Secret Society Girl (14 page)

Was that what we all looked like at that moment, when we promised to love, honor, and protect the society?

The Saudi Digger playing Uncle Tony lifted a scimitar. ―From this moment on, you are no longer Barbarian-So-Called Harun Sarmast. By the order of our Order, I dub thee Tristram Shandy, Knight of Persephone, Order of Rose & Grave.‖

Someone off screen struck a drum thrice, once, and twice again.

And from deep inside it welled up, and all together, we shouted, ―DIGGERS!‖

What is there to say about the rest of the evening? What salacious, luxurious details can I confess? Should I reveal how we were herded into a fleet of white stretch SUVs and driven to a Connecticut country mansion (belonging to one of the alums, or ―patriarchs‖)? How we drank champagne at midnight and feasted on broiled lobster at 2A.M. ? Even I was shocked that they had a chef up at three in the morning to caramelize the tops of the crème brûlée we had for dessert.

In between all of this, we had a crash course on the inner workings of the society, and enough history lessons to qualify for half a credit. The lore of Rose & Grave stretched back almost two centuries. It‘s not particularly exciting (and it didn‘t help that we were all exhausted and tipsy).

Seems this kid Russell Tobias got into a tizzy over not being invited to join Phi Beta Kappa, huffed off to Germany, met some Masonic or Templarian, or whatever kind of brotherhood folks, and got it into his head that, like the founder of every other Eli institution, including the university itself (which was started by a bunch of folks displeased with how they were running things at 17th century Harvard), if they wouldn‘t let him play in their club, he‘d just start his own. So he did, and because he came from this ridiculously rich family with their fingers in every Victorian moneymaking scheme there was—agriculture, import-exports, early industry (here‘s where Soze leaned over and whispered, ―Drugs‖)—he was able to devote a big chunk of change to his new little boys‘ club, and Rose & Grave was born, as was the Tobias Trust Association. The Tobias Trust Association (or TTA, as Poe proceeded to refer to it) is the closest thing to a ruling body that Rose & Grave has. It‘s presided over by a board voted in by the living members, and all monetary and other requests made by the seniors who comprise the active campus body of Rose & Grave have to be approved by this board of trustees.

―Like what?‖ Angel asked around a mouthful of champagne.

Poe exchanged careful looks with Lancelot. ―Funding. Changes to the, um, bylaws.‖

Lancelot shrugged. ―We had to do some art restoration work last year, and we had to get permission to pay for that.‖

One of the other knights cracked up. ―Yeah. ‗Art restoration.‘ You put a football through an oil painting, Lance.‖

He blushed and ducked his head.

All of the early 19th century brothers were similarly well heeled, and the Tobias Trust grew in wealth. They invested in a chunk of prime campus real estate, built themselves a massive stone tomb, and filled it with a wealth of antiques, artwork, curiosities, and college knickknacks crooked from every other organization at Eli.

Aside from the property on High Street, the Tobias Trust (a tax-free non-profit, apparently) owned a lovely little set of suites at the Eli Club in midtown Manhattan and a private island down south, where the members went on retreats.

―How much is the trust worth?‖ Soze asked. I was quickly learning that Josh could always be counted on to get to the meat of any equation.

Poe quoted a number teetering on eight figures.

Personally? I was impressed, but a quick glance around the room showed a mixed bag of reactions. Angel looked like her last sip of champagne had gone to vinegar, and Soze appeared to be biting the inside of his cheek.

―Is that not…enough?‖ Lucky asked, speaking up for the first time. Small wonder. Her similarly large income had probably paid for a fleet of churches. But it most likely didn‘t equal Angel‘s trust fund.

Poe backpedaled. ―Our actual operating budget‘s pretty large, so the cash value of the trust itself is not indicative—‖

―We‘ve got plenty of money,‖ a patriarch interrupted, as if the discussion was closed.

I raised my eyebrows at him. ―Are we still on a need-to-know basis?‖ I asked. ―Even now that we‘ve been initiated? Secrets within secrets?‖

―Wrapped in riddles buried in enigmas, babe,‖ Lancelot added, lifting his champagne glass in an impromptu toast.

