“That’s not the only reason,” Liam replied. “But it’s the reason you got the Zeta.”
“The Z on the card?”
Liam nodded. “Every candidate is assigned a Greek letter,” he explained, glancing behind us to make sure no one was in earshot. “Zeta has a numerical value of seven, so they always give it to a Hepta. If you get in, it’ll become your society name,” he explained, reaching for a bottle of maple syrup. “The letter and your class year. It keeps the membership list completely anonymous.” I didn’t know the alphabet well enough to know which letter was on my mom’s pendant, but I could easily find out.
“What’s yours?” I asked.
His expression darkened. “Look, Rory, I can’t talk to you about this. I’ve already said too much.”
“Is the secrecy really necessary?” I whined. “And what about the people who picked the card on the left last night? They know about the society and have no incentive to keep it to themselves.”
“Person, singular,” Liam corrected. “There was only one.” He nodded toward a kid sitting two tables away. I recognized him from my comp sci class. “That tab we put on your tongues was something called ZIP,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “It inhibits an enzyme in the brain that enables you to remember stuff. If we’d given you a stronger second dose, your memories of the tomb wouldn’t have stuck.”
“That’s what he got?” I asked, still watching the boy. He was spooning oatmeal in his mouth, his eyes vacant, like he was still half-asleep.
The corners of Liam’s mouth turned up in a little impish grin. “Along with a tiny dose of Rohypnol.”
“You roofied him?”
Liam rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It was the prescription kind, and just enough to make him think that any memory fragments he has left are from a dream.” Liam pulled out his Gemini, which was lit up with a new text. “I gotta go,” he told me. “We can talk later. But not about this,” he warned. “I mean it, Rory. No more questions.”
“Fine,” I said. “But can you at least tell me if Hershey was there? Last question, I promise.”
“Hershey?” He let out a single, biting laugh. “No. Hershey was most definitely not there.”
“You’re acting like it was ridiculous for me to even ask,” I scoffed as he stepped past me.
He didn’t look back. “That’s because it was.”
I developed a routine that week, one I told myself I’d stick with until exams. Every day after my last class I’d stop at the dining hall’s coffee cart for a vanilla cappuccino then head to the library to do homework. It kept me from falling behind, but mostly it kept me from going back to Paradiso to see North, which is what I thought about doing every afternoon at four o’clock when I’d get a craving for a matcha latte and start rationalizing a quick walk downtown. It wouldn’t be to see North, I’d assure myself. He’s probably not even working. But every day I’d remind myself that I knew better, and I’d decide against it. If I wanted to excel at Theden, I had to stay focused. I couldn’t get distracted, especially not by a townie who would never understand why I cared so much about academics anyway.
My brain, apparently, hadn’t gotten the message. We’d talked about the perils of distraction in practicum that morning and I’d zoned out halfway through wondering whether North had tattoos anywhere other than his arms.
Excellent.
At least the Doubt had finally shut back off. I hadn’t heard it since that moment in the arena. I hadn’t heard from the society again either—whatever their “evaluation” was, it didn’t seem to have started yet. Which was good, because I was barely sleeping as it was. Despite the fact that we had enough homework to fill every waking hour between classes, there were a bunch of on-campus activities that first week that we were “strongly encouraged” to attend. Wednesday was the first-year bonfire and marshmallow roast, Thursday was the first pep rally, and this afternoon was a sign-up fair for intramural sports. I’d gone to the first two but was skipping the last one. I was all about joining, but the idea of playing softball or ultimate Frisbee on a regular basis made me want to pluck my eyeballs out.
“We should get Thai food tonight,” Hershey said as we bussed our trays after lunch. We were with Isabel and Rachel again. The four of us had started sitting together at every meal and hanging out in the common room at night. Izzy was self-deprecating and smart and struggled with her weight. Rachel was fearless and funny and had an opinion about everything. I liked them both a lot. But their bank accounts were in the realm of Hershey’s, and mine most definitely was not. We’d gone out for pizza after the pep rally and gotten Indian takeout on Tuesday night. Both times Hershey had ordered for us—white truffle pizza and 24-karat dosa, both ridiculously expensive—and both times we’d split the check four ways. I didn’t have to consult Lux to know I couldn’t afford this trend.
“Yum,” Isabel declared. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Rachel chimed in.
Hershey arched an eyebrow at me.
“Sure,” I said, swallowing a sigh. I knew I could just ask Hershey to pay my share—she’d offered when we’d gotten the take-out—but I didn’t want to. I told myself it was because I didn’t think it was fair to her, but the truth was I didn’t want to remind the other girls how different I was from them. And by different, I meant not rich.
It was an odd thing, being at a school that gave a free ride to all its students and being in the socioeconomic minority. Pretty much everyone at Theden was wealthy. And not just my-parents-are-doctors-and-lawyers wealthy. My classmates had serious money, the kind that went back generations and would be waiting for them in trust funds when they turned eighteen. It was tempting to assume their money had gotten them in—after all, that’s what Hershey thought about herself—until you heard them speak. They were exceptionally, dauntingly intelligent.
Hershey wasn’t in our room when I got back that afternoon, so I dropped my bag and wandered outside. There were tables set up on the sidewalk and music blaring from speakers on the lawn. Kids in intramural T-shirts were holding sign-up sheets and handing out candy.
Avoiding the fray, I pulled out my phone and headed away from the courtyard, toward the practice fields. I hadn’t checked my newsfeed since breakfast, so there was a lot to catch up on. At 1:53 p.m. PST Beck had posted a selfie of himself standing next to a glossy print of a boat passing under Ballard Bridge with the status I thought I was at an art gallery. apparently not. I tapped the comment button and wrote, ooh, that’d be perfect for my closet.
Beck didn’t reply right away, so I kept scrolling down, skimming statuses, until suddenly it got colder and the glare on my screen disappeared. I looked up and saw a rust-colored canopy above me. I’d crossed into the woods. Now that I was paying attention, I could hear the crinkle of leaves brushing against one another and the distant rush of the river and, if I listened really closely, the sound of my classmates in the quad. I clicked out of my newsfeed and over to my newest playlist, sliding down the volume before I pressed play so I could still hear the rustle of the trees.
I stayed out of the cemetery, walking alongside the fence instead, toward the polo fields and the stables where the team kept its horses. The girls’ field hockey team was playing a scrimmage on the practice field, so I sat on the hill to watch. If I kept my eyes on the ball as it shot from stick to stick, I could almost not think about North.
My Gemini buzzed just as the whistle blew at the end of the scrimmage. The sun was beginning its descent beyond the horizon, taking the afternoon’s warmth with it. It would be dark soon.