Lil’ Demon: cursed before the altar of Persephone—$3.
Puck: used barbarian names when Bond had beat him in Kaboodle Ball last Thursday—$2.
Graverobber: twice caught without his society pin—$10. (“Get a tattoo like ours and you’ll be golden,” Angel suggested.)
After that, there was a sort of group-bonding activity in which we turned to our fellow knights and messed up their hair. I liken it to that moment in church where you shake hands with the people next to you in the pew. We sang a few traditional songs (singing is really big at Eli, no matter what activity you’re involved in), which tended to be, at once: spooky, ribald, and filled with literary allusions.
Next up, Bond reported on the developing plans to steal back a small bronze statue of Orpheus that had been recently pilfered from our courtyard. Thanks to some recent surveillance, we were pretty sure the thieves had been Dragon’s Head, and Bond and Lil’ Demon had been combing through the archives in the Library to find records showing how to break into Dragon’s Head and retrieve our property. This tradition of “crooking” from other societies was one of the oldest we had. The tomb was chock full of memorabilia from generations of Diggers who’d been trading trophies back and forth with all the other societies on campus. I thought most of the stuff was junk, myself, but I’m sure to the class of 1937, the mangy stuffed lion’s head they’d swiped from the tomb of Book & Key represented a triumph of criminal ingenuity.
And the other societies weren’t the only targets of our raids. I’d been amused to learn upon my induction into the Order of Rose & Grave that many of the most infamous items-gone-missing over the years could be found within the hallowed walls of the tomb. From what I could discern, the university turned a mostly blind eye to all of the shenanigans, so long as we kept our thievery confined to objects like champion crew boats, weathercocks from the roof of the president’s office, and the like. A few years ago, a valuable World Clock had disappeared from a college dining hall, and the benefactor as well as the college dean were so upset that it seemed like all fun and games had come to an end. With the heat on, the club decided to ditch their booty and found an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone when the local campus tabloid printed an exposé about Rose & Grave. Magically, the clock appeared in the tabloid’s minuscule office the following day, and an anonymous tip to campus police pointed the way hence.
I knew the story well. The editor of every publication at Eli had heard how the tabloid editor had been dragged into the provost’s office to explain himself. The clock’s presence in the tiny basement office was ridiculous, of course. No one believed they could have hidden such an enormous piece of equipment in a space hardly big enough to contain the rumors they collected. Naturally, the editor redirected the blame back at the Diggers…and mysteriously, the case against the thieves—whomever they might be—was immediately dropped.
Interestingly enough, the club portrait of D169 hanging in the tomb’s room of records features fifteen young men standing around the usual table showcasing the usual society paraphernalia. But behind them all is a World Clock.
We hadn’t chosen the target of our club’s big caper, but it was early yet in the year.
“This evening, to honor Persephone, we will hear the Connubial Bliss report of Knight Bugaboo. All agreed?”
There were sounds of assent in the room, and I took my place before the painting. I liked Connubial Bliss. She was not a beautiful woman, but she had a certain stark appeal. Her pose wasn’t openly seductive, nor pornographic (like some other nudes we’d found in the tomb’s collection), but rather a casual nakedness. In her hand she held a pomegranate, which, I’d learned, was a more accurate interpretation of Eve’s apple. Persephone wasn’t the only woman of myth who’d lost paradise by eating pomegranate.
Her gaze looked a bit beyond the viewer, her expression stoic, and at times I thought it was a little sad. Angel had said she looked aloof, as if she was above the adoration heaped upon her by the hormonal adolescents who usually used this room. Puck had said she looked sexy. So, clearly a naked Rorschach test.
I turned and faced my audience. “Most Sacred Goddess Persephone, Uncle Tony, and my fellow Knights of Rose & Grave…” And then I stopped. “Um, what is he doing here?”
I pointed to Poe, who had, of course, taken a seat in the most shadowy section of the room. He looked affronted. “What do you mean? I can come to meetings.”
“Oh, no.” I folded my arms. “I don’t want him here.”
“I’m a member of this organization,” he said. “I’m bound by the same oaths as the rest of these people.”
“He’s not in our club,” I said. “I don’t think—”
“But we always let the patriarchs sit in on the meetings if they want,” Angel said. I shot her a look. Dude, show a little Diggirl solidarity, huh? She hadn’t had that creep breathing down her neck when she was reporting on her sex life. Why should he get the honor of hearing about ours if we didn’t get to hear his in return? (Um, not that I’d want to!)
And I still had my ace to play. “I don’t feel comfortable. Isn’t the idea of this evening for me to feel completely comfortable?”
“What exactly is it about me that makes you uncomfortable sharing your intimate history, Bugaboo?” Poe said with a cold satisfaction.
“What is it about you that makes everyone uncomfortable in general?” Lucky snapped. There we go! A little support.
I stood there, looking at the club, who were approximating a tennis match audience. Poe, me. Poe, me. Poe, me.
Thorndike cleared her throat. “This is Bugaboo’s presentation. If the knight feels ill at ease in the presence of the patriarch—”
“She shouldn’t,” Poe argued. “I’m here like the rest of you, to participate in the experience of Rose & Grave.”
