“Yep.”

“Which software company was it?”

“One of the big ones.”

By this point, I was getting a little annoyed by her coy attitude. “We’re Diggers now. We shouldn’t have secrets.”

Jenny looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Is that what you think? The Brotherhood of Death has many secrets, Amy. We’ve only just scratched the surface.” She reached up to caress the cross around her neck. “Though, to tell you the truth, I think I was expecting something more”—she gestured weakly at the swimmers—“devious.”

I thought about what Malcolm had said about finding the right apple with which to tempt Jenny. Maybe she wasn’t as tempted as they thought. I opened my mouth to ask her more about this “Brotherhood of Death” (because I’d certainly never heard the Diggers called that), when a bunch of soaking-wet Diggers descended upon us, trying to drag us to our feet.

“Come on!” they screamed, laughing, lifting Jenny in the air.

“Wait! Wait!” she yelled, giggling. “I have to get my BlackBerry off!” A few moments later, sans BlackBerry, they tossed her in the pool. She surfaced, splashing water on her captors and smiling so broadly, it was as if I’d just been talking to a different girl.

“You’re next!” Thorndike yelled, grabbing my arm.

“No, wait!” I said, as the girl tugged me to my feet. “I don’t swim.”

She let go, and I fell back on the chaise. “At all?”

“Oh, please!” Josh said, grabbing my other arm. “She just doesn’t want to get her clothes wet. Get her!”

Crap! Not again!

“Guys,” said Malcolm. “Forget it. She’s already had a dunk tonight.” He put his hand on my shoulder and everyone let go. This is the effect that Malcolm Cabot has on people. They just listen to him.

“My hero,” I said.

He shrugged. “Do me instead,” he offered to the mob as he peeled off his shirt. A moment later, they picked him up and marched him to the water’s edge. He didn’t fight it, probably thinking that, if anything, it was good practice for when our class had to tap our own group next year.

I wondered how they went about choosing the class. High achievers, obviously—people like Josh, Jennifer, Demetria, and Harun didn’t come around every day. Nothing I’ve ever done could hold a candle to those guys. From what I’d heard in the library, it was clear to me that George Harrison Prescott was a legacy (his daddy dragging him in, etc.), and I’d bet just about anything that Clarissa was, too. Mr. Cuthbert had just looked like the kind of guy who’d be in Rose & Grave. I didn’t know the rest of them that well, but I bet their C.V.s were every bit as impressive from both a merit-based and a genetic perspective. And they all knew it. Except me.

Why aren’t you in Quill & Ink?

Why indeed?

I started practicing the handshake on myself again. A few droplets of water dripped on my elbow. I looked up. Malcolm stood over me. His artfully tossed hair was slicked back from his face, and water dripped down his Abercrombie & Fitch abs and ran in rivulets from the legs of his clingy, soaked boxer shorts. He must have taken off his pants when I wasn’t looking. Shame. Malcolm had clearly gotten into the poolside fun, though from what I could tell, Jenny was splashing around still hampered by her cargo pants and a white T-shirt that, sorry, girlfriend, ain’t hiding nothing.

“You’re kind of in my light,” I said, squinting up at him.

“You really don’t swim, do you?”

Malcolm Cabot was incredibly hot. And he’d been paying me a lot of attention all night. At first, I’d just been writing it off to his desire to make the new initiate feel welcome—especially after the way that Poe guy had treated me. But even after it was clear that I’d gotten over it and was more than ready to party, he stuck close. Uh-oh. Did Brandon have competition? If so, he’d better watch out—Malcolm was way out of his league.

(Oh my God, did I just think that? I’m such a bitch! Like it matters! How could I have entertained such a petty, worthless, small-minded thought? Was I already turning into a snob; I was in a secret society, therefore I was better than someone who wasn’t? Was Lydia right? And to think it about Brandon, too—Brandon, who was so sweet to me, so good. I liked him. A lot. I wasn’t in love with him, but…)

Actually, truth be told, Malcolm was way out of my league, too. So the idea that he was interested just didn’t compute, even in my champagne-addled mind.

But, considering the above addling, I didn’t really care if it made sense. He was here, wet and nearly naked.

“No, I really don’t swim.”

“Why?”

I winked at him. “It’s a secret. I can still have secrets from you, can’t I, Lance?”

He sat down beside me. “It’s frowned upon, but technically, yes. Come on, Bugaboo, tell me.” He grabbed my thigh and jiggled it as if to shake the truth from me.

I blinked in what I hoped was a seductive manner, but the movement of my eyelids seemed to take much longer than strictly necessary. Note to self: When it looks like you might get the chance to hook up with a hot senior, go light on the bubbly. Then again, this probably wasn’t all champagne knocking me for a loop. After all, it was near 5 A.M., and I’d never been good with all-nighters.

And I was sitting here, outclassed by an Adonis in a pair of wet boxer shorts.

Of course, “outclassed” had basically been the theme of the evening, hadn’t it? I was wracking my Eli-educated brain trying to figure out where I fit in this world. Even the Christian computer nerd seemed a more appropriate ingredient.

“Please?” He batted his blond eyelashes at me. “I’ll tell you a secret, too.”

“Is it a big one?”

He smiled and leaned in. “The biggest.”

7. Morning After

WAYS TO KNOW WITHOUT ROLLING OVER

TO LOOK AT HIM

1) Instead of a thick, fluffy down duvet, boys have thin, cotton-fill bedspreads in black, navy, or forest green.

2) The stereo is huge.

3) There’s a poster of one of the following on the wall: Angelina Jolie, the Beastie Boys, or Star Wars.

4) The pillow smells like hair gel.

5) There’s a deep pit of dread in your stomach.

If your present surroundings fit at least three of these criteria, look forward to your upcoming Walk of Shame.

Mine fit four, but that fifth one was well on its way.

I rolled over to face my fate, dreading who I would find hogging the hair gel–scented pillow to my right. Had I really consumed so much champers last night that I couldn’t remember? But the bed was empty. I sat up and took an in-depth survey of the room. No identifying features—family photos, a big sign saying: What’s-His-Name’s Room—and worse, no sign of my clothes.

Uh-oh.

I looked down at my body. Underwear, bra, long white boy’s undershirt with a little gold pin stuck through the collar—Rose & Grave. As if that narrowed it down.

Think, Amy, think. Okay. Initiation, limo, mansion, lobster, swimming pool…do I remember the ride back to Eli? This was ridiculous! I had drunk half a bottle of champagne, tops, plus whatever may or may not have been in that Digger punch, and considering how many hours I was out there, there was no way I’d been drunk enough to hook up with someone and not remember…right?

The door opened like a reality-show reveal, and for one second, all I could see was a sneakered foot. Then in walked Malcolm Cabot in a pair of designer jeans and an Eli T-shirt, balancing a drink holder and a paper Starbucks bag in one hand and a stack of folded clothes in the other.

And then I remembered an image from last night: Malcolm Cabot, soaking wet, in a pair of boxer shorts and a smile.