Diana Peterfreund - Rites of Spring (Break)

Besides, there, in the bosom of my brothers, the whole affair seemed like a singular event, an isolated incident that would be immediately snuffed out now that the full weight of the society was bent on avenging the wrongs perpetrated against one of their own. Except, they couldn’t keep their eyes on me at all times, and it seemed as if whenever the Diggers weren’t watching, the Dragon’s Head members were. And thus, over the course of the next few weeks, we had as many failures as successes.

The Eli Library suddenly reported that I owed fines in the thousands on library books whose due dates went back to my middle school days. Jenny Santos, computer whiz that she was, managed to fix the “problem,” but lo, when the hold on my lending privileges was lifted, I discovered that all of the volumes I’d reserved had mysteriously gone missing in the stacks. So much for my research paper.

Two days later, I turned my back for five seconds in the dining hall and someone covered my salad with a spray of habanero pepper. A day after that, I was following my usual route home from class and passed underneath the Hartford College arch. When I emerged on the other side, I was met with another icy shower. (Luckily, I’d taken to keeping my valuables inside Ziploc bags inside my satchel.) By the time I looked up, I saw little more than two hooded figures disappearing back into their window, dragging a large empty tub behind them. Dragon’s Head sure liked their liquids.

Greg Dorian said he admired the ingenuity of their multilateral attacks. (I thwapped him with the Kaboodle Ball in response.) Josh wondered if we should be keeping tabs on my transcripts, to avert any bizarre clerical errors, a possibility that kept me up all night. Jenny was constantly monitoring my computer, and reported three different attempts to send me a virus through bogus announcement e-mails from the Prescott College master’s office. I only hoped she was good enough to catch them all.

And then came the superglue incident. And the Great Cricket Invasion of January 2008 (Lydia still won’t sit on our couch). What was next, locusts to eat all my homework? I began to wonder if Rose & Grave pride was worth ruining my last semester at Eli. Nothing against taking one for the team, but it’s not as if I could explain to my thesis advisor, the dean of the Lit department, or any potential graduate schools that the reason my work took a sudden nosedive was because I was fending off a secret society hell-bent on using me as a scapegoat for all the crimes the Diggers had committed over the past centuries. And even if I did manage to make this point without forswearing my own society’s vows of silence, I doubt the faculty would believe me, or even care.

I was beginning to think our rivals didn’t even need the dragon statue as an excuse. They wanted revenge on Rose & Grave, and since they couldn’t get into the tomb, one innocent knight walking the streets of New Haven made a darn convenient target. Spring Break was still a month off, and this winter looked like it would never end.

So, in the grand tradition of stalker victims everywhere, I began to act like the hunted prey I was. I varied my schedule, turned down social engagements, took alternate and unfriendly routes around campus, and found excuses to stay home from class in the relative safety of my room. (I insisted Lydia double check all the locks every time she stepped out, and since there were still several dozen chirping insects hiding somewhere in the suite, she agreed.)

One afternoon, Prescott College held a snowball fight in the courtyard, but there was no way I’d brave the melee under the present circumstances. Who knew how many Dragon’s Head members lay in wait, disguised as innocent Prescotteers, eager to pummel me into the slush? Instead I sat at the window, watching the festivities from afar, warm and dry and bored to the beyond. There goes my last college snowball fight.

I also missed my friend Carol’s senior thesis play, and all the cajoling in the world on the part of Lydia and my other friends, barbarian or otherwise, failed to induce me to go to the Seniors’ Valentine’s Day Ball. Of course, as soon as I was left alone in the suite, it occurred to me that I’d maneuvered myself into another classic stalker-victim position—the isolated target. The only place I felt safe was in the Rose & Grave tomb’s Inner Temple, because—you’ll remember—Dragon’s Head still didn’t know how to breach our security. I packed my study materials into my bag (still mildly sticky, despite several washings) and furtively raced for the tomb, hoping my heavy winter clothing would disguise my identity from any Dragon’s Headers who’d also stayed home from the dance.

I made it safely into the sanctuary and shed my coat in the front hall. Success. Relieved to be free of the constant pressure and vigilance, I practically skipped up the stairs to the Inner Temple. I even did a little pirouette on the landing.

And then I heard the clapping. Not a full-out round of applause, just a slow, sardonic smack. I froze, and slowly turned around. So, they couldn’t make it into the Inner Temple. Didn’t mean they didn’t have access to other parts of the tomb.

“Nice, Bugaboo.” Poe stood at the base of the stairs, unsmiling (as usual). “Planning an audition?”

I sank back on my heels, relieved to see him for perhaps the first time ever. “Just reveling in my freedom.”

“From what?”

“Tyranny and terrorism.”

“I assume you aren’t talking in general terms,” he said. “Otherwise I’d have to engage you in a political lesson.”

“Dragon’s Head.” I clopped back down the stairs.

“Ah.” He nodded. “I heard.” I reached him and he leaned on the banister. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re to blame.”

“Why not?” I was truly surprised. Poe always thought I was to blame. It was the foundation upon which our relationship was built.

“ I didn’t notice those sneakers.”

I laughed. Right. And if Poe, the über-Digger, didn’t notice it, then it was just a fluke they were identified at all. “I appreciate the support, but right now, it doesn’t make a difference. I’m still wearing a bull’s-eye on my back.” I shrugged. “I can’t even go to the V-Day Ball tonight.”

“Here I thought it was because you were too much of a loser to get a date.”

“That, too,” I mumbled. I looked up at him. “What brings you here tonight? You’ve been MIA since—” since his recent brush with concussion “—all semester.”

“Miss me?” he snarked.

“Hardly,” I snarked back. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

He flashed a ghost of a smile. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“My tomb, my society, my”—I pointed at the black book he held in the crook of his arm—“archives.”

“As well as mine. And trust me, this is nothing that concerns you.”

“Why?”

“Because it concerns me .”

Or maybe because I’d screwed up the last caper. “Right. The Bugaboo.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay. What’s your opinion on current domestic policy?”

“Huh?”

“Exactly.” He said nothing for a moment, just stood there, observing me in the unnerving way he had. “If this Dragon’s Head thing is really bothering you, then give in,” he said. “Tell those losers where we hid their precious hunk of metal.”

I blinked in astonishment. Poe was telling me to put my needs above the Diggers’? Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than we thought. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious. You don’t have much time left. Don’t waste your last few months on a battle that’s not going to be worth it in the long run. If you’re miserable, let it go and just…enjoy being a senior. Rose & Grave will survive a little more humiliation this year.”