I spotted Malcolm and Clarissa and sauntered over. “What is this?”
“The backlash,” Clarissa sniffed, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the line of men. “Assholes.”
Well, that was helpful. I turned my attention to Malcolm, who was in the midst of a heated argument with his cell phone.
“I don’t care, just get your ass here—now. I can’t believe they went through with their threat. The bastards. No, no, of course not—What, you want me to just go up there and confront them? You aren’t hearing me, man, I’m telling you, there’s a crowd.”
“Just as they wanted it, too, no doubt,” observed Greg Dorian, sidling up on the other side.
“They’re patriarchs?” I said, trying to feel my way through the dark.
Everyone else nodded, leaving me wondering what meeting I’d missed.
“Look. Just get here before the newspapers do, okay?” Malcolm slammed the clamshell phone closed and commenced pacing.
Josh joined the group from where he’d been idling nearby. “Screw the crowd, Cabot. I say, if they don’t care to protect their secrecy, then why should we?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Because, newbie, unlike those guys, we actually have a secret to protect.” He glared at the shield group. “Very clever composition. I’d bet a hundred dollars that not one of them was tapped after D134—er, that is, the class of 1964.”
“What happened in 1964?” one of the other new taps asked.
“Elitist guilt. It was no longer cool to be a Digger, and they went underground.”
“Wait a second.” I sliced my hand in front of Malcolm to make him hold up. “Are you saying all this secrecy stuff is new?”
Malcolm clucked his tongue. “No respect for history, young’uns. Yes and no. We were never supposed to talk about what we do inside that tomb, or even talk about the membership. It was almost a joke, back in the 19th century when everyone would be wearing full suits everywhere, with their society pins on their suit lapels right at eye level. Insolence. Your pin would be staring everyone right in the face, but they couldn’t breathe a word about it, or you’d walk out the door.”
Things hadn’t changed too much, I reflected.
“But that same membership wasn’t a secret,” Malcolm went on. “Everyone knew who was in Rose & Grave. Hell, they used to publish the list of Digger taps in the New York Times every spring.”
“But, the oath…” I stammered. So Lydia had been right. But what kind of crap was that? If it wasn’t a secret, why did they call it a secret society? They were supposed to kill people who told! Or stick them in a dungeon. Or punish them. Or something. (Come on, you thought so, too.) They weren’t supposed to publish their names in the frickin’ New York Times!
Though, I reasoned, that might be a good thing for me. A lot of publishing people read the “paper of record.”
I clearly needed to brush up on society lore (as soon as I figured out a way to slip it into my schedule).
“It was a different oath. They didn’t talk about what happened behind the closed doors of the tomb, but everyone knew who was in the club. And that was becoming a problem. Diggers were actually getting harassed on campus. Potential taps didn’t want to be associated with the organization. We started receiving”—Malcolm shuddered—“rejections from taps. So, to survive, the membership became informally secret. Over the decades, tradition turned it into formality. Times change and so do we.” He clenched his fist and I thought he might shake it at the patriarchs. “Don’t they get that? Times fucking change!”
Demetria popped up in a patterned scarf and a pair of battered, paint-splattered overalls. “Hey, gang’s all here! Some protest, huh? Pretty good for a bunch of old guys.”
“I still say we confront them,” Josh said.
“That’s just what they want,” Malcolm argued. “Give them the excuse they need to nail us.”
Clarissa seemed to agree. “They didn’t take the same oath of secrecy we did. And going up to them in front of all these other people would be a broken oath on a silver platter. Ammunition. Pardon the mixed metaphors.”
“Then let’s call the police,” I suggested. “Don’t we have serious pull from them? At the very least, we could make them break up the crowd.” I was met with five imperious, incredulous stares.
“Pull?” Clarissa asked. “You’re joking, right?”
“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Kevin Lee, a.k.a. Frodo, skidded in, arching his neck to see over the heads of the gathered bystanders.
