Under the Rose

by Diana Peterfreund

  “We’re not ready for the check,” Clarissa said.

  The waitress put her hands up, palms out. “I don’t get involved with you people.” And then she departed.

  Clarissa furrowed her brow and flipped open the folder. There, on a slip of receipt paper, were scrawled three words:

  It Went Live.

  I hereby confess:

  I wish I were wrong.

  10.

  Disappeared

  Before he graduated, Malcolm told me that it was a good thing I had my grade point average in shape before I joined Rose & Grave, because my society commitments would begin to commandeer a lot of my time. No joke. I don’t think I thought about schoolwork for a moment after that fake check arrived at our table. No, it was all angry e-mails, emergency meetings, spin summits, and of course the horrific and constant scrutiny the entire student body suddenly focused on the tomb on High Street.

  The campus tabloid, The Ruckus, jumped on the story first, printing a special one-page issue alerting the campus to the conspiracy website and all of the secrets it spilled. (No doubt they still harbored some bitterness over the World Clock fiasco.) Naturally, the political bloggers scented blood in the air, and from that point, the race was on to be the first major 24-hour news cycle outlet to report the story. Print media, from the Eli Daily News and the New Haven Register to the New York Daily News, the New York Post, the Washington Post, and the New York Times were actually a bit late to the ball game, given the hassle of working with an actual printed press. It wasn’t safe to approach the tomb, what with Channel 8 News and CNN camped outside, waiting to get an exclusive interview with an actual, live Digger.

  What did they expect, that the President was about to come up to New Haven and just stroll inside?

  Luckily, any media outlet controlled by actual, live Diggers (and there were several) stayed as far away from this little news nugget as possible. And what, pray tell, did the traitor say? Detailed analysis of all our initiation rites, membership lists of certain clubs, and teases about juicier info…to come next week. Apparently, the individual was giving the patriarchs and their adolescent exploits one week’s reprieve (the better to build expectation—and extortion—with, my dear).

  The patriarch reaction, as assessed through Phimalarlico e-mails, messages on the tomb’s voice mail, and infuriated phone calls to our Secretary, Josh, could be divided into three groups:

  Standard: “I’ve called to express my disappointment with the current media coverage of our society. I stood by this new club, unorthodox though it might be, and was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that your unconventional makeup would inject new blood into the organization. I’m beginning to wonder if my fellow patriarchs weren’t correct in their original decision to invalidate the tap. This is an appalling turn of events and I’m reconsidering my choice to continue supporting this society until you get your act together.”

  Angry: “I knew we shouldn’t have expected much from you people, but this takes inappropriate to a whole new level. Less than six months in and you’re already doing your best to drive Rose & Grave right into the ground. You need to find the knight responsible for this leak and deal with him…or her. I did not spend the better half of my life protecting the oaths of my brethren to let you people destroy it. You’ll never see another dime from me.”

  Kurt Gehry: “You incompetent sons of bitches, I told you to take care of this. Fine, since you either cannot or will not do what’s necessary, we’re taking matters into our own hands. Watch how real men, real Diggers, handle those who threaten us.”

  On Thursday afternoon, my path crossed with Genevieve Grady, ex-editor of the Eli Daily News, ex-girlfriend of Malcolm Cabot, and ex–person-of-interest to Rose & Grave. Last year, Genevieve, in a fit of woman-scorned pique, had threatened to blackmail Malcolm into giving her paper a peep inside the tomb, but I’d managed to talk her out of it. When she saw me coming, she threw her hands up in surrender.

  “Amy, I swear! I had nothing to do with—”

  I shook my head. “No, I know. Your paper is simply repeating what’s already out there. It’s fine.” And no, I couldn’t resist the jab about recycled content.

  “So you do know who’s responsible?” She went immediately into reporter-mode.

  I gave her the evil eye. “Right, because I’m about to turn that info over to you.”

  She smirked. “Come on, Haskel. You’re my secret source.”

  “Not this time. You’ve lost your hold on me.”

