Diana Peterfreund - Secret Society Girl

“Good idea. But if I can make a suggestion? Make sure the guns aren’t loaded.”

He flashed his pearly whites. “Yeah.” Already I could see relief etched on his face. Whatever Malcolm might say, he was tired of lying to his folks. I hoped it all worked out, but I wouldn’t hold my breath for a happy Cabot family vacation.

Soon after I left Malcolm, I was met by one more Digger—the man who’d been next to me at the Eli Club, taking notes. His auburn hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, shone in the morning sunlight.

“Amy Haskel!” he said brightly, pumping my hand up and down. “I’m so glad I caught up with you. Gus Kelting.” He leaned in. “Horace, D142.”

“We meet again,” I said. And this time, he was talking to me. Good, because I still had a few questions from that afternoon. “I wanted to ask you, why weren’t you standing up for us in New York? I saw the notes you wrote me.”

“I’d been outvoted,” Kelting admitted. “I wasn’t allowed to talk. And believe me, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I think you nailed them. I told all my Digger friends. We were very impressed with you. I was very impressed.” He pulled out a copy of “Ambition.” “I read this last night,” he said. “Very impressive…also.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And, as you can probably tell by my limited vocabulary, I’m not much of a word guy. I’m into economics.”

Okay. “That’s nice.” Where was he going with this?

“Here’s the thing, Miss Haskel. I understand you have a bit of an employment problem, and I know that the Diggers are…to blame for it. I want to make it up to you. I do work for a think tank down in D.C., and we’ve got a project this summer that we need some help on. We’re trying to establish a rehabilitation program for exploited women, and as part of our bid for funding, we’re putting together a book of narratives. Some of these stories—they’d break your heart. But these ladies aren’t writers. Some of them aren’t even literate. I think a person with your editorial skills would come in handy.”

I stared at him for a moment, incredulous. “You’re offering me a job?”

“It doesn’t pay much more than a stipend, but we’ll find you housing, too. I know this isn’t in New York…”

“An editorial job?”

“Yes. With a good deal of responsibility attached.”

Somehow, I managed not to tackle him. This was way cooler than xeroxing form rejections! And Lydia would be in D.C. this summer. (Also Poe, but really, who cares? It’s a big city.) “Wow, Mr. Kelting. Thank you!”

“No, Amy. Thank you . Besides, you’re a Digger. What, we’re going to let you spend the summer pumping gas?” He smiled. “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”

He took my hand and led me across the lawn to a young woman with long red curls and post-grad-style robes. “Amy Haskel, this is my daughter, Sarah Kelting. Dr. Sarah Kelting. She graduated from med school today.”

“So I see,” I said.

Sarah laughed, and shook my hand. “Dad, are you going to introduce me like that from now on?”

“You bet!” he said, beaming. “Or at least until I’ve got it paid for.”

“So, in other words, from now on,” the woman teased.

“Sarah, Amy has just agreed to come work for my company this summer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She winked at me. “Do you have a place to live in D.C.? I’ve got a friend who is trying to sublet her studio in Adams Morgan. You’d love it.” She looked at Mr. Kelting. “Your company is paying, right?”

He put his arm around his daughter. “She’s such a smart-ass, Amy. Comes from not having anyone else to compete with growing up. It was just the two of us.” He leaned in and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Back when she was at Eli undergrad, I wanted her to—you know. But I knew it wasn’t going to happen. That’s why I was so happy to see you girls. It’s about time. And when you stood up in there…” He laughed. “You reminded me of my Sarah. I wanted you in, for all the Sarahs.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and shrugged Kelting’s arm off. “Da-a-ad,” she said. “Would you stop talking about the you-know-whoggers?” She looked at me and shook her head in consolation. “Is he boring you with tales of that silly little boys’ club?”

But I exchanged glances with Gus Kelting, whose Rose & Grave pin, age-burnished to a deeper gold, glinted from the collar of his shirt. “It’s not a boys’ club,” I said. Not anymore. “It’s one of the most powerful secret societies in the world.”

I should know. I’m a member.

1) Clarissa Cuthbert: Angel

2) Gregory Dorian: Bond

3) Odile Dumas: Little Demon

4) Benjamin Edwards: Big Demon

5) Howard First: Number Two

6) Amy Haskel: Bugaboo

7) Nikolos Dmitri Kandes IV: Graverobber

8) Kevin Lee: Frodo

9) Omar Mathabane: Kismet

10) George Harrison Prescott: Puck

11) Demetria Robinson: Thorndike

12) Jennifer Santos: Lucky

13) Harun Sarmast: Tristram Shandy

14) Joshua Silver: Keyser Soze

15) Mara Taserati: Juno

I hereby confess my tremendous gratitude to Bantam Dell: Mr. Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Gina Wachtel, Tracy Devine, Paolo Pepe, Kelly Chian, Carol Russo, Pam Feinstein, Shawn O’Gallagher, Rachael Dorman, and especially to my champion and friend, the tireless editorial genius Kerri Buckley, who from the very first moment understood Amy almost better than I did, and who I knew would be the perfect tap. Kerri, if I could order an editor custom-made, I’d ask for someone as extraordinary as you.

I’m blown away by the unfailing judgment and vision of Deidre Knight, who has been with me every step of the way, and whose super secret-agent moves are an asset to any society. I’m so glad you’re a knight in mine.

Love and whopping big hugs to my parents, who, despite the decades’ worth of ribbing about books at Bucs games, have always encouraged me. Your happiness and enthusiasm are joys to behold. Thank you for all the opportunities you have given me and for your endless dedication to your children and their dreams.

Also, to Luke and Brian, the coolest brothers I’ve ever had, and the rest of my family and childhood friends who put up with and participated in my stories, thank you. Special recognition to Beth for her spot-on designs and Tara for making my vision a reality. Volumes of thanks to my teachers, who over the years tolerated and even encouraged my scribblings, and trusted that I would become a woman of words.

Three cheers for Marley Gibson, the most loyal friend and outrageous critique partner, who took it upon herself to pitch this manuscript sight unseen and “had a feeling” about it from the start. I owe so much to my writing friends: Lex; CLW; Colleen, Elly, Jana, and Wendy; and above all, TARA. I am especially grateful to Cheryl Wilson, who gave me a home and a sense of my own strengths, and to Julie Leto, who got me into this whole mess and has always provided a shining example of the kind of writer I want to be when I grow up.

I am indebted to Jacki and Bob, who let me live in their house while developing the seed of this story and celebrated my sale as if I was one of their own. And props to the whole D.C. crowd for making me feel so at home.