But clearly a group of seven exceeded the limits of Malcolm’s plausible deniability and he threw up his hands. “People, people, do none of you understand the value of discretion? Disperse, disperse.”
And everyone did, melting into the crowd with such alacrity that I lost track of them (and any chance of getting a straight answer) almost immediately.
I turned around twice, scanning for other Diggers, and finally caught sight of the senior I knew only as Poe. He was sitting on the steps of the English department, a little ways away from everyone else, pretending to read from a volume of Nietzsche while snacking on a bag of Doritos and watching the proceedings with an inscrutable eye.
Poe. Why’d it have to be Poe? As I saw it, approaching him already set me up with a handful of problems.
POSSIBLE DIFFICULTIES
1) I didn’t know his real name. Awkward, awkward.
2) He was positioned as far away from the action as one could possibly get.
3) I hate the jerk.
But the pickings were slim. I couldn’t even find Clarissa in the crowd anymore, and the blond bitch at least held the distinction of not being a person who had threatened my life recently. I took the stairs two at a time, and came to a halt directly in front of him.
“Ah, Miss Haskel,” Poe said, snapping his book shut. “Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?”
“Exquisite. I’m looking for a straight answer on what’s going on here.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You sound like a member of the fourth estate. Interesting. And here I thought Cabot was prevaricating.”
Dude, the SATs were four years ago. Get a life. “Listen, what’s the deal with those guys?”
Poe brushed nacho cheese dust off on the leg of his pleated dress pants, which he’d paired with a rather shabby white undershirt. Fashion victim, on top of everything else. “Those guys, as you so eloquently put it, are patriarchs merely acting upon the board of trustees’s promise, which most of my club believed to be a bluff.”
And Poe hadn’t, clearly. “What promise?”
“To close the tomb if we were so bold as to carry through with our intent to tap members of the fairer sex.” He nodded in deference to me.
The backlash…“What! This is all because of us?”
“You and the other females,” he continued as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “They refuse to recognize your inclusion.”
I tossed my hair. “They need to join the 21st century.” Or even the 20th.
“And furthermore, the board and supporting coalition of unwilling patriarchs intend to visit a punishment upon those who acted without their permission. They informed us that they would close the tomb and invalidate the membership of any Digger who supported and/or acted upon the initiation of females.”
“You sound like a lawyer,” I spluttered through my shock. He sounded so…calm!
“Thank you. I’ll be attending Eli Law come fall. At least, that’s the plan.”
(Eli Law, by the way, is rather infamous for not turning out lawyers. Supposedly the best law school in the country, but everyone on their roster either becomes professors or politicians.)
“How the hell can you be so blasé about this?” I practically shouted (Malcolm would say I was being indiscreet). “You tapped us, too!”
“Indeed I did,” Poe replied, in that infuriatingly unruffled tone.
“Well, aren’t you upset about having your—your membership invalidated?”
“I’ve had a few
weeks to get used to the idea.” Poe shrugged. “I’m certainly upset about the development. But I can’t say I’m surprised. In fact, I was just telling Malcolm a few moments ago—”
“That was you on the cell phone.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And you were already here.”
“I assure you, as I’m sure you heard me assure him, my presence isn’t about to make a modicum of difference at this juncture.”
“Dammit, stop talking like that!”
His gray eyes went cold, but he obeyed. “Look, honey, I happen to agree with them. I don’t think women should be members of Rose & Grave, and I argued that point as long as my voice held out. I also held no illusions that the TTA board would ‘come around’ as soon as they saw what a great group of girls we tapped, which was the mistaken hypothesis of the rest of my club. However, when it became obvious that I was the only one of the Diggers who thought so, I decided to support my brothers.”
“Why?”
“Because the decision to tap has to be unanimous, and we were at an impasse. From that point on, I didn’t say a word. We interviewed girls, we groomed girls, we deliberated about girls, we tapped girls, and we initiated girls, and during the whole process, I never once spoke up about how I thought it was a really bad idea.”
He said “girls” like it was a dirty word. I wanted to slap him.
