Above me, a brown-shirted member of Hartford College made a play for the Edison flag (flag stealing being a favorite pastime at The Game), and the whole section rose in revolt. Someone jostled Jenny, and she slammed into me, throwing us both off the bench and against Ben’s broad back.
“Watch it!” he shouted at the squirming mass of Edisonians. “You okay?”
“I think I screwed up the sequence,” Jenny said, rubbing the back of her head. “I knew I should be doing this from the tent.”
“And miss the look on his face?” I asked. “Not a chance, hon. You deserve this more than anyone. This is the only part we can’t catch on camera. So we’re here.”
“We won’t be catching anything, camera or otherwise, if I screw up the sequence.” Jenny crouched in the space between the benches and started back in. “Okay, it’s counting down. A little early, but it’ll still work, right?”
Elsewhere, people paid attention to the action on the field, sang along to the school hymns the marching band banged out, or sneaked out flasks for a quick swig; all were oblivious to the chaos about to be unleashed.
Harun appeared behind us. “How’s it going?”
“We started.”
“Already?” He put his hands on Jenny’s shoulders and gave her a congratulatory knead. “Great! How are you feeling?”
Jenny shrugged, but didn’t pull away.
“Not guilty, right?” He smiled down at her. “Personally, we’re all excited you’ve decided to hang on to your vengeance card for a little longer.”
“Vengeance is a lofty goal,” she said. “One I’d never think of usurping. I try to keep it simple.” And then she smiled. “Just a little reminder that payback, when indeed it comes, is going to be a bitch.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd and we all looked up. Here it goes. The scoreboard began to decay before our eyes, the digital numbers falling from screen to screen.
“Show-off,” Harun whispered.
“This is hilarious,” said an Edison junior nearby. “Someone hacked it. What do you think, MIT?”
“This wouldn’t be the first time,” said the guy’s girlfriend. “But I bet it’s one of our guys. Who else would have access to the scoreboard?”
All the Diggers hid their smiles.
The announcer called a pause in play as everyone in the bowl, from the players on the field to the students in the stands to the alumni enjoying the pricey seats in the boxes, stared at the scoreboard and wondered what would happen next.
This is what they saw:
MICAH PRICE
WE’RE WATCHING YOU
BEST BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU DO
And then the words exploded into a shower of tiny hexagons and roses.
“Nice touch,” said Harun.
Jenny tried not to smile and we all ducked farther down in our seats as people in the audience began pointing to Micah. A knot of people had surrounded him, their heads close together as they whispered about the message. Laughs and jeers floated down the rows. Frat boys taunted him with sophomoric singsong rhymes. At last he stood and made a beeline for one of the exits. Harun picked up his cell phone and typed a message. As soon as Micah disappeared down the hall, we stood.
“Shall we?” I asked, and it took restraint not to link elbows as we strolled out of the stadium, leaving the Eli football team to fend for themselves. I’d like to say the game was going well for our side, but the Eli students had already started up the cheer of “School on Monday,” which was only utilized when we thought we couldn’t lord it over the Harvard students any other way. (Eli gave the whole week of Thanksgiving off, whereas Harvard kids only got Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.) Things weren’t looking good for Old Blue. I hoped it wasn’t a harbinger of bad luck to come for Old Blue’s most notorious secret society. Much as I loved my school, if anyone needed luck right now, it was the Order of Rose & Grave.
We spilled out of the stadium and into the shantytown of tailgating tents and vans. The Rose & Grave tent was a respectable yet relatively unassuming affair situated in alumni central. Even in the midst of a massive conspiracy to start civil war, the patriarchs knew to keep up appearances. Actually, the ones who arranged the tent (like Gus Kelting) probably weren’t aware of what their fellow board members had been up to. That would all end today.
The rest of the club was waiting for us inside.
“He’s in his car,” George reported, waving us over. We gathered around the television set, and someone handed me a beer. On the screen, a grainy image of Micah could be seen driving back to campus.