  Her smile faded. “Have you…heard from him?” Genevieve had been in love with Malcolm, but the poor boy was unable to return her feelings.

  “Yeah, I have. He told his parents last summer and they, predictably, disowned him. He’s living in Alaska for his gap year and then he’s going to business school.”

  “Disowned him?” She bit her lip. “I think I’d like to e-mail him. I feel so bad about…last year. I think I went a little nuts.”

  You think? But I refrained from saying that. “I bet he’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay, then, I will. Oh, and Amy…” She touched my shoulder. “In retrospect, I’m really glad they tapped you and not me.”

  I shook her off. Yeah, she certainly dodged that bullet, didn’t she?

  But the rest of us were feeling its bite. Thursday evening, we managed to sneak into our meeting through a very complicated system of visiting the Art and Architecture’s sculpture garden while various and sundry delivery trucks pulled up to the tomb’s supply door.

  “This is why we need that secret entrance I was promised,” I grumbled to Odile as we hid behind a stack of milk bottles.

  “Word.”

  Dinner that evening was a dismal affair, despite Hale’s masterful preparation of beef Wellington. We wandered in, one by one, and picked at our food. Since Sunday had been reserved for a presentation from a patriarch who had recently returned from Bolivia, we’d temporarily switched the C.B. schedule to Thursday—though, given the consequences of the leak and the possible future humiliation should further Digger information come to light, no one was enthusiastic about sharing their sexual history. At first, we thought we’d can the schedule and just engage in a little old-fashioned Rose & Grave political debate, but state issues were not on the forefront of anyone’s mind—not even Soze’s, who was in full spin-doctor mode.

  “Let’s look on the bright side,” he said, scooping up a forkful of mashed potatoes, then letting it plop back onto his plate. “What did the stupid site really say? A bunch of crap about our initiations and a floor plan of the tomb. They didn’t actually release any of the info in the patriarch’s Black Books.”

  “No,” said Frodo, who had finally arrived. So far, only eight of us had made it through the gauntlet. “They’re saving that for next week’s big reveal. We gotta track this guy down before it gets any worse.”

  I took a bite of beef and looked at Soze. “Heard from Lucky, perchance? I haven’t seen her in days.”

  “Drop it, ’boo,” Soze snapped. And if Puck noticed the use of his special name for me, he didn’t show it. Unlike the rest of us, my lover didn’t seem particularly morose about the recent turn of events, and was digging into his dinner with gusto. He’d already finished two servings of beef, and was eyeing the slice on my plate as well.

  But Lil’ Demon jumped to my defense. “Why should she drop it? You were on my back about being in New York when the announcement was first posted. No one here has seen Lucky since it went live. She skipped our last Diggirls get-together, she skipped all of our recent powwows, and I bet you a bottle of Cristal she skips tonight as well. Doesn’t that seem far more suspicious to you?”

  Soze narrowed his eyes in my direction. “Who else have you been sharing your suspicions with, Bugaboo?”

  “They aren’t her suspicions,” Lil’ Demon said. “They’re mine. You’re not the only one who gets to make accusations around here, Soze.”

  “Though I’m apparently the only one who re
alizes what doing so might mean.” He threw his fork down. “Has no one else been paying attention to Gehry’s threats? He’s out for blood, and we all know from personal experience the man doesn’t bluff. I also know from political circles he’s a leap-first-look-later kind of guy. If he thinks he can pin this on someone, he’ll ruin them without a second thought. He’ll do it even if it’s only to make an example of the person.”

  “And he’d probably love to pin it on a Diggirl.” Angel slumped in her chair, her blond hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  “So what?” asked Big Demon. “He tries anything with Lucky and she’ll crash his whole system.”

  “Not Lucky,” Puck piped up at last. “Something tells me she’s a turn-the-other-cheek kind of gal.”

  I set down my fork. “Look, I’m the last person who would turn her over to that asshole. What do you take me for? I just want to talk to her. That’s all. I haven’t seen her for a while. She hasn’t managed to make it over here and I want to know why. Is this too much to ask?”