And still, the lecture went on. “What’s happening now is exactly what I said would happen, but I’m not going to start throwing ‘I told you so’s around. We went over the board’s head, and acted without the support of the trustees at large. We can’t take back the initiation now—you’ve been inside the tomb, inside the Inner Temple. You’ve seen everything, know everything. As far as they are concerned, we’ve committed heresy, and your class’s club is an abomination of the Order. Malcolm wants me to go down there and talk to the patriarchs because he thinks that they’ll be more likely to listen to someone who’s on their side. But because I’m on their side, I have no argument to make.”
Forget arguments to them—talk about a rimshot! I could make a dozen without breaking a sweat. “Why don’t you think women should be allowed in Rose & Grave?”
He looked at me for a long time without blinking, then stood. “Right now, the quickest answer is that tapping you has fucked up my life. They aren’t going to stop with the tomb. They’ll go after our school records. They’ll go after everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a resume to update. If I were you, I’d do the same.”
“You’re a sexist asshole.”
He stopped for a moment. “Maybe I’ll put that down under Skills.”
“And get a job with whom?” I snapped. “The Taliban?”
Emotions flashed so quickly across his face that I had a tough time catching them, but he finally settled on disdain. “I am not implying that women are in any way inferior to men. I am in full support of an elite women’s secret society on campus.”
I rolled my eyes. “Separate is not equal, buddy. An Eli law student should know that.”
“When Wellesley accepts my little brother, I’ll revisit the issue.” And then he took off down the steps.
At least now I was up to speed. And I also knew that I disliked Poe whatever-his-real-name-was a lot more than even Miss Clarissa “Slumming” Cuthbert. I trudged back down the steps and ran smack into Malcolm, who was redialing his cell phone.
“You can forget it,” I said. “He’s not coming.”
Malcolm looked at me. “Who?”
“Poe.”
Malcolm flinched at my use of the society name, but was all business as he grabbed my arm. “How do you know?”
“I just talked to him.”
“Here?” Malcolm searched the area with his eyes. “That sneaky bastard!”
“That’s not the adjective I’d use.”
He frowned. “You don’t really know him.”
Man, that whole oath of constancy thing really took, didn’t it? I wondered if I’d be jumping in to defend Clarissa next. “I know he doesn’t want me in the society.”
Malcolm sighed. “That’s not true. If he truly didn’t want it, it wouldn’t have happened.”
I shook my head. Malcolm might think he knew his society brother, but I’d looked the guy in the eyes. He’d wanted nothing to do with the “fairer sex.” Stone Age jerk.
“Okay, then, Amy, we’re on our own.” His hand slipped down to mine, and he began pulling me forward.
“What are you doing?” I cried as we pushed through the crowd.
“We’re going to talk to them.”
I started to dig my heels into the asphalt. “But what about…all that stuff you said?”
Malcolm looked back and winked. “Loophole, kiddo. We’re press.”
WAYS IN WHICH AMY HASKEL AND MALCOLM CABOT DIFFER FROM “PRESS”
Considering the above, you can probably guess my reaction.
“The hell I am!” I shouted, drawing the attention of more than a few interested bystanders. “Malcolm, have you ever even read the Eli Literary Magazine?”
He made a face, as if the very suggestion was anathema to all he found acceptable in his reading material. (Note to self: Include more page-turners in next issue.) “Please, Amy.” Regrouping, he yanked me along. “Look, you’ve got a media outlet at your disposal. That’s all I care about right now.”
Well, I thought, as he swung me face-to-face with a silver-haired human shield, at least this fit the theme of “Ambition.”
“Mr. Cabot,” said one of the patriarchs. “Quite a daring move, I must say. Whatever must your fellows think?”
My society big sib didn’t miss a beat. “Malcolm Cabot, Eli Daily News. May I ask what brings you to High Street today, sir? It appears you’re guarding the entrance to the Rose & Grave tomb. Is this true?” And then, leaning in, he hissed, “I think it would be better if this matter were handled in-house.”
