I hereby confess:
What happens in the tomb
stays in the tomb.
Over the years, I’d heard many rumors about the wonders to be found in George Harrison Prescott’s bedroom, including, but not limited to: black satin sheets on the bed, mirrors on the ceiling, and a jukebox that only played Barry White.
Negative on all three. Well, there was a little mini-jukebox (which I later learned was a present from his father on the occasion of his father’s wedding), but it held a variety of songs by a variety of artists, and as far as I knew, “Fight for Your Right to Party” didn’t count as a make-out song. The sheets were standard university-issue blue, there was a normal mirror hanging on the inside of the closet, and I was spooning with George on the narrow single bed. His arm was draped loosely over my waist and the stubble on his chin was scratching my shoulder blade.
THOUGHTS I HAD THAT MORNING
1) Wow, did I really do all the things I did last night?
2) My thighs feel a little stiff.
3) This is nice. I could hang out here and cuddle with George all day.
4) Except I have that seminar at 10:15.
5) And I have to pee.
One moment more of relaxing in George’s arms, feeling our entire bodies pressed up against each other, back to chest, thigh to thigh. One moment more of hearing his breath in my ear and relishing his warm hand on my belly. And then I stretched a little and slipped out of bed.
I was buttoning my jeans when he blinked awake. “Morning.”
“Hi.” Dude, was that shyness? Wherefore had I suddenly become shy in front of George Harrison Prescott?
“Are you leaving?”
I giggled. Strike two. “Yeah, I’ve got work to do.”
He rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head. “But I’ll see you tonight?”
My heart rate skyrocketed.
“At the meeting.”
Of course. The Thursday meeting. “George, I always go. Besides, it’s lobster night at the tomb.”
“Good point.” He smiled, but didn’t move from his prone position. “See you later, Boo.”
And that was it. I left his room, got out of the suite without any of his suitemates noticing me (no grist for the Prescott College gossip mill, thank you very much), and made it back to my suite. Lydia’s door was closed; I was safe. It was over.
But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The next few weeks passed in a flurry of sexual activity. Ostensibly, I was still taking classes, writing papers, doing problem sets, and working on getting together a thesis topic. But I can barely remember classroom discussions and I’ll be the first to admit my papers weren’t exhibiting their usual level of literary passion.
Josh had stepped up his efforts to discover who was responsible for the leak to the website, and though we each devoted plenty of time to trying to find this guy (or girl, as Nikolos insisted on reminding us at every opportunity), the identity of our leak persisted in eluding us as efficiently as Jenny eluded every Diggirl who tried to corner her into a private conversation. (And, to be honest, shitty as it sounds, the more often she avoided us, the less we all felt inclined to speak with her about it. We already knew how she’d respond.)
We’d decided, en masse, that a formal confrontation, which was the standard club M.O., would be too much for our shy brother to handle, so the best thing to do would be to go to her one by one and express our concern that perhaps her boyfriend failed to treat her with the proper respect. A girlfriend intervention. But she proved a slippery little sucker. It was nearly impossible to contact her outside the tomb, and we never caught her alone inside, or without the trappings of one of Josh’s top-priority electronic missions to track down the traitor.
We weren’t getting very far on that front. Once, when Lydia was out of the room, I asked Josh if he thought it had anything to do with the strange Phimalarlico e-mails all the Diggirls had received at the begining of the year. After all, the patriarchs had also received mysterious e-mails on the private account. And the weird poem had included the lines “Cut through the web in which you’re caught/Learn of the thief who can be bought.” Could that not be a reference to our current scandal? After all, we were dealing with stolen information sold to a website.
“Or maybe it was an even more pointed reference,” I went on. “Remember what Jenny said to Graverob—er, Nikolos the day we found out about secretsofthediggers.com? We still have no idea who sent those e-mails, or what they mean, but what if they were a clue? It’s the first time this has occurred to me. What if the ‘thief’ is a play on his name?”
Josh laughed, thankfully ignoring my slip of the tongue. “That’s a bit obscure, Amy. You’ve been reading too much Dan Brown. But I like your first idea. I’ll ask Jenny to do a little digging into the source of those e-mails.”
