and gave me a little toast with pomegranate juice–filled punch cups. There were already close to twenty people in the room—maybe ten college students and a handful of older men in suits.
―So you‘re number eleven,‖ said a stocky black girl with hair the color of my Friday night date panties and a woven hemp shirt. ―Welcome to our loony bin.‖ I knew this girl by reputation—I‘d seen her protests and her rallies—Demetria Robinson.
―You‘re Lydia‘s friend, right?‖ A guy with reddish-brown hair stepped up next and glad-handed me. ―I think we met once, sophomore year.‖
I nodded in recognition. Leave it to Joshua Silver, political wunderkind, to never forget a face or a network connection. Only twenty-one and already the manager of several successful local election campaigns. To Lydia, he was both her hero and her rival in every Poli-Sci class they‘d taken together. Joshua wore khaki pants and a rumpled white oxford liberally spattered with red juice. He gestured to theHELLO MY NAME IS sticker on his shirt. ―I‘m, uh, Keyser Soze.‖
―Now, there‘s a society name!‖ I wrinkled my nose. ―I‘m Bugaboo .‖
―Could be worse,‖ Demetria said. ―Some soon-to-be-dickless fuckwad thought it would be funny to christen me Thorndike.‖
Josh/Soze sniggered and Clarissa Cuthbert materialized by my side, holding two silver punch cups. She handed one to me. ―It‘s a historical name. You should be proud of it. President Taft was a Thorndike.‖
―President Taft was a fat white fuck,‖ Thorndike replied.
Clarissa clinked her glass against mine. HerHELLO MY NAME IS sticker read Angel .
―Welcome, Bugaboo,‖ she said. ―Glad to see you slumming with us after all.‖
I flinched. Of all the secret societies in all the colleges in the world, Clarissa Cuthbert had to be tapped into mine. So that‘s what she‘d wanted to discuss with me.
But Angel didn‘t seem interested in rehashing our earlier conversation. She turned to the others and said, ―I guess there‘s just George Harrison Prescott left now, huh?‖
―Yeah,‖ said a short Asian guy joining the group. ―But I hear they had to drag him into the tomb kicking and screaming.‖ He stuck his hand out at me. ―Hey there, I‘m Frodo.‖
―At last, someone with a worse name than mine!‖ Thorndike sniffed.
―Do not go gently into that sweet night, GHP,‖ said a young man with a completely edible English accent. ―But rather…make your daddy force you.‖ He winked at me. ―I‘m Bond…Barbarian-So-Called Greg Dorian. I hear you‘re the writer.‖
―Another creative type?‖ Frodo asked. ―I‘m a filmmaker. And Little Demon is a…singer, of sorts. This is one artsy class.‖
I looked down into my punch cup. ―I‘m not really a writer.‖ Thirty pages of a wretched novel does not count.
Soze shrugged. ―Then what are you?‖
―The editor of the Lit Mag.‖
They all exchanged glances.
―Why aren‘t you in Quill & Ink?‖ Thorndike asked. ―My ex-girlfriend Glenda Foster is in that one.‖
T WO P OINTS
1) Very good question.
2) Glenda Foster is a lesbian?!? You think you know someone….
― ‗Girlfriend‘ is a relative term.‖ A slender, stunning woman with waist-length red hair joined our group and extended a graceful hand toward me. Now, this chick I knew. But of course, you all know everything about Odile Dumas as well. She‘d been tabloid fodder since she was 15. Her matriculation to Eli had been largely viewed by all to be an attempt to present herself as less Lindsay Lohan and more Natalie Portman. But to the media‘s shock, she‘d taken to collegiate life with gusto and all but dropped out of public view. Odile hadn‘t had an album or movie out in three years, and the word around campus was that she was smarter (and less slutty) than anyone had expected (or hoped).
―Little Demon,‖ she purred, ―but if I end up pursuing that hip-hop career, I‘ll change it to
―So you‘re number eleven,‖ said a stocky black girl with hair the color of my Friday night date panties and a woven hemp shirt. ―Welcome to our loony bin.‖ I knew this girl by reputation—I‘d seen her protests and her rallies—Demetria Robinson.
―You‘re Lydia‘s friend, right?‖ A guy with reddish-brown hair stepped up next and glad-handed me. ―I think we met once, sophomore year.‖
I nodded in recognition. Leave it to Joshua Silver, political wunderkind, to never forget a face or a network connection. Only twenty-one and already the manager of several successful local election campaigns. To Lydia, he was both her hero and her rival in every Poli-Sci class they‘d taken together. Joshua wore khaki pants and a rumpled white oxford liberally spattered with red juice. He gestured to theHELLO MY NAME IS sticker on his shirt. ―I‘m, uh, Keyser Soze.‖
―Now, there‘s a society name!‖ I wrinkled my nose. ―I‘m Bugaboo .‖
―Could be worse,‖ Demetria said. ―Some soon-to-be-dickless fuckwad thought it would be funny to christen me Thorndike.‖
Josh/Soze sniggered and Clarissa Cuthbert materialized by my side, holding two silver punch cups. She handed one to me. ―It‘s a historical name. You should be proud of it. President Taft was a Thorndike.‖
―President Taft was a fat white fuck,‖ Thorndike replied.
Clarissa clinked her glass against mine. HerHELLO MY NAME IS sticker read Angel .
―Welcome, Bugaboo,‖ she said. ―Glad to see you slumming with us after all.‖
I flinched. Of all the secret societies in all the colleges in the world, Clarissa Cuthbert had to be tapped into mine. So that‘s what she‘d wanted to discuss with me.
But Angel didn‘t seem interested in rehashing our earlier conversation. She turned to the others and said, ―I guess there‘s just George Harrison Prescott left now, huh?‖
―Yeah,‖ said a short Asian guy joining the group. ―But I hear they had to drag him into the tomb kicking and screaming.‖ He stuck his hand out at me. ―Hey there, I‘m Frodo.‖
―At last, someone with a worse name than mine!‖ Thorndike sniffed.
―Do not go gently into that sweet night, GHP,‖ said a young man with a completely edible English accent. ―But rather…make your daddy force you.‖ He winked at me. ―I‘m Bond…Barbarian-So-Called Greg Dorian. I hear you‘re the writer.‖
―Another creative type?‖ Frodo asked. ―I‘m a filmmaker. And Little Demon is a…singer, of sorts. This is one artsy class.‖
I looked down into my punch cup. ―I‘m not really a writer.‖ Thirty pages of a wretched novel does not count.
Soze shrugged. ―Then what are you?‖
―The editor of the Lit Mag.‖
They all exchanged glances.
―Why aren‘t you in Quill & Ink?‖ Thorndike asked. ―My ex-girlfriend Glenda Foster is in that one.‖
T WO P OINTS
1) Very good question.
2) Glenda Foster is a lesbian?!? You think you know someone….
― ‗Girlfriend‘ is a relative term.‖ A slender, stunning woman with waist-length red hair joined our group and extended a graceful hand toward me. Now, this chick I knew. But of course, you all know everything about Odile Dumas as well. She‘d been tabloid fodder since she was 15. Her matriculation to Eli had been largely viewed by all to be an attempt to present herself as less Lindsay Lohan and more Natalie Portman. But to the media‘s shock, she‘d taken to collegiate life with gusto and all but dropped out of public view. Odile hadn‘t had an album or movie out in three years, and the word around campus was that she was smarter (and less slutty) than anyone had expected (or hoped).
―Little Demon,‖ she purred, ―but if I end up pursuing that hip-hop career, I‘ll change it to
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