“I’m sorry,” the patriarch replied. “But I really can’t talk about that.”
“You’re making fools of all of us,” Malcolm continued under his breath. “No one wants the society to be a laughingstock.”
“I’m sorry,” the patriarch replied. “But I’m really not allowed to talk about that.”
“Come on,” Malcolm said. “You have to open up a dialogue here. Stop treating me like some kind of bar—” He froze, then straightened, his eyes wide as the rules of the game became clear. “Barbarian. You prick.”
“You defied us. You pay the price.”
“Like hell.”
The patriarch went on. “And that’s not all. We intend to pursue this to the fullest extent. Good luck with your career, Mr. Cabot.”
A frigid cord of fear seemed to band my lungs at the man’s oh-so-casual tone, and I felt my blood rush in retaliation. Now it was my turn to be indignant. “Hey! Don’t you think that’s taking things a little too far?” I caught Malcolm’s warning glance. “Um, Amy Haskel, Eli Lit Mag.” Formalities aside, I continued in a lower voice. “Some stupid undergrad organization is one thing, but you have no right to mess with his future—”
“Amy Haskel,” the patriarch said. “Editor of the literary magazine.”
I flicked a strand of hair behind my shoulder as if I hadn’t a care in the world. “That’s what I said.”
“Prescott College.”
And he could read my T-shirt, too. Big deal.
“Hails from Cleveland, Ohio. Daughter of Carl, an accountant with Simpson Associates, and Mardie, a housewife and former Montessori school teacher. Literature major. Scheduled to begin an editorial internship at Horton Press in Manhattan on June 12.”
There seemed to be a sudden blockage in my throat and I fought the urge to swallow convulsively. Ignore him. It’s the stupid Diggers trick. Blah blah blah files on me. Whatever.
But…my parents’ names, my internship start date…Poe had said they’d go after me….
“Nice plan,” he sneered. “Good luck with your car
eer.”
Malcolm had to hold me back.
A scream rose within my chest and somehow, I managed to keep my mouth shut, though I could feel my lungs constrict with the effort of holding it in. You wouldn’t dare! I thought, staring at the man so intently that even my non-existent powers of telepathy couldn’t fail in getting the point across. I’d never once looked at an adult with more concentrated animosity, but then again, I’d never before been in a situation where one had threatened me. No, they usually tried to help me—teach me something, write me recommendations, give me a summer job, tell me how impressed they were with my prodigious achievements and how excited they were to see what I’d be making of my future.
The guy seemed to be intimating he’d like to make sure that I didn’t have one.
I couldn’t breathe.
And then the cavalry arrived, in the form of the other new taps. Demetria led the charge, followed by half a dozen others. I even saw Jennifer, though George Harrison Prescott was not around.
“No!” Malcolm said. “This is a private interview.”
“Right,” Demetria said. She puffed her chest out at the head patriarch. “Gonna screw with all of us, dipshit?”
“Let’s go,” Malcolm bellowed. He herded us up and moved us past the shield and the crowd. I saw a few familiar faces at the edge of the rabble. Senior Diggers, waiting in the wings. Malcolm nodded to one as he passed. “Get him,” he said, and I had no doubt who it was he meant. “My room. Powwow.”
The words galvanized me, and I found my voice at last. Malcolm dragged me away as I raised my fist at the patriarch to deliver a parting shot. “And, by the way, I don’t live in Cleveland. I’m a suburbs girl. Shaker Heights. Get your facts straight, sucker.”
“Amy!” said Malcolm. “Discretion.”
* * *
Malcolm hustled us away from the crowd and straight into the side entrance of Calvin College. He handed his set of keys to Greg. “Fourth floor, entryway J. I’ll wait for the others.”
I leaned heavily against the granite wall. Whatever rush of adrenaline had kept me upright for the last few minutes in front of the tomb had finally worn off. “Are we going to try to get in the back way?”
Secret Society Girl Page 15