“Come on, flip on the radio…” George coaxed, and such is the boy’s charm that Micah, even from this distance, did.
“Man, I wish we had sound!” Josh exclaimed. But you almost didn’t need it. You could see the shock register on Micah’s face as he listened.
“By the way, this is what he’s hearing,” said Odile, pressing PLAY on the iPod she’d plugged into a stereo. A jarring, grinding sound issued from the speakers, followed by Micah’s name, whispered over and over in an ominous, evil voice. “Micah Price…we’re watching you. You can’t escape from the Devil that easily.”
Micah’s face was a mask of fear as we watched him press station after station on his radio control.
“Jammed,” Omar said, and smiled slightly.
Finally, Micah switched his radio off and pulled in to what I supposed was his parking garage.
Odile lifted her phone to her ear. “He’s at home. Quick, George, switch the channel. It’s showtime!”
Odile had called in one more favor from her Hollywood FX friends, Kevin had raided the Eli Dramat for the necessary sound and video equipment, and Nikolos had D-bombed Micah’s landlord good and proper. The stage was set.
The television set now showed a four-way split screen, each focused on a different section of Micah’s efficiency apartment: his kitchen sink, his bathroom mirror, the front hall, and the phone.
A few moments later, Micah entered by the front door. As soon as he did, he froze and put his hands up to cover his ears.
“The open door trips a wire that blasts death metal,” Kevin explained. “Really Satanic stuff.”
In the image, Micah ran from spot to spot, looking for a way to make the music stop. He paused to turn on a light, and the picture flooded with shades of red and violet.
“Wow, Micah,” said Odile. “Are you using those new low-energy bulbs?” She giggled as Micah stuck his head under the lamp shade to get a look at his new lighting scheme, and got a face full of movie cobwebs instead.
From there, he rushed into the kitchen and turned on the sink tap, the better to wash the gunk off his face. Yet what issued from the faucet was not water, but dark red blood. (Actually, dye packs shoved in the faucet head.) As it splashed all over his hands and arms, he reeled back in shock.
“Please get a towel,” Jenny said. “I’m begging you.”
He knelt on the floor in front of the sink and went to yank open the cabinet. From that point on, everything happened too fast. All I saw were things spilling out on him and Micah scrambling back, practically climbing the walls to get away from the wave of little brown bodies…rats!
“Well-trained rats,” Ben clarified. “Homing rats, if you will. And they were not easy to get in there.”
The homing rats covered the floor and Micah dropped out of the frame. For a moment, all I saw were the squirming bodies of the rats slowly filling the floor of the apartment, and I hoped they actually were very well trained, because I couldn’t imagine how much more freaked the landlord would be if he were to find out what the Diggers had done once they’d been granted permission to go inside his place.
All of a sudden, there was movement near the phone. Micah’s feet. He was standing on a chair.
“Time for the coup de grâce, I think,” said Odile, and whipped out her cell phone. On-screen, we could see Micah lean over and pick up his own phone.
“Hello,” we heard him say over Odile’s speakerph
one.
“Micah Price,” Odile said in her best impression of Cruella de Vil. “You have been judged and found unworthy. Prepare for your punishment at the hands of my minions, the unholy Knights of the Order of Rose & Grave.”
“Holy shit, make it stop! Make it stop!” When hysterical, I noted, Micah sounded surprisingly like a six-year-old girl.
“Do you know what it means to have the Brotherhood of Death as an enemy, Micah Price?”
“I’m sorry. Please! Please! I can’t stand these rats! Get them out of here!” Behind the sound of his voice, I heard more of the music and, yes, squeaking.
“If you know what’s good for you,” she went on, “you’ll be more careful about whom you decide to target. We can always get to you, Micah Price. This is merely a taste of what you can expect.” She stopped. “Oh, and for Christ’s sake, stop picketing that Bible class.” She clicked off. “That should do it.”
