Secret Society Girl il-1

by Diana Peterfreund

  I held my breath and put my hand on the gate. Nothing. No one came to arrest me, or yell at me, or threaten to eradicate my existence from the planet for daring to infiltrate the society grounds without permission. I took a step inside. Then two. Somewhere around six steps, the gate clanged shut behind me. I yelped, jumped about two feet in the air, and rushed back to the fence.

  The gate wouldn’t open. I fumbled with the catches, but if there was a release mechanism, my fingers weren’t finding it, and I couldn’t see a thing in the dark. Oh, crap. I’d been a member for all of fifty minutes and I’d already broken the fence and messed with the secret code.

  And trespassed. Don’t forget how you trespassed. They’re going to get you. Run! Run, before anyone catches you.

  The voice won, and I climbed over the gate, catching the flare of my favorite jeans on one of the spikes protruding from the top. For several seconds, I acted like a hopscotch player on crack while trying to free my leg from its wrought-iron trap. Then I saw a group of three students exiting Calvin College and heading toward Old Campus. I stopped hopping. Maybe they wouldn’t see me if I stayed perfectly still. Hey, it worked for those people in Jurassic Park.

  Fortunately, the average college student has the environmental acuity of a beanbag chair. They don’t even look both ways before crossing the street. So they didn’t look down High Street at the girl who was stuck to the Rose & Grave gate.

  I ripped my hem free, and then, torn denim flapping on the cement behind me, sprinted away from the tomb at a pace that would have easily earned me a spot on the Eli track team.

  I didn’t slow to a jog until I was back inside my residential college courtyard. Eli University, kind of like Harry Potter’s Hogwarts, is arranged according to this British boarding school—style residential house system. We don’t use a magical sorting hat or anything like that, but when you matriculate, you’re assigned to one of twelve residential “colleges” that determines where you live, which dining hall you eat in, what allegiance you take during intramural sports, and which dean has the privilege of lowering the ax when you screw up. Every one of the twelve colleges comes supplied with resident faculty as well as its own dean, a sort of collegiate “principal” who serves as an academic advisor and resident disciplinarian, and a college master, who oversees our social scene and college-specific organizations. If you couldn’t turn in a paper on time, you went to your dean for help. If you wanted some funds to hold a Prescott College chili cook-off, the master was the go-to guy (or girl).

  The worst punishment you can get at Eli short of expulsion is called “rustication”—which means that after a fun-filled period of suspension, you are welcomed back into the bosom of Eli but stripped of your college identity. From that point on, the rusticated individual can’t live on campus (all undergrad housing is based on college designation) and doesn’t have a college master or dean to turn to in the rough times. You’re merely marking time and classroom credits until the diploma. It’s named after a type of banishment popular during the Roman Empire, which says a lot about these schools’ puffed self-images. College identity is paramount, even to people with much more powerful affiliations—like Rose & Grave. If ever you meet another Eli grad, the very first question you’ll be asked is, “What college were you in?”

  I was a member of Prescott College, which was named after one of the school’s founders. Other colleges are named after Connecticut towns (Hartford College, where Glenda lived) and famous historical figures, scientists, and religious leaders (such as Calvin College, next to the Rose & Grave tomb). Though nowadays your college assignment is mostly random (but you can choose to be in the same college as your sibling or parent was), it used to be that each college had a specific personality based on its members—kind of like secret societies. Prescott College was once known as the “legacy” college—it’s where the President lived while he was at Eli, as well as his father before that. It still has a lot of money in trust from alumni donations, and really big rooms. So I lucked out there, since I’m neither a legacy nor richer than Trump.

  I looked up at my suite; still dark, which meant Lydia hadn’t come home yet. I thought about going to find some of my other friends, but knew that no conversation would last ten minutes before I blurted out, “Would a secret society tap a person then disappear? Hypothetically, of course.”

