Secret Society Girl

by Diana Peterfreund

  The door burst open, revealing a gang of drunken sophomores. “Omigod,” said one, rushing in. “I gotta pee so bad!”

  I barely made it out of the way.

  Back in the narrow, dark corridor that sloped upward to the split-level body of the bar above, I paused. Maybe I should call it a night. I wasn’t adding anything of substance to the proceedings, and I doubted my presence would help them achieve a moment of brilliance. At the phone booth, I stepped up on the stool and peered over the split level through the railing at the booth where the other new taps sat. Josh and Demetria were in a heated debate about something, Benjamin was tapping his feet impatiently on the floorboards (got a perfect view of that from my vantage point), and Odile and Nikolos appeared to be in the midst of a discussion decidedly not about the society—unless there was important Digger lore to be found in her cleavage.

  “Hey, boo,” said a voice behind me. “What are you doing?”

  I started and nearly tottered off the stool. George steadied me with hands on my thighs.

  “Careful there,” he said as I stepped down onto shaky legs, mindful of the four and a half 312s I’d consumed.

  “You shouldn’t be using that name,” I said, trying to catch my breath and failing. Wasted effort with George Harrison Prescott around. “Not outside the confines of a society function. I’m afraid I’m going to have to fine you two dollars.”

  “What name?” He stepped a little closer, pinning me between the phone booth and his body.

  “You know. My society name.”

  “Oh,” he said softly. “That’s not what I said.”

  “What did you say?” I tilted my chin up in defiance.

  “Boo.” His eyes glinted copper behind those glasses. “Just ‘boo.’ It means sweetie, honey, my girl. It’s a hip-hop endearment.”

  I swallowed. My girl? Play it cool, Amy. “You’re not hip-hop.”

  “My darling boo,” he said, “I’m so very, very hip-hop.”

  And though I’d been imagining this moment for quite some time, the only thing I could think of as he kissed me was that the Yellow Pages were jabbing me in the spine.

  And then, as if he knew it, he slipped his arms around my back and cradled me against him in a manner that chased all thoughts of telephone directories and patriarch battles right out of my head. Oh, yes, the man was hip-hop. “Player” was the term I was looking for, but my mouth was too busy to form the word.

  There was a whole mess of reasons I shouldn’t have been doing this, but for the life of me they were hard to recall with George Harrison Prescott’s tongue in my mouth. He tasted like pomegranate juice and—I finally recognized the other ingredient. Honey.

  Okay, Amy, focus. You had a list. What was it?

  W HY Y OU SHOULDN ’ T MAKE O UT W ITH G EORGE H ARRISON PRESCOTT

  1) Oh, boy, are you in public right now.

  2) George has a list of female conquests as long as the phone book he’s protecting you from.

  3) I didn’t want to have to remind you of this, but you do have a rather unfortunate history with one-night stands.

  4) Have you forgotten entirely about a very sweet young man named Brandon?

  5) He’s now in the same society as—Oh my God, he has his hand up my shirt!

  One flick of the wrist and my bra snapped open. In the hallway. Surrounded by drunken sophomores who’d be sure to tattle it around and a few feet away from a whole table full of fellow Diggers. Who knew what would happen if they saw us making out like a couple of—

  “Schoolkids,” I whispered, pulling away.

  “What?” George looked at me, pupils dilated, stained lips wet and inviting.

  “You said I acted like a schoolkid when I confronted the patriarchs this afternoon.”

  He laughed. “That was you? I didn’t know. I wasn’t there, just heard about it later.”

  I remembered when he’d shown up at the meeting. He’d probably had his report from Poe. The jerk. Figures we wouldn’t have come off in glowing terms.

  George traced his hand down my back. “Oh, Amy, that takes balls. Very sexy.”

  “Balls are sexy?”

  “Women who act like they’ve got them are.” He leaned in again, but I stopped him.

  “George, what about the meeting?”

