Advice from Poe. Romantic advice…from Poe. Okay. If nothing else, it would be entertaining. I nodded.
“I don’t think that the way college dating works has any bearing on the real world. If you don’t have a good experience for these four years, it doesn’t mean you should start fitting yourself for a habit and enter a convent. I didn’t have a girlfriend in college, and I turned out okay.” He paused. “Okay, you don’t think I turned out okay…”
I laughed in spite of myself. “I think you turned out fine,” I said, mostly because etiquette demanded a denial. Mostly. Because really, who was the one in real trouble here? The guy who seemed comfortable with his desire to hang out alone, in the dark, in secret, or the girl standing in the rain, sobbing?
He shrugged. “Thank you for saying so, at least.”
He looked down at my hands, which were currently twisting the life out of his handkerchief. I didn’t know anyone our age who used handkerchiefs. And, oddly enough, rather than seeming like another example of his weirdness, it suddenly felt to me like something grand, old-fashioned, a little refined. As that thought occurred to me, I stopped wringing it, lest it tear in my fists. I held it up.
“Uh, keep it,” he said.
“That’s nice of you,” I said.
“Not really,” he said. “It’s covered with your snot.”
Did I say refined? I meant rude. Rude.
And that thought must have shown in my posture, because he backtracked. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Though it’s true.”
“Yes.” He looked at me. “You get offended by some things that blow my mind, and then, sometimes, when I’m trying to offend you, you don’t even notice.”
“I notice. You can tell, because I bite back.”
“Note to self,” he said. “Pre-emptively, I’m not trying to offend you right now. If I do, it’s accidental.”
“So ‘Brace yourself’?” I translated.
“I was just wondering, how much of this—” he gestured to the handkerchief and my tear-streaked face, “—is a result of losing this…guy, and how much of it is just losing?”
“What!” I hadn’t braced for that.
Poe, being in for the penny, decided to go for the pound. “Maybe your heart is really broken. That’s possible. Or maybe it’s February, and you haven’t seen the sun in weeks, and it’s cold and icy every day, and you are trying to write a thesis and look your future in the face, all while hiding from a bunch of assholes who are turning this campus into a war zone for you. And now they’ve won.”
The lump in my throat got so huge I could barely breathe. I definitely couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond to Poe’s outlandish…accusation. How could he be saying that my feelings weren’t my feelings? How could he be saying that Brandon and I…that it wasn’t…
“I just find it surprising that you are in the midst of a huge romantic crisis but, as far as I can tell, it came out of nowhere.”
“Out of nowhere!” I shouted past the lump. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing.” His voice was perfectly calm.
“Exactly,” I agreed, then ran out of things to argue. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with.”
“You’re right.” The pause that followed his words seemed full of unspoken thoughts, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more of this patriarch’s advice.
Slowly, it dawned on me that I was sitting in the dark, with Poe, discussing my love life. How weird would it look if another Digger were suddenly to walk by here, looking for me, and discover this little tête-à-tête?
“I should go,” I said.
“Do you want me to walk you back to Prescott?” He obviously didn’t disagree with me. Guess “sharing time” was over.
“It’s out of your way,” I said. Poe lived off-campus in the opposite direction.
“It’s not a problem.”
“It’s pouring rain. You don’t even need to be out here.”
“I vastly prefer a society plot to hanging out in my dump of an apartment.”
One word remained unspoken—“alone.” I blinked at him. I don’t think I’d ever heard him speak like that before. The standard Poe qualities of bitterness and sarcasm were there, but this was casual and matter-of-fact. It’s like he had nothing to hide, as if he’d figured: I’d seen his apartment (maybe I was the only one who had), I knew what it looked like, so why bother putting up a front? Or maybe he was hoping I’d disagree with him, defend the “dump”? Or maybe he decided that letting me glimpse his feelings was only fair payback for my big revelation of the evening. Who knew? But he did have my sympathies. How many nights had I been glad that I had Lydia waiting for me, fun and funny and not at all like Poe’s pet snake?
