We go up to a cabin in the mountains every summer. My dad and I like to go hunting. I think I’ll tell them then. Away from the press and all.”
“Good idea. But if I can make a suggestion? Make sure the guns aren’t loaded.”
He flashed his pearly whites. “Yeah.” Already I could see relief etched on his face. Whatever Malcolm might say, he was tired of lying to his folks. I hoped it all worked out, but I wouldn’t hold my breath for a happy Cabot family vacation.
Soon after I left Malcolm, I was met by one more Digger—the man who’d been next to me at the Eli Club, taking notes. His auburn hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, shone in the morning sunlight.
“Amy Haskel!” he said brightly, pumping my hand up and down. “I’m so glad I caught up with you. Gus K
elting.” He leaned in. “Horace, D142.”
“We meet again,” I said. And this time, he was talking to me. Good, because I still had a few questions from that afternoon. “I wanted to ask you, why weren’t you standing up for us in New York? I saw the notes you wrote me.”
“I’d been outvoted,” Kelting admitted. “I wasn’t allowed to talk. And believe me, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I think you nailed them. I told all my Digger friends. We were very impressed with you. I was very impressed.” He pulled out a copy of “Ambition.” “I read this last night,” he said. “Very impressive…also.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, as you can probably tell by my limited vocabulary, I’m not much of a word guy. I’m into economics.”
Okay. “That’s nice.” Where was he going with this?
“Here’s the thing, Miss Haskel. I understand you have a bit of an employment problem, and I know that the Diggers are…to blame for it. I want to make it up to you. I do work for a think tank down in D.C., and we’ve got a project this summer that we need some help on. We’re trying to establish a rehabilitation program for exploited women, and as part of our bid for funding, we’re putting together a book of narratives. Some of these stories—they’d break your heart. But these ladies aren’t writers. Some of them aren’t even literate. I think a person with your editorial skills would come in handy.”
I stared at him for a moment, incredulous. “You’re offering me a job?”
“It doesn’t pay much more than a stipend, but we’ll find you housing, too. I know this isn’t in New York…”
“An editorial job?”
“Yes. With a good deal of responsibility attached.”
Somehow, I managed not to tackle him. This was way cooler than xeroxing form rejections! And Lydia would be in D.C. this summer. (Also Poe, but really, who cares? It’s a big city.) “Wow, Mr. Kelting. Thank you!”
“No, Amy. Thank you. Besides, you’re a Digger. What, we’re going to let you spend the summer pumping gas?” He smiled. “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”
He took my hand and led me across the lawn to a young woman with long red curls and post-grad-style robes. “Amy Haskel, this is my daughter, Sarah Kelting. Dr. Sarah Kelting. She graduated from med school today.”
“So I see,” I said.
Sarah laughed, and shook my hand. “Dad, are you going to introduce me like that from now on?”
“You bet!” he said, beaming. “Or at least until I’ve got it paid for.”
“So, in other words, from now on,” the woman teased.
“Sarah, Amy has just agreed to come work for my company this summer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She winked at me. “Do you have a place to live in D.C.? I’ve got a friend who is trying to sublet her studio in Adams Morgan. You’d love it.” She looked at Mr. Kelting. “Your company is paying, right?”
He put his arm around his daughter. “She’s such a smart-ass, Amy. Comes from not having anyone else to compete with growing up. It was just the two of us.” He leaned in and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Back when she was at Eli undergrad, I wanted her to—you know. But I knew it wasn’t going to happen. That’s why I was so happy to see you girls. It’s about time. And when you stood up in there…” He laughed. “You reminded me of my Sarah. I wanted you in, for all the Sarahs.”
Sarah rolled her eyes and shrugged Kelting’s arm off. “Da-a-ad,” she said. “Would you stop talking about the you-know-whoggers?” She looked at me and shook her head in consolation. “Is he boring you with tales of that silly little boys’ club?”
But I exchanged glances with Gus Kelting, whose Rose & Grave pin, age-burnished to a deeper gold, glinted from the collar of his shirt. “It’s not a boys’ club,” I said. Not anymore. “It’s one of the most powerful secret societies in the world.”