  Apparently so. Of course, as it turned out, Lucky wasn’t the only no-show on that fine November evening. Graverobber (of course), Kismet, Shandy, Thorndike (who you’d think would have experience running blockades), and Bond all failed to make an appearance, and when it became obvious we had nothing even approaching a quorum, Frodo, the evening’s Uncle Tony, called a recess.

  “We’ll talk online,” Soze suggested as we began to sneak out, “and make sure we can meet on Sunday. This should all blow over by then.”

  Here’s hoping. And to that end, I decided to accompany Ben back to Edison College, which just happened to be my favorite missing knight’s home. Josh may think Jenny’s absence was more correlation than causation, but I’d decided to beard the computer hacker in her den of CPUs.

  Edison is located on the far end of campus, near the gym. It’s one of the so-called ugly colleges. While the rest of us dwell in Gothic or Georgian splendor (a little cramped, but hey, lead-veined windows, enormous fireplaces, exposed brick, and wood paneling), the residents of Edison College enjoy spacious singles from sophomore year onward and spend their time at Eli in an ultra-modern architectural example of abstract art. The building has no right angles. Those of us who were lucky enough to draw into one of the older colleges don’t get the appeal.

  “How do you like this place?” I asked Ben as we traversed a wide courtyard ringed with towering monoliths of glass and jagged stone. “I can’t imagine living here. Half the reason you come to a place like Eli is because of how beautiful the campus is. What did you think when you were assigned into Edison?”

  Ben blinked at me. “I came to Eli because I was recruited onto the team and it was the best academic program of the schools recruiting me. And, no, I don’t think it’s ugly at all. I think it’s great. I transferred into this college, and so you know, it wasn’t because I’m a jock and wanted to be close to the gym. I happen to like modern architecture.”

  Around that time, I remembered Ben was an Art History major, and wondered if I’d gain any points by offering to cut out my cruel tongue as punishment for my ham-handed remarks. Just because I preferred the Georgian style of Prescott College didn’t mean I knew the first thing about the value of modern art. Never much one for Kandinsky, either.

  But it was par for the course in our conversation. Ben was harboring some unnamed grudge that evening and only offered limited assistance. I needed his college key to activate the tower elevator that would take me up to Jenny’s room on the eighth floor, but as soon as we stepped into the elevator, he begged off accompanying me to her door.

  “It’s bad enough I spend two nights a week with her,” he said. “Negativity like that totally messes with my mojo, and Coach says…” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You aren’t interested in the state of my game. You just need me to get to Jenny.”

  “That’s not true.” I touched his arm. “Of course I’m interested. If you’re having a problem, you’re supposed to come to one of us. Why didn’t you bring it up at a meeting?”

  Ben looked skeptical. “There’s always some crisis going on down there. The patriarchs are rallying or failing to rally or everyone is threatening to quit or blah blah blah. I don’t want to add to the whining.”

  “You think that’s what it would be? Maybe it would force us to refocus on what we’re really about.”

  He snorted. “We’re not really about anything, Amy. Not this year. We never had a chance. We’re nothing more than a bunch of cliques and factions. You girls and your tattoos. Think about it. The rest of us were in the city, too—hell, I drove the damn van—but were we invited to get tattoos? No.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s like last month when you wanted us all to track down Jenny and ask her what was bothering her. Right, like that was going to happen. How am I supposed to feel comfortable opening up to everyone if they don’t open up to me?”

  I swallowed. He had a point. Was I guilty of contributing to the fractious nature of this year’s club? Had I, perhaps, not been listening when one of my brothers needed help? “Someone needs to start,” I said at last. “If you want to talk to me, Ben, I’ll always listen.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” The elevator arrived at the eighth floor, and he nodded toward Jenny’s door. “Just not now.”

