“I did wonder why there weren’t any women in the room,” I admitted, though what I was really wondering was how Malcolm had forgotten that Quill always took the Lit Mag editor. Was it some sort of society solipsism? He didn’t concern himself with another society’s wants?
“As soon as we decide to tap you we send a letter of intent out to the other societies,” Malcolm explained.
“Doesn’t that go against the whole ‘secret’ thing?”
“Honestly, you’ll find a lot of the things we do go against it.” He shrugged. “We’re walking paradoxes. Required to wear the pins, yet instructed to leave the room if anyone dares to comment on them? How ridiculous is that?”
He said it, not me. Though, come to think of it, how prestigious can something be for you if you don’t let
Malcolm was still explaining. “The other societies do the same thing to us, though, so if they want to be assholes and reveal our tap list, we have similar ammunition. And there’s no guarantee that they’ll back off, especially if they’re a rival, like Book & Key or Dragon’s Head.”
“But Quill & Ink is no rival.”
“Exactly.” He smiled and lifted his hand off his face. “A letter from the Diggers scares the shit out of them.”
I giggled. No wonder Glenda hadn’t called me in a few days. She was probably afraid of being snuffed.
“You’ll start to notice that a lot from your barbarian friends that suss out that you’re a Digger,” Malcolm went on. “It’s no accident that all my closest buds are society members now.”
Clarissa vs. Lydia? Not going to happen. “What happens if my friends…find out?” Since, you know, Brandon and Lydia already knew.
“We kill them.” He grinned. “Nah, nothing. You’re not supposed to talk about it, but it’s going to be pretty much impossible to hide the fact that you disappear every Thursday and Sunday night from the people you’re close to—from your roommate, Lydia, for example.”
I crossed my arms. “Are you trying to do that Digger thing where you act like you know everything about me in order to freak me out?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, cut it out. I’m not buying. You already screwed up by thinking I date Brandon.”
“True. So, anything else you want to ask? I’m here to ease you into Digger life.”
“Why did you really pick me?”
He stretched, easing his hands behind his head. “Sorry, kiddo, the annals of our deliberation sessions are destroyed. We burn them in a ritual pyre.”
“Why?”
“Because fire is cool.” What a man. “No, really, to save hurt feelings.”
Made sense. I, for one, wouldn’t want to know what kind of bad stuff Poe said about me after that interview. “Why am I named Bugaboo?”
“That will be two dollars for using the name outside of the confines of a society meeting, and I can’t tell you that, either.”
“Why not?”
“Part of the delib.”
“If this is the name they’re going to address me by for the rest of my society life, I have a right to know. Some of the other members know.”
“Only the ones with the historical names. You can change it if you want, first thing next year. Don’t you like it?” He looked hurt, as if I were rejecting a gift.
I shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. Just wish I knew why it was,” I continued, slyly. I could guess, though. A bugaboo was a persistent problem, and if their little “lesson” during my initiation was anything to go by, I’d been a legendary pain in the ass during my interview.
“Little minx!” He poked me in the side until I squealed. “Maybe I should have given you that name!”
“Probably would have been preferable!”
He started tickling me in earnest then. “Come on, admit it. It’s a cute name. Bugaboo, bugaboo, bugaboo!”
“Stop! Malcolm, please!”
“Bugaboo!” I rolled back, but he didn’t relent. “Bugaboo!”
“That’s…ten…bucks….” I gasped through the laughter.
He sat back and pulled a ten-spot out of his wallet, grinning. “True. But it was worth it.”
I sat up, totally winded, flushed, and yes, a bit turned on. But come on, hot guy tickling me—what else can you expect? “Are you sure you’re gay?”
He winked. “Shall I tell you how many of Hollywood’s golden boys I’ve hooked up with?”
I raised an eyebrow with interest. “Are you going to name names?”
“No.”
“Come on!” I batted my eyes. “I’m a Digger. We have no secrets.”
He named a name.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“How was he?”
Malcolm thought about it for a minute. “Not bad. Intense.”
Figured. And closeted, just like Malcolm. But, as curious as I was about my big brother’s Hit List, there were other, more pressing questions that took precedence. So I started asking, rapid-fire, like we were on a TV show and I had thirty seconds to find out everything there was to know about Rose & Grave.
EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH MALCOLM
“LANCELOT” CABOT, DIGGER
Do you really give us grandfather clocks?
When you marry—to our liking.
So I guess that leaves you out.
In most states.
How about the twenty thousand bucks upon graduation?
Negatory. To keep TTA in the black, that’s more like what you’ll end up contributing.
Wait. I’ve got dues?
Call them “Donations.” Post-grad, of course.
Fuck.
Lots of them.
Like what?
Like you’re going to ace that Russian Novel final, Amy. Even if you don’t finish the book. We have every exam on file since they stopped giving them in Latin.
And that’s not cheating?
Why? The profs let you have the exams afterward. They should know that Elis are smart enough to catalog them for the benefit of future generations.
What else do we have squirreled away in that little tomb? I’ve heard a lot of rumors.
Let me debunk them.
Geronimo’s skull?
Check.
Hitler’s silverware?
Gross! No!
I hope not! I think some of our boys brought the junk back from World War II like battle spoils or something.
What else?
Some great first editions. A Shakespeare folio. A lot of swiped Eli memorabilia—winning crew boats and the like. Some of the treasures we’ve raided from other societies. Some decently valuable and butt-ugly art. More med school skeletons than you can shake a femur at.
Nuclear codes?
Out-of-date since the Cold War, but yeah.
On and on it went, until I’d amassed the kind of knowledge about my new secret society that conspiracy theorists from here to Addis Ababa would have killed to discover. But eventually, we each realized that, stockpiled exams or not, we had some work to do before the end of the semester. Besides, I don’t think you get a free pass to lounge around in bed all day with a guy unless there’s sex involved.
Before I left, Malcolm handed me my Rose & Grave pin. “You have to keep this on you at all times,” he said. “Pick someplace discreet.”
“What’s the point?” I asked, as I pinned the little gold hexagon to a belt loop and pulled the hem of my shirt back down. “If no one is supposed to know it’s there, why bother wearing it at all?”
“
“Maybe you would,” I said. “It would add to the ruse.” Malcolm merely shrugged a response with a sort of world-weariness that made me wonder how much longer he’d be able to keep it up.
I gave him a quick hug and headed out. Like most of the entryways in an Eli dorm, this one had only one or two suites on each floor. We didn’t have “halls” like most university dorms, but rather, many-storied entryways. Camaraderie due to geographical proximity was arranged on a vertical—instead of sharing bathrooms with the people next door, you shared it with the people upstairs. Malcolm’s digs were on the fourth floor—a “garret” that when built had probably been home to a poorer student who couldn’t afford a “sitting room,” but in modern times would be a highly coveted “single” with a heap of privacy. The landing was basically deserted—just a sophomore smoking out the second-story window and chatting on his cell phone, and a junior girl with a long brown ponytail who opened her door and peeked out as I
