I hereby confess:
They’ll get our respect
when they deserve it.
It’s more complicated than you might think to choose an outfit in which to publicly report on your sexual experiences. You have to veer away from anything that screams “slutty” or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, “frumpy,” and Persephone help you if the ensemble bears any resemblance to something worn in any of the following fetish-fantasy situations: schoolgirl, librarian, secretary, or Lara Croft. A white T-shirt makes you look like a candidate for Girls Gone Wild: Cancùn, and low-rise jeans are out, for fear there might be any peeks at a thong. I finally settled on a pair of sleek brown pants and a cardigan over a not-low-cut sleeveless top, and boots (ankle, not dominatrixy) with a low heel. There. Not too conservative, not too outlandish.
Kind of like my love life, come to think of it.
At precisely five past six (VI in Diggers-time, which always runs five minutes off the rest of the world) I filed into the tomb with the others. First, we ate. Tonight, Hale had made us Cornish hens stuffed with wild rice and tarragon. Would it be awful of me to admit that so far, my favorite part about being a Digger was escaping dining hall food a couple nights a week?
“Nervous?” Angel asked. She was at my right, carefully dissecting the poultry on her plate with a skill indicating just how much time she’d spent in debutante class. My family was more of a chicken tenders type. “Don’t be. We’ll love you no matter who you’ve fucked.”
“Or how?” Lucky prompted from my other side. “Personally, I think this whole tradition sucks. Does it really foster brotherhood for us to stand up and recount our sexual experiences in front of one another?”
“Or,” said Big Demon, “in some cases, lack thereof? Is that your real worry here, Lucky?”
She shot a forkful of mashed potatoes at the jock, and, I’m proud to report, rather impressed him with her aim. “What I’m saying is, I wish we could get past all this adolescent junk and on to the real mysteries.”
“What do you mean?” Frodo asked. “Like, ‘Ten Little Diggers’ or other Murder She Wrote stuff?”
“Dude,” said Soze, “Ten Little Indians was Agatha Christie.”
“Dudes,” Lucky mocked, “I mean mysteries. Divine revelation beyond human understanding? The secret rites of an organization only open to initiates?”
Puck shook his head, leaned over, and tugged on Lucky’s endless and ever-present braid. “You’re starting to sound like our girl ’boo here.”
Ah yes, ridicule the resident conspiracy theorist. That’ll get you laid, Puck. Still, I couldn’t help but thrill at his casual “our girl.”
Poe looked up from the corner, where he was partaking of his meal at a decent distance from our club, a physical reminder of his patriarch status. “You’re enjoying the mysteries, Lucky,” he grumbled, slicing his asparagus into perfectly bite-sized chunks. “Next week you’ll enjoy the mystery of chateaubriand.”
I swallowed a bite of Cornish hen and rolled my eyes. Poe had been inviting himself to our mealtimes a little too often for my appetite, and his M.O. was always the same. Come in, grub food, sit apart from the rest of us, and channel Oscar the Grouch. Okay, so there was a standing invite for patriarchs to share in the food they helped provide through their donations. Did that mean he had to crash every one of our dinners? There should be some kind of limit for patriarchs who happened to live in town. Rumor had it Poe had spent his graduate summer cutting grass or something. I’m sure that had to have paid better than a government internship—you’d think the kid could afford some groceries. (Though, considering the cooking of most recent grads I knew, eating Hale’s food might be reason enough to turn townie.)
Graverobber tapped his silver against his water glass and an audible groan sounded around the table. “Before we get to the main event of the evening,” he said with a nod toward me, “I’d like to once again broach the topic of—”
Thorndike cleared her throat. “As Uncle Tony for the evening, I’d like to once again remind the club that this particular topic is tabled tonight.” Under her breath, she added, “Just one whine-free meeting is all I need to die happy.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Juno said. “I’m sure you have a variety of other pet issues to shove down our throats before you even begin to get happy.”