―Look, Ms. Haskel—‖ the patriarch said, then bit his lip suddenly, his reproach forgotten. He dug into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed two dollars to Poe.

―Barbarian names,‖ Poe explained as he stuffed the money into the pocket of his robe.

―Penalties go into our personal till.‖

―Two down, nine million to go,‖ Soze said.

The point of this whole barbarian business was to separate our society lives from everything else. Inside the tomb and during official society events outside the tomb (like our lessons in the mansion), we used society names for each other, and society terms for various objects and events. We swore by Persephone rather than our professed religious figures. Time even ran differently; the Digger clocks were set five minutes ahead of the outside world and Diggers counted years from the time of the society‘s inception. Anything that happened in the normal world, even if it happened to society members, was referred to as ―barbarian matters.‖

The party broke up soon afterward (and without any further elucidation on our financial standing, much to the new taps‘ chagrin), and we followed the seniors into the atrium, where there was an indoor swimming pool—a real one this time. I trailed along at a safe distance and watched them strip to their skivvies and splash around in the heated water. Mist rose from the surface and swirled toward the glass ceiling, and their shrieks and shouts echoed off the stone walls. My brothers, screaming their heads off in see-through BVDs and—oh, Lord,
Clarissa

!—lacy white thongs.

I collapsed on a cushioned lounge chair and poured myself another glass of champagne from the near-empty bottle of Veuve Cliquot I‘d been toting around. My mind could not absorb the events of this evening. The crazy initiation, the new class of taps, the tour of the tomb, the history, the songs, the protocol—it was like cramming for a history exam and a lab practical all at once.

There was no way I‘d remember all the formulas, and they‘d already outlawed crib sheets. There had been dozens of secret passwords and combinations and hiding places and handshakes—yes, we learned a secret handshake, too, can you believe it?

This is how it goes:

O
FFICIAL
R
OSE
& G
RAVE
S
ECRET
H
ANDSHAKE

Step One:
Giver extends hand as if giving a regular handshake, but before clutching, tucks index finger underneath and presses it against the other guy‘s palm. That‘s how you tell them you are in.

Step Two:
Receiver taps thrice, once, and twice on the giver‘s ring, middle, and index finger knuckles, respectively. That‘s how you make sure you‘ve separated a Rose & Grave member from some other organization that also uses the palm-tickle trick.

Apparently, it‘s derived from the Templars, or the Masons, or someone, and so a lot of other secret societies do similar things.

―Everyone copies us,‖ Lancelot had said with his signature grin.

―Why don‘t you just do the part that‘s specifically Rose & Grave?‖ I had asked, and immediately regretted it, as I saw the other taps‘ eyes raise heavenward. Every time I opened my mouth, it seemed, I got myself in trouble.

Only Lancelot seemed immune to the annoyance. ―Because, Bugaboo, some of these guys are eighty, and you can‘t teach an old dog new tricks.‖

―We‘ve been using the shake for centuries,‖ another Digger explained. ―And we aren‘t about to change just because some idiots caught on and decided to copy.‖

I leaned back in my chair and practiced the secret handshake on myself, doing my best to make it look as subtle and unobtrusive as possible, so that nosy onlookers wouldn‘t notice all the fancy fingerwork. It was trickier than it looked, especially given the fact that one of my hands was upside down.

Maybe there was someone else around here to practice with. I looked up, and sure enough, Jenny Santos was sitting by herself again, watching the swimmers with a mixture of amusement and confusion on her face. She was the only one who hadn‘t been drinking tonight. In fact, of all the taps, she‘d been acting the most aloof. Maybe it was time to break the ice.

―Don‘t you like swimming, either?‖ I asked, sitting down on the end of her chaise lounge.

She snapped out of her reverie. ―I love it. But I‘m not taking my clothes off.‖

I checked out the various swimmers. And their underpants. Good point. ―Want to try the secret handshake?‖

I stuck out my hand and she proceeded to do the handshake with such ease and casual skill that my mouth dropped open. ―Wow, how did you do that? Did you already know it?‖

Jenny shrugged. ―No.‖

Maybe it was a computer dork thing. Like she was so skillful at manipulating the keyboard, flitting her way around the finger work of a secret handshake was no problem. I felt around for another conversation topic, because it didn‘t seem like Jennifer here was going to introduce any.

