A horrible thought then came to me. Maybe Lydia had been tapped by Rose & Grave—the real Rose & Grave—and the reason she wasn’t talking was that telling me that my experience was a hoax meant revealing exactly how she knew. After all, she hadn’t reacted to any of the society names I’d thrown out earlier, but I hadn’t mentioned the Diggers. Still, she had, which she probably wouldn’t if she’d been tapped…my head started to hurt.
Am I paranoid, or what? If I hadn’t been tapped, they sure had missed out on a prime candidate. Smart, sexy, and neurotic enough to do any clandestine organization proud.
Lydia sat back and took another sip of her coffee. “It’s true there have been hoaxes in the past. Do you think that’s what happened to you?”
I shrugged. “How do I know? If it was a hoax, it wasn’t too high on the personal humiliation scale. You’d think they’d have at least tried for a fake initiation of some sort.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “So what did they do?”
I opened my mouth to tell her, but then shut it again. Why should I share anything with Lydia if she wasn’t willing to reciprocate? Besides, what was I supposed to say and what wasn’t I? On the off chance that this whole fiasco had been for real, what kind of trouble would I get in for reporting the experience? There were too many options to keep track of.
POSSIBILITIES
A) I was tapped by Rose & Grave, and so shouldn’t tell anyone anything.
B) I was either tapped or tricked, and telling Lydia meant I could figure out which one it was.
C) I was the victim of a practical joke and Lydia was a member of Rose & Grave and was just toying with me.
D) None of the above.
Too bad Lydia was the one who’d spent the semester doing logic problems in preparation for the LSAT. Ugh. As if I wasn’t under enough pressure. Why couldn’t a girl just finish War andPeace, rock her finals, whip out a kick-ass commencement issue of the Lit Mag, prepare for a summer in Manhattan, and enjoy a no-strings-attached relationship with a cute if slightly dorky boy who liked to buy her pad Thai? Was that too much to ask?
Actually, looking at it laid out like that, yeah. It was an awful lot. And now I may or may not have to add “join a notorious underground brotherhood” to the list.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Nothing like what happens in the movies, that’s for sure.”
“No pig’s blood or sacrificed virgins?”
“Where would they find a virgin around here?”
Lydia spit out her coffee. After she finished composing herself, she set her cup back on her tray and regarded me. “You know, if you really think it’s a hoax, I suggest you do some research.”
“What kind of research?” I certainly hoped she wasn’t about to propose another field trip to the Rose & Grave tomb. I was still scarred from last night, and I couldn’t afford to lose another pair of jeans.
“At the library. They have lots and lots of info on secret societies.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “But what about the ‘secret’ part?”
“A surprisingly recent development.” She leaned in. “They used to publish the list of Rose & Grave taps every year in the New York Times.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is. Members put it on their resume. They were very open about it. Kind of at odds with the whole ‘leaving the room’ thing, huh?” She paused and looked down at her plate. “But that doesn’t make it any less valid.”
Her subtext was clear: She wasn’t going to tell me anything about her society. And it hurt me more than I expected. Lydia and I had always shared everything. We’d lived together for three years. I’d gone to visit her in London last summer. We’d rented that room in the beach house in Myrtle Beach our sophomore spring. She knew I had been dabbling in novel writing, I knew she’d had an affair with her sophomore year poli-sci T.A. Aside from the whole he’s-her-teacher-eww factor, it’s not as sketchy as it sounds. He was only twenty-four. Okay, you’re right, it’s sketchy, but I’m not one to judge—remember Ben Somebody? When I’d returned to our beach house the next morning, in equal parts mortified and terror-stricken—How could I have slept with someone I didn’t know? What was wrong with me?—Lydia never lectured me, just encouraged me to remember as much as I could about the incident (like, for example, putting the condom on, thank God!) and for the rest of the week happily stayed home from the party scene and played sober and boy-free Scrabble with me on the beach. She was my best friend.
But this was turning out to be bigger than ill-conceived one-night stands. It might even be bigger than our friendship.
Lydia glanced at her watch and groaned. “I’ve got to get up to Rocks for Jocks lab.” (All of the science courses, even the loser ones designed for history majors like Lydia who can’t tell a covalent bond from a computer chip, are located on the other end of campus. Does Eli have its priorities straight, or what?) “If you go to the library, could you take back two books for me? They’re sitting on the end of my bed.”
I nodded and Lydia departed, leaving me alone with my Frosted Flakes and a quickly dwindling appetite. Did I really want to spend my morning combing through the Stacks, only to find out that my whole Tap Night experience had been a hoax?
I’m evidently a sucker for punishment. On my way to Dwight Memorial Library, I swung by the suite to pick up Lydia’s books, some dusty history tomes with titles I could barely make out on the disintegrating covers. A piece of paper stuck out from between the pages of one, covered in Lydia’s careful, upright script. She’d forgotten her notes.
But when I pulled the paper out, I could see that it was a printout from the online card catalog, covered in check marks and other notations. I was about to drop it to the desk when one of the titles caught my eye:
Kellogg, H. L. College Secret Societies: Their Customs, Character, and the Efforts for Their Suppression. Chicago: Ezra A. Cook, 1874.
No wonder Lydia knew where to get the scoop.
As if to convince myself that I wasn’t obsessing about this whole secret society thing (after all, at least ninety percent of every Eli class never joins one!), I brought WAP with me to read in the library. It took me two hours to track down the five titles listed on Lydia’s printout. Dwight Library Stacks are about twelve stories tall, with enough hidden nooks and crannies for half the student body to hide in. It’s an old Eli tradition to have sex in the Stacks at least once before graduation. (And, no, I’ve never done it, not even with the faux beatnik Galen Twilo.)
I finally found one of the books tucked away in between the ceiling and the top of the bookcase where it was supposed to be shelved. Another old library trick: If you don’t want anyone to take out the books you need, you hide them. I often wondered how many volumes were forever lost in the morass of the Stacks because some student had decided to play nut-storing squirrel and lost track of his hiding places—or never bothered to undo the damage once the semester was over. (See, you’d think that Ivy League students were an honest, trustworthy bunch, but no. Some of the crap I’ve seen pulled on this campus is practically criminal. But I never thought Lydia was the type to engage in that type of behavior.)
I trekked down to the nearest reading room and set up shop at one of the carved wooden tables that ran from end to end. Giant burgundy leather wingback chairs and elegant reading lamps with green shades rounded out the décor, and the Friday morning sun shone in from the lead-veined windows and highlighted the Gothic stone arches vaulting high above my head. The Dwight Memorial reading rooms just reeked of high-class academia.