Shelly sighed, fighting back tears. She swallowed, and said, “You don’t believe me. But I’m not even asking you to believe me. I’ve been in your employ for a long time, and I’m asking something very simple from you, and it’s something only you can do: I need, very much, for you to ask for an inquiry into the disappearance of a young woman from the university here. She was a student in the music school. A violinist. A member of the Omega Theta Tau sorority. She’s been missing since last winter, and as far as I can tell, from what I’ve read on the Internet, there has been no investigation by either the local police or by the university.
“Surely, as dean of the music school, you must want to know what happened to this girl? We can’t have sophomores from the music school simply disappearing, can we?”
From the look on his face, Shelly could tell that he’d never even heard about the missing violinist, and he didn’t want to be hearing about her now. Still, he’d moved beyond his concerns regarding Shelly’s sanity to far greater concerns regarding his accountability, his reputation, his exposure. He was, to Shelly’s relief, taking a pen out of his pocket, pulling a legal pad from the corner of his desk to the center of it, nodding for her to go on.
“What’s your concern about this girl? And how do you know about it?”
“She was a sorority sister of Nicole Werner’s, and also of Josie Reilly’s, and it just seems too much, to me—just so many coincidences. Where is this girl, and why hasn’t anyone come forward with any information about her?”
“So,” he put down the pen. “You don’t even know if she’s still missing. She might be back in school for all you know, or back home with her folks?”
Shelly nodded. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll look into it, but who knows. I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“Thank you. I’m just asking you to look into it. And, can I ask you”—she started before she realized she’d been planning, all along, to ask the question—“how was it that Josie Reilly was sent to me for the work-study position? She wasn’t a financial aid student, was she? Those positions are for students in need.”
The dean closed his eyes and cleared his throat. He winced then, as if something he’d seen with his closed eyes had given him physical pain. When he opened his eyes again, he sighed and said, “Well, that in itself, Shelly, is part of the whole unfortunate situation. The student wasn’t even being paid. She simply wanted the experience, and was willing to work for free because she knew she couldn’t get the job without the work-study scholarship. So, I saw to it that she was sent your way. First of all, because she was such a lovely, fine student, and also because her mother and my wife are friends from their own college days. Sorority sisters, as it happens.”
64
“You’re kidding, right?” Craig said. He was holding her in his arms. She was wearing a bra with orange daisies on it, and matching cotton panties. It had been her idea to take off her T-shirt and jeans: “I want to feel as much of your skin against mine as I can, without—”
She hadn’t needed to say more.
He knew what she meant.
He’d agreed he’d never press the issue again after a night after winter break when he’d begged and pleaded with her to let him kiss her breasts. Finally, she’d nodded in a manner that had seemed almost ceremonious—the crucifer on the altar nodding to the priest—and Craig’s heart had nearly exploded in his chest.
But when he’d propped himself up on his elbows to unfasten her beautiful pink lace bra, he realized that she was crying, that there were matching tears sliding sideways down each of her cheeks, zigzagging into her golden hair, where they disappeared, and he pulled his trembling hands away from her bra as if they’d been burned. He let them hover in the air over her for a moment before he sagged beside her on the squeaking mattress of his bed, put his head in her neck, and said, “No, Nicole. I’m sorry.”
She said nothing.
“I won’t ask again,” Craig said.
“I love you,” she said—and, as every time she had said it since the first time, something seemed to catch between Craig’s soft palate and his throat. He couldn’t speak. He’d made a thousand declarations of love to her since October, but he could never say it in response to her declaration—because of this sharpness that caught him as quickly as a fishhook every time.
Nicole smiled, seeming to understand. He didn’t have to say it. He loved Nicole. He loved her. Nicole knew how much he loved her.
That had been six weeks ago, and since then he’d held her in his arms in her bra and panties a dozen times, and kept his promise not to ask for more.
“Tell me this is a bad joke,” he said. “Your sorority doesn’t really do this shit, right?”
“It’s not that weird,” Nicole said. “Secret societies have rituals. This happens to be ours.”
Craig couldn’t stop himself from snorting, but then he muttered an apology. He said, “Sorry. I guess I just don’t think of your sorority as a secret society. I mean, I thought it was about formals and decorating floats and making cookies and maybe helping each other clip in hair extensions. I never thought you’d have a coffin in the basement, and—”
“Shhh—be quiet,” Nicole said, and she actually glanced around the room as if someone might have overheard, although they were half-naked and completely alone in his dorm room. Perry was at his afternoon Poli-Sci lecture. Even the curtains were closed.
“Nicole,” Craig said, but didn’t bother to continue. It was cute, really, he thought. It reminded him of the way girls back in elementary school would get all excited about their own meaningless secrets, passing notes to one another, freaking out if some boy grabbed a note out of some girl’s hands, although those notes had never said anything more exciting than Deena likes Bradley!!! Like anyone cared.
“Well, the Pan-Hellenic Society could have our house closed if they found out. This is considered hazing.”
“How often does your sorority have these… raisings?” Craig asked, trying to make it sound like a serious question, trying not to make air quotations around the word.
“Twice a year,” Nicole said. “They did it back in November, but we—the new pledges—had to wait upstairs. They don’t let us attend until the Spring Event.”
Then, Craig couldn’t help it. He laughed out at her calling it the “Spring Event.” Basically they were getting sorority sisters drunk on tequila, having them hyperventilate until they passed out, putting them in a coffin, and “bringing them back from the dead,” all newly risen in the Omega Theta Tau sisterhood. It hardly fit, in Craig’s opinion, under the kind of seasonal “event” classification the Rotary Club might give to an Easter egg hunt or a skating party for kids with Down syndrome.
“Craig,” Nicole said, and punched him softly on the arm. “You said you wanted me to tell you everything. And you swore you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Craig held his hand over his heart and said, “I swear. I mean it. Your secret society’s secret is safe with me. But don’t go brain dead on me or something, okay? You’re sure this shit is safe?”
“It’s so safe,” Nicole said. “Hundreds of girls have done it since the fifties. Nothing’s ever gone wrong.”
“Yeah, but what if it does? You read about this stuff all the time. People with heart conditions they didn’t know they had, that kind of thing—”