Secret Society Girl

I got up and went to the window, but there was no sign of Lydia or of a bunch of robed figures. Half an hour later, I decided to calm my nerves by taking a nice stroll—down to High Street.

Now, aside from being home to the English department and the Art History lecture hall, High Street is also known for hosting the Rose & Grave tomb. (These “tombs” dotted the campus, their huge, mausoleum-like facades hiding interiors that were supposedly more like mansions. Remember, the Egyptian pyramids were tombs as well. But no one knew if the society tombs held actual…bodies.) According to rumor, there’s an intricate code for members that can tell them exactly what is going on inside the tomb based on the position of the low, wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance. I didn’t know what the code was, but I assumed that I’d find out. Sometime.

I walked past the entrance to two residential colleges, and then, as was common amongst all students, crossed to the other side of the street so I wouldn’t be seen walking in front of the Rose & Grave tomb. It was an unwritten rule on campus—the college equivalent of refusing to walk in front of a haunted house in our childhood neighborhoods.

The tomb was made of sandstone blocks and seemed somehow darker than the surrounding stone and slate buildings. A fence surrounded an unkempt yard spotted with patches of grass and a few late, struggling daffodils. Strange that the Diggers didn’t keep up the landscaping, though it added to the imposing nature of the property. The sodium streetlight nearest the tomb was perpetually out of order, meaning that the tomb itself stood in a pool of deep shade and long, sinister shadows. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they did it on purpose.

Maybe I didn’t know better. I sat down on the curb and rested my chin in my hands, regarding the building warily. The gate was half open. What did that mean? Someone was inside? Someone wasn’t? Someone was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on me the second I came near? I looked both ways down the street, but it was deserted.

The niggling fear in the back of my mind rose up to taunt me. It wasn’t Rose & Grave who carried you into the bathroom. It was a prank, and you fell for it, hook, line, and hooded robe. Stupid Amy Haskel, you’ll be the laughingstock of Eli tomorrow.

Why hadn’t they taken me away with them? They’d tapped me, right? I was a member now, right? So if I wanted to go up to that gate, if I wanted to walk right through and pound on the door and demand to know what the hell they were doing—then I was entitled to. Right?

And if you’re not a member, they’ll cart you away to the dungeon.

I stood up, clenched my fists at my sides, and marched across the street, utterly determined for all of ten steps. As soon as I got to the gate, my resolve wavered and I stopped to check again. Still no one coming.

I held my breath and put my hand on the gate. Nothing. No one came to arrest me, or yell at me, or threaten to eradicate my existence from the planet for daring to infiltrate the society grounds without permission. I took a step inside. Then two. Somewhere around six steps, the gate clanged shut behind me. I yelped, jumped about two feet in the air, and rushed back to the fence.

The gate wouldn’t open. I fumbled with the catches, but if there was a release mechanism, my fingers weren’t finding it, and I couldn’t see a thing in the dark. Oh, crap. I’d been a member for all of fifty minutes and I’d already broken the fence and messed with the secret code.

And trespassed. Don’t forget how you trespassed. They’re going to get you. Run! Run, before anyone catches you.

The voice won, and I climbed over the gate, catching the flare of my favorite jeans on one of the spikes protruding from the top. For several seconds, I acted like a hopscotch player on crack while trying to free my leg from its wrought-iron trap. Then I saw a group of three students exiting Calvin College and heading toward Old Campus. I stopped hopping. Maybe they wouldn’t see me if I stayed perfectly still. Hey, it worked for those people in Jurassic Park.

Fortunately, the average college student has the environmental acuity of a beanbag chair. They don’t even look both ways before crossing the street. So they didn’t look down High Street at the girl who was stuck to the Rose & Grave gate.

I ripped my hem free, and then, torn denim flapping on the cement behind me, sprinted away from the tomb at a pace that would have easily earned me a spot on the Eli track team.

I didn’t slow to a jog until I was back inside my residential college courtyard. Eli University, kind of like Harry Potter’s Hogwarts, is arranged according to this British boarding school–style residential house system. We don’t use a magical sorting hat or anything like that, but when you matriculate, you’re assigned to one of twelve residential “colleges” that determines where you live, which dining hall you eat in, what allegiance you take during intramural sports, and which dean has the privilege of lowering the ax when you screw up. Every one of the twelve colleges comes supplied with resident faculty as well as its own dean, a sort of collegiate “principal” who serves as an academic advisor and resident disciplinarian, and a college master, who oversees our social scene and college-specific organizations. If you couldn’t turn in a paper on time, you went to your dean for help. If you wanted some funds to hold a Prescott College chili cook-off, the master was the go-to guy (or girl).