  Oh, I was pathetic. After a thorough inspection of the courtyard (during which I stumbled across one puddle of vomit, one pile of unidentified books, and one fellow junior making out with someone who was decidedly not her boyfriend—but no sign of robed figures), I headed back to my room, utterly defeated and more than a little pissed that I’d torn my jeans.

  According to every legend I’d ever heard, this is not what Tap Night was supposed to be like. What a letdown. I changed into my pajamas and padded into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Flossing, fortunately, gave me the opportunity for a good long observation of myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a member of one of the most notorious secret societies in America. I didn’t look like someone who could claim brotherhood with the head of the CIA, the President of the United States, or the new CEO of Fox.

  “Faeth it,” I garbled to my reflection through the floss. “Youffe been hadth.”

  ***

  I fully intended to be out of the suite before I saw Lydia and was forced to tell her all about what hadn’t happened to me the night before. I even dressed for the part, in secret-mission dark jeans (not the ones I’d torn) and my fade-into-the-woodwork Eli University crest hoodie.

  What I did not anticipate was that she’d be waiting for me in the dining hall, having staked out a spot right next to the cereal bar. This is the problem with best friends. They know exactly what breakfast you’re going to go for. If I’d been in the mood for a bagel rather than a bowl of Frosted Flakes, she never would have caught me.

  “Nice outfit,” she murmured over her coffee cup. “You really look the part.”

  I splashed some skim milk into my bowl and plopped down across from her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She gestured with her teaspoon at my outfit. “Dark colors, mysterious hoods…it’s very subtle.” She smirked.

  “I’ve worn this sweatshirt a hundred times.”

  “Never when you were actually in a secret society.” Lydia was dressed in a pale pink blouse and a pair of khakis, and looked about as mysterious as a church picnic.

  Okay, maybe I didn’t look coy, but I could sure as hell play the part. “What makes you think I’m in a secret society?” I asked, spooning up my flakes.

  “The dozen robed figures who carried you bodily out of our suite last night.”

  Ha! I took a deep breath. “How do you know they were a secret society?”

  She gave me a look that said, I’ve got a 3.9 GPA, and you know it.

  But all of a sudden, I very much wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter. “Seriously, Lyds, how do you know? How would any of us know that they weren’t a bunch of guys in hoods playing a practical joke?”

  “I think the Rose & Grave letterhead is a good clue.”

  “You looked at the envelope.”

  “It’s pretty hard to miss, Amy. Little flower, great big coffin?” She eyed me warily. “Are you going to get up and leave the room now?” By all accounts, secret society members had to leave the room if anyone mentioned the name of their organization. Supposedly it was to protect them from entering into discussion about the society, but it always seemed like a raw deal to me. Say you were at a rocking party and some chick wanted you out of the picture so she could mack on your man. All she had to do was start listing societies until she hit on yours. I suppose this is the kind of thing you have to think about when you join one.

  “It depends,” I said, setting down my spoon. “Dragon’s Head. Book & Key. Serpent. You going anywhere?”

  Lydia said nothing. We sat there, staring at each other. Either she wasn’t following the rule, I hadn’t named her society, or sh
e was just as unsure of what was going on as I was.

  I tried turning the tables. “I came back to the room not five minutes after I left it, and you weren’t there anymore. And you didn’t come back for the rest of the evening. Were you tapped by someone after I left?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “No, I don’t!” I noticed my raised voice had attracted some listeners from nearby tables, and leaned forward to talk to her more privately. Luckily, dining halls are mostly deserted during the breakfast hours—especially on Fridays. “I don’t know anything about how this works. I don’t even know if those guys in their robes were serious last night. As far as I know, I wasn’t tapped by anyone, Diggers or otherwise.”

  At the word “Diggers,” Lydia flinched.

  A horrible thought then came to me. Maybe Lydia had been tapped by Rose & Grave—the real Rose & Grave—and the reason she wasn’t talking was that telling me that my experience was a hoax meant revealing exactly how she knew. After all, she hadn’t reacted to any of the society names I’d thrown out earlier, but I hadn’t mentioned the Diggers. Still, she had, which she probably wouldn’t if she’d been tapped…my head started to hurt.