“You don’t think it could be Nikolos?”
“He might be the most inappropriately named member of our group,” Josh replied. “One guy who never needs to be a thief. And even if money isn’t the motivation, Nikolos is probably the last guy who’d be interested in further angering the patriarchs. He wants them back on our side, remember?”
I nodded. “So then, who doesn’t have a huge trust fund, and possesses a yen to piss off the patriarchs?”
He met my eyes. “You mean, aside from you?”
The only thing I could guarantee was it was neither George nor myself. We were far too busy to bother with anything so mundane as selling society secrets.
Let me lay it on the line for you: George Harrison Prescott is insatiable. We hooked up between classes, after Rose & Grave meetings, before dinner in the dining hall. We hooked up in his room, in my room, in an entryway bathroom shower stall, in the library stacks, and, on one incredibly ill-advised occasion, in the Prescott College Common Room. On the very same couch, I might add, where I had previously resisted his considerable charms.
It never got old. We’d be in the middle of some fascinating political debate at a society meeting, and all of a sudden I’d catch myself reminiscing about some particularly enjoyable interlude, flush scarlet, and look over to Puck, who was almost always watching me, and certainly knew exactly what kind of naughty thoughts were going through my head. As soon as we were released from the tomb, we’d sprint back to his place, and stay awake until the wee hours doing everything but debating. Or we’d be sitting there in the dining hall, having lunch with all our Prescott College friends, and I’d feel his hand on my thigh. His gorgeous copper eyes would glint at me, and next thing I knew, I was talking about some non-existent reading I had to do that afternoon and George would mention a load of laundry and off we’d go—this time to hook up on the counter near the griddle in the momentarily abandoned Prescott Buttery.
George never ran out of places where he wanted to have sex with me, nor out of ways in which to do it, and, to my credit, I didn’t spend much time thinking about who else he might have done there or how. I didn’t spend much time thinking at all. Brandon would have been so proud of me; he’d always insisted I overanalyzed every situation I was in, destroying it before it ever had a chance to blossom. But with George, I was living entirely in the moment. He was beautiful and fun and sexy as hell, and I really didn’t care what else he was up to as long as he kept making me feel the way I felt whenever we got together.
Besides, we were together so often that, oversexed as the boy is, I don’t think he had the time or the stamina for anyone else.
Halloween, always momentous on the Eli campus, came around again, and since it was our last, the seniors I knew went all out. Most of us Diggirls raided the tomb’s costume supply for our outfits. Lucky, of course, kept to her new policy of avoiding the rest of us and was nowhere to be found. Thorndike, who still hadn’t shaken off the latest in her series of colds, rallied in the getup of an Amazon queen, though the rest of us advised her that the skimpy costume was unlikely to protect her from the elements.
“The reason you keep getting sick,” Angel said, holding up a stunning Georgian ball gown, “is that you don’t take care of yourself. Explain again what you have against wool?”
“It’s a matter of sustainable agrarian models. Small farms are fine—” Thorndike paused to sneeze.
“The reason you keep getting sick,” Lil’ Demon interrupted, “is because you won’t take those supplements I gave you. With a vegan diet like yours—”
“I’m not taking anything that quack gave you, okay?” Thorndike snapped. “And to be honest, I don’t think you should, either. Just because it worked wonders on Jessica Simpson—”
“That may be a reason to avoid it on its own,” I added.
Thorndike continued. “I was reading up on the ingredients the other day, and I think—”
Lil’ Demon paused in her efforts to wriggle into a mermaid costume and pinched her thumb and forefinger together. “Zip it. Are you a medical professional? No. You’re not even studying the sciences. Last I checked, you were majoring in Ethnicity, Race, and Migration.”
“And what’s your major this week?” Thorndike asked. “You know you do have to declare it sometime before graduation, don’t you?”
“American Studies.” Lil’ Demon smiled sweetly. “And I think I may actually have a thesis topic. Even Errol Flynn over there will like this one.”
Juno looked up from the floor, where she was strapping on a pair of thigh-high, Three-Musketeer—style boots. A cutlass hung from her hip. She twirled her silent-screen mustache. “Oh, do tell!”