The worst punishment you can get at Eli short of expulsion is called “rustication”—which means that after a fun-filled period of suspension, you are welcomed back into the bosom of Eli but stripped of your college identity. From that point on, the rusticated individual can’t live on campus (all undergrad housing is based on college designation) and doesn’t have a college master or dean to turn to in the rough times. You’re merely marking time and classroom credits until the diploma. It’s named after a type of banishment popular during the Roman Empire, which says a lot about these schools’ puffed self-images. College identity is paramount, even to people with much more powerful affiliations—like Rose & Grave. If ever you meet another Eli grad, the very first question you’ll be asked is, “What college were you in?”

I was a member of Prescott College, which was named after one of the school’s founders. Other colleges are named after Connecticut towns (Hartford College, where Glenda lived) and famous historical figures, scientists, and religious leaders (such as Calvin College, next to the Rose & Grave tomb). Though nowadays your college assignment is mostly random (but you can choose to be in the same college as your sibling or parent was), it used to be that each college had a specific personality based on its members—kind of like secret societies. Prescott College was once known as the “legacy” college—it’s where the President lived while he was at Eli, as well as his father before that. It still has a lot of money in trust from alumni donations, and really big rooms. So I lucked out there, since I’m neither a legacy nor richer than Trump.

I looked up at my suite; still dark, which meant Lydia hadn’t come home yet. I thought about going to find some of my other friends, but knew that no conversation would last ten minutes before I blurted out, “Would a secret society tap a person then disappear? Hypothetically, of course.”

Oh, I was pathetic. After a thorough inspection of the courtyard (during which I stumbled across one puddle of vomit, one pile of unidentified books, and one fellow junior making out with someone who was decidedly not her boyfriend—but no sign of robed figures), I headed back to my room, utterly defeated and more than a little pissed that I’d torn my jeans.

According to every legend I’d ever heard, this is not what Tap Night was supposed to be like. What a letdown. I changed into my pajamas and padded into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Flossing, fortunately, gave me the opportunity for a good long observation of myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a member of one of the most notorious secret societies in America. I didn’t look like someone who could claim brotherhood with the head of the CIA, the President of the United States, or the new CEO of Fox.

“Faeth it,” I garbled to my reflection through the floss. “Youffe been hadth.”

I fully intended to be out of the suite before I saw Lydia and was forced to tell her all about what hadn’t happened to me the night before. I even dressed for the part, in secret-mission dark jeans (not the ones I’d torn) and my fade-into-the-woodwork Eli University crest hoodie.

What I did not anticipate was that she’d be waiting for me in the dining hall, having staked out a spot right next to the cereal bar. This is the problem with best friends. They know exactly what breakfast you’re going to go for. If I’d been in the mood for a bagel rather than a bowl of Frosted Flakes, she never would have caught me.

“Nice outfit,” she murmured over her coffee cup. “You really look the part.”

I splashed some skim milk into my bowl and plopped down across from her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gestured with her teaspoon at my outfit. “Dark colors, mysterious hoods…it’s very subtle.” She smirked.

“I’ve worn this sweatshirt a hundred times.”

“Never when you were actually in a secret society.” Lydia was dressed in a pale pink blouse and a pair of khakis, and looked about as mysterious as a church picnic.

Okay, maybe I didn’t look coy, but I could sure as hell play the part. “What makes you think I’m in a secret society?” I asked, spooning up my flakes.

“The dozen robed figures who carried you bodily out of our suite last night.”

Ha! I took a deep breath. “How do you know they were a secret society?”

She gave me a look that said, I’ve got a 3.9 GPA, and you know it.

But all of a sudden, I very much wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter. “Seriously, Lyds, how do you know? How would any of us know that they weren’t a bunch of guys in hoods playing a practical joke?”

“I think the Rose & Grave letterhead is a good clue.”

“You looked at the envelope.”

“It’s pretty hard to miss, Amy. Little flower, great big coffin?” She eyed me warily. “Are you going to get up and leave the room now?” By all accounts, secret society members had to leave the room if anyone mentioned the name of their organization. Supposedly it was to protect them from entering into discussion about the society, but it always seemed like a raw deal to me. Say you were at a rocking party and some chick wanted you out of the picture so she could mack on your man. All she had to do was start listing societies until she hit on yours. I suppose this is the kind of thing you have to think about when you join one.

“It depends,” I said, setting down my spoon. “Dragon’s Head. Book & Key. Serpent. You going anywhere?”

Lydia said nothing. We sat there, staring at each other. Either she wasn’t following the rule, I hadn’t named her society, or she was just as unsure of what was going on as I was.

I tried turning the tables. “I came back to the room not five minutes after I left it, and you weren’t there anymore. And you didn’t come back for the rest of the evening. Were you tapped by someone after I left?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“No, I don’t!” I noticed my raised voice had attracted some listeners from nearby tables, and leaned forward to talk to her more privately. Luckily, dining halls are mostly deserted during the breakfast hours—especially on Fridays. “I don’t know anything about how this works. I don’t even know if those guys in their robes were