The other Diggirls began to bare their teeth at our newest compatriot. Suffice it to say, Juno (a.k.a. Mara) had not endeared herself to the other girls in her weeks of membership. This time, I didn’t chalk it up to personality differences. She had managed to piss off each of us. I will say this for her: She was an equal opportunity firebrand. She corrected my grammar, questioned the authenticity of Lil’ Demon’s breasts, called Angel bourgeois, told Lucky that Dvorak was a scam, and suggested to Thorndike that Brown v. Board of Education had been a bad decision.
We all just loved her.
“Look, we can table it as much as you like, but that doesn’t make the facts go away,” Graverobber said. “We’re hemorrhaging patriarchal support left and right, and the donations this year have been way down.”
Thorndike twirled her finger in the air. “Woo-hoo. As long as the Tobias Trust is still in the eight figures, I’m not ready to worry about funds.” She pointed at the feast spread before us. “Hale’s not going to have to switch over to lentils and cabbage any time soon.”
“Frankly, I find your grasp of the financial details leave something to be desired,” said Juno. “Much of our prestige is derived from our wealth. If we lose that—”
“Right,” I said. “If we lose some of our big secret wealth we can’t tell anyone about anyway? Please.”
Part of me wanted to think if we gave Juno some time, she’d grow on us. It hadn’t taken the rest of us that long to bond, but then again, we’d become fast friends under extreme circumstances. Were we simply being too cliquish for her? Was her prickly nature due in part to a perception that the rest of the Diggirls were already a closed group, and if she couldn’t join us, she’d try to beat us? If so, aligning herself with the biggest misogynist in the club was a good step along that path.
“Besides,” I continued, “most barbarians already think we’ve got twice the money we do, and about ten times the power. We could be bankrupt and they’d still say we owned half the world.”
“I agree with Bugaboo on that point,” said Soze. “I don’t think our money situation is an issue at present. I myself was surprised to learn its true value at the initiation, but, like Thorndike, I don’t think we’re about to go broke. What concerns me,” he said, “is our perceived influence if we continue to alienate the patriarchs. How are we supposed to groom next year’s taps when word on the street is that the Diggers can’t get their own alums to give them internships? Don’t mistake me, I am fully committed to our Order, but I worry for next year’s tap class.”
“I had a patriarch internship,” I argued.
“Yeah, a terrific little patched-up, last-minute affair,” came the voice of Poe from the corner. He scowled at me. “Everything worked out just grand for you. But how many of the rest of us were screwed?”
I looked around at the show of hands and ducked my head in guilt.
But Angel lifted her chin. “I lost my job because of my father. He could say it was a patriarch trick, but the old man and I would have had it out either way. And there are six women sitting in this room who would have been out a lot more if we’d given in to their demands last spring. Are we paying a price? Yes. But it was worth it. Didn’t we prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are many more patriarchs who support this step than condemn it?”
“Yes,” said Poe, “but are they the ones coughing up the big bucks?”
“Or handing out entry-level positions at CAA?” Frodo added.
“I think we’ve been through a trying time,” Soze said, ever the politician. “And we need to work a little bit to get back in good graces with our base. At the risk of being crucified for actually expressing this opinion, there is something to be said for the idea that maybe the patriarchs who voted to let the change go through might not have been people who were all that committed to the society to begin with.”
“Much as I hate to admit it,” said Lil’ Demon, “Soze may be right. A lot of people picked up that Maxim spread I did, but they weren’t the ones buying my CDs or going to my movies. My true fans hated that I was sullying my image. Maybe the patriarchs who didn’t care if there were women in Rose & Grave also didn’t give a shit whether it ruined us or not.” She shrugged. “Not that I think it’s ruining us.”
Graverobber snorted. Of course. “If we have to keep pussyfooting around the topic, we’re never going to get anywhere. Of course it’s ruined. We’ve lost one tap already. If things don’t start turning around in here, I might start thinking he had the right idea.”
For a moment, we all gaped at him, even Poe. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered from his corner. “Your oath.”
“Oh, please, like we haven’t had attrition before?”
“Not for decades.” The law student’s face was stricken, reflecting all our shock. “Maybe even for a century.”
Thorndike cleared her throat. “No one’s making any hasty decisions they’ll live to regret. We know the issue is out there; we’ve been arguing about it since school started. And we will figure out a way to fix it. No quitting, okay?”