“I’m writing about the development and spread of collegiate organizations,” Lil’ Demon said. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading in our own history books, and it’s fascinating. Phi Beta Kappa gives rise to Rose & Grave, gives rise to other societies, gives rise to fraternities and sororities throughout the…” She trailed off as she took in our expressions. “What? I’m not going to tell any of the secret stuff!”
“Of course you aren’t,” Angel said, but she sounded far from convinced.
“Exactly how much research have you been doing?” I asked. My eye had landed on several pieces of faux Pilgrim wear, and I was busy constructing a wardrobe for Hester Prynne—if Hester Prynne had been a bit more of a sexpot. Long skirt, warm hooded cape, and a corset top emblazoned with the requisite “A.” “And what does our noble Secretary think of your efforts?”
A nervous giggle ran through the room.
“He’s getting more paranoid than you are,” Lil’ Demon replied to me. “It’s quite impressive, really. But I refuse to change my behavior because of all this nonsense. We start letting it affect how we run stuff in this tomb and the terrorists really have won.”
This time, the laugh was genuine.
“Seriously, though, you should see some of the stuff I’ve found. Maybe, if I have some time, I’ll do a report on the secret, historical stuff for the rest of the club.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Juno. “What kind of stuff are you talking about?”
She shrugged. “Past scandals, stuff that would make the shit that went down last spring look like child’s play. You think the patriarchs are up in arms now, you should see what kind of crap they tried to pull when clubs started tapping minorities. The factions almost tore this place apart.”
Angel pulled on a high, powdered wig. “The jury’s still out on seeing how together we’ll be by the end of the year.”
On the way out, we ran into Lucky, who appeared to be making a beeline from the Grand Library to the front door.
“Hey!” I called. “Wait up!” She stopped and turned, her expression carefully neutral. “I’m getting the impression, Lucky, that you’ve been making yourself scarce recently. Come on, let’s go get you a Halloween costume and you can come out with us.”
“I don’t participate in Halloween,” Lucky said stiffly.
“Why?”
“Why do you care?” she snapped.
I held my hands up. “Whoa, there. Chill out. I just thought it would be fun. You never hang out with us anymore—”
“It’s devil worship.” She glared at me. “So you go ahead and honor demons. I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Okay, fine. Then how about we meet up tomorrow? We can get some coffee or something.”
“I said, I’ll pass.”
The other Diggirls, clustered on the landing, began to rumble with protestations, and I leaned in closer. “Lucky, are you angry at me? I really think we should talk about this. I honestly didn’t mean to overhear what you were talking about with that guy. So if you want me to keep my nose out of it, I will, no matter how much I would rather do otherwise. But please understand I’m only trying to help.”
“Help me do what?” she cried. “Turn into the kind of people the rest of you are? No thanks.”
At that, the other girls gasped.
“Look here!” I shouted back. “I’ve never judged you, and believe me, if I wanted to, I could. I could say plenty of stuff about how narrow-minded you’re being, and how rude, and what poor decision-making skills you seem to have…”
“Oh, yes,” she replied in a voice dripping with disdain, “go ahead and attack my morals from your position in the gutter. You were looking plenty high-minded in the kitchen.”
“Me?” I cried. “You started it. This has nothing to do with different values. I respect yours. Lucky, all I ever wanted to do was talk to you because I thought your boyfriend was pressuring you into something you didn’t want to do.”
She straightened. “You don’t know me, you clearly don’t know my boyfriend, and most of all, you haven’t the slightest idea what it is I want to do. So stay out of my life, Bugaboo.”
With that, she left. The other four joined me.
“You guys have some sort of issue I don’t know about?” said Thorndike, looking after Jenny’s retreating figure.
“Same old story from a few weeks ago,” I said. “I accidentally saw her in a fight with her boyfriend”—and she saw me getting cozy with George—“and I don’t think she’s taking it too well.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and figure the rest of us would get similar treatment?” Angel asked. “She practically tore your face off. I didn’t know she had it in her.”
“Better you than me,” said Lil’ Demon. “I’ve been in a couple of catfights in my time, but that girl? She’d have Lindsay Lohan cowering.”