―So I hear you‘re a big-time computer genius. What did you invent?‖

―It‘s complicated.‖

―I‘m a smart girl. Try me.‖ At least try with more than two words, honey.

She sighed, loudly, as if she was tired of explaining it. ―I wrote the kernel for a desktop search program that avoids the repeating context search polling thread queries that invalidate the translation lookaside buffers and avoids the bogdown of CPU resources. It got picked up by a software company, and they integrated it into their new operating system.‖

Okay, maybe I‘m not that smart. But I‘m sure I could understand the monetary part. ―And they paid you a pile of money for it?‖

―Not exactly. They didn‘t know how much they would like it until they started using it, so they made the mistake of paying me by commission instead of buying the program outright.‖

―That‘s awesome! So now you get a commission for every copy of their new operating system?‖

―Yep.‖

―Which software company was it?‖

―One of the big ones.‖

By this point, I was getting a little annoyed by her coy attitude. ―We‘re Diggers now. We shouldn‘t have secrets.‖

Jenny looked at me, eyebrows raised. ―Is that what you think? The Brotherhood of Death has many secrets, Amy. We‘ve only just scratched the surface.‖ She reached up to caress the cross around her neck. ―Though, to tell you the truth, I think I was expecting something more‖—she gestured weakly at the swimmers—
“devious.”

I thought about what Malcolm had said about finding the right apple with which to tempt Jenny.

Maybe she wasn‘t as tempted as they thought. I opened my mouth to ask her more about this

―Brotherhood of Death‖ (because
I"d
certainly never heard the Diggers called that), when a bunch of soaking-wet Diggers descended upon us, trying to drag us to our feet.

―Come on!‖ they screamed, laughing, lifting Jenny in the air.

―Wait! Wait!‖ she yelled, giggling. ―I have to get my BlackBerry off!‖ A few moments later, sans BlackBerry, they tossed her in the pool. She surfaced, splashing water on her captors and smiling so broadly, it was as if I‘d just been talking to a different girl.

―You‘re next!‖ Thorndike yelled, grabbing my arm.

―No, wait!‖ I said, as the girl tugged me to my feet. ―I don‘t swim.‖

She let go, and I fell back on the chaise. ―At all?‖

―Oh, please!‖ Josh said, grabbing my other arm. ―She just doesn‘t want to get her clothes wet.

Get her!‖

Crap! Not again!

―Guys,‖ said Malcolm. ―Forget it. She‘s already had a dunk tonight.‖ He put his hand on my shoulder and everyone let go. This is the effect that Malcolm Cabot has on people. They just
listen
to him.

―My hero,‖ I said.

He shrugged. ―Do me instead,‖ he offered to the mob as he peeled off his shirt. A moment later, they picked him up and marched him to the water‘s edge. He didn‘t fight it, probably thinking that, if anything, it was good practice for when our class had to tap our own group next year.

I wondered how they went about choosing the class. High achievers, obviously—people like Josh, Jennifer, Demetria, and Harun didn‘t come around every day. Nothing I‘ve ever done could hold a candle to those guys. From what I‘d heard in the library, it was clear to me that George Harrison Prescott was a legacy (his daddy dragging him in, etc.), and I‘d bet just about anything that Clarissa was, too. Mr. Cuthbert had just looked like the kind of guy who‘d be in Rose & Grave. I didn‘t know the rest of them that well, but I bet their C.V.s were every bit as impressive from both a merit-based and a genetic perspective. And they all knew it. Except me.

Why aren"t you in Quill & Ink?

Why indeed?

I started practicing the handshake on myself again. A few droplets of water dripped on my elbow. I looked up. Malcolm stood over me. His artfully tossed hair was slicked back from his face, and water dripped down his Abercrombie & Fitch abs and ran in rivulets from the legs of his clingy, soaked boxer shorts. He must have taken off his pants when I wasn‘t looking. Shame.