I nodded. “And before we go about setting up a false dichotomy of ‘involved patriarchs hate women’ and ‘slacker patriarchs say Go girls!’ let’s remember that my internship—however it might have been arranged”—I shot Poe a dirty look—“was, in fact, arranged by one of the members of the board of trustees. A more involved Digger you couldn’t hope to find. Those are the people we need to be reaching out to.”
“As well as trying to win back those we’ve alienated,” Soze said. “I’ve done it before for candidates in much more dire straits. Before you dismiss us for lack of current alumni connections, remember our club alone wields some significant firepower.”
“My dad thinks we’re cool,” Puck said. “And, historically, the Prescott contributions have been no small part of the Trust.”
Graverobber slumped against his seat, conceding the point. We’d dodged the bullet for another meeting. But how much longer before his threats to quit took shape in reality?
The danger of attrition was twofold. First, the obvious: We’d tapped a person for a reason. We clearly wanted him to be One of Us. Anytime we lost a tap, we lost every bit of potential he offered us in terms of future accomplishments, influence, and money. We lost a dynamic team member, a valuable brother, and someone with a potentially entertaining C.B. No matter how much Graverobber pissed me off, I couldn’t deny that when he bothered to speak on any other topic, he had many worthwhile things to say. And we were all still smarting from Howard’s dis on Straggler Initiation Night. I’d only spoken with him for a few moments, but he still seemed like someone I’d love to get to know. Now whenever I saw him around campus, I felt a definite pang of regret for what could have been. Had we all handled ourselves better, he might have been our brother. (I’d had to steel myself on several occasions from walking up and saying hi. I wondered if he would recognize me sans cloak and glow-in-the-dark face paint.)
The second danger was to our storied secrecy. For instance, Howard had been in the tomb and seen much of our initiation before opting out. How much worse would it have been had he been a fully-fledged Digger before he quit? Someone like Graverobber, for example, who was not only fully initiated, but understood so much of the day-to-day running of the society? He had access to all the Phimalarlico e-mail, had explored the entire tomb with the rest of us last spring, and at this point had even sat in on several C.B.s. I couldn’t imagine a guy like that on the loose, no longer bound by his oaths.
Assuming, of course, they were oaths he’d ever taken seriously. Here I was about to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to the room, and I wasn’t even sure I could trust them all.
“Not to veer away from such a scintillating topic,” Angel said, proceeding to do exactly that, “but has anyone given any more thought to that weird e-mail we got?”
“You got,” Big Demon corrected. “Whoever was threatening didn’t see fit to send it to anyone but the girls.”
“If they were even threatening,” said Juno. “It was just a nonsense rhyme.” I got the distinct impression our newest female knight was a bit jealous she hadn’t been included on the Diggirl list. But she hadn’t even been a Digger yet.
“You think so?” Lucky asked, playing with the wishbone on her plate. “But who could have sent it, and why?”
“Who cares?” said Graverobber. “You haven’t gotten any more messages and nothing dreadful has happened. It was a prank. Probably some other society who got their hands on our club’s roster.”
“If you say so, Graverobber,” said Lucky. “I’m surprised you of all people are so dismissive, considering your constant insistence that this society is indeed rotting from within. What if it’s not a nonsense rhyme?”
Soze considered this. “Do you want to look into it, Lucky? You can track down users and stuff, right?”
She scowled. “Like I have time for another project?”
I smiled at her. “That will teach you to volunteer.”
But Lucky closed down. “It’s a lesson I’ve already had, thanks. And if no one here thinks it’s important, then why should I spend my time on it? You can all go to the devil just fine without my assistance.”
Um, okay. This chick PMSes like no one’s business. One second, she’s fun and kind of snarky, and the next second—boom—the bitch is back. I never knew what to expect from her. It was all Dr. Jenny and Ms. Hyde.
“Are we all done with dinner?” Thorndike asked to diffuse the tension. She pointed at the grandfather clock (no, not an atomic one) in the corner of the room, which was nearing the all important VIII marker. “I think Bugaboo here has some juicy stories for us.”