  Am I paranoid, or what? If I hadn’t been tapped, they sure had missed out on a prime candidate. Smart, sexy, and neurotic enough to do any clandestine organization proud.

  Lydia sat back and took another sip of her coffee. “It’s true there have been hoaxes in the past. Do you think that’s what happened to you?”

  I shrugged. “How do I know? If it was a hoax, it wasn’t too high on the personal humiliation scale. You’d think they’d have at least tried for a fake initiation of some sort.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “So what did they do?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her, but then shut it again. Why should I share anything with Lydia if she wasn’t willing to reciprocate? Besides, what was I supposed to say and what wasn’t I? On the off chance that this whole fiasco had been for real, what kind of trouble would I get in for reporting the experience? There were too many options to keep track of.

  POSSIBILITIES

  A) I was tapped by Rose & Grave, and so shouldn’t tell anyone anything.

  B) I was either tapped or tricked, and telling Lydia meant I could figure out which one it was.

  C) I was the victim of a practical joke and Lydia was a member of Rose & Grave and was just toying with me.

  D) None of the above.

  Too bad Lydia was the one who’d spent the semester doing logic problems in preparation for the LSAT. Ugh. As if I wasn’t under enough pressure. Why couldn’t a girl just finish War andPeace, rock her finals, whip out a kick-ass commencement issue of the Lit Mag, prepare for a summer in Manhattan, and enjoy a no-strings-attached relationship with a cute if slightly dorky boy who liked to buy her pad Thai? Was that too much to ask?

  Actually, looking at it laid out like that, yeah. It was an awful lot. And now I may or may not have to add “join a notorious underground brotherhood” to the list.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Nothing like what happens in the movies, that’s for sure.”

  “No pig’s blood or sacrificed virgins?”

  “Where would they find a virgin around here?”

  Lydia spit out her coffee. After she finished composing herself, she set her cup back on her tray and regarded me. “You know, if you really think it’s a hoax, I suggest you do some research.”

  “What kind of research?” I certainly hoped she wasn’t about to propose another field trip to the Rose & Grave tomb. I was still scarred from last night, and I couldn’t afford to lose another pair of jeans.

  “At the library. They have lots and lots of info on secret societies.”

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “But what about the ‘secret’ part?”

  “A surprisingly recent development.” She leaned in. “They used to publish the list of Rose & Grave taps every year in the New York Times.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “It is. Members put it on their resume. They were very open about it. Kind of at odds with the whole ‘leaving the room’ thing, huh?” She paused and looked down at her plate. “But that doesn’t make it any less valid.”

  Her subtext was clear: She wasn’t going to tell me anything about her society. And it hurt me more than I expected. Lydia and I had always shared everything. We’d lived together for three years. I’d gone to visit her in London last summer. We’d rented that room in the beach house in Myrtle Beach our sophomore spring. She knew I had been dabbling in novel writing, I knew she’d had an affair with her sophomore year poli-sci T.A. Aside from the whole he’s-her-teacher-eww factor, it’s not as sketchy as it sounds. He was only twenty-four. Okay, you’re right, it’s sketchy, but I’m not one to judge—remember Ben Somebody? When I’d returned to our beach house the next morning, in equal parts mortified and terror-stricken—How could I have slept with someone I didn’t know? What was wrong with me? — Lydia never lectured me, just encouraged me to remember as much as I could about the incident (like, for example, putting the condom on, thank God!) and for the rest of the week happily stayed home from the party scene and played sober and boy-free Scrabble with me on the beach. She was my best friend.

  But this was turning out to be bigger than ill-conceived one-night stands. It might even be bigger than our friendship.

  Lydia glanced at her watch and groaned. “I’ve got to get up to Rocks for Jocks lab.” (All of the science courses, even the loser ones designed for history majors like Lydia who can’t tell a covalent bond from a computer chip, are located on the other end of campus. Does Eli have its priorities straight, or what?) “If you go to the library, could you take back two books for me? They’re sitting on the end of my bed.”