“She’s not usually like that, is she?” Juno asked. “I always got the impression she was sweet and quiet.”
“Yes on the latter, not so much on the former,” I grumbled.
“Don’t worry.” Angel put a brocade-clad arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “She’ll calm down by the next meeting. You two can patch things up.”
“You think?”
“Sure. You’re Diggirls.”
We left the tomb and headed to Clarissa’s apartment to put the finishing touches on our hair and makeup (Odile is a master at eyeliner). Some of the party vibe had worn off after my altercation with Jenny, but the other girls did their best to lift my spirits. Mara, especially, seemed in a great mood, but she was probably just celebrating the fact that, for once, she wasn’t the odd Diggirl out. And yes, I have to admit Mara was growing on me. I still found her blunt opinions and truculent nature a bit irritating, but who was I to hold that against her? If the other knights could put up with my conspiracy-theorist leanings, then why couldn’t I give a free pass to the Queen of the Eli Political Union? (Also, Clarissa popped a bottle of Krug, and really, that just makes everyone friendlier.)
Unfortunately, I’d already promised to spend the evening attending the annual Eli Symphony Orchestra’s Halloween concert with Lydia, so I took my leave of the other girls and, all costumed up, began to hoof it home through the cold but clear purple twilight. My roommate and I had hardly been spending time together at all in the last few weeks. She was busy with Josh, I was busy with George, and we were both ridiculously busy with the demands of our classes, not to mention our respective societies.
Our secret society radio silence still held, but I was beginning to see chinks in the armor. My best friend had been dropping a few hints about planning a trip for our last spring break (when all Diggers historically hold a retreat on our private island), and when I’d demurred, things had grown a little chilly.
For the two weeks following, she’d taken all of her phone calls in her bedroom, left the suite early on society evenings, and made several references to Eli “traditions” I’d never heard of. They could only pertain to society-specific activities. I’d have to remember to ask Greg or Odile if, in their research, they’d come across a mention of any campus society that incorporated into their initiation rites the raw-hamburger “blood” or feathers I’d found on our suite floor last spring, or if they even knew any of the terms Lydia had been throwing around. I myself have been guilty, upon occasion, of letting Digger jargon slip in the barbarian world. (See? There I go.) Perhaps the words were clues to her society’s still-secret identity.
WEIRD TERMS LYDIA DROPS
1) Packing, as in, “We should pack that Politics in Prose seminar together next semester. It’s supposed to be really hard to get in, but we’re seniors and it counts for both our majors.”? My theory is, it means band together and take it, or not, as one.
2) Jolling, as in, “I can’t believe he’d actually make a statement like that in a class full of women. We almost jolled him on the spot.”? My theory is, it means jump someone.
3) Gunned, as in, “The dining hall was gunned tonight. Did you like those potatoes?”? My theory is, she thinks the cooks were on their game.
Either that or it was the new hip-hop slang. Still, I wanted to get to the bottom of it. After all, she knew I was in Rose & Grave; it seemed only fair I at least learn what society she’d joined. And how funny would it be if the tomb we broke into for our annual crooking expedition was Lydia’s?
I crossed Chapel Street and headed under the Art History building arch spanning High Street. And that’s when I saw him. Micah Price, standing right beyond the arch on the tomb side of the street. I froze and flattened against the wall, thankful for the dark cape that no doubt shielded me from his sight. What was he doing there? As I watched, the door to the tomb opened, and Jenny stepped out. I thought she’d gone ages ago, and it was so not kosher to have your boyfriend waiting right outside like that. He watched her come down the steps and met her on the pavement. They kept their heads together for some time, whispering to each other, but I couldn’t make out a word they said.
I rolled my eyes. Yeah, she was definitely using an imaginative interpretation of the secrecy oath. And I would definitely be bringing this up at the next meeting. I didn’t care how angry she was at me already.
I arrived back at the suite to find that Lydia and Josh had started the party without me. Even more surprising: George was also in attendance.
“I assume you don’t mind that he showed up at our door?” Lydia asked me slyly as she handed me a shot glass. “Drink up, we’re running late.”