There was a ripple of chuckles around the table, and I felt a corresponding turbulence deep in my stomach as we adjourned from the dining room and filed up the stairs to the Inner Temple. The round, domed room had become one of my favorite places on campus in the few short months since I’d been tapped into Rose & Grave. Eli had some gorgeous architecture, but this secret room thrilled me more than all of the Gothic glory of the library or the carved marble starkness along the Presidential Plaza or Memorial Hall. This room was mine—or ours. I was one of the few people who ever got to appreciate its deep blue ceiling, dotted with tiny gilt stars, the rich wood paneling scarred by centuries of Diggers scraping their chairs against the walls and regularly decorated with art, relics, and trophies the members had “crooked” from the college over the years. I was one of the few given the privilege of sinking into the cushy couches we’d been using during the C.B.s. Today, they were arranged in a semi-circle facing the large oil painting of the voluptuous nude we called Connubial Bliss. It was before this portrait I would stand as I spoke about my experiences.
I stood to the side a bit as my brothers got ready to call the meeting to order. Thorndike, this evening’s Uncle Tony, donned a long black hooded robe, took her seat on the dais at the top of the room, and turned a pedestal so that the wooden engraving of Persephone faced the room. She struck a small gong thrice, once, and twice. “The Time is VIII. I hereby call to order this, our Seven thousand, one hundred, and twenty-ninth meeting of the Order of Rose & Grave.”
Keyser Soze, our club’s Secretary, took his seat to the right of the dais, and the other Diggers, including me, followed suit, each perching on one of the couches.
“In honor of Persephone, the Keeper of the Flame of Life and the Consort of the Shadow of Death, we, her loyal Knights, salute and honor her image.”
“Hail, Persephone,” we intoned. Well, most of us. I was sitting next to Lucky, and I noticed she didn’t intone a thing. She didn’t even whisper it. She noticed me staring and rolled her eyes. Clearly, we’d entered the Hyde phase.
“Omni vincit mors, non cedamus nemini,” Soze said.
Thorndike continued with the rather arcane calling-to-order ritual, which included a list of fines incurred in the previous week by members for various infractions:
Lil’ Demon: cursed before the altar of Persephone—$3.
Puck: used barbarian names when Bond had beat him in Kaboodle Ball last Thursday—$2.
Graverobber: twice caught without his society pin—$10. (“Get a tattoo like ours and you’ll be golden,” Angel suggested.)
After that, there was a sort of group-bonding activity in which we turned to our fellow knights and messed up their hair. I liken it to that moment in church where you shake hands with the people next to you in the pew. We sang a few traditional songs (singing is really big at Eli, no matter what activity you’re involved in), which tended to be, at once: spooky, ribald, and filled with literary allusions.
Next up, Bond reported on the developing plans to steal back a small bronze statue of Orpheus that had been recently pilfered from our courtyard. Thanks to some recent surveillance, we were pretty sure the thieves had been Dragon’s Head, and Bond and Lil’ Demon had been combing through the archives in the Library to find records showing how to break into Dragon’s Head and retrieve our property. This tradition of “crooking” from other societies was one of the oldest we had. The tomb was chock full of memorabilia from generations of Diggers who’d been trading trophies back and forth with all the other societies on campus. I thought most of the stuff was junk, myself, but I’m sure to the class of 1937, the mangy stuffed lion’s head they’d swiped from the tomb of Book & Key represented a triumph of criminal ingenuity.
And the other societies weren’t the only targets of our raids. I’d been amused to learn upon my induction into the Order of Rose & Grave that many of the most infamous items-gone-missing over the years could be found within the hallowed walls of the tomb. From what I could discern, the university turned a mostly blind eye to all of the shenanigans, so long as we kept our thievery confined to objects like champion crew boats, weathercocks from the roof of the president’s office, and the like. A few years ago, a valuable World Clock had disappeared from a college dining hall, and the benefactor as well as the college dean were so upset that it seemed like all fun and games had come to an end. With the heat on, the club decided to ditch their booty and found an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone when the local campus tabloid printed an exposé about Rose & Grave. Magically, the clock appeared in the tabloid’s minuscule office the following day, and an anonymous tip to campus police pointed the way hence.
