Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

At this, he really started laughing. “Right. We’ll find her with cement sneakers at the bottom of New Haven Harbor. That’s not those guys’ style.”

“What about last spring?” I argued, though my pique was fading fast. Eight discouraging conversations were about as many as I could take.

“Wrecking a couple of undergrad internships is about as criminal as these dudes get. I thought you were over this whole Rose & Grave mythology thing.”

“I was until I went into Jenny’s room.”

He pulled me down beside him on the futon and started rubbing my neck. “Just relax for a second. You’re freaking out.”

I felt his thumbs dig into the tightness near my shoulder blades and bit my lip. Okay, I was. Freaking out again, just like they expected me to. I’d been named Bugaboo for a reason—I was the one who knew the least about how the society worked, who would be most prone to paying attention to its carefully cultivated legends. But I’d been proven correct during Reading Week last semester. A bunch of the patriarchs had banded together to ruin our newly tapped club, and they’d almost succeeded. However, George was right. They hadn’t been doing anything illegal. Just unethical.

Still, the deeper George kneaded my flesh, the tighter my throat grew with unspoken words, and yes, even unshed tears. The rest of them hadn’t seen what I saw.

George pushed my hair to the side and began to kiss the back of my neck. “Listen,” he whispered between nibbles. “My dad was a Digger, and so was his dad and his dad and his dad, and the closest anyone ever got to breaking the law was a couple of campus pranks. Kurt Gehry and his gang like to talk big, but they’d never do anything dangerous. They’re a bunch of punks with power, that’s all.”

Man, did I want to believe him. I hadn’t been with George since the day the site went live. We’d been too preoccupied to get…occupied. And it did make a lot of sense. The professional bullying of a bunch of undergrads sounded a lot more realistic than actual cloak-and-dagger stuff. And now that I was sitting here, half in George’s arms, the idea that Jenny was in danger—that she was indeed tied up in someone’s trunk or sitting in a dark room with an interrogation light swinging overhead—well, it sounded patently ridiculous. No wonder everyone had laughed at me. “You really think it’s okay?”

“I know it is.” He took me by the shoulders and swiveled me until I faced him. “Relax. This is all going to blow over. It’s just the latest in a long line of society scandals.” He lowered me until I was reclined against the futon. “Let’s get your mind off of this.”

Strange and unnatural forces must be at work, for here I was in the presence of George Harrison Prescott, yet I found myself not in the mood. Okay, maybe some of my suspicions were over the line, but that didn’t mean I had to disregard all of my instincts. I sat up. “What were you doing before I came in?”

“Working. Why?”

“Working on something so private you needed to shut your screen?” I folded my arms. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Boo—”

“It’s okay, you know,” I said quickly. “We have no understanding. ”

“So then, why does it matter?”

Because I was curious. “IM-ing with some chick? Surfing MySpace profiles for pretty young things?”

He laughed. “Come on, now. I’m a player, not a pervert.”

I shook my head. “You’re so ready to claim that title.”

“I don’t need to claim it, baby,” he said, leaning in. “The Diggers already dubbed me Puck.”

But I was temporarily immune. “What were you doing?”

He collapsed back against the futon. “Are we really going to start doing this? I thought you were cool.”

“I am.”

“Then, what?” He studied me. “Is this some kind of turn-on? You want to know what other girls I’m with?”

An enumerated list? Hardly. “I want us to be honest.”

“And I want things not to change.”

Translation: He was seeing other people, but thought telling me would make me mad. Right now, I couldn’t be sure what I was feeling, since I was already mad. “George, if I decided to stop sleeping with you, how would you feel?”

He considered this for a moment. “I don’t know. Why, are you going to?”

“I don’t know.”

We sat there for a moment, not looking at each other. Finally, he spoke. “The truth is, I’m not seeing anyone else, and I haven’t since we first got together.”

Probably a lie. And I was picking a fight with him because he wouldn’t help me. What a screwed-up relationship this was.

“Boo, look at me.” When I didn’t, he cupped my chin in his hands and turned my face toward his. His copper eyes burned right into mine. “I’m not lying. I haven’t been with anyone but you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t. And if you want me to tell you, I will, and then you can make any decision you want.”

It didn’t get much fairer than that. “What do you want me to do if I start seeing someone else?”

He grinned. “Hide him.” And then he kissed me.

But for the first time ever, I spent the night in George’s room without any sex involved. I slept poorly, and early the next morning (okay, around 8 A.M.) I left and headed back to my suite. As expected, Josh was either gone or asleep.

I paced for a while in my room, as unable to sleep there as I had been in George’s arms. Sure, I was angry at Jenny, but underneath it all, she was my brother, and what’s more, she was in all likelihood in serious trouble. But if Jenny Santos, who was about a hundred times smarter and better connected than I was, couldn’t help herself, how was I supposed to do anything?

I couldn’t, but then again, maybe I wouldn’t need to. I’d call in the big guns. I sat down at my laptop, pulled up my Phimalarlico webmail, and dashed off a quick e-mail to Malcolm.

From: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

To: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Emergency

Lance, I need your help. Lucky betrayed us, and now she’s gone missing. The others think she’s hiding out because she knows how angry we are, but I suspect foul play. I saw her room. If she left, it wasn’t planned. I need your help. We need to find out what happened to her. Call me ASAP.

My big sib must have been on his computer, because I got an answer two minutes later.

From: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

To: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Re: Emergency

bad timing, little sis. leaving now for fishing trip. (what are you doing up at this ungodly hour?) this is quite the mess. i understand your predicament, but you know what to do: call poe. he’ll help you.

Yeah, right into my grave he’d help me—roses not included. I shot back:

From: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

To: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Re: Re: Emergency

Poe hates me and I’m not too fond of him. He’d never help me. Please, Lance? I need you!

This time, it took less than thirty seconds to get a response.

From: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

To: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Emergency

gotta run. call poe.

You know that bit about banging your head against the keyboard? In real life, it’s not actually all that effective as a stress reliever. Plus, it’s a bit impractical, what with all the accidental shutting down of programs that results.