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course.‖

    Oh, I was pathetic. After a thorough inspection of the courtyard (during which I stumbled across one puddle of vomit, one pile of unidentified books, and one fellow junior making out with someone who was decidedly not her boyfriend—but no sign of robed figures), I headed back to my room, utterly defeated and more than a little pissed that I‘d torn my jeans.

    According to every legend I‘d ever heard, this is not what Tap Night was supposed to be like.
    What a letdown. I changed into my pajamas and padded into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
    Flossing, fortunately, gave me the opportunity for a good long observation of myself in the mirror. I didn‘t look like a member of one of the most notorious secret societies in America. I didn‘t look like someone who could claim brotherhood with the head of the CIA, the President of the United States, or the new CEO of Fox.

    ―Faeth it,‖ I garbled to my reflection through the floss. ―Youffe been hadth.‖

    I fully intended to be out of the suite before I saw Lydia and was forced to tell her all about what hadn"t happened to me the night before. I even dressed for the part, in secret-mission dark jeans (not the ones I‘d torn) and my fade-into-the-woodwork Eli University crest hoodie.

    What I did not anticipate was that she‘d be waiting for me in the dining hall, having staked out a spot right next to the cereal bar. This is the problem with best friends. They know exactly what breakfast you‘re going to go for. If I‘d been in the mood for a bagel rather than a bowl of Frosted Flakes, she never would have caught me.

    ―Nice outfit,‖ she murmured over her coffee cup. ―You really look the part.‖

    I splashed some skim milk into my bowl and plopped down across from her. ―What‘s that supposed to mean?‖

    She gestured with her teaspoon at my outfit. ―Dark colors, mysterious hoods…it‘s very subtle.‖
    She smirked.

    ―I‘ve worn this sweatshirt a hundred times.‖

    ―Never when you were actually in a secret society.‖ Lydia was dressed in a pale pink blouse and a pair of khakis, and looked about as mysterious as a church picnic.

    Okay, maybe I didn‘t look coy, but I could sure as hell play the part. ―What makes you think I‘m in a secret society?‖ I asked, spooning up my flakes.

    ―The dozen robed figures who carried you bodily out of our suite last night.‖

    Ha! I took a deep breath. ―How do you know they were a secret society?‖

    She gave me a look that said, I"ve got a 3.9 GPA, and you know it.

    But all of a sudden, I very much wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter. ―Seriously, Lyds, how do you know? How would any of us know that they weren‘t a bunch of guys in hoods playing a practical joke?‖

    ―I think the Rose & Grave letterhead is a good clue.‖

    ―You looked at the envelope.‖

    ―It‘s pretty hard to miss, Amy. Little flower, great big coffin?‖ She eyed me warily. ―Are you going to get up and leave the room now?‖ By all accounts, secret society members had to leave the room if anyone mentioned the name of their organization. Supposedly it was to protect them from entering into discussion about the society, but it always seemed like a raw deal to me. Say you were at a rocking party and some chick wanted you out of the picture so she could mack on your man. All she had to do was start listing societies until she hit on yours. I suppose this is the kind of thing you have to think about when you join one.

    ―It depends,‖ I said, setting down my spoon. ―Dragon‘s Head. Book & Key. Serpent. You going anywhere?‖

    Lydia said nothing. We sat there, staring at each other. Either she wasn‘t following the rule, I hadn‘t named her society, or she was just as unsure of what was going on as I was.

    I tried turning the tables. ―I came back to the room not five minutes after I left it, and you weren‘t there anymore. And you didn‘t come back for the rest of the evening. Were you