“Do you…want to grab a slice of pizza or something?” I blurted out.
He hesitated. “You want to be seen in public with…” a microsecond pause, “…your face looking like that?”
I cocked my head to the side. “The real question is, do you want to be seen in public with a face like this?”
“I’d consider it.” He stood, his expression still wary.
I pasted on a weak smile. “Are you sure they don’t do deliveries to the law library?”
“Yes, but I think I have a bag of stale Doritos in my study carrel.”
“Pass.”
So I had pizza with Poe. (Er, Jamie. But really, I have a hard time reminding myself of that.) And we didn’t talk much at all. Just ate. It’s surprising how ravenous heartbreak makes you. Also surprising is how long I’d been at Eli without discovering some of the truly bizarre items on the menu at one of our most classic restaurants. White clam pizza. Who knew? Total revelation.
When he dropped me off in front of Prescott College, he said. “Are you going to Cavador?”
“Yeah,” I swiped my card at the gate. “There are nine from my club going. You?”
He nodded. “Cheapest vacation ever. And some of my club will be there, too. It’ll be nice to see them again.” He took another deep breath. “Amy, I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but I think that when you come back from Spring Break, everything will be different.”
“So I just need to make it through another few days and all my troubles will be over?” Yeah, right. Cavador Key was a retreat, not a miracle cure.
“It’s possible.”
Oh, Poe. If only he knew how impossible it would be.
7. Escape
Two days later (two days!), Brandon finally grew the cojones to e-mail me.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Things
Dear Amy,
Even after deciding that it had to be via e-mail, I still went through a dozen drafts of this letter. I apologize in advance for anything I fail to say, but I eventually realized that it was a far worse sin to not contact you than it would be to send you an imperfect version.
I can’t imagine what you think of me right now, or what you have been imagining this past week. I am so sorry for the silence, and for everything I’m about to say.
We can’t see each other anymore. (But you already knew that, didn’t you?) I allowed myself to go to a bad place this month—why, I can’t say—and I dragged you into it. I don’t know what is to blame: the horrific winter weather? The nostalgia prompted by our imminent graduation? The fact that our “anniversary” (if you can call it that) was passing? I don’t know. But I know that it’s my fault. You and I have been over for a long time. I understand that now. And I do want to thank you for being there for me these past few weeks and for humoring me while I worked out my issues.
I wish you the best of luck with your applications. I know you’ll do great.
Your friend,
Brandon
“He’s so full of shit” was Lydia’s pronouncement upon viewing.
“Agreed,” Jenny said, digging into the family-sized pack of gumdrops on the bed. “Now explain again how the Gumdro
p Drops work?” Lydia came over with a shot glass and perched near my pillow to show the Diggers’ newest twenty-one-year-old our suite’s signature drinking game.
Demetria, stomach squashing my corduroy husband, slammed back her third shot of vodka and rolled her eyes. (She’d decided to forgo the candy chasers.) “This is five classes of rhetoric and as many ounces of Absolut speaking, but that is one fine piece of work there. The way he seems to take all the blame upon himself while simultaneously practically calling you a slut? And ‘your friend.’ Unbelievable! Pièce de résistance, girl. Be glad you didn’t fuck him this time around.”
Jenny jabbed her in the ribs. “You’re not helping.”
“Are we even sure he wrote it himself?” Odile asked, swooping in. The tips of her red hair brushed the keyboard as she bent over the computer screen and scrutinized the letter. “Maybe that bitch did it.”
“She’s not a bitch,” Clarissa said from her position on the windowsill. Everyone else shot her eye-daggers and she put up her hands. “Hey! I said I was Team Haskel here, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to commit character assassination. I can put Amy above all others without demonizing my barb—other friends.”
