6. Party

When I stepped through the doors into the two-story Grand Library (room 311, since the Inner Temple had claimed the sacred designation of 312, according to the intelligence I gleaned from the two thirty-something alumni who showed me the way), everyone looked up and gave me a little toast with pomegranate juice–filled punch cups. There were already close to twenty people in the room—maybe ten college students and a handful of older men in suits.

“So you’re number eleven,” said a stocky black girl with hair the color of my Friday night date panties and a woven hemp shirt. “Welcome to our loony bin.” I knew this girl by reputation—I’d seen her protests and her rallies—Demetria Robinson.

“You’re Lydia’s friend, right?” A guy with reddish-brown hair stepped up next and glad-handed me. “I think we met once, sophomore year.”

I nodded in recognition. Leave it to Joshua Silver, political wunderkind, to never forget a face or a network connection. Only twenty-one and already the manager of several successful local election campaigns. To Lydia, he was both her hero and her rival in every Poli-Sci class they’d taken together. Joshua wore khaki pants and a rumpled white oxford liberally spattered with red juice. He gestured to the HELLO MY NAME IS sticker on his shirt. “I’m, uh, Keyser Soze.”

“Now, there’s a society name!” I wrinkled my nose. “I’m Bugaboo.”

“Could be worse,” Demetria said. “Some soon-to-be-dickless fuckwad thought it would be funny to christen me Thorndike.”

Josh/Soze sniggered and Clarissa Cuthbert materialized by my side, holding two silver punch cups. She handed one to me. “It’s a historical name. You should be proud of it. President Taft was a Thorndike.”

“President Taft was a fat white fuck,” Thorndike replied.

Clarissa clinked her glass against mine. Her HELLO MY NAME IS sticker read Angel. “Welcome, Bugaboo,” she said. “Glad to see you slumming with us after all.”

I flinched. Of all the secret societies in all the colleges in the world, Clarissa Cuthbert had to be tapped into mine. So that’s what she’d wanted to discuss with me.

But Angel didn’t seem interested in rehashing our earlier conversation. She turned to the others and said, “I guess there’s just George Harrison Prescott left now, huh?”

“Yeah,” said a short Asian guy joining the group. “But I hear they had to drag him into the tomb kicking and screaming.” He stuck his hand out at me. “Hey there, I’m Frodo.”

“At last, someone with a worse name than mine!” Thorndike sniffed.

“Do not go gently into that sweet night, GHP,” said a young man with a completely edible English accent. “But rather…make your daddy force you.” He winked at me. “I’m Bond…Barbarian-So-Called Greg Dorian. I hear you’re the writer.”

“Another creative type?” Frodo asked. “I’m a filmmaker. And Little Demon is a…singer, of sorts. This is one artsy class.”

I looked down into my punch cup. “I’m not really a writer.” Thirty pages of a wretched novel does not count.

Soze shrugged. “Then what are you?”

“The editor of the Lit Mag.”

They all exchanged glances.

“Why aren’t you in Quill & Ink?” Thorndike asked. “My ex-girlfriend Glenda Foster is in that one.”

TWO POINTS

1) Very good question.

2) Glenda Foster is a lesbian?!? You think you know someone….

“ ‘Girlfriend’ is a relative term.” A slender, stunning woman with waist-length red hair joined our group and extended a graceful hand toward me. Now, this chick I knew. But of course, you all know everything about Odile Dumas as well. She’d been tabloid fodder since she was 15. Her matriculation to Eli had been largely viewed by all to be an attempt to present herself as less Lindsay Lohan and more Natalie Portman. But to the media’s shock, she’d taken to collegiate life with gusto and all but dropped out of public view. Odile hadn’t had an album or movie out in three years, and the word around campus was that she was smarter (and less slutty) than anyone had expected (or hoped).

“Little Demon,” she purred, “but if I end up pursuing that hip-hop career, I’ll change it to Lil’ Demon.” The name rolled off her tongue with such ease that we all knew at once—hip-hop career or no—what we’d end up calling her.

“How droll.” Thorndike rolled her eyes and Lil’ Demon turned to her.

“Just because you get a poor girl drunk and seduce her once or twice does not make her your girlfriend. Bad as a man. Behavior like that is a disgrace to lesbians everywhere.”

Thorndike narrowed her eyes. “Are you including yourself in that number?”

“I’m pansexual,” Lil’ Demon said, with a shake of her hair. “Why settle?”

Bond lifted his punch glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

But Thorndike wasn’t finished. “And you, Odile, are a disgrace to women everywhere.”

Angel clucked her tongue. “Watch the barbarian names in here, kiddies.”

“Oh, get a room, you two,” Frodo said. Thorndike and Lil’ Demon looked at each other, sniffed in disdain, and turned in opposite directions.

This was one hell of a tap class.

Everyone chuckled, and I laughed uneasily to keep them company. Was it me, or did they all seem to know one another very well? I drained my glass and started back to the punch bowl, if only for something to do. I’d had my fill of pomegranate juice for one night.

Angel headed me off at the pass. “I looked it up,” she whispered. “Little Demon is also a traditional name, given to the smallest tap every year.” She cast a haughty glance back at the colorful Lil’ Demon. “Don’t you think I’m skinnier than she is?”

I ladled myself a glass of punch and resisted throwing it in her face. “I honestly”—couldn’t care less—“wouldn’t know.”

She shook her head as if shrugging it off. “That was some piece of luck today in the library, huh?”

No. I was never fortunate to run into Clarissa. “How so?”

“Me being there to find that letter before someone else did. Pretty cool trick of Lancelot’s—you know his society name is Lancelot, right?”

I nodded. Had Clarissa—Angel—already looked it up in one of the many leather-bound books lining the walls of the room? She had to be getting all her Rose & Grave trivia from somewhere. Man, she and Lydia were separated at birth!

I was about to ask her where she’d unearthed that bit of info when the doors opened and in shuffled George Harrison Prescott, sheepish grin plastered across his gorgeous face, zippered jacket and eyeglasses notably absent.

“Hey, guys. They got me.” While everyone lifted their glasses in cheer, George crossed to a table I hadn’t noticed before, scrawled something on a sticker, and slapped it against his chest. Then, with a flourish, he turned, presenting his society name sticker.

Angel’s mouth dropped open.

“Yo, Amy!” George waved. “Another Prescotteer, thank God! What’s your new handle?”

“Bugaboo.” I looked down at my stickerless chest, glad that I’d been able to pull off underwire after all.

Angel looked at me. “Right, you need a sticker.” A moment later she handed me one with Bugaboo printed in a curly, girly script. Good thing there were no “i” s in my name, or I was damn sure she would have dotted them with hearts.

“Thanks,” I said as she leaned close to whisper in my ear, smelling of Chanel, vodka, and pomegranate juice.

“You know what ‘Puck’ is, right?”

Well, let’s see….

Option One:

The little black disk hockey players fight over.

Option Two:

That annoying bicycle messenger from Real World: San Francisco.

Option Three:

“As an English major, I’m required by law to respond ‘the head sprite in Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ ” I said, sure she was about to give me another lesson in Digger lore. I was not disappointed.