Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

Unfortunately, I’d already promised to spend the evening attending the annual Eli Symphony Orchestra’s Halloween concert with Lydia, so I took my leave of the other girls and, all costumed up, began to hoof it home through the cold but clear purple twilight. My roommate and I had hardly been spending time together at all in the last few weeks. She was busy with Josh, I was busy with George, and we were both ridiculously busy with the demands of our classes, not to mention our respective societies.

Our secret society radio silence still held, but I was beginning to see chinks in the armor. My best friend had been dropping a few hints about planning a trip for our last spring break (when all Diggers historically hold a retreat on our private island), and when I’d demurred, things had grown a little chilly.

For the two weeks following, she’d taken all of her phone calls in her bedroom, left the suite early on society evenings, and made several references to Eli “traditions” I’d never heard of. They could only pertain to society-specific activities. I’d have to remember to ask Greg or Odile if, in their research, they’d come across a mention of any campus society that incorporated into their initiation rites the raw-hamburger “blood” or feathers I’d found on our suite floor last spring, or if they even knew any of the terms Lydia had been throwing around. I myself have been guilty, upon occasion, of letting Digger jargon slip in the barbarian world. (See? There I go.) Perhaps the words were clues to her society’s still-secret identity.

WEIRD TERMS LYDIA DROPS

1) Packing, as in, “We should pack that Politics in Prose seminar together next semester. It’s supposed to be really hard to get in, but we’re seniors and it counts for both our majors.”? My theory is, it means band together and take it, or not, as one.

2) Jolling, as in, “I can’t believe he’d actually make a statement like that in a class full of women. We almost jolled him on the spot.”? My theory is, it means jump someone.

3) Gunned, as in, “The dining hall was gunned tonight. Did you like those potatoes?”? My theory is, she thinks the cooks were on their game.

Either that or it was the new hip-hop slang. Still, I wanted to get to the bottom of it. After all, she knew I was in Rose & Grave; it seemed only fair I at least learn what society she’d joined. And how funny would it be if the tomb we broke into for our annual crooking expedition was Lydia’s?

I crossed Chapel Street and headed under the Art History building arch spanning High Street. And that’s when I saw him. Micah Price, standing right beyond the arch on the tomb side of the street. I froze and flattened against the wall, thankful for the dark cape that no doubt shielded me from his sight. What was he doing there? As I watched, the door to the tomb opened, and Jenny stepped out. I thought she’d gone ages ago, and it was so not kosher to have your boyfriend waiting right outside like that. He watched her come down the steps and met her on the pavement. They kept their heads together for some time, whispering to each other, but I couldn’t make out a word they said.

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, she was definitely using an imaginative interpretation of the secrecy oath. And I would definitely be bringing this up at the next meeting. I didn’t care how angry she was at me already.

I arrived back at the suite to find that Lydia and Josh had started the party without me. Even more surprising: George was also in attendance.

“I assume you don’t mind that he showed up at our door?” Lydia asked me slyly as she handed me a shot glass. “Drink up, we’re running late.”

Lydia was dressed in riding wear, complete with velvet hat and a crop, which apparently amused Josh to no end. For his part, Josh had chosen the time-honored James Bond costume (i.e., tuxedo, martini glass, and plastic Walther PPK), and George, who never missed an opportunity to be a) disaffected or b) dirty, was wearing a T-shirt that read, I AM THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET.

Together, we made our way across the campus to Memorial Hall, warmed only by our suite’s official drink of Gumdrop Drops and (in my case, at least) flimsy costumes. The whole way over, George entertained himself trying to lob candy corn into my corset-enhanced cleavage, and I did my best to ward him off with flicks of my cape.

“I’ll fish them out later,” he promised in a whisper.

The concert hall was a zoo, the way it was every Halloween. The enormous mezzanine was already near-bursting with students who, drunk and costumed, were running from aisle to aisle, showing off their outfits and sharing inebriated conversations and dramas. Above us, two successive balconies teemed with people in devil outfits, Princess Leia costumes, streetwalker-wear (whorish togs being an evergreen Halloween choice at college campuses across the nation), and obscure interpretations of abstract ideas. This last is an Eli special. The point is to dress as a sort of walking rebus in hopes of inducing everyone around you to marvel at your brilliance and beg you to tell them what the hell you’re dressed as. These clever little toolboxes were dotted about the audience, puffing out their chests and trying to stump passersby. I spotted four singing-group types wearing aprons and holding clippers and hair dryers (Barbershop Quartet), a chick with a pair of stilettos hanging around her neck (Head Over Heels), a man in a velour suit with numbers stuck all over him (Fuzzy Math), and a woman—who had me stumped for three straight minutes—wearing a bikini made out of two dining hall dishes and a computer keyboard, and carrying a bottle of Schweppes. Finally, I nailed it: Plate Tectonics.

We were trying to squeeze past a freshman in one of those purple balloon bunch-of-grapes getups I thought no one wore outside Fruit of the Loom commercials and a guy in full Mark Rothko body paint (and little else) when I felt a hand on mine.

“Amy!” Brandon cried. I turned to find him seated at the end of an aisle, dressed in a really kick-ass rendition of Alex from A Clockwork Orange —bowler cap, fake eyelashes, and all. At his side, Felicity looked as if she’d just stepped out of a U2 video in her belly dancer/genie outfit. A belt made of gold coins clinked around her hips and her long dark hair was piled artfully on top of her head. “Are you looking for a seat?”

He tried to scoot down the row a bit, but Felicity appeared to need more room than one would have imagined, considering how slim she was. I saw her take in my outfit, her eyes lingering extra-long on the scarlet letter on my chest.

“Amy.” George appeared at my side. “Lydia found us seats. Come on.” He looked over my shoulder at the space Brandon had created and shook his head. “I don’t think that place is big enough for all of us.”

Brandon only stared at me with mismatched, heavily made-up eyes and nodded slowly.

George leaned over the seat. “Hi there, I think we met last year. I’m George Prescott.”

Felicity’s eyes widened, though whether it was at the name or the corresponding reputation, I wasn’t certain.

Her boyfriend took George’s hand and rallied. “I’m Brandon, and this is Felicity.”

Dimmesdale, meet Chillingworth.

“Well, have fun at the show.” George put a hand on my waist. “C’mon, Boo. It’s about to start.”

“Nice costumes,” I said to the seated couple.

“Thanks,” Felicity replied. “I’m fascinated by yours.”

“Did everything work out for your math tutor?” Brandon asked quickly. “I mean, did you take care of it?”

No, I hadn’t. I’d been too busy taking care of my libido. And when I did try, Jenny had been a complete bitch. “It’s fine,” I lied, vowing to search out Jenny first thing tomorrow, as long as she wasn’t busy with some sort of All Souls’ Day cleansing ritual. Fight or no, I had an obligation to her.