Lydia rolled her eyes, handed Jenny a shot, and took off for points common room. “Gotta pack,” she called back by means of an excuse. Rose & Grave was once again the elephant that lived, unremarked-upon, in our suite.
“I think Brandon wrote this himself,” I said. “Let’s not go all Sense and Sensibility here.”
“Especially given that the names are all backward,” Clarissa agreed.
I glanced at the e-mail again, my finger hovering over the Delete button. No, Brandon had written it, and I’d bet a fellowship spot little Miss Dragon’s Head didn’t even know about it. There was no reason to make him write me after her declaration of victory last night.
“Good riddance, I say.” Odile poured herself another drink. “Shake him off, pack up your bikini, and blow this joint for a while.”
My bikini was packed, but it was purely decorative. I’m no swimmer.
“She’s right,” Jenny said. “If it helps, focus on all the good we’re going to do building the house with Habitat.”
“I only wish I could go with you,” Odile went on, “but I can’t pass up this role.” The starlet had, just last night, canceled her plans to go to Cavador Key. But since the movie she was supposedly shooting didn’t seem to have a title, we all suspected she either had a hot new fling or a VIP pass to some glamorous club opening. “One Spring Break à la Dumas, and you wouldn’t even remember this prick’s name.”
“He’s not a prick,” I said stoutly.
“Amy,” Jenny said, shaking her head knowingly. “He didn’t pick you. That’s total p-you-know-what territory.” She paused. “At least for the moment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clarissa turned to Jenny. “Don’t tell me you’ve started having tender feelings for Micah again.” Micah Price had convinced Jenny to expose our society for the coven of devil worshippers he believed it was. When she refused to keep passing on secrets to a paranoid conspiracy theorist website, because, well, we weren’t worshipping the devil, the jerk had broken her heart.[2]
The younger girl’s eyes widened. “No. That’s over. But until you forgive, how can you move on?” Forgiveness was a top priority for Saint Jenny.
“Move on?” Clarissa pounced. “So there’s someone else? Has a rebound man stolen our little hacker’s heart?”
Jenny blushed and tipped her head forward, though her stylish new pixie cut (complete with Eli-blue streaks through her black hair) did little to hide her expression.
“You can’t keep secrets from us, you know,” Demetria warned.
Jenny cast a knowing glance after Lydia, out in the common room. “I’m under no obligation.” And considering that her C.B. had been back in December, we might never know. Jenny, as I’d learned last semester, had more secrets than any society.
“Just a little hint, then?” Clarissa was well into wheedling mode. “A student? A senior? What college?”
“Just tell me he’s a barbarian,” said Demetria. “We’ve had plenty enough society incest in this club.”
I clicked back to my e-mail, hoping no one could see my face. George and I had done our best to keep our interludes a secret, but I guess we hadn’t been as successful at fooling the other knights as we’d thought. Still, Demetria might have been talking about her own short-lived (and still only alleged) indiscretion with Odile, though both of them acted like it had never even happened. I wish George and I were so laissez-faire.
Jenny said nothing. Not even a flat denial.
Interesting.
Clarissa, clearly glad to be off the subject of Felicity, drew back the curtain and peered at the gray drizzle beyond. “Get me to Florida. Stat. When does our flight leave tomorrow?”
“Not soon enough,” said Jenny.
“Speak for yourself,” Demetria said. “I’m not sure I feel like intruding on the Gehry family’s leisure time.”
Four faces turned to her, mouths agape. “The what?”
“Gehry family,” Demetria said with a shrug. “Didn’t you hear? Our man Kurt left town last night to join his family ‘abroad,’ only he can’t actually leave the country while he’s under investigation. I don’t think the wife and kids are in Europe at all. I think they’re in Florida. And I’m not the only one.” She rolled off the pillow, and commandeered my keyboard. A few clicks later, we were looking at an old photograph of my patriarch nemesis, standing with his wife and two children in front of a podium.
