Secret Society Girl (18 page)

I didn‘t drink. This was about to get very sticky, and I knew I‘d need every wit that hadn‘t ceded to the considerable powers of mango vodka. I telepathed to Brandon my fervent desire that he not ask me what I‘ve been up to this weekend.

―So,‖ he asked, taking a place on the sofa between us. ―What have you been up to this weekend?‖

Supposedly, you.
So much for my psychic powers. Must be dulled by alcohol. ―Maybe you can help us solve a debate,‖ I cut in, though Lydia was engrossed in the goings-on of Bridget and didn‘t even appear to have noticed that the man I‘d supposedly spent last night with seemed unaware of that fact.

―Shoot,‖ Brandon said, picking out a handful of green gumdrops from the pile. I watched him, wondering if he also had a thing for black jelly beans. And if so, why wasn‘t I head over heels for him?

―We‘re trying to decide if Renée Zellweger looks better as Bridget or as a stick figure.‖

He glanced at the screen. ―What does she usually look like?‖

Men! You‘d think they never read
People
. ―Half of that.‖

Brandon watched Bridget smile. ―I think she looks pretty there.‖ And then he looked at me, his brown eyes very warm. ―But, then again, I‘ve got a thing for girls in publishing.‖

I scooched my feet farther up beneath me and Lydia fired off warning glances from behind Brandon‘s head.

―Amy, you‘re falling behind.‖ She waved at me with the shot glass. ―Brandon, if you don‘t mind, we‘re kind of in the middle of a game here.‖

But Brandon was clearly in no mood to take a hint. He swiped the vodka and an extra glass and poured himself a drink.

―Be careful,‖ I said as he downed it. ―The green ones don‘t really go with the mango.‖

―Blecch.‖ He grimaced and stared at the empty glass. ―You know, I learned in my White Male Sexuality and U.S. Pop Culture class that one sign of masculinity is to drink only alcoholic beverages that are brown or clear.‖

―This one‘s clear…except for the gumdrops,‖ I argued.

He laughed. ―I don‘t take it seriously. Besides, I already screwed up. My favorite drink is an amaretto sour. Plus, I‘m not entirely a
white
male.‖

―My dad likes Bloody Marys,‖ Lydia said. ―Which are red. Are you saying he‘s gay?‖

―Merely a metrosexual.‖

―And what about wine?‖ she said, concealing a burp. ―It‘s purple.‖

And until yesterday, every Digger in history had been male, and to the best of my knowledge, their official drink was bright pink pomegranate punch. The Order of Rose & Grave must have been very secure in their masculinity.

Either that or Brandon‘s White Male Sexuality professor was very
in
secure in his. It was a toss-up.

I wondered what was going on in the tomb right now. Were the other new taps there, learning the ropes and bonding with one another? What was I missing out on?

I looked back at Lydia and Brandon, who were cracking up at Daniel‘s spill in the lake.
Not a
thing.
Just because I was in Rose & Grave did not mean I had to abandon my barbarian friends.

Nothing had changed.

―Amy!‖ Lydia threw a gumdrop at me. ―Stop cheating. Drink up.‖

I returned my attention to my forgotten shot glass, where the orange gumdrop had begun to disintegrate. Nope, nothing had changed. Lydia could still drink me under the table. (Note to self: Never do shots with a girl from western New York. They‘ve been drinking since birth.)

―Oops.‖ I tilted the glass toward my mouth, then dug the gooey gumdrop out with my fingers.

Inelegant, perhaps, but judging from the look Brandon was giving me, he didn‘t mind watching me lick melted candy off my thumb.

―Sidebar!‖ Lydia popped up from the couch, grabbed my arm, tossed a ―We‘ll be right back‖ in the general direction of Brandon Weare, and dragged me into her bedroom.

As soon as the door was shut, Lydia turned to me and said, ―What do you want to do here? Do you want me to leave so you two can be alone? Do you want to go somewhere with him? It‘s obvious the man didn‘t come here to watch chick flicks with the roomie.‖

No, he hadn‘t, but if he was having fun doing it, why rock the boat?

I twisted my hair up in a frustrated ponytail and let it fall back to my shoulders. ―I don‘t know. I didn‘t expect him to come around—‖

―Please,‖ Lydia said with disdain. ―It‘s Saturday night and you‘re sleeping together—regularly.

