Melissa de la Cruz - Bloody Valentine

“Seriously? Worse things could happen than to date him. His family just sold their company for like, two billion dollars. Did you see the paper today?” Birdie asked, throwing the Wall Street Journal toward Allegra.

Allegra read the front-page announcement detailing Allied Corporation’s acquisition of the family-run Bendix group of companies and marveled at Ben’s modesty. His mother had a “business meeting,” which was why she couldn’t make it to Parents’ Day. More like a major shareholders’ conference.

“They are seriously loaded. No wonder he was named after his mom’s side of the family. They have all the dough.”

“Birdie, don’t be crass,” Allegra chided. Even at Endicott, it was considered bad form to be too aware of each other’s provenance. But after reading the news, she could not help but like Ben even more. Not because she found out he was wealthy—she never cared too much about money, even though she had never lived without it—but because, given the extreme affluence of his background, he was humble and down-to-earth.

And she had gotten the feeling, after talking to him that evening, that Bendix Chase wouldn’t have minded having a little less of the stuff people cared too much about, if it meant he could have just a little more of the things that really mattered.

Later that week, Allegra was already asleep when she heard a noise outside her window. She blinked, confused. It was a light, clattering sound. Pebbles. Followed by the sound of giggles. She walked toward the window and opened it. “What’s going on?” she asked, slightly annoyed.

A group of hooded strangers stood underneath her window. In an ominous voice, the tallest one intoned darkly, “Allegra Van Alen, your future awaits you.”

Oh, right. She had forgotten, although Birdie had warned her the other week. It was Tap Night. The night that Endicott’s most prestigious secret society, the Peithologians, inducted its new members. She noticed her roommate’s bed was empty, which meant Birdie was already participating in the night’s festivities since she was of course a member.

Allegra called, “I’ll be right down,” just as another group of hooded students entered her room and put a hood over her head. She was now officially kidnapped.

When her hood was removed, Allegra noticed she was in a clearing in the woods. There was a bonfire raging, and she was kneeling with a group of new initiates.

The hooded leader offered her a golden chalice, filled with a reddish libation. “Drink from the cup of knowledge,” he directed. Their fingers brushed as he handed her the goblet, and Allegra tried not to giggle as she took a sip. Vodka and 7-Up. Not bad.

“You look silly in that robe,” she whispered, for she had recognized his voice the moment he had called her from her window.

“Shhh!” Bendix replied, trying not to laugh as well.

She passed the goblet to the person next to her, wondering who else had been chosen. When all the new members had drunk from the cup, Bendix raised a toast with the glass. “They have consumed the fire of Enlightenment! Welcome to the Peithologians, new Poets and Adventurers! Let us now dance in the woods like the nymphs of Bacchus!” Somewhere in the back, someone banged a gong, and it echoed through the forest.

“The nymphs of Bacchus?” she asked skeptically.

“It’s a Greek thing….” He shrugged. The members had removed their hoods, although most were still wearing their robes. More plastic goblets filled with vodka and 7-Up were passed around the group.

“Is this what happens when you become a Peithologian?” Allegra asked, looking around at the merry, drunken crew. “You cut curfew and dance around a fire?”

“Don’t forget the cheap cocktails. Very important,” Ben-dix said, nodding.

“This is it? This is what all the fuss is about?” She laughed. The Peithologians had a stellar, jealously guarded reputation at school.

“Pretty much. Oh, and every quarter we have a formal. One is clothing-optional, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And later we’ll have the annual Bad Poetry Contest.”

“So it’s mostly just…silliness?” Allegra asked, although she already knew the answer.

“Why? What do you guys do that’s so important in that Committee of yours?”

He knew she was in the Committee. Of course they had one at Endicott, since the school had a sizable group of Blue Blood students. She looked around at the new recruits and felt disappointed not to find her brother among the flushed faces. She knew Charlie would never have been picked, but she felt bad all the same. The Peithologians were one of the reasons her twin hated the school so much. At Endicott, no one thought much of the Committee. Everyone wanted to be part of the Peithologians.

“We do the same things….” Allegra shrugged.

“Yeah, I thought so. Someone should really bring back some old-school stuff. You know. Coffins. Murder. The peddling of influence.” He wagged his eyebrows and took a big sip from his oversized goblet. “Oh, here comes Texas. Forsyth. A word! Excuse me,” he told her. Bendix walked over to speak to Forsyth Llewellyn, who served as faculty adviser to the society.

Allegra raised her glass to Forsyth, who gave her a courtly nod of his head. He taught freshman English, and she’d seen him around campus. She remembered him, of course. She would never forget those who had been in cycle in Florence.

The party went on for a good hour or so until Bendix raised his voice. “Excuse me, excuse me, ahem.”

The crowd quieted, and he waited until he had their full attention. “It is time now to pay tribute and say the words of our founder.”

The veteran society members raised their glasses to the sky and, as one, recited the following poem: “‘The Bird.’ By Killington Jones. ‘I think that I have never heard/ A song as lovely as a bird’s/With feathers light and beak bright red/The nests he builds to lay his head/Only the Lord can make a bird/But even I can write a turd.’ ”

“Right!” Bendix beamed. “Let the Bad Poetry Contest begin!”

Allegra listened, bemused, as a succession of wannabe poets recited a slew of truly terrible verse to the hooting crowd. Bendix brought the house down with his entry, “The Last Song of the Ice Fisherman on the Floes of Dear Old Norway.” It was tragically, comically awful, and he won first place.

When it was over, he walked over to her side. “Congratulations. You’re funny,” she said, poking him in the chest.

He caught her hand, and held her gaze.

“Ben—stop.” She smiled. “Let go,” she said, even though she liked the feel of his strong hand around hers. She liked Ben—and it was Ben now—Bendix was so serious and unlike his goofy character—and she didn’t mind that he called her Legs—she liked it. It was unserious. It was unlike her. He saw a side of her that no one had really seen yet. To the Blue Bloods, she would always be Gabrielle, the Virtuous, the Responsible, their Queen, their Mother, their Savior. But to Bendix Chase, she was not even Allegra Van Alen, she was Legs. It made her feel young, dangerous, and reckless. Qualities that did not apply to Gabrielle.

Plus, he was so very, very cute.

“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him close, tugging on that silly costume robe he was wearing.

“Huh?”

She pulled him closer, and when he saw what she wanted, his eyes became soft. He had the kindest blue eyes that she had ever seen. He was so beautiful, this boy, the most beautiful boy in the world—and when she lifted up her face to his, he bent down to meet her halfway, his arms encircling her waist, holding her tightly.