We all burst into applause. On-screen, two figures entered the apartment, both enormous, burly guys dressed completely in black and wearing executioner-style hoods. One grabbed an unresisting Micah and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, while the other proceeded to begin herding up the rodents.
We toasted our success, and were still laughing when the tent flap opened to reveal a half-dozen patriarchs, including Kurt Gehry. The good cheer died down at once, and he strode forward and took in the scene on the television set.
“I knew it! I was told there were shenanigans going on in this tent. You’re making a mockery of this organization!” He looked over at Nikolos. “I expected better from you. What are we, a group of magicians playing parlor tricks?”
Nikolos did his best bored-rich-boy shrug and grabbed a handful of pretzels. “I thought it was funny.”
“A bit childish, perhaps,” said George, adopting a similar pose, “but then again, some of us are known for our immaturity.” He winked at me, but there was nothing lascivious about it. Maybe we were all capable of growing up.
“Not childish,” I interjected. “Good clean fun. Right, Mara?”
“The type of prank we’ve engaged in for centuries,” she agreed. “Actually, sir, it’s you who makes a mockery of this organization every time you seek to undermine our unity and turn brother against brother.”
“You disapprove of parlor tricks because your method falls much more toward the bullying and threatening side of the equation,” said George. “Which isn’t cool.”
Josh pointed at him. “Kurt Gehry, so-called Barebones: For breaking the oath of constancy, for your participation in the unsanctioned revival of Elysion, and most of all, for your totally whack lies and insinuations about patriarch involvement in the disappearance of one of our brothers, we knights of D177 disavow you as our patriarch. All in favor, say ‘Aye.’”
A chorus of “Aye”s erupted across the room.
“You can’t do that,” Gehry spluttered. “I’m a trustee.”
“Not a trustee whose opinions or orders will ever matter to this club again, God willing,” Jenny said.
“We’ve entered your name and actions into the annals of the Black Books,” I said. “Your infamous behavior toward this club is now recorded for posterity. At Rose & Grave, your name is mud.”
He laughed. “I don’t think so, girly. I’m one of the most powerful men in the country. Who do you think people care about? Me, or a bunch of silly college students?”
“You should be the one who cares about a bunch of silly college students,” said Josh. “We’ve recently become quite adept at combing our archives.”
“And we’ve pulled up a good chunk of dirt on you,” added Odile.
“And, funny,” said Jenny, “but since you’ve been disavowed by this club, I don’t think we’re under any vows of secrecy as far as you’re concerned.”
I smiled sweetly. “Watch your step, sir. You of all people should know what we like to do to outsiders.”
At that, Gehry and a few of his cronies turned very red in the face and left. A few more stayed behind, watching us curiously.
“What’s been going on here?” one asked.
Josh stepped forward. “I’ll be happy to explain it all back at the tomb, sirs. But suffice it to say, it’s been a very interesting semester. We admit the club has been plagued with certain problems, but we believe we’ve rooted them out, and now we’re back on track.”
“But…threatening a trustee…” another began.
“He almost destroyed us,” I said. “He’s lucky all we did was threaten.”
Soon after, the cheers resounding in the stadium indicated that Eli had once again snatched victory from the gaping maw of humiliating defeat, and the parking lot began to grow quite crowded. As a group, we decided to adjourn to our home base to enjoy the fruits (hopefully fermented) of our success and explain the rest of our story to the stunned patriarchs. We headed back to campus, then fairly ran home to the ancient tomb on High Street.
Poe was seated on the stoop. He watched as most of the members filtered past him, waving at a few, completely ignoring Jenny, and giving deferential nods to several patriarchs. At last, it was just the two of us.
“What’s up?” he asked. “You look like you’ve had an interesting day.”
I couldn’t hold back my grin of triumph. “I’ve been cleaning house. Getting rid of all the trash we’ve been keeping around here.”
“Quite the show back there at The Game.” He nodded sagely and scuffed his feet against the step. “Good for you. Malcolm told me your plan.”