You need to accept this, Amy. You aren‘t accidentally tripping and falling into his bed. He‘s not coercing you—‖

―Don‘t even say that!‖

―—and after the first time or so, you can‘t even use the oh-wasn‘t-this-a-terrible-mistake excuse anymore. You‘re having a relationship, whether you call it that or not.‖

―I know.‖ I did know. Hadn‘t Brandon said very much the same thing a few days ago at the Thai place? I‘d listened to him that night about Rose & Grave, and that was working out fine, so maybe actually discussing and establishing parameters for our relationship would be a good idea, too.

And I‘d always intended on doing just that, as soon as I reached a firm conclusion about what the parameters of our relationship should be. Because, to be honest, when one has been sleeping with one‘s close friend on an average of once every ten days for the last two months, it‘s a bit difficult to pretend that one is starting the relationship at the beginning.

We had a saying at Eli: Couples are either
married
or
hooking up
. Students showed the same intensity toward romantic relationships as they did toward every other facet of their existences.

There was virtually no casual dating. If you were looking for sex, you wanted it to be easy and convenient, and not get in the way of your studies, art, or efforts to save the world. And if you were looking for love, you were willing to devote a large proportion of your conscious hours to the cause.

I didn‘t have time for that. I had a publication to run, a grade-point average to maintain, exams to study for, internships to earn—and now, secret society meetings to attend.

―He‘s a really great guy, Amy.‖

She was beginning to sound like a broken record with this. If I didn‘t know better, I‘d think
Lydia
wanted to date Brandon. But she goes for power types, which Brandon Weare, for all his ―greatness,‖ was not. Then again, what did I know? I was not exactly an expert when it came to romantic potential.

―And when it doesn‘t work out,‖ I said with a sigh, ―I‘ll flake out on finals.‖ Lydia had to remember me after Alan. Had to remember Ben Somebody and how she practically had to coax me down from the ledge last spring. ―I can‘t risk it right now. I have too much on my plate.‖

―How do you know it won‘t work out?‖

―It never has before.‖ I shrugged. ―Besides, you know me. I always do something to—screw it up.‖ I just never knew what that was.

There was a knock on the door, and Brandon popped his head in. ―You guys just missed a truly phenomenal scene.‖

Lydia and I laughed. ―Careful with these chick flicks, Brandon,‖ she said, ―or your White Male Sexuality in America thingy will have more than amaretto sours to worry about.‖

He smiled. ―Okay. In truth, I was hoping you were doing some sort of girls-in-underwear pillow fight. Hollywood led me to believe that college was crawling with quasi-lesbian bedding battles, but I‘ve had my eyes peeled for three years and I‘m still waiting.‖

That was more like a straight male.

―You‘re looking in the wrong places,‖ I said without thinking. ―You have to get tapped into the Society of Duvet & Sham.‖

―Is that who tapped you the other night?‖ he rejoined.

I hesitated just a fraction of a second too long before blurting out a lame, ―No.‖

Uh-oh. Why did I have to open my big mouth? Did I have societies on the brain or something?

Why didn‘t I just laugh and say, ―I‘d tell you, but then I‘d have to smother you‖?

Brandon was waiting, Lydia was shaking her head, and I fingered the pin in my belt loop for moral support.

―Um, movie?‖ I suggested, pushing past him and back into the less complicated common room.

But my issues merely followed me there, then promptly erupted.

―Seriously, Haskel,‖ Brandon continued. ―Is that where you‘ve been all weekend? I wondered why you weren‘t at your usual post at the Lit Mag office this morning.‖

Lydia lost her grip on the bottle of vodka. It thumped once on the corner of the table and toppled to the floor with a seventeen-dollar-and-ninety-five-cent crash.

Crap. Crap crap crappity crap.

I snatched up a pile of Domino‘s Pizza napkins from the top of the mini-fridge and tossed them onto the spill. The acrid scent of sublimating alcohol instantly blended with Lydia‘s pine-fresh cleaning efforts from this afternoon. She wasn‘t moving to help me and her mouth was set in a tight line, but whether she was angrier about my lie or the loss of her vodka was difficult to ascertain.

And then she snorted, mumbled ―I knew it!‖ under her breath, and stomped back into her bedroom.