ATLANTA, Georgia (CNN)—Embattled ex–White House Chief of Staff Kurt Gehry has left the capital in the wake of his resignation and ongoing investigation into the possibility that he employed several illegal immigrants in his Potomac residence.
There is much speculation as to the current whereabouts of the President’s most influential advisor, including an exclusive resort in the Florida Keys reserved for members of Rose & Grave, a two-century-old secret society on the campus of Gehry’s alma mater, Eli University. The Chief of Staff has never confirmed his membership in the organization.
Gehry’s absence during the investigation has dismayed his supporters in Congress, as well as those within the GOP. A representative for Governor Jacob Cabot said, “This resignation and the White House’s reaction was handled in a secretive and unfortunate manner that gives the wrong impression to the people of the country. I hope we will all soon receive the answers we deserve from our nation’s leaders.” Cabot recently dropped out of the presidential race, citing family obligations.
White House spokesman Bob Gibson responded to the statement from the Cabot camp with a thorough defense of the Chief of Staff. “Kurt Gehry’s wife and children have been unreasonably scrutinized in the last few weeks by the inside-the-Beltway media machine. As far as I know, they are currently enjoying a short family vacation.”
Administrators at the National Cathedral School for Girls and St. Albans have confirmed that neither Darren nor Isabelle Gehry is an enrolled student for the spring quarter.
Was I really going to be spending my Spring Break with Kurt “Grade A-Asshole” Gehry? And his spawn? After our last dramatic run-in, when my entire club disavowed him as a patriarch, I figured any future meetings would be awkward at best.
“Great,” Odile said with a huff. “Way to start a vacation. Maybe I’m glad to be skipping out.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Demetria replied.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Jenny said. “How can the family be on Cavador Key? The wife and the kids aren’t Diggers.” I was relieved that she’d asked it, since I was usually the knight with the most questions about the way the society worked.
“No,” said Clarissa. “You can take your family there if you want. They can’t go to any meetings or ceremonies, and obviously they aren’t supposed to know what the place is—though everyone does—but they can be there.”
> “Did you ever go with your dad?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Why? We’ve got a great house in the Hamptons.”
***
Twenty-four hours later, I wondered if the Hamptons might have been a better idea. I stood on the pier, duffle bag in hand, and goggled.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, backing up a few steps. “There is no way I’m getting on that.”
“How did you think we were going to get to Cavador, Amy?” George asked, swinging his suitcase out of the airport limo’s trunk. “It’s not like there’s enough traffic to warrant building a bridge.”
“And it’s not exactly on the ferry route,” Jenny added.
I backed up a few more steps, watching my fellow knights strip off their winter coats and don sunglasses, caps, and even (in the case of fair Clarissa) sunscreen. No one else seemed concerned that our transport to the island looked like little more than a toy boat.
A captain and a teenaged boy emerged from the pygmy cabin on the deck and smiled at the new arrivals. “Ready to get going?” the man asked.
Everyone else grabbed their luggage and hopped aboard. I watched as the tiny craft pitched and bobbed under the onslaught of all that extra weight. Waves splashed up and down the side of the craft, and some water even spilled on the dock.
“What’s the holdup, young lady?” the man said.
“I was wondering,” I said, “what’s the weight limit on that thing?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Plenty enough for you and your bag. Now hop on. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
I hesitated, then handed my bag over to the man. But I couldn’t bring myself to climb aboard. “Is there a lifeboat or something?” I asked.
“A lifeboat?” George said from the deck. He laughed. “What do you think this is, Amy? The Titanic?”
It had better not be. I must have looked even more scandalized, because the captain snorted and shook his head at me.
“Will you feel better if I fix you up with a life jacket? I think I have one or two on board.” He lifted his head. “Kid!” he cried, and the teenager looked up from where he was fiddling with some ropes on the deck. “Get Miss—” He looked at me. “What’s your name, girl?”
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