I knew the story well. The editor of every publication at Eli had heard how the tabloid editor had been dragged into the provost’s office to explain himself. The clock’s presence in the tiny basement office was ridiculous, of course. No one believed they could have hidden such an enormous piece of equipment in a space hardly big enough to contain the rumors they collected. Naturally, the editor redirected the blame back at the Diggers…and mysteriously, the case against the thieves—whomever they might be—was immediately dropped.
Interestingly enough, the club portrait of D169 hanging in the tomb’s room of records features fifteen young men standing around the usual table showcasing the usual society paraphernalia. But behind them all is a World Clock.
We hadn’t chosen the target of our club’s big caper, but it was early yet in the year.
“This evening, to honor Persephone, we will hear the Connubial Bliss report of Knight Bugaboo. All agreed?”
There were sounds of assent in the room, and I took my place before the painting. I liked Connubial Bliss. She was not a beautiful woman, but she had a certain stark appeal. Her pose wasn’t openly seductive, nor pornographic (like some other nudes we’d found in the tomb’s collection), but rather a casual nakedness. In her hand she held a pomegranate, which, I’d learned, was a more accurate interpretation of Eve’s apple. Persephone wasn’t the only woman of myth who’d lost paradise by eating pomegranate.
Her gaze looked a bit beyond the viewer, her expression stoic, and at times I thought it was a little sad. Angel had said she looked aloof, as if she was above the adoration heaped upon her by the hormonal adolescents who usually used this room. Puck had said she looked sexy. So, clearly a naked Rorschach test.
I turned and faced my audience. “Most Sacred Goddess Persephone, Uncle Tony, and my fellow Knights of Rose & Grave…” And then I stopped. “Um, what is he doing here?”
I pointed to Poe, who had, of course, taken a seat in the most shadowy section of the room. He looked affronted. “What do you mean? I can come to meetings.”
“Oh, no.” I folded my arms. “I don’t want him here.”
“I’m a member of this organization,” he said. “I’m bound by the same oaths as the rest of these people.”
“He’s not in our club,” I said. “I don’t think—”
“But we always let the patriarchs sit in on the meetings if they want,” Angel said. I shot her a look. Dude, show a little Diggirl solidarity, huh? She hadn’t had that creep breathing down her neck when she was reporting on her sex life. Why should he get the honor of hearing about ours if we didn’t get to hear his in return? (Um, not that I’d want to!)
And I still had my ace to play. “I don’t feel comfortable. Isn’t the idea of this evening for me to feel completely comfortable?”
“What exactly is it about me that makes you uncomfortable sharing your intimate history, Bugaboo?” Poe said with a cold satisfaction.
“What is it about you that makes everyone uncomfortable in general?” Lucky snapped. There we go! A little support.
I stood there, looking at the club, who were approximating a tennis match audience. Poe, me. Poe, me. Poe, me.
Thorndike cleared her throat. “This is Bugaboo’s presentation. If the knight feels ill at ease in the presence of the patriarch—”
“She shouldn’t,” Poe argued. “I’m here like the rest of you, to participate in the experience of Rose & Grave.”
“Haven’t you gotten enough experience that you don’t need to horn in on ours?” I glared at him. He glared back.
“I think,” Thorndike said, “we should take a vote.” She rapped a gavel against the wooden top of the pillar by her throne. “All those in favor of restricting the C.B. reports to the members of the current club, say ‘Aye.’”
Everyone looked at one another. It was a momentous vote. I’m sure half of them thought I should drop the whole issue with Poe. Yeah, he was a jerk, but he was always hanging around the tomb, devouring our food and sulking. We’d almost gotten used to him. And he’d proved last year that when push came to shove, his oaths really did mean something. However, I could see it on each of their faces. They were all thinking of patriarchs they would rather not have around when it came time to do their own reports.
“Aye,” said the women.
“Aye,” said the men.
“Aye.” Angel shrugged and joined in.
“Aye,” said Puck. “We’d never want ’boo to be uncomfortable.”
“Aye,” I said, and smirked at Poe.
Thorndike took a deep breath. “The motion is passed.” She looked at Poe. “We request that Patriarch Poe of D176 leave the Inner Temple for the duration of the meeting.”
