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supportive patriarchs, his membership was an absolute must.
    At the meeting, George had mentioned that his big sib’s constant presence “cramped his style.” No kidding. No wonder I hadn’t seen them together much. George and Jamie clearly did not have the same kind of relationship that I had with Malcolm.
    Jamie hadn’t yet answered me. Maybe George hadn’t been the only one forced that particular Tap Night. And maybe this was not the conversation to have over IM.
    AmyHaskel: You know, sitting in stony silence loses some of its punch over IM. I just assume your Internet connection blinked out.
    DinkStover: Curses.
    AmyHaskel: I’m going to hit the sack, I think. You coming tomorrow?
    DinkStover: We’ll see.
    AmyHaskel: I want to see you, either way.
    He was quiet, and I pictured him in his lonely apartment halfway across town, sitting on his couch, shirt off (hey, a girl can dream) and looking at those words on his screen. I smiled.
    DinkStover: You will. Good night, Amy.
    AmyHaskel: Night, Pajamie.
    Alone in bed as the garbage trucks and street sweepers heralded the morning in the road beyond the boundaries of Prescott College, I thought about all the times that I’d gone to Malcolm while navigating some of the more confusing elements of society membership. Had George done the same?
    Hey, Jamie, I was wondering what you think about this? The other day, Amy and I had quite a lot of sex in the abandoned tomb. We even did it in the Inner Temple. Is that okay?
    What had I gotten myself into?
    The next evening, the club convened to work out the details. At dinner, Soze expressed his fervent wish that yesterday’s debate was well and truly behind us, and that the remainder of the tap process would run
    “smoothly and harmoniously.”
    Poor, naive little boy.
    Page 24

    Though we’d all arrived toting our short lists, as requested in Soze’s e-mail that morning, it was anything but the simple, straightforward process our dear secretary had been hoping for.
    Recounting in detail may make my brain explode, and I need that to graduate. So here are the lowlights: 1) At least three of the knights already wanted to be released from their marble-mandated gender assignments. Including Thorndike.
    2) Some knights’ short lists were anything but. For instance, Frodo had placed every pitch of the eleven all-male singing groups on campus (and a healthy handful of talented tenors outside the a capella sphere) on his. “Look at it this way,” he’d said by way of explanation, “half of these guys are going to join the Whizzbangs anyway. So that cuts the potential to actually get them down a lot.”2*
    3) On the flip side, some lists were deemed too short (mine, which had only the “three” that Poe had suggested), or were generally too inappropriate or too dadaist altogether. Puck’s latest attempt at rebellion was to introduce his list with the following: “After long consideration, I have decided that no one currently on campus meets the proper specifications to take my rightful place in the society. Therefore, I submit the following proposal: I desire that the full weight of Digger influence be deployed to encourage at least one, if not more, of the following persons to matriculate to Eli within the next month: Samuel L.
    Jackson, Richard Branson, or Hunter S. Thompson.”
    “Hunter S. Thompson is dead,” Bond pointed out.
    “Fine.” Puck consulted his alternates. “Prince Harry of Windsor will do.”
    I blinked, trying to imagine the list that contained both deceased gonzo journalists and tabloid-fodder British royalty. To be perfectly honest, Harry wasn’t a half-bad choice.
    4) Worst of all, Poe sat through the whole meeting and opened his mouth only to take another sip of coffee. He didn’t even look at me while George made his ridiculous pronouncement about who was worthy of replacing him (though I definitely stared at Poe enough to gauge his reaction: not amused).
    His poker face remained firmly in place no