Secret Society Girl

pricking my side.

Like anything would ever be the same again.

But we tried. After all, it was Saturday night, and spring, and we were two young, smart, single girls who knew exactly how to have a good time.

Which is how we found ourselves at eight o’clock that evening spread out on the sofa in T-shirts, pajama bottoms, and sweat socks, with a bottle of Finlandia Mango, a set of Eli-official “Harvard sucks, Princeton doesn’t matter” shot glasses, a bag of gumdrops, and Lydia’s DVD of Bridget Jones’s Diary. We were debating the rules of the game over the opening credits.

“How about we take a drink every time she lights up?” I suggested.

Lydia set about hogging the red gumdrops. “I don’t feel like getting alcohol poisoning tonight.” She popped a few in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “How about we take a drink every time they do a gratuitous, Hollywood-standards-are-out-of-control camera shot of Renee’s extra poundage?”

I shrugged. “That sounds more manageable. But…new rules for the sequel.” They really started milking the fat jokes in that one.

“Of course!”

It was a relief to talk about something other than secret societies. As we settled into our usual routine, my curiosity about Lydia’s society waned (it helped that, if she was wearing their pin, she kept it well hidden). I was still taken aback by the lengths that her group had gone through in their initiation. I would have thought Rose & Grave had the most elaborate, outlandish ceremonies, but then again, a newer organization might make it a point to take their traditions to new heights, each trying to outdo the ones that came before in a sort of secret-society pissing contest. Maybe I’d ask Malcolm what he knew about other organizations’ initiation rites and see if I could suss out who included hamburgers in their ceremonies.

Okay, so I was still wondering. Sue me.

Three shots later, Lydia and I were debating whether or not Bridget was making a fool of herself in those see-through office outfits, when there was a knock at our suite door. Lydia leaned over to open it and Brandon walked in.

“Is that dried blood on your doorknob?” he asked without preamble. Lydia and I exchanged glances and shrugged, while Brandon took in the coffee-table spread. “I don’t know if Willy Wonka would approve.”

“Nonsense,” Lydia slurred, pounding her fourth as Daniel successfully navigated Bridget’s oversized granny panties. “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.”

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 Renee 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 insecure 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.”