Diana Peterfreund: Under the Rose

A gasp rippled through the crowd and we all looked up. Here it goes. The scoreboard began to decay before our eyes, the digital numbers falling from screen to screen.

“Show-off,” Harun whispered.

“This is hilarious,” said an Edison junior nearby. “Someone hacked it. What do you think, MIT?”

“This wouldn’t be the first time,” said the guy’s girlfriend. “But I bet it’s one of our guys. Who else would have access to the scoreboard?”

All the Diggers hid their smiles.

The announcer called a pause in play as everyone in the bowl, from the players on the field to the students in the stands to the alumni enjoying the pricey seats in the boxes, stared at the scoreboard and wondered what would happen next.

This is what they saw:

MICAH PRICE

WE’RE WATCHING YOU

BEST BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU DO

And then the words exploded into a shower of tiny hexagons and roses.

“Nice touch,” said Harun.

Jenny tried not to smile and we all ducked farther down in our seats as people in the audience began pointing to Micah. A knot of people had surrounded him, their heads close together as they whispered about the message. Laughs and jeers floated down the rows. Frat boys taunted him with sophomoric singsong rhymes. At last he stood and made a beeline for one of the exits. Harun picked up his cell phone and typed a message. As soon as Micah disappeared down the hall, we stood.

“Shall we?” I asked, and it took restraint not to link elbows as we strolled out of the stadium, leaving the Eli football team to fend for themselves. I’d like to say the game was going well for our side, but the Eli students had already started up the cheer of “School on Monday,” which was only utilized when we thought we couldn’t lord it over the Harvard students any other way. (Eli gave the whole week of Thanksgiving off, whereas Harvard kids only got Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.) Things weren’t looking good for Old Blue. I hoped it wasn’t a harbinger of bad luck to come for Old Blue’s most notorious secret society. Much as I loved my school, if anyone needed luck right now, it was the Order of Rose & Grave.

We spilled out of the stadium and into the shantytown of tailgating tents and vans. The Rose & Grave tent was a respectable yet relatively unassuming affair situated in alumni central. Even in the midst of a massive conspiracy to start civil war, the patriarchs knew to keep up appearances. Actually, the ones who arranged the tent (like Gus Kelting) probably weren’t aware of what their fellow board members had been up to. That would all end today.

The rest of the club was waiting for us inside.

“He’s in his car,” George reported, waving us over. We gathered around the television set, and someone handed me a beer. On the screen, a grainy image of Micah could be seen driving back to campus.

“Come on, flip on the radio…” George coaxed, and such is the boy’s charm that Micah, even from this distance, did.

“Man, I wish we had sound!” Josh exclaimed. But you almost didn’t need it. You could see the shock register on Micah’s face as he listened.

“By the way, this is what he’s hearing,” said Odile, pressing PLAY on the iPod she’d plugged into a stereo. A jarring, grinding sound issued from the speakers, followed by Micah’s name, whispered over and over in an ominous, evil voice. “Micah Price…we’re watching you. You can’t escape from the Devil that easily.”

Micah’s face was a mask of fear as we watched him press station after station on his radio control.

“Jammed,” Omar said, and smiled slightly.

Finally, Micah switched his radio off and pulled in to what I supposed was his parking garage.

Odile lifted her phone to her ear. “He’s at home. Quick, George, switch the channel. It’s showtime!”

Odile had called in one more favor from her Hollywood FX friends, Kevin had raided the Eli Dramat for the necessary sound and video equipment, and Nikolos had D-bombed Micah’s landlord good and proper. The stage was set.

The television set now showed a four-way split screen, each focused on a different section of Micah’s efficiency apartment: his kitchen sink, his bathroom mirror, the front hall, and the phone.

A few moments later, Micah entered by the front door. As soon as he did, he froze and put his hands up to cover his ears.

“The open door trips a wire that blasts death metal,” Kevin explained. “Really Satanic stuff.”

In the image, Micah ran from spot to spot, looking for a way to make the music stop. He paused to turn on a light, and the picture flooded with shades of red and violet.

“Wow, Micah,” said Odile. “Are you using those new low-energy bulbs?” She giggled as Micah stuck his head under the lamp shade to get a look at his new lighting scheme, and got a face full of movie cobwebs instead.

From there, he rushed into the kitchen and turned on the sink tap, the better to wash the gunk off his face. Yet what issued from the faucet was not water, but dark red blood. (Actually, dye packs shoved in the faucet head.) As it splashed all over his hands and arms, he reeled back in shock.

“Please get a towel,” Jenny said. “I’m begging you.”

He knelt on the floor in front of the sink and went to yank open the cabinet. From that point on, everything happened too fast. All I saw were things spilling out on him and Micah scrambling back, practically climbing the walls to get away from the wave of little brown bodies…rats!

“ Well-trained rats,” Ben clarified. “Homing rats, if you will. And they were not easy to get in there.”

The homing rats covered the floor and Micah dropped out of the frame. For a moment, all I saw were the squirming bodies of the rats slowly filling the floor of the apartment, and I hoped they actually were very well trained, because I couldn’t imagine how much more freaked the landlord would be if he were to find out what the Diggers had done once they’d been granted permission to go inside his place.

All of a sudden, there was movement near the phone. Micah’s feet. He was standing on a chair.

“Time for the coup de grâce, I think,” said Odile, and whipped out her cell phone. On-screen, we could see Micah lean over and pick up his own phone.

“Hello,” we heard him say over Odile’s speakerphone.

“Micah Price,” Odile said in her best impression of Cruella de Vil. “You have been judged and found unworthy. Prepare for your punishment at the hands of my minions, the unholy Knights of the Order of Rose & Grave.”

“Holy shit, make it stop! Make it stop!” When hysterical, I noted, Micah sounded surprisingly like a six-year-old girl.

“Do you know what it means to have the Brotherhood of Death as an enemy, Micah Price?”

“I’m sorry. Please! Please! I can’t stand these rats! Get them out of here!” Behind the sound of his voice, I heard more of the music and, yes, squeaking.

“If you know what’s good for you,” she went on, “you’ll be more careful about whom you decide to target. We can always get to you, Micah Price. This is merely a taste of what you can expect.” She stopped. “Oh, and for Christ’s sake, stop picketing that Bible class.” She clicked off. “That should do it.”

We all burst into applause. On-screen, two figures entered the apartment, both enormous, burly guys dressed completely in black and wearing executioner-style hoods. One grabbed an unresisting Micah and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, while the other proceeded to begin herding up the rodents.

We toasted our success, and were still laughing when the tent flap opened to reveal a half-dozen patriarchs, including Kurt Gehry. The good cheer died down at once, and he strode forward and took in the scene on the television set.