Yeah, probably angriest at the betrayal. (But maybe she‘d get more paper towels.) This wasn‘t going to work. We could make up don‘t-ask-don‘t-tell ground rules about discussing our respective societies in the suite, but in the process, we‘d be leaving out huge chunks of our lives. I‘d told her I was at Brandon‘s because it was easier than invoking the society brush-off. I didn‘t want her to think I was lording my Rose & Grave status over her, since society prestige had always mattered more to Lydia than to me. And then, when we agreed not to talk about it, there seemed no point in saying, ―You know how I said I was at Brandon‘s? Well, I wasn‘t, but I‘m not allowed to talk about that.‖

But maybe I should have. It would have been awkward, but at least it wasn‘t a lie. How many more lies would we have to tell each other, just to keep to our society oaths? The Connubial Bliss reports seemed like a tell-all to our fellow knights. They may be great ideas for some of them, but I already had my tell-all audience, and she wasn‘t a Digger.

I wondered what kind of promises Lydia had made about her own loyalties. I wondered what lies she had already planned.

Brandon joined me on the floor and began picking up the largest chunks of glass. ―What‘s the story here, babe?‖

Babe.
Like I was his girlfriend, and we exchanged endearments all the time. Those brown, puppy-dog eyes of his were searching mine in earnest now.

―Nothing.‖ I tugged down on the hem of my shirt. ―I…can‘t talk about it.‖

―Not even to me?‖

Not to my mom, not to Lydia, not to the boy I was sleeping with…―Not to anyone.‖

―That‘s silly. My freshman counselor—he was in Book & Key and he had it on his resume, plain as day. And Glenda told us both when she got into Quill & Ink. You can say if you want.‖

―That‘s Quill & Ink.‖ How would I know what the rules were elsewhere? I wasn‘t even totally clear on mine yet. I just remembered the words of my oath. I had
most solemnly avowed never to
reveal, by commission or by omission, the existence of, the knowledge considered sacred by, or
the names of the membership of the Order of Rose & Grave.
Pretty much left out resumes.

He paused. ―But…you
are
in a secret society.‖

―I can‘t tell you that.‖

―That means you are, otherwise you‘d just say no.‖

―That‘s not true!‖ I pushed back on my heels and wadded the soaked napkins into a ball.

―Yes it is. Watch: Ask me.‖ He folded his hands.

I sighed. ―Brandon, are you in a secret society?‖

―No.‖ He grinned. ―See?‖

I rolled my eyes.

He took the napkin out of my hands and lobbed it into the trash can. Three points. ―Now watch this: Amy, are you in a secret society?‖

Just say no.

It shouldn‘t have been that hard. But I didn‘t, because the truth of the matter, as I now realize, was that our pat little phrases, our
I can"t talk about it
s and our
I"d tell you but I"d have to kill you
s are a society member‘s way of bragging without breaking the oath of secrecy. I was proud that I was one of the first women ever to be tapped into Rose & Grave. I was bursting at the seams to tell all my friends—only, I wasn‘t allowed to.

In short, saying ―no‖ meant dismissing it, but saying ―I‘m not allowed to talk about it‖ meant…

Nyah, nyah, I know something you don"t know!

Only, did that count as omission?

Brandon held out his hands as if in presentation. ―See?‖

I stood up and said coolly, ―Don‘t be ridiculous.‖ On-screen, Bridget was making a fool of herself over something or other, but I‘d lost my taste for her antics. Movie Night was over.

And Brandon and I were left alone. We continued cleaning up the mess, and then Brandon said,

―You know, Amy, it‘s okay if you are. I know all that stuff I said the other night might lead you to believe that I disapprove of societies, but if you want to be in one, I won‘t be unhappy.‖

―So glad you approve,‖ I snapped. ―I don‘t need your permission to do something, Weare. Not even if we
were
dating.‖

The contrary-to-fact construction cut him right to the bone. ―No.‖ He threw the last wad of towels into the trash and rubbed his hands together with finality. ―Though I‘d hoped you‘d solicit my opinion.‖ He took one last look at the TV screen. ―I think I‘m going to take off.‖

No, Brandon, don"t.
But I didn‘t say it out loud. I didn‘t go over and touch him on the shoulder and turn my face to his and kiss him. Though I should have. Because he‘d always been really great to me, and because Lydia was right, I owed him a definition.

And maybe an apology. ―Brandon,‖ I began, but got no further, as there was a knock on the door.

Brandon, being the closest, opened it, and there stood George Harrison Prescott in his many-zippered jacket. Unlike me, he‘d given his Rose & Grave pin a place of honor amongst the zippers. The gold hexagon shone like a beacon in my eyes, but it might have blended in with the rest of the metal to someone who wasn‘t looking for it.