Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

Then he pressed the Door Close button and departed, and I turned my back on one brother in need in order to confront another. I’ll try, Ben. I’ll try.

Jenny’s door, unlike the others on the hall, was devoid of all decoration, signage, or even a whiteboard. I knocked, and then, receiving no answer, tried the handle. Locked. A quick scan of the bathroom showed she wasn’t in there, either. Just as well. I didn’t want to get caught in her hallway if the girl was about to emerge from the shower wearing a towel and a scowl. Maybe one of her more outwardly humanoid (judging by décor) suitemates knew where she was.

Still, it was Thursday, and if they, like Lydia, suspected Jenny’s involvement in Rose & Grave, they’d be unlikely to spill her meeting-night whereabouts to a total stranger.

Three of the other six rooms on the floor were also no answer. Number four told me she never paid attention to when the rest of her suitemates arrived and departed, and wasn’t even sure she knew all their names, having been added to the suite merely to round out to the required seven. Number five told me she hadn’t seen Jenny in a few days and number six went Trappist monk on me. Bingo. She was clearly reacting to the day—Thursday. Unfortunately, I knew society commitments were not what kept this girl’s suitemate away from home tonight.

Me:“Have you seen Jenny?”

Roommate:…

Me:“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Roommate:…

Me:“She didn’t leave you a key, did she?”

Roommate: (closes door in my face)

Well, that was short and useless.

“Enough of this,” I said to the empty hallway. I might be a mild-mannered Lit major, but even I had a few tricks up my sleeve. Or on my carabiner, as the case may be. I pulled my proximity card out of its plastic holder, knelt at Jenny’s door, wiggled the card into the space near the catch, and prayed that a) Jenny hadn’t upgraded average dorm-room security and b) I remembered how to do this. I hadn’t broken into anyone’s room since Thanksgiving Break freshman year, and even then, it had only been Lydia’s. She’d called, hysterical, claiming her Sociology professor hadn’t received her e-mailed final paper and she was stuck in some hellish lay-over in Detroit, sans Internet access, and would I please please please find her paper on the computer and e-mail it again. We’ve been best friends ever since. Nothing like a little larceny to cement a bond.

Several perspiration-inducing moments later, I heard a click. I blew on my fingers, a little smug, then pushed the door open, praying Jenny was indeed absent and not locking me out of some illicit tryst or other private moment. C.B.s were one thing. Actual visuals were most definitely another.

But the room was empty. At least, I think it was. Kind of tough to tell at first glance, what with the five metric tons of electrical equipment piled about the place, and the blanket of paperwork covering everything.

Was this normal? I’d never been in Jenny’s room before, so I had no idea if the bedlam that lay beyond the doors was indicative of her current state of mind or if the chick was simply a career slob.

I crossed the threshold and picked my way around endless piles of paper; random bits of wiring; labyrinthine, snaking cords; and the odd T-shirt or flip-flop. Most of the room was given over to a vast console of computers. There were a trio of monitors on her desk, and the shelves behind it were stacked with CPUs, speakers, and what looked like unused laptops. A long folding table had been set up, extending the desk so it wrapped around half the room, and there were more monitors arranged there—large, small, flat screen—and at least three keyboards.

It looked like the set of Sliver. What possible use could someone have for fourteen computers? Or did she collect them the way I collected blue pencils? I edged forward, keeping the corner of my eye on the door. I hadn’t yet figured out how to excuse my presence should Jenny return.

But where was she? Her tall-backed ergonomic desk chair was situated in front of one computer terminal, and on the surface of the desk in front of it sat three things: Jenny’s keys, Jenny’s wallet, and Jenny’s cell phone. She couldn’t have gone far with such essentials left behind. Crap. That meant I didn’t have much time.

In one unused corner of the room there was a squat table covered in red cloth, on which was a sort of makeshift altar topped with votive candles, a neatly curled rosary, and a figure of the Virgin, all looking a bit on the dusty side. A small pillow rested before the table, cushioning a thick book with a cover made of duct tape. A Bible, most likely. There were a few posters on the wall, mostly of the inoffensive Monet’s landscape-and-lilies variety, and a portrait of some Victorian woman with Princess Leia hair.

Envelopes were strewn across her bed, along with file folders, textbooks, computer magazines, catalogs, stacks of CDs, jewel cases, and more of the ever-present wiring. It didn’t even look possible to sleep on the thing. Of course, maybe Jenny didn’t sleep here. Or at all. Maybe she was a raging insomniac who subsisted on No Doz and mocha lattes. Maybe she never took her keys with her anywhere. Maybe whatever intuition I had telling me this didn’t seem like Jenny was utterly wrong. Did any of us really know what did seem like her? She’d always been the most secretive Digger, and not in that good, institutionalized way. Her secrecy, I was beginning to understand, was a front. Something she could hide behind while she sought to betray us. I just didn’t know why.

I glanced down at the nearest paper-strewn flat surface, as if its contents would give me an insight into my brother’s mysterious personality, but found nothing I didn’t have lying on my desk back in my room. A handout from class, a few Post-it notes scribbled over with phone and room numbers, and junk mail, half of which wasn’t even addressed to Jenny, but to “resident” or random names. I got the same sort of crap in my university Post Office Box every day. The spammers apparently thought the owner of my box was a Korean Chemistry grad student named Jungsub Byun. Jenny’s prior occupant appeared to be one Ada Lovelace.

Ugh. What was I doing here? Even if there were proof of Jenny’s treachery, I hadn’t the faintest clue how to find it. Not in this mess. I pulled out the ergonomic chair—the one empty spot in the room, and sat down. Dead end.

Or at least, a dead end here. I could still try to track down Micah and see if Jenny was with him. Though she’d never talked to me about the confrontation I’d witnessed, I assumed she was still dating the guy, asshole or not. After all, I’d seen them together on Halloween. I felt a twinge of guilt that I’d never been able to get through to her on that issue, but forgive me if I was lacking in sympathy at the moment. Was that unbrotherly of me? After all, I’d once sworn to bear the confidence and the confessions of my brothers, to support them in all their endeavors…. But did that mean supporting Jennyin her endeavor to become an oath-breaking bitch?

Methinks it’s not what our forefathers had intended with that oath. Plus, we had other oaths to think about, like the ones saying we were to further the society’s friends and plight its enemies, and place above all others the causes of the Order of Rose & Grave. Not to get all Kurt Gehry here, but I think it was safe to say Jenny was an enemy of the Order. Thus, she must be plighted.

Whatever that meant. Was “plight” even a verb?

On the floor at my feet there was a blinking red light. I reached over and pushed aside a few papers. Yet another keyboard, this one obviously a wireless. Look at the way Jenny treated her equipment! I picked it up, and flipped it over, accidentally jostling the tracking ball as I did so. One of the screens flickered to life.