I came back to the bed. “Actually, I did want to ask you something about that.”

He spread his arms wide. “Ask me anything you want. We have no more secrets.”

I wondered how true that was. Jennifer didn’t seem to believe it. “Why were you sticking so close to me last night if you weren’t flirting with me?”

“I’m your big brother,” Malcolm said, as if it were obvious. “Every new tap has one.”

“Is there any rhyme or reason to the assignations? Like, who is Demetria Robinson’s big brother?”

“Kevin Binder,” he replied. “Can’t you tell? Black, gay, extremely radical?”

“You mean they were paired up because they’re so alike?”

“I mean she was tapped because they are so alike.” Malcolm’s brow wrinkled. “You do know that’s how it works, right? We tap people to replace ourselves.”

“And you picked me?”

“Ja. Oui. Si. Hai.” He shrugged. “Didn’t you notice how the tap class is full of tokens? It’s gotten pretty ridiculous the past few years, in my opinion. Everyone is so worried about choosing a representative that they don’t really think about the intangibles. It’s just—ethnicity, religion, political leaning, academic interest. We tap by genres, not souls. Everyone is turning into a walking stereotype.”

Actually, I had noticed that, but figured it was just the usual extension of the Eli habit of wearing your heart on your sleeve. During those four years in college, whatever you were, you pushed it to the max. In order to carve out a niche for yourself, you needed to embody the image you were so desperately trying to create. I might not remember all the new taps’ names (or code names) yet, but I recognized their “type.” “So what stereotype are we?”

“Publishing, of course. And white.”

“But not gay.”

“Something you want to tell me?” He winked. “We don’t have to be exact matches. Besides, we had to stretch a bit this year because our club decided we were tapping women.”

In Diggers-speak, a “club” was the group of seniors that had been tapped together. The juniors were a club, but we’d be called the “tap class” until we took over the reins next fall.

“How did you choose which ones were tapping the women?”

“Do you really want to know?” He leaned in to whisper. “We drew straws.”

“Did you lose or win?”

“Very funny.” He paused for a second. “Look, it doesn’t matter how we picked you. You’re in now.”

Yeah, but I didn’t match up as well with Malcolm as I’m sure the other taps did with their big brothers. During his junior year, Malcolm Cabot had been the publisher of the daily newspaper—a snazzy business (not editorial, mind you) role at Eli’s most shining and successful extracurricular program. The Eli Daily News (or EDN, as everyone called it) had a gothic castle of an office on campus that rivaled the tomb of any secret society. Their operating budget could have supported several dozen Lit Mags without breaking a sweat. And there were plenty of women on staff there.

“So I’m your replacement.” I folded my hands in my lap. “That would make sense…if you were Glenda Foster.”

He fell back against the pillow and threw his hand over his eyes. “I knew you were going to ask about that!”

“About Quill & Ink?” When he nodded, I continued. “I’m a smart girl. And I knew I was earmarked for that society.”

“Well, I didn’t. I had no idea we were poaching until that day at your interview where you thought that’s who we were.”

“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 anyone know about it? The Diggers must have some heretofore unknown method of exerting their influence while keeping their identities hidden. Pretty cool.

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.”