By now, Brandon would have hied himself off to class and I had a little over two hours to do my homework before section. But if you think I was actually going to get a crack at schoolwork, then you haven’t been paying attention. Apparently, one of the reasons societies tap folks with good GPAs is that once you’re in, school is the last thing on your mind.

Waiting for me in the veritable Grand Central Station of my common room sat Clarissa Cuthbert, in white Capri pants and a shimmery pink halter top. Silver hoops dangled from her ears and a pair of sunglasses the size of a small nation (and likely costing as much as said small nation’s GNP) perched on top of her smooth blond hair.

We really needed to start locking this door.

“Hi,” I said flatly. “Lost any jobs today?”

“You, too?” Clarissa asked. “Isn’t this ridiculous? I’ve been trying to get my dad on the phone all morning. His company does a lot of business with the marketing firm I’m supposed to intern at this summer. It’s how I got the job in the first place. I know he’ll figure it out. They can’t get away with this.” She took her cell phone out of her pocket, shook it, and checked the reception. “I wish he’d get out of this meeting, already.”

“Bully for you.” I sank into our weathered armchair. “How nice it must be to have strings to pull. I’m still screwed.”

Clarissa clasped her knees. “We’ll work it out,” she said, a determined gleam in her eyes.

“You might,” I corrected. “I’m out.”

She gasped. “But—but, Amy! You can’t quit!”

“Watch me. I don’t belong there, Clarissa. Malcolm told me how—how I got tapped.”

She gasped—again. “You mean, he revealed the substance of the deliberations?”

But I was through taking note of Clarissa’s freaky Digger know-how. Her father, clearly, had not been entirely discreet. “More like how they came about in the first place.”

And now she sat back against the chair and rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re getting all huffy about that student-paper chick.”

That “student-paper chick” had a circulation a thousand times mine. “Look, my very presence wrecks the argument that the seniors tapped ‘the best and the brightest’ in our class. ‘The model women.’ I’m not like the rest of you all. Don’t you get that? You, of all people?” I gestured weakly around our Goodwill-furnished suite. “In my dorm room.”

Clarissa laughed weakly and picked at our shoddy slipcover. “Oh, yeah, about that. Have you ever thought of subscribing to Martha Stewart Living?”

Ugh. Get out! What the hell was she thinking, just waltzing into my suite and making herself at home? Commenting on our furniture? Lord only knew what Lydia would say if she came in and saw us.

Right on cue, Lydia strolled in carrying a laundry basket. She reached inside and tossed a bottle of pop to Clarissa. “Sorry. They didn’t have diet ginger ale. I hope Diet Coke’s okay.”

Clarissa shrugged and handed my roommate a dollar. “Better than regular.”

I had my hands full trying to keep my eyes from gogging out of my head. Lydia opened her bottle of root beer, took a swig, and turned to me. “Want half?”

“What? Too early for vodka?” I asked, holding my hand out for the proffered pop.

Clarissa turned her attention back to me. “Did you know that I got into Eli off the wait list?”

“No!” Lydia exclaimed, looking up from the counter, where she was matching socks.

“Yep.” Clarissa lifted her chin. “And I’m a three-time legacy. My dad about flipped his lid. And then—oh, God, this is so embarrassing—he donated a Monet to the Eli Art Gallery.”

“That worked?” Lydia asked.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Clarissa spared a look for the bringer of the Diet Coke. “I got in.” And now she turned back to me. “Off the wait list. Now three years later, it doesn’t matter.”

“To the person who didn’t get in because your dad worked his bigwig magic, it does,” I said.

Clarissa shrugged. “That’s not the point. I’m just trying to say that I’ve been an excellent student and in general a credit to the university. They’re glad I’m here. So I belong. Wait list or not, I belong now, and have since the moment I stepped on campus freshman year.”

I was beginning to grok Clarissa—she didn’t have the slightest clue how elitist her statements sounded, and she didn’t feel embarrassed about the silver spoon dangling between her lips, either. The wealthy kids could never win. They were either rich bitches who flaunted their money or trustafarian types who wore hand-me-downs and pretended they didn’t have any. Either way was abhorrent to the eyes of those whose wallets weren’t as fat. At least Clarissa was open about it. Tactless? Maybe, but definitely truthful. And less mean-spirited than I’d spent the last two and a half years believing.

“You don’t see anything wrong with manipulating the wait list through a timely application of priceless art?” I asked. Which, as it turns out, had a very particular and definable price. It was worth admission.

“Not really,” she replied. “It’s entirely possible that the donation did nothing, and I would have gotten in anyway. Besides, the ends in this case justify the means. I wanted to get into Eli, and I did. And once I was in, I showed them what I could do.” She leveled a meaningful look at me. “So there.”

“ ‘So there’?” Lydia asked. She’d stopped folding. “You’re going to sit here in the suite of two people who got into Eli on our own merits—who might not have gotten in had there been more Monets to dispose of, and say, ‘So there’?”

“Would you drop it about the frickin’ painting?” Clarissa snapped, whirling to look at Lydia. “It’s got nothing to do with my performance since. And no, since you asked, I’m not going to apologize for doing what I could to get in. You can’t tell me that every hour you spent candy-striping at your local hospital or whatever other volunteer work you did to pad your application was given out of the kindness of your heart.”

Lydia bit her lip and looked down.

“I thought not.” Clarissa flicked back a strand of her hair. “I’m just more honest about what I’m going after. You may have liked changing bedpans, but that’s not why you did it. My father may have been glad to add to Eli’s art collection, but he had other motives as well.” And she looked at me. “I said it last night at the bar and I’ll say it again. Intentions are nothing. Methods are nothing. Results are what matter. Now, are you in or out?”

Lydia gathered up her laundry. “You guys just went way over my head,” she said hurriedly. “And, if you don’t mind, I think it’s best that you stay there. I’ll be in my room, rereading Kant. To, um, cleanse my thoughts.” A second after the door closed behind her, I heard the not-so-muffled strains of rock music emanating from her stereo. She was even doing her best not to listen in. Now she decided to respect the bounds of society secrecy. Now, when I was ready to forget the whole mess.

I dropped my head into my hands. “We don’t all think like you, Clarissa. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that most liberal arts students have been taught Machiavelli with a decidedly negative slant.”

“I must have missed that lecture.” And still, the same penetrating stare. No wonder I’d thought she was an unmitigated bitch. She was aggressive, outspoken, ambitious….

“They’re fools for denying you, Angel,” I said, and the invocation of her society name didn’t even make her flinch. “You’re a Digger to the core.”

“Natch.” She winked. “And now, the question remains: Are you?”

I didn’t answer. “Historically, what do they do if people quit?”

Her eyes glinted. “You of all people should know this, Amy. We grind their bones to make our bread.”

I smiled in spite of myself and Clarissa leaned forward and covered my hand with her slim, manicured one. “Come on. You know you want to be a part of that.”