  “Pretty much over. We’re going to New York next Friday to present our case to the patriarchs. Josh et al. are setting up the parley. Benjamin is getting a van.”

  “And the seniors?”

  “We decided to present ourselves as full-fledged Diggers, not the newbie taps who need seniors to babysit us.”

  That made sense. “Amazing that everything came together the second I left for the bathroom,” I said ruefully. See? They didn’t need me.

  “Why do you think I came to find you? It’s no fun up there without you.”

  “Right, because I’m the joke.”

  He looked puzzled. “Hardly. You knew everything about the backstory today, understood the whole argument, even before we did. The seven of us are here tonight because we don’t want you girls to be second-class citizens. Come on, boo. We need you there, too. You’re going to write our manifesto. You’re the writer in the club after all.”

  This time when he tried to kiss me, I let him. Right. The writer of D177. What were a few mistaken beliefs in overblown Digger mythology compared to that?

  His whole body was pressed against mine, squishing me into the phone booth. He was standing between my legs, and there were all sorts of things happening below the waist that had no business happening in a bar, even on relatively non-crowded Sunday nights.

  Apparently, George thought so, too. “Let’s get out of here.” His voice was little more than a warm breath in my ear. I nodded and stumbled after him.

  “The bill?”

  “I think between the heir to Greece, Madame Hollywood, and Miss Park Ave., they’ve got it covered. We’ll get it next time.” He grabbed my hand. “Come on.”

  As the cool air on the street hit my face, my thoughts began to clear. What was I doing? I was leaving a bar with George Harrison Prescott. I was…going home with George Harrison Prescott. And my bra was open under my shirt.

  We walked back and he swiped his ID card at the gate to Prescott College while I struggled to put my underclothes back together. My memory banks concocted an elaborate montage of wet-haired breakfast partners I’d seen George saunter into the dining hall with over the past three years. I did not want to be one of those chicks.

  You don’t have to be. Just go back to your room afterward and come down with Lydia.

  No! That wasn’t the point. I’d done the one-night-stand thing. I hated it. And that was with a stranger. This was George, a person who lived in my building. A person I’d have to see, if not every day, then at least twice a week at society meetings. Society incest. Bad idea.

  At the door to my entryway, George started kissing me again. Lord, it was nice. Like a whole piggybank full of copper pennies and sex appeal.

  “George.” I hated myself at this moment. “I can’t.”

  He took a breath, as if he’d been waiting for this. “Okay.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  He stepped back, the smile and shrug slipping into position. “Nope. If it’s me, I’m not in the mood to hear it, and if it’s you, I’m not going to be the one who helps you figure it out. But, boo,” he added, ducking behind me to refasten my bra as easily as he’d undone it at the bar, “I’m not going anywhere, and I like having you around. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded, afraid to speak for fear I’d take it back. I pulled the bra down until my breasts popped back into the cups. George watched, clearly amused.

  “You’re really something else, Amy.”

  “So are you,” I replied. “You act so differently with me than you do when you’re with the other Diggers.”

  He laughed and put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. That’s our secret.”

  And then he hopped d
own the stairs, strolled over to his entryway, and was gone. For a few seconds, I thought about hurrying after him and throwing myself into his arms, admitting that I’d made a terrible mistake.

  I’m lucky I didn’t.

  Instead, I trudged up to my door, where I noticed that Lydia had cleaned off the last traces of dried whatever-it-was on the doorknob. Finally. And, just think: I had actual classes tomorrow afternoon. Actual reading to do. Actual—I don’t know, schoolwork. At college. Imagine that.

  Probably a very good thing I wasn’t getting laid tonight.

  I opened the door to my suite and stepped inside.

  Brandon Weare sat on the sofa, his hands full of roses.

  * * *

  The moment I saw him, I knew exactly what I should say:

  1) Brandon, go home. I can’t do this tonight.

  2) Oh, flowers! How sweet! Golly, I’m wiped. Can we chat tomorrow?