And then she tapped the gavel thrice, once, and twice on the pillar.
Poe didn’t look at her. He kept his cold gray eyes on me, and for a moment, when the last crack of the gavel sounded through the room, I thought I saw him flinch.
“Fine,” he said, shrugging to his feet. “I’m out of here.” His stately walk across the room was accompanied by not a single glance at any of the Diggers who’d just thrown him out. At the door, he paused. “If you guys hope to win back the favor of the patriarchs, let me give you a gentle hint. This is not the way to make it happen.”
The door closed behind him and we all sat (or in my case, stood) in silence. Connubial Bliss frowned down at me. I ignored her. It was bad enough I had to put my love life up to the scrutiny of my own club members. Poe was over the line.
“Okay,” Puck said at last, breaking the tension. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Enough of that. Bring on the sexy stories.”
I smiled, and he grinned back. Sexy stories, huh? Without you in them, how sexy could they be? As I stood there, watching him do his best to get the rest of our brothers back on track and winking at me with those copper-colored eyes, I knew as sure as the painted chick behind me was naked that someday soon, I would have a story with George.
And I’d be super-glad I’d waited until after my C.B.
From: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org
To: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org
Subject: Re: C.B.s and other indignities
no matter what you said in your e-mail, i can tell your c.b. went well! you survived! i knew you would! i’m sorry this whole patriarch thing is dragging out. i can speak from experience that it’s no fun when the people you look up to are turning their backs on you. but our decisions are correct. i know it. hang in there. i think soze will steer you right. he’s the best choice for club secretary because he knows how to win the hearts and minds of the alums. and if things start to get real sticky, you’ve got poe right there on campus to help you guys out. i know he would love to be involved.
things here are going well. there’s something so open about this landscape. all the old bullshit begins to seem so unimportant. maybe you should rethink your whole grad school idea and come live with me in the wintry north? i promise you, that thing they say about the male population is *not* just the stuff of legend.:-)
I think Malcolm may have been spending too much time with his Brokeback Mountain DVD. But all in all, a sweet e-mail. Maybe if it had been him in the Inner Temple last night instead of Poe, I wouldn’t have been so adamant about current-members-only. Malcolm wouldn’t hold my C.B. against me. And the rest of my club—who would later have to offer up their own peccadillos—didn’t judge me for the mistakes I’ve made in my relationships, for breaking the heart of a wonderful boy like Brandon, for engaging in illicit activity with some guy I didn’t even know. Heck, George was probably proud of me for it! I could confess anything and they wouldn’t hold it against me, like I didn’t hold admissions of cheating against—
I heard a thump and a giggle through the wall separating my room from Lydia’s.
— against Josh. I mean, not yet anyway. Besides, everyone makes mistakes.
There was a bit of rustling and then, “Shhh! What are you doing?” A little squeal of pleasure.
Didn’t they have a Monday morning class to get to or something? They were supposed to be so smart and high-achieving and Phi Beta Kappa and all—didn’t they have work to do?
I certainly did. I had yet to schedule a meeting with my thesis advisor to discuss my senior project. Unfortunately, I still didn’t have a firm topic. Or any topic. I clicked over to my word processing program and reviewed my notes. Not exactly impressive. Certainly not worthy of honors in the major, and definitely nothing that would stand out on a grad school application. But, what was three-fourths of a literary degree worth but to make the flimsy look substantial? I began to edit.
There was another giggle from the vicinity of Lydia’s room. I rolled my eyes and kept typing. They’d been sequestered in there all morning, and I’d bet dollars to donuts there was no political science summit going on.
Right after I pressed Save, there was a knock at our suite door. I stilled, waiting to see if there’d be any rustling through the wall to signal they’d get it. But Lydia and Josh were clearly not in any position to be pulling themselves together and answering the door. I sighed, and fingered my messy topknot. Fine. Some of us were doing homework, and some of us were hooking up, but whose right to refuse interruption seemed more valid? The couple’s. Of course.
I padded across our parquet floor and opened the door. Behind it stood Brandon Weare.
“Hi, Amy” were the first two words I’d heard from him in more than a month. “Can we talk?”