  I nodded and Lydia departed, leaving me alone with my Frosted Flakes and a quickly dwindling appetite. Did I really want to spend my morning combing through the Stacks, only to find out that my whole Tap Night experience had been a hoax?

  I’m evidently a sucker for punishment. On my way to Dwight Memorial Library, I swung by the suite to pick up Lydia’s books, some dusty history tomes with titles I could barely make out on the disintegrating covers. A piece of paper stuck out from between the pages of one, covered in Lydia’s careful, upright script. She’d forgotten her notes.

  But when I pulled the paper out, I could see that it was a printout from the online card catalog, covered in check marks and other notations. I was about to drop it to the desk when one of the titles caught my eye:

  Kellogg, H. L. College Secret Societies: Their Customs, Character, and the Efforts for Their Suppression. Chicago: Ezra A. Cook, 1874.

  No wonder Lydia knew where to get the scoop.

  ***

  As if to convince myself that I wasn’t obsessing about this whole secret society thing (after all, at least ninety percent of every Eli class never joins one!), I brought WAP with me to read in the library. It took me two hours to track down the five titles listed on Lydia’s printout. Dwight Library Stacks are about twelve stories tall, with enough hidden nooks and crannies for half the student body to hide in. It’s an old Eli tradition to have sex in the Stacks at least once before graduation. (And, no, I’ve never done it, not even with the faux beatnik Galen Twilo.)

  I finally found one of the books tucked away in between the ceiling and the top of the bookcase where it was supposed to be shelved. Another old library trick: If you don’t want anyone to take out the books you need, you hide them. I often wondered how many volumes were forever lost in the morass of the Stacks because some student had decided to play nut-storing squirrel and lost track of his hiding places—or never bothered to undo the damage once the semester was over. (See, you’d think that Ivy League students were an honest, trustworthy bunch, but no. Some of the crap I’ve seen pulled on this campus is practically criminal. But I never thought Lydia was the type to engage in that type of behavior.)

  I trekked down to the nearest r
eading room and set up shop at one of the carved wooden tables that ran from end to end. Giant burgundy leather wingback chairs and elegant reading lamps with green shades rounded out the décor, and the Friday morning sun shone in from the lead-veined windows and highlighted the Gothic stone arches vaulting high above my head. The Dwight Memorial reading rooms just reeked of high-class academia.

  I immediately started to feel sleepy.

  Which had more in common with the caffeinating qualities of a mochacchino: 1,472 pages of Russian historic literature extolling the exploits of the Napoleonic invasion, or dusty essays about 19th century collegiate frats?

  Blecch. I decided to stave off boredom by switching back and forth on a regular basis. Natasha Rostov was up to her usual antics, but the society tome didn’t gift me with any useful info. Seriously, do I care whether or not Phi Beta Kappa started at William & Mary? I want to know what’s going on with Rose & Grave in the 21st century.

  “Hi, Amy.”

  I looked up to see Malcolm Cabot standing over my table. A senior, a popular party boy, and the son of a state governor, Malcolm Cabot and I didn’t run in the same social circles. My friends stocked up on popcorn and had Sex and the City marathons, while his crowd liked to drive down to “The City” for marathon sex weekends. He wasn’t in my college, we’d never been in the same class, and as far as I knew, we hadn’t exchanged so much as three words in my years at Eli. “Um, hi.”

  Okay, four words.

  “What’s up?” Malcolm craned his neck toward my reading material, which, luckily, was currently opened to page 834 of WAP. He was dressed in a spring green polo shirt with the letters “CC” printed in the corner, and a pair of very well-fitting blue jeans. His sandy hair looked like it had been ripped right out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. He wore his messenger bag slung across his chest and was thrumming his fingers against the strap. “Russian Novel class, huh? Which one did you like best?”

  “Crime and Punishment,” I said. “It’s only 500 pages long.”