In retrospect, I probably should have pondered this last part a bit more.

I woke up super-early on Monday morning (okay, more like 9 A.M.—but I am a college student) to the phone ringing. As I have already mentioned, my mother has a freaky sixth sense of when her daughter has engaged in illicit sexual activity, even from five states away. She was probably calling to see if she could discern any post-coital qualities to my voice, or perhaps detect the rustlings of a boy in the background, shimmying into his boxer briefs.

I stumbled over a cascade of paper airplanes (don’t ask, really) and, hopping into a robe, ran out the door to answer the phone.

“Hello?” Hello, Mom. No, of course you didn’t wake me. Don’t you know? I often engage in Monday morning orgies. In fact, as you called, I was just enjoying an especially thorough rogering from two men named Paolo and Butch. (That would throw her for a loop.)

“Amy?” The voice at the other end of the line was not maternal, yet it did sound worried. “It’s Malcolm.”

“Oh.” Couch. Plop. “Call to apologize?”

Silence. “Right. Yesterday. No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t, because I, for one, do not agree with—well, I can’t really talk about that right now.”

“Figures.” I wondered when Brandon’s first class was.

“That’s actually not why I’m calling. I need to see you, ASAP. Do you have any classes this morning?”

“Don’t you already know that, with your awesome Digger mind tricks? Oh, wait, I forgot, there are no mind tricks. No special powers, no secret shadow government, no ‘we’ll cut out your tongue if you talk’—it’s all a big smoke screen designed to make your dicks look bigg—”

“Amy, I need to see you right away. It’s important. Barbarian matters.”

Barbarian? I stole another look into my bedroom, where Brandon, still dead to the world (lucky guy), was making my lumpy duvet look even lumpier. Did Malcolm know about that? And how? Maybe it wasn’t all a trick. I looked around the room. Nah. That whole bugging thing was just another one of the conspiracy theories.

And yet…“What is it?” I asked.

“Not on the phone.” Oh, right, and I’m not supposed to buy into the bugging thing when he says stuff like that? “Can you meet me in half an hour?” He named a campus coffee shop.

“Well, I kind of have some work—” Like a kilo of WAP.

“It’s an emergency.”

I grunted. “Fine. You’re buying the mochas.”

Having agreed to the rendezvous, I rushed off to the shower for a quick eradication of last night and then back to my room to dry off and dress in a manner that wouldn’t disturb my—my boyfriend. The pristine term fairly crackled in my head.

I ran a comb through freshly shampooed hair and glanced over at Brandon, who lay twisted in my sheets. Blue morning light from the small window above my bed cast a pale glow over his golden skin, and his hair stood up in all directions. Even in sleep, he was smiling.

I twisted my hair into an impromptu updo, leaned over the bed, and deposited a light kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be back soon,” I whispered to his sleeping form.

First, I had to get some things straight with Malcolm.

A very weary Malcolm looked as if he’d been waiting at the coffee shop for a while, but the paper cup of mocha he slid at me the second I arrived was still scorching hot. I softened slightly. He still owed me an explanation for what had gone down at the meeting yesterday, but at least he was picking up the tab.

“Right on time,” he said. “Promptness is much admired by Diggers.”

“So I was told at my interview.” I slugged back a draught of the coffee. “But let’s get a couple things straight here, Lancelot.” He flinched at the name, but I ignored him. “The ladies of D177 are not going to roll over to some outdated Neanderthal ideas of a ‘woman’s role.’ So if that was your plan, you can drop it right now.”

“That was never my plan,” Malcolm stated. “Though I apparently can’t speak for all my brothers.”

Frickin’ Poe.

“In fact,” he went on, “I want to apologize for the way the meeting went yesterday. If it’s any consolation, most of the seniors went and found the taps at the bar last night. We heard about the New York scheme and we’re willing to do whatever it takes to help.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” After all, when the girls had stormed out yesterday, Malcolm hadn’t moved a muscle. And I wanted to know why.

“You would have seen it last night. But I think you’d already left.” He tilted his head and looked at me curiously. “With…George?”

Oh, yeah. That reminded me. “And another thing, I will date whoever I want to, and sleep with them, too, and there’s not a thing you society people can say about it.”

Malcolm stared at me with his mouth open. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, Malcolm. ‘Barbarian matters’? Please.”

He laughed out loud then, the creases between his eyes momentarily fading. “Yes, Amy, you can sleep with whomever you want. But that’s not why I called you this morning. I don’t care what you and George do, and none of the other Diggers do, either.”

“I did not sleep with George!” I cried, indignant. No, I turned him down, and really, how many women can say that? “I slept with…someone else.”

Malcolm blinked. “Um, okaaaay. Whatever. I don’t have time for a rundown of your obviously very busy social life.”

Hey! It wasn’t all that busy!

“And honestly, I don’t really care. Save it for your C.B.”

Those Connubial Bliss reports he’d told me about after the initiation, where we spill the history of our sex lives. “Right. As if we’re ever going to see the inside of that tomb again.”

“I think you will. The taps I talked to last night seemed pretty determined.” He shook his head. “But I digress. Amy, I need your help. It’s an emergency.”

“The ‘barbarian matters’ of which you spoke?”

“Exactly.” He took a deep breath. “Remember that girl you saw on the stairs yesterday?”

“The one from the EDN? Genevieve Grady? Yeah.” After all, we both ran in the same English Lit circles. I think I even had a lecture or two with her freshman year.

“Well, she’s my ex-girlfriend.”

Does not compute. Though it explained her hostility. “How long ago was this?”

“Would it surprise you if I said six weeks?”

“Recalling our conversation in your bed not two days ago, yes.”

He took a sip of his drink, as if for fortification. “Are you familiar with the term ‘beard’?”

I furrowed my brow. “Not the facial hair?”

“No. The fake lover.”

“Not really.” But then it hit me. “So you were dating Genevieve in order to throw off—”

“My dad, other suspicious individuals, anyone who might rat me out.” He toyed with the corrugated cardboard ring on his cup. “Anyway, Genevieve didn’t really get it, though after a while, she kind of figured out the score when I didn’t…” He gestured weakly. “The problem is, she sort of fell for me. I liked her a lot, she was a really great girl. But not like that. I couldn’t give her what she wanted.”

But he hadn’t bothered to tell her beforehand! Even I hadn’t been that cruel to Brandon. At least he’d known where I stood all these months. “And she resents that? Gotta tell you, buddy, so far I’m on her side.”

“Just wait.” He looked down at the table, as if bracing himself for the next part of his story. “When we broke up, it was…really bad. I wanted to stay friends. I wanted it to be what it has always been, but she was…vicious. She said the most awful things to me, and we didn’t speak for weeks. You have to understand, I had thought very highly of her. But not after the way she treated me when we broke up.”

My sympathy meter hovered in the negatives. “Well, yeah, but she was the victim here. You made it out as if you wanted to be her boyfriend, but you were just using her.”