Diana Peterfreund - Rites of Spring (Break)

“I named her Reepicheep,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“The mouse. I named her Reepicheep.”

“Reepicheep was a boy mouse.”

He shrugged. “Details.” He joined me in front of the cage. “He was a really brave mouse. Brave and noble and dutiful, and a little bit too much into self-sacrifice.”

I swallowed. Well, there was answer number one.

“And anyway,” he went on quickly, “I couldn’t very well feed her to anyone after that lecture you gave me in November.”

I nodded. “And after naming her.”

“Right.” He looked at me. “What do you want?”

“To see you.”

He turned away from the cages and sat down on the sofa. “Okay.”

“And talk to you.” I turned around, too, but there didn’t seem to be anyplace to sit where I wouldn’t touch him. There didn’t seem to be anyplace to put my hands, anywhere to look that wasn’t at his face. I focused my eyes on the bookshelves, on the vegetarian cookbooks there, and I remembered why we’d fought that day. I felt so stupid now. He had eaten the lobster that night. He’d eaten it as a peace offering to the Myers. Poe was also a little too much into self-sacrifice.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Jamie’s eyes went wide. “ You’re sorry? Christ, Amy, what for?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t even look at you right now. I’ve been dreading seeing you again, after what I said to you. After what happened.”

“Why?” I asked. This was like in January, when he’d avoided us all after he cracked his head open during the Dragon’s Head raid. “I heard about what you did, stealing the boat to call the police. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to thank you then and there.”

“But that’s not what you wanted.” He wasn’t looking at me, and I think I might be getting a bit better at reading his expressions. Disapproval, resignation, carefully reined frustration. I remembered what he’d done to Micah Price, and that poor boy had only spit at me. Gehry would do well to keep his son away from Poe.

I came closer. “You didn’t know that when you did it. Hell, I didn’t know it. You didn’t know anything but that I was in danger. And you chose me over the society.”

“No.”

“Yes.” I sat down next to him. “Like it or not, Mr. Patriarch, you broke the third oath.”

He looked down at his hands and shrugged. “Details.”

Exactly. Amazing how silly they seemed in context. Present a good enough reason, and you realize that the things you thought were important go right out the window. The society was just the symbol. It was the people inside who really mattered. Put me in a room with a man like Jamie, and my well-reasoned case against dating seemed ridiculous. And all the specific arguments against dating him evaporated like frost in the sun.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then he spoke again. “Still, it was a pretty stupid move. It took me right out of the game. I wasn’t able to rescue you. I heard it was…George.”

And how that must have grated on him! “You know George is long over, right?”

He nodded. “Yes. I knew it at the time. I don’t know why I said that stupid—”

“I don’t care.” I did then, but it all seemed so petty now. “You were angry. We all say stupid shit.”

“That’s not even it,” he admitted. “It killed me that I wasn’t there to save you. Like I didn’t have the right to be.”

“Actually,” I said, smiling, “I kind of saved myself. A week earlier, I would have drowned long before the boat got to me.”

And now he did look at me.

“I think I must be a pretty good swimmer now, if I can do it tied up and drugged.”

“Amy…” All incredulous.

“Here’s the thing,” I said, quickly, before I lost my nerve. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. About the society, and about my relationships—everything.” He was still staring at me, and the words came out in a rush. “And come on. We’ve had so many battles, and you’re just so damn prickly all the time. And my friends would think I’m nuts for…”

“For what?” he cut in. “Making another mistake?”

“No,” I said, and took his hand in mine. “Doing something that might make up for all of them.”

Jamie stared at our hands for a moment, then pulled away. “No. I tried, on Cavador Key, but I hated it.” He caught my stricken expression and amended his words. “I couldn’t—I can’t pretend this isn’t important. I can’t act like it doesn’t exist. It’s ironic, but true. There are a lot of things I’m really good at keeping secret. But I’ve learned I’m not too good at that with you. I can’t pull it off. I don’t want to just hook up. I don’t want a secret relationship.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I said, grabbing for both of his hands and holding on for dear life.

Doubt started giving way to recognition, but he needed to hear it. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m really sick of secrets.”

FOLKS I’D LIKE TO THANK

1)The readers of Secret Society Girl and Under the Rose

2)The Venerable M.A.E., footnoter extraordinaire

3)Tracy Devine, master titler

4)Pam Feinstein, Lynn Andreozzi, Carol Russo, and all the others on the Bantam Dell Team

5)Deidre Knight (and the gang at TKA), who always rooted for Poe

6)The Sistahs, TARA, WRW, CLWOW, and the Non-Bombs, for being the only societies I need

7)Holly Black, Libba Bray, Cecil Castellucci, Margaret Crocker, Cassandra Clare, Maureen Johnson, Jaida Jones, and Justine Larbalestier, for the (in)sanity

8)Marley Gibson and Cheryl Wilson, who always have my back

9)Erica Ridley and Carrie Ryan, for screaming in text and in person at the shower scene

10)Julie Leto, who saved my storyline

11)The bloggers, blog readers, and lurkers galore

12)My family, family-in-law, and friends

13)Fellow sons and daughters of Eli

14)Those fabulous secret sources

15)My husband (!!!)

DIANA PETERFREUND graduated from Yale University in 2001 with degrees in geology and literature. A former food critic, she now resides in Washington, D.C. Her previous two novels, Secret Society Girl and Under the Rose, are available now from Delta. Visit the author’s website at:

http://www.dianapeterfreund.com.

On Sale Summer 2009

Please turn the page for a special advance preview.

I hereby confess:

Everyone wants

to be one of us.

You arrived in a state of awe, of wonderment. Maybe you’re the latest in a long line of your family members to matriculate to our fine university. Maybe you’re a celebrity, or foreign royalty, or a sports star, or a genius at the near-lost art of lute playing. Maybe you’re a Westinghouse scholar; a national debate champion; or the valedictorian of your elite, East Coast boarding school where your name was on the register from the moment you were born. Or maybe you’re none of the above. Perhaps you’re just handy with the SATs, rocked grades nine to twelve, and charmed the heck out of the middle-aged lawyer who interviewed you one evening in his satellite office on behalf of his alma mater. Whatever way it happened, you ended up at Eli.

And from the moment you stepped on campus, you heard about us.