Lydia was dressed in riding wear, complete with velvet hat and a crop, which apparently amused Josh to no end. For his part, Josh had chosen the time-honored James Bond costume (i.e., tuxedo, martini glass, and plastic Walther PPK), and George, who never missed an opportunity to be a) disaffected or b) dirty, was wearing a T-shirt that read, I AM THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET.
Together, we made our way across the campus to Memorial Hall, warmed only by our suite’s official drink of Gumdrop Drops and (in my case, at least) flimsy costumes. The whole way over, George entertained himself trying to lob candy corn into my corset-enhanced cleavage, and I did my best to ward him off with flicks of my cape.
“I’ll fish them out later,” he promised in a whisper.
The concert hall was a zoo, the way it was every Halloween. The enormous mezzanine was already near-bursting with students who, drunk and costumed, were running from aisle to aisle, showing off their outfits and sharing inebriated conversations and dramas. Above us, two successive balconies teemed with people in devil outfits, Princess Leia costumes, streetwalker-wear (whorish togs being an evergreen Halloween choice at college campuses across the nation), and obscure interpretations of abstract ideas. This last is an Eli special. The point is to dress as a sort of walking rebus in hopes of inducing everyone around you to marvel at your brilliance and beg you to tell them what the hell you’re dressed as. These clever little toolboxes were dotted about the audience, puffing out their chests and trying to stump passersby. I spotted four singing-group types wearing aprons and holding clippers and hair dryers (Barbershop Quartet), a chick with a pair of stilettos hanging around her neck (Head Over Heels), a man in a velour suit with numbers stuck all over him (Fuzzy Math), and a woman—who had me stumped for three straight minutes—wearing a bikini made out of two dining hall dishes and a computer keyboard, and carrying a bottle of Schweppes. Finally, I nailed it: Plate Tectonics.
We were trying to squeeze past a freshman in one of those purple balloon bunch-of-grapes getups I thought no one wore outside Fruit of the Loom commercials and a guy in full Mark Rothko body paint (and little else) when I felt a hand on mine.
“Amy!” Brandon cried. I turned to find him seated at the end of an aisle, dressed in a really kick-ass rendition of Alex from A Clockwork Orange—bowler cap, fake eyelashes, and all. At his side, Felicity looked as if she’d just stepped out of a U2 video in her belly dancer/genie outfit. A belt made of gold coins clinked around her hips and her long dark hair was piled artfully on top of her head. “Are you looking for a seat?”
He tried to scoot down the row a bit, but Felicity appeared to need more room than one would have imagined, considering how slim she was. I saw her take in my outfit, her eyes lingering extra-long on the scarlet letter on my chest.
“Amy.” George appeared at my side. “Lydia found us seats. Come on.” He looked over my shoulder at the space Brandon had created and shook his head. “I don’t think that place is big enough for all of us.”
Brandon only stared at me with mismatched, heavily made-up eyes and nodded slowly.
George leaned over the seat. “Hi there, I think we met last year. I’m George Prescott.”
Felicity’s eyes widened, though whether it was at the name or the corresponding reputation, I wasn’t certain.
Her boyfriend took George’s hand and rallied. “I’m Brandon, and this is Felicity.”
Dimmesdale, meet Chillingworth.
“Well, have fun at the show.” George put a hand on my waist. “C’mon, Boo. It’s about to start.”
“Nice costumes,” I said to the seated couple.
“Thanks,” Felicity replied. “I’m fascinated by yours.”
“Did everything work out for your math tutor?” Brandon asked quickly. “I mean, did you take care of it?”
No, I hadn’t. I’d been too busy taking care of my libido. And when I did try, Jenny had been a complete bitch. “It’s fine,” I lied, vowing to search out Jenny first thing tomorrow, as long as she wasn’t busy with some sort of All Souls’ Day cleansing ritual. Fight or no, I had an obligation to her.
But for now, I intended to enjoy my evening as one of the thousand or so “devil-worshipping” souls who fought to drive off the soon-to-be November chill by listening to a world-class symphony orchestra in weird outfits. I failed to see how college students dressed up like geological theories were somehow paying homage to underworld demons. I thought we were just having fun, and Halloween was the name we gave to this brand of fun.