“It was hardly my plan. We all came up with it.” Credit where credit’s due and all. But it must have given Poe a jolt when Malcolm told him what we upstarts had been scheming. “What did you say to him?”
“That you weren’t like anything we’d expected.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”
But he neither confirmed nor denied my assessment. “I guess you’ve got to go in there.”
I tilted my head. “And you?”
He was silent for a few moments, and then, very quietly, “I’m not welcome. Unlike the rest of them, I’ve committed no great act of loyalty.”
But neither had he set out to destroy us. “I beg to differ. You commit them all the time. I’m sure you’re still well in the plus column.”
“Even after Elysion?”
“Even after everything. You were the only patriarch who cared enough to find Jenny, regardless of what it meant for you. You’re the go-to guy—the patriarch I think most understands what it means to be a knight of Rose & Grave.” I walked over to the door and gestured to him. “Come on, old man. Shower us with your Diggerly wisdom.”
He followed me, his face full of hope. “You’re sure?”
I put my hand over my Rose & Grave pin. “Cross my heart. Besides, if you don’t get in there, I have to call you Jamie. Don’t do that to me.”
The ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he yanked open the door and stuck one foot inside. “After you, Bugaboo.”
And, together, we entered the tomb. Though maybe I should have thought better of it.
After all, Puck still had to give his C.B.
Acknowledgments
My appreciation goes out to every reader of Secret Society Girl and Under the Rose. Your e-mails and letters have meant so much to me. I especially want to thank the amazing booksellers in the D.C. area, in Tampa Bay, and in Connecticut, who were so enthusiastic about my book and helped me set up rocking signings. You’re the best. Also, thanks to the Random House Get Lit team for choosing my book and helping to spread the word.
Lots of credit is due to those who helped this novel find its way into print: my genius editor Kerri Buckley, savvy copy editor Pam Feinstein, tireless publicist Shawn O’Gallgher, Brant Janeway, Cynthia Lasky, Gina Wachtel, Kelly Chian, Paolo Pepe, Lynn Andreozzi, Lynn Newmark, Tracy Devine, and, of course, Nita Taublib and Irwyn Applebaum. A special shout out to Pamela Testa, who makes a very beautiful Amy. Luanne Rice,
Lauren Baratz-Logsted, and Cara Lockwood, thank you for reading advanced copies of my debut. Also, to Mike Gibson, for working so hard on my website. And I can’t forget the “regulars” on my blog—you’ve made so many of my days.
More gratitude is due my agent, Deidre Knight, and her entire staff for their boundless energy and hard work. I’d also like to thank the agency sistahs and the members of my writing organizations, both official and those as secret as any society: the RWA Tampa chapter and the Chick Lit Writers of the World, the Non-Bombs, and the other group with the initials NB.
To my fellow writers Marley Gibson, Cheryl Wilson, Kelly Remick, Justine Larbalestier, and Julie Leto, thank you for your advice, critiques, and support. I am so lucky to have colleagues as talented and generous as you.
I am overwhelmed by the support I’ve received from my coworkers, friends, and family. I love you all. Mom and Dad, I can’t tell you how much your excitement and plans have meant to me in the past two years. That party was incredible. Everyone says so. And to my future mom and dad, thank you for sharing so much with me. And to Dan, thank you for listening to every word, calling me on the crap, and making the night of my launch party utterly unforgettable (as if it wasn’t already)!
Amy owes many of her turns of phrase to the classic works of literature she studies; I applaud the teachers who introduced me to them. And last, but not least, I am in debt to my fellow sons and daughters of Eli for inspiring my stories, and to my secret sources, for allowing me inside their wonderful world.
About the Author
DIANA PETERFREUND graduated from Yale University in 2001 with degrees in geology and literature. A former food critic, she now resides in Washington, D.C.; this is her second novel. Visit the author’s website at:
http://www.dianapeterfreund.com.
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Under the Rose Page 28