  3) Brandon, because I like and respect you so much, I’m going to be honest. This isn’t working out. Exhibit A: I’ve just spent the last half hour making out with another man.

  Funny. I knew all of this, and yet the words that tumbled out of my mouth were, “How long have you been sitting here?” In my room? Holding flowers?

  “About five minutes?” I saw the notebook in his lap. He was leaving me a message, not sitting around in my room, waiting for me to return. Duh.

  “Where’s Lydia?” I asked next.

  “Not here.” He looked at me. “It’s Sunday night.”

  Of course. A time when all the normal society members were happily ensconced in their tombs.

  “Come to think, what are you doing here?”

  I decided to play coy. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, Amy…” He sighed, gave up, and held out the roses. “For you.”

  “Thanks.” I gave them an obligatory sniff. Like all roses, the heady scent hit my noggin a full three seconds later. It’s almost when you’ve given them up as merely pretty that a rose wallops you with its perfume.

  “Your new favorite.” Brandon winked.

  I smiled sadly into the blooms. “Yeah, I guess. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “It’s an apology. For the way I treated you this morning at the office. I was rude.”

  “I deserved it.” Out loud, too.

  He shook his head. “No. Well, okay, maybe a little. But mostly—I’m actually glad you are here tonight, Amy. We need to talk.”

  “Tonight?” But…I have WAP reading. All of a sudden even Russian literature seemed preferable.

  “This second.”

  Uh-oh. Had Glenda talked him into this? But even as I thought it, I knew I couldn’t blame this on a conspiracy. I’d kept Brandon waiting for far too long.

  But why had he chosen tonight of all nights to do something about it? Tonight, when I’d been this close to hooking up with someone else.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “We’ll talk.”

  But now that I’d acquiesced, Brandon seemed in no hurry to get to the point. He stood, stalked to the bookshelves across the common room, and ran his hand through his already shaggy brown hair. It was so very Brandon that I couldn’t help but smile. He was so damn cute.

  Almost instantly, a hot, horrible wash of guilt quenched that budding tenderness. Yep, cute enough to forget about and go make out with George.

  “I’m not saying this isn’t my fault, too, Amy,” Brandon was saying, and I snapped back to attention.

  That sounded promising. “You’re not?”

  “I mean, I think if I’d been clear from the beginning, we wouldn’t have let things go down this…amorphous path.”

  “Oh.”

  “Because that’s not how I wanted it. Sure, you weren’t ready on Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t want to push you, but now…” He returned and sat beside me, pushing the roses aside and taking my hand in his. “After everything we’ve done together…God, it’s so ironic. Aren’t guys supposed to be trying to talk girls into strings-free sexual relationships?”

  “Well, times have changed,” I said. “It’s the 21st century.” Although, try to explain that to a hundred years’ worth of Diggers….

  “But that’s not what I want,” Brandon went on, then hesitated. “Because…I’m in love with you, Amy.”

  PEOPLE WHO HAVE TOLD ME THEY LOVE ME

  1) My parents. Duh. Also assorted relatives.

  2) Little Stevie Morris, in second grade.

  3) Jacob Allbrecker, because you’re supposed to say that to a girl when you take her virginity. (I said it, too, to be fair.)

  4) Alan Albertson, right before he left for London.

  5) Lydia, especially when I bring her late-night snacks.

  From the above list, it’s easy to discern that Brandon Weare is neither the first nor the most important person in my life who has used the L-word in reference to me. And yet, my familiarity with the concept mattered not one iota in that magical moment when another person comes out and admits that they favor you above anyone else in the world.

  Because, let’s face it, that’s what love—romantic love—is, right? Liking that person best?

  Here’s where I wish I hadn’t dropped that Greek philosophy survey right when we got to Symposium. (That and the fact that it was way too easy for Malcolm to rag on me about Aristotle.) I remember something about aliens with too many arms and legs, but that’s about it. And really, who has a better understanding of love based on extraterrestrial appendages?