“Haven’t you gotten enough experience that you don’t need to horn in on ours?” I glared at him. He glared back.
“I think,” Thorndike said, “we should take a vote.” She rapped a gavel against the wooden top of the pillar by her throne. “All those in favor of restricting the C.B. reports to the members of the current club, say ‘Aye.’”
Everyone looked at one another. It was a momentous vote. I’m sure half of them thought I should drop the whole issue with Poe. Yeah, he was a jerk, but he was always hanging around the tomb, devouring our food and sulking. We’d almost gotten used to him. And he’d proved last year that when push came to shove, his oaths really did mean something. However, I could see it on each of their faces. They were all thinking of patriarchs they would rather not have around when it came time to do their own reports.
“Aye,” said the women.
“Aye,” said the men.
“Aye.” Angel shrugged and joined in.
“Aye,” said Puck. “We’d never want ’boo to be uncomfortable.”
“Aye,” I said, and smirked at Poe.
Thorndike took a deep breath. “The motion is passed.” She looked at Poe. “We request that Patriarch Poe of D176 leave the Inner Temple for the duration of the meeting.”
And then she tapped the gavel thrice, once, and twice on the pillar.
Poe didn’t look at her. He kept his cold gray eyes on me, and for a moment, when the last crack of the gavel sounded through the room, I thought I saw him flinch.
“Fine,” he said, shrugging to his feet. “I’m out of here.” His stately walk across the room was accompanied by not a single glance at any of the Diggers who’d just thrown him out. At the door, he paused. “If you guys hope to win back the favor of the patriarchs, let me give you a gentle hint. This is not the way to make it happen.”
The door closed behind him and we all sat (or in my case, stood) in silence. Connubial Bliss frowned down at me. I ignored her. It was bad enough I had to put my love life up to the scrutiny of my own club members. Poe was over the line.
“Okay,” Puck said at last, breaking the tension. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Enough
of that. Bring on the sexy stories.”
I smiled, and he grinned back. Sexy stories, huh? Without you in them, how sexy could they be? As I stood there, watching him do his best to get the rest of our brothers back on track and winking at me with those copper-colored eyes, I knew as sure as the painted chick behind me was naked that someday soon, I would have a story with George.
And I’d be super-glad I’d waited until after my C.B.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: C.B.s and other indignities
no matter what you said in your e-mail, i can tell your c.b. went well! you survived! i knew you would! i’m sorry this whole patriarch thing is dragging out. i can speak from experience that it’s no fun when the people you look up to are turning their backs on you. but our decisions are correct. i know it. hang in there. i think soze will steer you right. he’s the best choice for club secretary because he knows how to win the hearts and minds of the alums. and if things start to get real sticky, you’ve got poe right there on campus to help you guys out. i know he would love to be involved.
things here are going well. there’s something so open about this landscape. all the old bullshit begins to seem so unimportant. maybe you should rethink your whole grad school idea and come live with me in the wintry north? i promise you, that thing they say about the male population is *not* just the stuff of legend.:-)
I think Malcolm may have been spending too much time with his Brokeback Mountain DVD. But all in all, a sweet e-mail. Maybe if it had been him in the Inner Temple last night instead of Poe, I wouldn’t have been so adamant about current-members-only. Malcolm wouldn’t hold my C.B. against me. And the rest of my club—who would later have to offer up their own peccadillos—didn’t judge me for the mistakes I’ve made in my relationships, for breaking the heart of a wonderful boy like Brandon, for engaging in illicit activity with some guy I didn’t even know. Heck, George was probably proud of me for it! I could confess anything and they wouldn’t hold it against me, like I didn’t hold admissions of cheating against—
I heard a thump and a giggle through the wall separating my room from Lydia’s.
—against Josh. I mean, not yet anyway. Besides, everyone makes mistakes.
There was a bit of rustling and then, “Shhh! What are you doing?” A little squeal of pleasure.
Didn’t they have a Monday morning class to get to or something? They were supposed to be so smart and high-achieving and Phi Beta Kappa and all—didn’t they have work to do?
I certainly did. I had yet to schedule a meeting with my thesis advisor to discuss my senior project. Unfortunately, I still didn’t have a firm topic. Or any topic. I clicked over to my word processing program and reviewed my notes. Not exactly impressive. Certainly not worthy of honors in the major, and definitely nothing that would stand out on a grad school application. But, what was three-fourths of a literary degree worth but to make the flimsy look substantial? I began to edit.
There was another giggle from the vicinity of Lydia’s room. I rolled my eyes and kept typing. They’d been sequestered in there all morning, and I’d bet dollars to donuts there was no political science summit going on.
Right after I pressed Save, there was a knock at our suite door. I stilled, waiting to see if there’d be any rustling through the wall to signal they’d get it. But Lydia and Josh were clearly not in any position to be pulling themselves together and answering the door. I sighed, and fingered my messy topknot. Fine. Some of us were doing homework, and some of us were hooking up, but whose right to refuse interruption seemed more valid? The couple’s. Of course.