How’s that for not overthinking?
George pulled me onto his lap as the lights went down. The ESO puts on a phenomenal show every year. Not only were the members master musicians, they had a wonderful sense of whimsy, setting each year’s live program to a homemade movie that usually followed plotlines that wouldn’t be out of place on The Simpsons’s annual spooky special. And the show always began the same way: with an organist rocking the hell out of “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” on the antique pipes embedded in the building’s walls. The lights slowly rose on a trio of fiddlers who circled a glowing cauldron spilling over with mist and tossed their dreaded hair in time to their otherworldly music. The Weird Sisters.
Man, I loved Eli.
Okay, maybe Jenny had a point about the holiday’s ties to Satanism, but she was one to talk. After all, she spent a few nights a week wearing robes in a room lit by candles inside skulls and professing allegiance to a goddess of the underworld. If anything, Rose & Grave had far more guilty-as-charged moments when it came to hellish activities.
The last strains of Bach overlaid these reflections, and then, incredibly, I wasn’t thinking about music, or Halloween, or even the way George’s hands were slowly creeping up my corset, no doubt in search of stray candy. Instead, I was remembering a conversation I’d once had with Jenny. It was the night of our Rose & Grave initiation, and we were hiding out from the other taps, who’d decided to go for a midnight swim in the indoor pool at the mansion where we had our party. I’d been trying to make getting-to-know-you chitchat and she’d been raving about the “Brotherhood of Death” and their “devious intentions.” A few days later, she’d claimed she wanted to change the organization of Rose & Grave from the inside out.
She’d shown enough contempt for our traditions over the past few weeks to convince me she hated our current setup. I really did suspect she’d told that Micah guy what I’d said at my C.B. (if not others as well), breaking her oaths and undermining the fabric of the society. The only reason the Diggers felt comfortable talking so freely in the tomb was because they knew the others would never betray them. And yet Jenny was probably doing exactly that. Who knew what other secrets could do my fellow knights serious damage if they were out in the world? I sneaked a peek at Josh and Lydia, who were canoodling at the end of the row. Even I, who had an airtight reason to spill some secrets (roommate bonds being thick as blood after three years), had managed not to break my oath.
And how realistic was it really that a computer genius, a woman who’d made several million dollars by her eighteenth birthday selling off software to Silicon Valley, couldn’t do something as simple as track down a little IP address?
And then tonight, why had she gone back to the tomb after we’d left? We hadn’t even known she was there, and she didn’t look like she was leaving until we came out onto the staircase. Had we caught Jenny in the middle of something? Had she gone back later, after she knew we were gone, to finish it?
“George,” I said over the crash of the cymbals onstage, “I think I know who’s leaking the information.”
“What?” he shouted, as the crowd began to scream. On the screen above our heads, two band geeks dressed in Matrix-style black leather navigated their way through the ultra-modern landscape of the rare book library on their quest to get…well, I hadn’t been paying attention, but the sound-track rocked.
“I said, I think…” I checked the surroundings and remembered Malcolm’s standard reminder to use discretion when it came to all things Rose & Grave. Plus, it wasn’t as if George would care. He’d remained completely disinterested in the whole traitor issue since it came up. George could either take Rose & Grave or leave it. He’d only joined as a favor to his father, and it had taken a good deal of cajoling and even a bit of manhandling on the part of the elder Prescott to accomplish that.
But Josh was right down the row. I’m sure he’d want to hear my thoughts on the matter. Still, a glance at the couple indicated neither would welcome my interruption, and George had decided to go after the candy corn in earnest.
I’d see Josh in our room after the performance. It could wait.
Except we didn’t go back to the room. From the smashing ESO performance, we hiked up to the Eli Film Society’s yearly showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and watched folks in skimpy costumes running around onstage throwing bread at one another and engaging in other wild, drunken revels, until George and I made the command decision to head back to Prescott and re-create some key scenes, sans alien transsexuals. On a night like this, I truly did love Eli. And it was such a nice send-off for the good times.
Because November sucked.