  “Earth to Amy.”

  Exactly. How did I miss out on this alien love-fest thingy? “I’m listening.”

  He frowned. “Not the reaction I was looking for.”

  “Dare I ask what it is you were?”

  He took a deep breath. “What anyone is who says something like that.” But, then, just as quickly, “It’s okay. I have no expectations of you saying it, or feeling it.”

  Just hope. He didn’t even have to say it. He never should have had to say any of this.

  “But I had to tell you,” he went on. “So—I don’t know. You’d know why I act the way I do.”

  “I already know why, Brandon.” I put my hand over his, there between us on the sofa.

  Another deep breath. “Yeah. I was kind of hoping that you didn’t, and that if I told you…” He trailed off and looked down at our clasped hands.

  He hoped that if he came right out and said it, I would stop screwing around and fall in love with him, too. I knew this man. Knew him well enough to transcribe the thoughts in his head.

  Strange. With most men, admission of unrequited love is a little wishy-washy. Forget Cyrano de Bergerac, forget Romeo Montague, Act One, Scene One. Girls only go mushy for those men in fiction. In real life, we like a little hard-to-get. Show me a pining man and I’ll show you a pussy.

  But Brandon continued to break the mold, even here. Beneath the bare bulbs shining harsh, 120-watt light down from the common-room ceiling, seated across from me on a threadbare couch with his hands full of flower-stand roses and his eyes full of expectation, Brandon Weare had never looked more like a man worthy of my love.

  And I had never felt like a bigger bitch. Here before me, in splendid, golden reality, sat a kind, brilliant, funny, cute, affectionate lover, the kind of guy that any girl I knew would be happy to not only have in her bed, but also to take home to Mom once school was out. Moreover, he loved me.

  And I’d been out with George Harrison Prescott, a player, a ladies’ man of the first order. Yes, he was cute, and yes, he was funny, and for all I knew, he might be brilliant as well, but he was not and would never be boyfriend material. I’d known that for years.

  But, wait a second, who said I wanted a boyfriend? I so didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Last time I had a boyfriend, I’d been totally burned. I’d told Lydia as much last night. I’d been telling Brandon as much for the past two months.

  “Brandon, we’ve talked about this….”

  “Yeah, we have.” He made a sound
of disgust. “And I think you’re full of crap.” Mocking me, he began to tick off a list on his fingers. “We can’t be together because, one, I’m not good with boyfriends. Well, you’ve never tried it with me. Two, I’m too busy. But not too busy to have sex with me every week or so, nor go to dinner with me once a week, nor to call me and see me and hang out half a dozen other times. You think a title change will make a difference in the time commitment? Three, I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Well, I’m telling you right now, Amy, that it has ruined our friendship. I can’t ever go back to the way things were before Valentine’s Day. If I’d known it was going to lead to this, I probably—fuck it, I probably would have done it anyway, but I’d have thought about it a lot more seriously. I want to be with you…or not. I can’t be your booty call anymore.”

  And there it was. The ultimatum. “So, decide tonight?”

  “Yes. No. Yes. Decide tonight.” He nodded briskly.

  I bit my lip, and tasted pomegranate juice. “Tonight is…not the best time.”

  “You’ve had two months to think about it.”

  Yeah, but twenty minutes ago I had another guy’s tongue down my throat. I could still taste him. I was surprised Brandon couldn’t smell him. “I—I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Brandon’s shoulders dropped. “I’ll wait,” he said resolutely.

  I rushed out of the suite and into the floor bathroom, trying not to hyperventilate. A quick trip into the stall (you do remember the four and a half 312s, right?) and then I checked out my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My mouth was stained a deep purple; it looked like I’d been sucking on pickled beets. My lips were swollen, too, and my cheeks were flushed, still (or maybe again). How could Brandon have missed these signs? I balanced my hands on the porcelain and took several deep, shuddering breaths, until my treacherous heart slowed down to normal measures.