I should know. I’m a member.
Presenting the Rose & Grave Tap Class of D177
1) Clarissa Cuthbert: Angel
2) Gregory Dorian: Bond
3) Odile Dumas: Little Demon
4) Benjamin Edwards: Big Demon
5) Howard First: Number Two
6) Amy Haskel: Bugaboo
7) Nikolos Dmitri Kandes IV: Graverobber
8) Kevin Lee: Frodo
9) Omar Mathabane: Kismet
10) George Harrison Prescott: Puck
11) Demetria Robinson: Thorndike
12) Jennifer Santos: Lucky
13) Harun Sarmast: Tristram Shandy
14) Joshua Silver: Keyser Soze
15) Mara Taserati: Juno
Acknowledgments
I hereby confess my tremendous gratitude to Bantam Dell: Mr. Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Gina Wachtel, Tracy Devine, Paolo Pepe, Kelly Chian, Carol Russo, Pam Feinstein, Shawn O’Gallagher, Rachael Dorman, and especially to my champion and friend, the tireless editorial genius Kerri Buckley, who from the very first moment understood Amy almost better than I did, and who I knew would be the perfect tap. Kerri, if I could order an editor custom-made, I’d ask for someone as extraordinary as you.
I’m blown away by the unfailing judgment and vision of Deidre Knight, who has been with me every step of the way, and whose super secret-agent moves are an asset to any society. I’m so glad you’re a knight in mine.
Love and whopping big hugs to my parents, who, despite the decades’ worth of ribbing about books at Bucs games, have always encouraged me. Your happiness and enthusiasm are joys to behold. Thank you for all the opportunities you have given me and for your endless dedication to your children and their dreams.
Also, to Luke and Brian, the coolest brothers I’ve ever had, and the rest of my family and childhood friends who put up with and participated in my stories, thank you. Special recognition to Beth for her spot-on designs and Tara for making my vision a reality. Volumes of thanks to my teachers, who over the years tolerated and even encouraged my scribblings, and trusted that I would become a woman of words.
Three cheers for Marley Gibson, the most loyal friend and outrageous critique partner, who took it upon herself to pitch this manuscript sight unseen and “had a feeling” about it from the start. I owe so much to my writing friends: Lex; CLW; Colleen, Elly, Jana, and Wendy; and above all, TARA. I am especially grateful to Cheryl Wilson, who gave me a home and a sense of my own strengths, and to Julie Leto, who got me into this whole mess and has always provided a shining example of the kind of writer I want to be when I grow up.
I am indebted to Jacki and Bob, who let me live in their house while developing the seed of this story and celebrated my sale as if I was one of their own. And props to the whole D.C. crowd for making me feel so at home.
All my appreciation to fellow Bulldogs Lauren, Nicola, and Mackenzie, and further gratitude and apologies to all my bright college friends and companions, who may or may not see themselves in these pages. Here’s a hint: if it’s good, it’s totally about you. If it’s bad, it’s about, um…someone else. And also, I bow to the loose lips of my secret sources. Thank you for not killing me after telling me.
And, finally, my most ardent admiration and love to my partner, Dan. You’re the person who made me believe I’d do it, and you’ve demonstrated your faith with every step and sacrifice along the way. Aspiret primo Fortuna labori.
About the Author
DIANA PETERFREUND graduated from Yale University in 2001 with degrees in geology and literature. A former food critic, she now resides in Washington, D.C.; this is her first novel. Bantam Dell will publish the second book in the Secret Society Girl series in Summer 2007.
Footnotes
1
Names of people, places, and organizations have been changed to protect the confessor from litigation or, you know, assassination.
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2
The confessor later discovered this stood for Barbarian-So-Called.
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3
The
confessor later learned the full text of the scene translated to: “Who was the fool, who the wise man, beggar or king?” and “Good. Whether rich or poor, all are equal in death.”
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4
The confessor freely admits that this was a blatant lie.
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5
It’s actually not Balzac, but Edmond Rostand. The confessor should really be brushing up. What ever would the Diggers say?
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