Diana Peterfreund - Secret Society Girl

Now her mouth did drop open. “You can’t do that.”

“I’ve got the printer lined up.” I stood. “Let me know what you decide, Genevieve.”

“You think you scare me?” she shot at me as I walked toward the door. “You think I’m frightened of your stupid little frat?”

I paused at the door. “If you aren’t, then you should be. I’m a Digger. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

And then I left. Two hours later, she e-mailed me that we had a deal.

Damn, that felt good. A girl could get used to this kind of power.

Considering everything that had happened, actually assembling the commencement issue of the literary magazine was far easier than I’d ever expected. Brandon and I arranged our schedules with the express purpose of spending as little time in the same room as possible. He took over the artwork, while I focused on the actual submissions and organizing the way the pieces fit together into a meaningful whole (or as meaningful as a bunch of overeducated David Foster Wallace wannabes could get in the middle of exam week). I left a lot of the layout work to the rising sophomores, and, despite the fact that my hours at the Lit Mag office were filled with much less mirth and far fewer paper airplanes, I’d never had a better time there. Perhaps I relished the opportunity so much because I feared it would be my last. After all, I still didn’t have a summer job. I was pretty sure the next few months would see me plying khakis at the Shaker Square GAP.

The night before commencement, the first copies of “Ambition” arrived, hot off the press, and I flipped through it, surprised at how foreign each freshly minted page appeared to my eyes. Unlike other issues, I hadn’t pored over the font size of every running head, nor labored over the arrangement of the advertisements. Even the cover art had been chosen by Brandon, and, as if sharing some final inside joke, he’d picked a shot of a young man silhouetted against an urban backdrop, looking longingly over the city. It looked, as I’d suspected it would, like a perfume ad. However, I thought it was perfect for the melancholy, stark tone of most of the pieces. Brandon, as always, displayed excellent taste.

I had planned on staying for commencement, both to oversee distribution of the magazine and to attend Glenda Foster’s graduation. Since the dorms were closed, I camped out in the tomb, and found that I was not the only Digger who’d had that plan. The night before, no one got any sleep, as a gaggle of patriarchs who’d shown up early for the following day’s commencement exercises took the opportunity to teach the Digger students the time-honored tradition of Kaboodle Ball, the rules of which, I’m sorry to say, are far too complicated to relate without the aid of charts, graphs, and small, many-jointed marionettes. It’s kind of like hide-and-seek by way of rugby, golf, and Calvinball.

The morning of commencement was clear and surprisingly chilly for the season. I busied myself directing three underclass Lit Mag staffers to the distribution centers, but made sure that I picked up a copy of the Eli Daily News as well. Surprisingly, working with Genevieve hadn’t been the chore I’d anticipated. I think my original assessment was correct. She wasn’t an evil bitch—just ambitious, truly heartbroken, and desperate for payback. I had no expectations that her story would be flattering to the society, but then again, it was a lesser evil.

I was in the third column of the feature when someone cleared his throat in front of me. I looked up to see two figures in black gowns and hats: one tall, slim, and pale, with angry gray eyes; the other tan and blond with an enormous smile he was unable to hide.

“Are you the secret source?” Poe blurted.

I blinked at him. “I assure you, I’m just as shocked to see this piece as you are.”

Malcolm bit his lip, but his eyes transmitted gratitude.

“This story is a scandal!” Poe shouted. “It reveals everything about our inner workings!”

“Come on,” Malcolm said, finding his tongue at last. “All it really says is that Rose & Grave has finally opened its ranks to women.”

“And that there was some inner turmoil about it,” Poe snapped.

“A fine piece of investigative journalism,” I pointed out. “I think the writer lives below Malcolm. She probably heard us at the meeting that night.”

“I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.” Malcolm clapped Poe on the shoulder. “It’s not the first story that claims to bust open our secrets, and it won’t be the last, either.”

“It really doesn’t get into specifics, either,” I added. “Except for this bit about how some of the more age-addled patriarchs staged a little protest outside the tomb. If anything, I think it does a pretty good job of swerving around the real heart of the matter. That source—whoever they are—played this writer like a piano.” I looked at Malcolm, whose eyebrows informed me not to press my luck.

The three of us headed back into the throng of graduates and their families. “Malcolm!” a blond woman shouted, pointing a digital camera in our direction. Must be Mrs. Cabot. The two boys leaned close to me and we all smiled for the photo op, but as soon as the flash went off, Poe’s expression went dour again. When Malcolm trotted off to see how the snapshot turned out, Poe turned to me.

“I wanted to thank you.” No one had ever sounded less grateful.

“For?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself. “For speaking up in New York. I don’t know what I was thinking. Mr. Gehry just had me convinced…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I’d forgotten some stuff. You reminded me.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” We stood in awkward silence for a few more moments, before I came up with a neutral topic. “So, what are you doing this summer?”

“ Not working for the White House.” He smiled mirthlessly.

“I’m sorry,” I said. So, maybe not so neutral, but at least it explained why Poe of all people would betray his brothers. Ambition, I thought, can be a dangerous thing.

Maybe I was glad I hadn’t yet determined the exact shape of mine.

He shrugged. “It’s okay. At least I can look at myself in the mirror every morning. I’ll probably be down in D.C., though, doing…something. You?”

I shrugged. “Trying to decide between two brilliant offers, at Starbucks and T.G.I. Friday’s.” And, because I didn’t see a reason for this interview to drag on any longer than necessary, I added, “Well, congratulations on graduating. I wish you the best of luck with Eli Law next year.” And I hope I don’t see you any more than strictly necessary.

“Good luck to you, too,” Poe said, looking past me toward the tomb on the corner. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

He loped off and I rolled my eyes. Good riddance. What the hell did Malcolm see in that guy?

Malcolm returned soon after. “Did you guys have a chance to talk?”

“We exchanged thinly veiled insults, yeah.”

He sighed. “You know, Amy, you should really give him a chance. He’s not as bad as you think.”

I cocked my head at him. “Malcolm, is he…?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “No, Amy. He’s a little twisted, but otherwise straight as a rod.” Then he tapped the paper in his hand. “Thank you. I can’t—I can’t ever thank you enough for what you did. I don’t know how you did it, how you thought of it, but…you’re amazing.”

“What are little sibs for?” I nodded toward his parents. “Are you going to tell them?”

Malcolm took a deep breath, and his expression turned somber. “Yes. Sometime. Sometime soon. We go up to a cabin in the mountains every summer. My dad and I like to go hunting. I think I’ll tell them then. Away from the press and all.”