  I glanced out at the narrow hallway lined with doors. The Edison College setup was so unlike the usual Eli dorm design that for a moment I felt as if I were at another school entirely. “No, if you want to talk, now is—”

  “Nice try.” There was the hint of a smile. “Let’s go for Sunday.”

  “Really—”

  He held up a hand that palmed basketballs. “Amy, this was supposed to be my C.B. night. We couldn’t even have a meeting, because all the drama meant half the club didn’t show. I’m in a bad mood, and I just want to take my anger out on the treadmill. Tell you what will really make me happy: You find the bastard responsible for wrecking my society experience. That’s how you can make it up to me.”

  Then he pressed the Door Close button and departed, and I turned my back on one brother in need in order to confront another. I’ll try, Ben. I’ll try.

  Jenny’s door, unlike the others on the hall, was devoid of all decoration, signage, or even a whiteboard. I knocked, and then, receiving no answer, tried the handle. Locked. A quick scan of the bathroom showed she wasn’t in there, either. Just as well. I didn’t want to get caught in her hallway if the girl was about to emerge from the shower wearing a towel and a scowl. Maybe one of her more outwardly humanoid (judging by décor) suitemates knew where she was.

  Still, it was Thursday, and if they, like Lydia, suspected Jenny’s involvement in Rose & Grave, they’d be unlikely to spill her meeting-night whereabouts to a total stranger.

  Three of the other six rooms on the floor were also no answer. Number four told me she never paid attention to when the rest of her suitemates arrived and departed, and wasn’t even sure she knew all their names, having been added to the suite merely to round out to the required seven. Number five told me she hadn’t seen Jenny in a few days and number six went Trappist monk on me. Bingo. She was clearly reacting to the day—Thursday. Unfortunately, I knew society commitments were not what kept this girl’s suitemate away from home tonight.

  Me: “Have you seen Jenny?”

  Roommate:…

  Me: “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  Roommate:…

  Me: “She didn’t leave you a key, did she?”

  Roommate: (closes door in my face)

  Well, that was short and useless.

  “Enough of this,” I said to the empty hallway. I might be a mild-mannered Lit major, but even I had a few tricks up my sleeve. Or on my carabiner, as the case may be. I pulled my proximity card out of its plastic holder, knelt at Jenny’s door, wiggled the card into the space near the catch, and prayed that a) Jenny hadn’t upgraded average dorm-room security and
b) I remembered how to do this. I hadn’t broken into anyone’s room since Thanksgiving Break freshman year, and even then, it had only been Lydia’s. She’d called, hysterical, claiming her Sociology professor hadn’t received her e-mailed final paper and she was stuck in some hellish lay-over in Detroit, sans Internet access, and would I please please please find her paper on the computer and e-mail it again. We’ve been best friends ever since. Nothing like a little larceny to cement a bond.

  Several perspiration-inducing moments later, I heard a click. I blew on my fingers, a little smug, then pushed the door open, praying Jenny was indeed absent and not locking me out of some illicit tryst or other private moment. C.B.s were one thing. Actual visuals were most definitely another.

  But the room was empty. At least, I think it was. Kind of tough to tell at first glance, what with the five metric tons of electrical equipment piled about the place, and the blanket of paperwork covering everything.

  Was this normal? I’d never been in Jenny’s room before, so I had no idea if the bedlam that lay beyond the doors was indicative of her current state of mind or if the chick was simply a career slob.

  I crossed the threshold and picked my way around endless piles of paper; random bits of wiring; labyrinthine, snaking cords; and the odd T-shirt or flip-flop. Most of the room was given over to a vast console of computers. There were a trio of monitors on her desk, and the shelves behind it were stacked with CPUs, speakers, and what looked like unused laptops. A long folding table had been set up, extending the desk so it wrapped around half the room, and there were more monitors arranged there—large, small, flat screen—and at least three keyboards.

  It looked like the set of Sliver. What possible use could someone have for fourteen computers? Or did she collect them the way I collected blue pencils? I edged forward, keeping the corner of my eye on the door. I hadn’t yet figured out how to excuse my presence should Jenny return.