I padded across our parquet floor and opened the door. Behind it stood Brandon Weare.
“Hi, Amy” were the first two words I’d heard from him in more than a month. “Can we talk?”
I hereby confess:
I’m scarred by the experience.
6.
Significant Others
THINGS I WANTED TO SAY TO BRANDON
1) “Of course. Can we talk about your beautiful girlfriend?”
2) “What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I love you when I had the chance?”
3) “You couldn’t maybe have come at a time when I looked positively smashing?”
4) “Sure. It wasn’t bad enough that my roommate and my society brother were getting it on while I’m trying to do my homework. I need more romantic torture today and a tête-à-tête with the ex fits the bill.”
THINGS I DID SAY
1) “Brandon. Wow. Hi. Come in.”
And then I put my hand to my hair in the universal girly gesture of “Oh, look what a mess I am, I usually look so much better than this,” and ushered him into the room. I took a seat on the couch. He hesitated, then sat across from me on the coffee table. (Pinprick #1)
“How have you been?” he asked.
“Good. You?”
“Busy.” He smiled sheepishly and began folding a stray piece of paper on the table. “Working my ass off on my thesis. Have you started yours yet?”
I shook my head. “No. I need to soon, though. I was just e-mailing my advisor about our meeting.”
“What are you going to write about?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I admitted. Brandon and I used to talk about our Lit papers all the time. I wondered if he now had those conversations with Felicity. I wondered if he proofread Felicity’s papers for her and then sent them back to her in the shape of little paper airplanes.
Brandon folded a nose onto the airplane he was creating out of a “subscribe to Cosmo” postcard. Yeah, that’s exactly what he did. Brandon flirts with aerogami. I watched his hands. His summer tan had faded, and they were back to being the pale olive color I remembered. I’d always loved how his skin looked against mine. At the thought, my skin flushed with heat.
To get my mind off its train of thought, I said, “I’m thinking maybe something with feminist theory. Maybe some sort of examination of female myths from several traditions.”
He nodded without looking up. “That’s so you.” After a moment he launched the airplane, and it dove straight to the floor. “I know we haven’t talked for a while.”
“Yeah.” And I don’t think that was my fault. The ball was totally in his court after his little “see you later” comment at Clarissa’s party. Probably too busy making four-fold stingers with Felicity.
“Your summer sounded really interesting when you told me about it at the party.”
Me, huh? Not me and my stunning, rich girlfriend, in whom I found solace after you broke my heart? Maybe he was about to tell me it had been nothing more than a summer fling. A rebound. They weren’t together anymore.
“Amy?” he asked, and he waved a hand in front of my face. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the special smile he used to give only me. (Pinprick #2) “Your summer?”
“It was amazing,” I said. “Really made me think a lot about my plans. I don’t think I ever could have learned as much running for coffee as an intern at Horton.”
“So, no more Manhattan editing position for you?”
“I haven’t decided,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go to grad school. Sometimes I think I’d like to do something really important and life-changing, like I did this summer, but full time. But I don’t know if I have that in me. I don’t know if I’m the type of person to do important things.”
Time was, Brandon would have responded with something like, “You’re very important.” But today, he just said, “You have to do what’s right for you.” (Pinprick #3)
He must be over me. Otherwise, he’d still believe I was capable of moving the world. That’s the best part of being loved. Someone attributes to you all kinds of abilities they’re fooled into thinking you possess.
Or maybe that’s the worst part. I guess it all depends if the person you love lets you down or not. I’d let Brandon down. He’d attributed to me a return of affection, devotion, and loyalty. I hadn’
t lived up to it.
“So,” he continued, “how’s…everything else?”
“Like?” I asked, leaning forward.
“Like the stuff you don’t talk about?” he prompted, pulling at an imaginary society pin on his shirt.
“I don’t talk about it.” I shrugged. “But…it’s been good.”
The smile reached all the way up to his eyes this time. “I’m glad to hear that.”
I understood his need for paper airplanes. I was dying for something to do with my hands right now. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked. “Is there anything specific you wanted to discuss?”
“No. I just missed you, Amy.” (Pinprick #4)
Amy. Amy. Amy. No one said my name like him. No one had said my name like that in months. Even George only called me Boo. “We used to talk a lot,” said I.
“We used to be really good friends,” said he.
“And then we screwed it up.” There. I said it. And then, before we could back away from the big black hole we were edging around, I ploughed forward. “But I need to know. How did we screw it up? I mean, do you think it was when we tried to have a relationship in May? Or maybe if we hadn’t slept together back in February—”
“No.” He put his hand up and I closed my mouth over the rest of my outburst. “I think,” he began, “I would have screwed it up no matter what happened. Because I liked you, Amy, and I couldn’t stop pushing for something serious.”
He liked me? Last spring, he’d claimed he loved me. I’d been downgraded. No longer a hurricane in his life. Just a minor breeze. (Pinprick #5–5,000)
The door to Lydia’s room opened and out walked Josh. He nodded at us and hurried past, clearly sensing this was a private convo. And then, at the door to our suite, he turned to me and held up five fingers, his expression inquisitive.
Under the Rose Page 7
