“I’m sorry,” I replied. In this, Brandon had not been correct. “I have to think about it.”

And think I did. For the next few days, I concentrated on little else. Certainly not the commencement issue of the Lit Mag (even Brandon spent most of our office hours flirting, as if making up for lost time), nor focusing on my classes, though I was once again consuming WAP in earnest. With Reading Week nigh and no access to the tomb’s library, I couldn’t afford to dawdle.

I was miserable. As I’d expected, there were no fabulous, heretofore unclaimed internships waiting for me to stumble across at the Career Center, and an e-mail to my old supervisor at the Eli University Press went unanswered. In an attempt to circumvent what I suspected might be one of her concerns, I sent the following:

Pursuant to last, I wanted to assure you that I am in no way connected to that organization nor any activity that might upset aforementioned group. Thanks and look forward to hearing from you.

—Amy Haskel

To which I received:

Amy,

I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.

(Just drop it, okay?)

Yours, etc.

You may wonder why I confided none of this madness to Brandon. I have no reasonable excuse. I think, on some level, I still believed in that oath. Besides, who knew if my revelation might drag him into the shitstorm as well? I did tell him that I’d lost my internship, which prompted a brainstorming session resulting in a list of twenty-five new places to query about a summer job and some half-baked notion that I’d follow him to Hong Kong, where he was working as a consultant, live in the garret he was renting, and write.

It’s a testament to my low level of rationality that I actually considered this.

Lydia, of course, was no help at all. In fact, I was pretty sure that my so-called best friend, despite her diligent application to Kant, spent much of the week gloating over the way my society experience had obviously gone south. Let’s just say that not once during my week of despair did she offer me a gumdrop and a shot.

Thursday night, after dinner, Lydia dressed in faux society wear (the dark hoodie and jeans she’d so roundly ridiculed me for donning the week before) and flounced out our door, waggling her fingers at me with a too-bright “Toodleoo!” (Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating just a bit, but honestly? You couldn’t miss the smug.)

I sublimated a pout and settled in with my books. If only I’d been tapped by Quill & Ink, none of this would have happened. My current tragedy was entirely due to Malcolm’s mistake. If he hadn’t screwed over Genevieve, he’d never have been forced to tap me. And then I’d be in a minor but respectable literary society. And I’d have a job. And I’d be fine.

Of course, I could have declined the Rose & Grave tap. I could have stood there in the bathroom, surrounded by boys in robes, stared into that candle, and told them what they could do with their black-lined envelopes. I could have even left the initiation early, before I’d taken any oaths.

But I hadn’t done any of that. Because I wanted to know what it was to be a Digger.

And now, I thought, rousing myself from this short period of self-doubt, I knew that it sucked.

I nodded to my textbook, reassured that my decision was correct, and uncapped my highlighter. Madame Rostov, you’ve been warned.

The phone rang.

Ever full of distractions, my life. Oh, the agony. Was it any wonder this stupid book had not been read? I lunged for the phone, crossing my fingers that the caller was a) Brandon, and b) bearing pizza.

“Amy Maureen Haskel?”

Uh-oh. “Yes?”

“We’re calling to inform you that should you choose to pursue this matter any further, we will be forced to broaden our attack to your parents’ employment and/or position in their community.”

“Wait!” I said. “I’m not pursuing anything—”

“Good evening.” And then, of course, click.

Bastards. They wouldn’t even let me explain myself. And the killer thing about being harassed by a clandestine cabal is that they aren’t even listed in Information. Forget about *69, too. There’s no way to get in touch with these guys to tell them that you’re no longer part of the rebellion.

And, as long as I was questioning their methods, what was with the whole “parents’ employment and/or position” crapola? Was that a scripted call? Were they giving everyone the same line? Making sure their bases were covered just in case our folks were of the leisure class? They should have cast their net wider. “Your parents and/or other familial figures of importance.” George, for instance, probably wouldn’t be too peeved if his dad was brought down a peg or two.

Seriously, if I were leading an intimidation campaign, I would not slack off with a mail-merge threat. Every single one of the insubordinates would receive their very own, personalized coercion. Amateurs.

I shook my head. I had no experience in this, and yet would have handled the whole situation with far more aplomb.

I was two pages farther along in WAP before the significance of that thought hit me. When it did, my distraction caused me to color an entire page in Day-Glo pink.

I’d make a damn good Digger. A much better Digger than any of these sexist patriarchs. Those qualities I’d been noting in Clarissa? I had them, too. They’d be so lucky to have a girl like me on their side. I’d kick the ass of anyone who got in our way, and I’d do it in 21st century style. They had no idea how much they needed that in their back-assward, stuck-in-the-1830s little organization.

It wasn’t like I was asking for so much in return, either. A slight career nudge here and there, a lobster dinner or three, and a grandfather clock. I wouldn’t even insist upon atomic.

Anyway, the point was, I deserved my membership in Rose & Grave, and I wasn’t going to let a bunch of old-fart octogenarians tell me otherwise.

A few moments later, wearing my own dark hoodie, I marched out into the night. I even knew where I’d find them.

Clarissa’s apartment was in the posh building in town. The one with the doorman and the marble foyer. Where other off-campus dwellers scraped by with dorm-rate rents and closet-sized living spaces (that weren’t, unfortunately, cleaned by Eli janitorial staff, nor lardered by Dining Services), people of the Cuthberts’ ilk kicked back in pricey lofts situated oh-so-conveniently above a chichi bar/restaurant that would not look out of place on the Upper West Side.

I buzzed C. Cuthbert.

“Yes?” I heard voices in the background.

“Hey,” I said. “It’s Amy. Let me in.”

Silence, and then: “Password?”

Was she kidding me? But then I realized that she was asking for more than that. She wanted commitment. This time, however, I had coffins full of it.

“Password, boo.” George. I imagined all eleven of them all crowded around the intercom, waiting for me.

The image made me smile. “Three, one, two.”

The door buzzed open.