Diana Peterfreund - Rites of Spring (Break)

Thorndike read the headline. “‘UPSET IN WHITE HOUSE STAFF ROCKS CAPITOL HILL.’”

The politically minded Diggers surrounded the laptop and started reading, but I couldn’t muster up the interest. There was a new political scandal every day. I’d catch tomorrow’s. Right now, I just wanted to figure out my love life.

“Look alive, Bugaboo, do you know who this is about?” Soze waved a hand in front of my face. I glanced down, halfheartedly, at the article on the screen.

Kurt Gehry.

What?

All thoughts of Brandon fled, and the entire tomb was in an uproar for the next few hours. Our planned program went right out the window as we researched, discussed, and debated the various details of the case. Seems that the White House Chief of Staff had quietly resigned last week, without a formal announcement to the press, without any fanfare at all. No one knew the reason. Nobody on the President’s staff was talking about it, and Kurt Gehry himself was “unavailable for interview.”

I almost felt sorry for Gehry, who was known to the Diggers at large as “Barebones.” (His name in my club was mud, though, since he’d not once, but twice attempted to sabotage the entire class of knights in an attempt to reform the society in the image he found most suitable—one with no women in it.)

Speculation both in the capital and in the tomb on High Street ran rampant, and with it came an abandonment of any other topic. The job and thesis talk, which had made up the bulk of tomb discussions since consultancy and banking interviews had commenced in January, gave way to endless back-and-forths about why Gehry had really left his job and whether or not the President would tell Rose & Grave (if not the country) what was really going on.

One theory, popular among a certain breed of paranoid conspiracy theorists (but hey, they’ve been right before), promoted the idea that Gehry and the President had quarreled over Gehry’s intervention in society matters last semester. In response to his attempts to undermine the society by siphoning off funds from the Trust to create a secret, males-only inner circle known as Elysion, my fellow knights and I had disavowed him as our patriarch, retroactively kicking him out of Rose & Grave for our year and any we tapped afterward.

According to the conspiracy theorists, the President of the United States, good Knight of Persephone that he was, could not bear to have on his staff anyone who was running afoul of Rose & Grave. Who knew a bunch of college kids had that much clout?

No one in my club, that was for sure.

“This is ridiculous,” Josh said during a study session the following afternoon. He was showing a marvelous amount of aggravation for a man who’d just been accepted to Stanford Law School. (Lydia, also, had received a thumbs-up from our cousins on the Pacific, and I was positive she’d indulged in a couple of fantasies about the two of them becoming a power couple every bit as pedigreed as they were passionate.)

As for my couple status, it remained, much like my future, undecided. After the meeting last night, I’d waited up for Brandon, but he hadn’t called. Who knew how long his conversation had gone on with Felicity? Maybe he hadn’t felt up to seeing me directly after breaking up with her. His latest e-mail to me hadn’t even mentioned the coffee date with Felicity that Clarissa had reported. He’d just asked if he could meet me in my suite after his afternoon lab. Of course I agreed.

“It’s flatly impossible that no one knows anything,” Josh went on. “I’ve shaken down every patriarch I can, and they are either stupid or playing so.”

“I’d guess the latter, considering they’re Eli alums,” Demetria said. She and Jenny had spent the evening finalizing plans for the second half of Spring Break. Though we wouldn’t all be visiting Cavador Key, the knights who were going to the island would be spending a week there, then renting a van, driving up the coast, and spending a week volunteering with Habitat for Humanity. [1] And people think secret societies are evil.

“I’d guess the former,” said George, turning a page in his textbook, “considering most of them are inbred legacies with more money than sense.” He looked up, an innocent expression pinned in place. “Wait. I meant, other than me, of course.”

I rolled my eyes and went back to my work. Brandon got out of lab in forty-five minutes, and I wanted to make sure I had all my homework done well in advance. So far, I had three fellowship applications in, and four more in the works. I’d submitted one of my best term papers to two scholarly publications and a couple of conference listings besides, though I knew it would be a long shot. Still, anything would help beef up my grad school applications. So far the rolling admissions hadn’t trundled in my direction, and I was hoping some last-minute additions to the package would help grease the skids.

The GREs had been a joke (ninety-eight percentile without even taking Kaplan) but I hadn’t exactly distinguished myself in front of my professors the way I’d hoped. After all, it had always been my intent to go out into the workforce instead of staying in the Ivory Tower, and recommendations from crusty Russian Lit professors didn’t carry much weight at Condé Nast. I hoped to get a few responses before Spring Break, but it was beginning to look unlikely. Landing a fellowship would vastly increase my chances of getting into the program of my choice. I still hadn’t decided what the option was if I failed to receive admission at any of the A-list programs. Did I want to go to grad school enough to go just anywhere?

George dropped his book next to me on the table. “Stressed about the future?”

“Not really.” I turned a page and typed another line into my file.

“You know, it occurs to me that we’re the only two people in the club who don’t have our futures planned out like a military invasion.”

“Oh?” I said, looking up.

“Look.” He began pointing. “Kevin’s going to work for CAA, Clarissa’s starting at McKinsey in the fall, Demetria got into Berkeley, Omar’s headed to the Kennedy School, Jenny’s starting that company of hers, Josh to Stanford Law, Odile to her next film, Ben to PwC, Mara to Wharton for her MBA…”

I wondered how long it had taken him to memorize that list for recitation. And to think that, last year, I chose him over Brandon. “We haven’t heard from Greg yet.”

“You think there’s a chance he’s not going to get that Fulbright? I’m just saying we’re a dying breed.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “And that I’m sick of it being all political scandals, applications, and interviews around here. Don’t you think it was better when our weekly conversations were a tad more colorful?”

“No. I’d rather this than sit through another eight hours of your C.B.”

Oops. That was a mistake. He leaned in. “Could have been longer.” He’d spared me that humiliation at least. Sitting there while George kissed and told, and kissed and told, and kissed and told ad infinitum was a lesson in agony. The Connubial Bliss reports were a right of passage for every knight in Rose & Grave, but I had dreaded hearing George recount every sexual encounter he’d ever had for two reasons: First, I would learn exactly where I fell on his lengthy list. Second, so would everyone else. I had spent a week preparing to hear him report the gory details of our affair to our entire club. But he hadn’t even touched upon it—for reasons that were still beyond my comprehension.

“I could always present a coda,” he said. “If you think it’s necessary.”

“Is that a threat of some sort?” I asked.

“A threat?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “You wound me, Amy.” He also hadn’t called me “Boo” since I’d broken it off in November. It had been Amy outside the tomb and Bugaboo inside. He stared at me through his copper-rimmed glasses. His eyes, gorgeous as always, were steady and unblinking. “I wasn’t even the one to bring it up. You’re the one who has sex on the brain. Feeling frustrated? You can tell me.”