Secret Society (7 page)

A
nastasia took a sip of her martini, leaving a dark-red lipstick print on her glass. “Here's how it works. Basically, the Society can help you—but you'll only get out of it as much as you put into it.”

“Okay…” Phoebe nodded, still a bit confused. “Like how did it help you?”

“The Society helped me get funding for my last show. I got studio space, I got sponsors. There's so much connectivity going on.”

“Connectivity?”

“You know, connections: You've heard of the famous six degrees of separation, right?”

“Sure.” Phoebe nodded. It was the theory that every person in the world is connected to every other person by, at a
maximum, four other people. Add yourself and the final person in the chain, and you had your six degrees.

“Well, membership in the Society is estimated to reduce that number to something more like three degrees—which means that you are connected to everyone you'll ever need to know by, at the most, one person.”

Behind Anastasia, Charles Lawrence, the handsome senior from Chadwick who had brought Phoebe a drink, came over, carrying his own gin and tonic and smoking a cigar. Phoebe's mouth went dry. It was strange being the center of so much attention. She wondered if the other new members felt this way, this out of place.

“So, Phoebe, is Anastasia using the old ‘six degrees' philosophy?”

Phoebe nodded. “I guess so. Seems to make sense.”

“It's one way of looking at it all. But I prefer the slightly more”—he cocked his head—“shall we say,
complex
description.”

Anastasia rolled her eyes playfully, batting her long eyelashes at him. “And what's that, Charles?”

He started speaking directly to Phoebe. “Have you taken sociology?”

Phoebe shook her head.

“It doesn't matter. There's a social theorist from the nineteenth century, a French guy, Émile Durkheim. He came up with this theory of collective consciousness. You've probably
heard of the collective unconscious, right?”

Phoebe nodded. “Yeah. Like, um, Jung and all that?” They had done a unit in English on Jungian symbols of the unconscious. Jung was a Swiss psychologist who believed that people shared symbols in their dreams without actually knowing it.

“It's the idea that there's always a unifying group of ideas and values that people subscribe to. In the past, it was usually religion. But these days, everything is fractured. People don't go to church, they don't go to town hall meetings, a lot of them don't even vote. So the Society's purpose is to bind together a bunch of like-minded people who can help one another. Each class helps the other, and each member will eventually provide support to the group. In the beginning, it's mostly benefits you enjoy. The idea is that first it gets you launched, gets you started on the right track. For example, who do you have guiding your career right now?”

“Guiding my career? Do you mean, like, my work at school?” She thought of her mother, who was almost always too busy with her photography. It didn't feel like her mom was guiding her at all. And her dad was several thousand miles away.

“Sure,” Charles said. “But more like your life, overall. Think of it this way: What do you really want from the next two years?”

Phoebe came up with the automatic response, typical of any high school junior who was asked this question. “I guess I
want to get into a good college.”

Charles chuckled. “Come on, Phoebe, you can do better than that! A good college! So the magic genie comes along and grants you a wish, and all you want to do is get into a good college?”

Phoebe felt her face grow warm. He was right. It was an utterly pedestrian thing to wish for. She started stammering. “That and, of course, to work on my art. To, maybe, get a show or something. Let people see what I can do.” She noticed Anastasia smiling.

“That's more like it. And don't you think you deserve some advice, someone to help you out?”

Phoebe nodded. “I guess so.” She felt a bit rattled and took a gulp of her drink, hoping it would cool her. The room suddenly felt hot and stuffy.

Anastasia piped in. “We can make anything happen. Well, almost anything.”

“I doubt there's much the Society can't provide,” said Charles. “That's what we're here for. But tonight we're just here to have a good time.” He clinked glasses with Phoebe.

There was an awkward pause, as Phoebe wasn't sure what to say. Something came to her as she glanced around the room, noting the twos and threes that were huddled together in conversation.

“Wait a second,” she said. “You claimed that we were all like-minded. Isn't that sort of a sweeping generalization?”

He laughed. “Oh, I don't mean like-minded in every way. Just in one.”

“What's that?” Phoebe asked.

Charles took a puff on his cigar. “You all want to succeed more than anyone. And if given the right opportunities, you have a damned good chance at doing so.”

 

Lauren sat with Emily in a quiet corner, both sipping their second vodka tonics. “Here, read this,” Emily said, as a scroll was passed to her from a silver tray that was going around the room. It was beautifully printed on parchment paper and tied with a blue ribbon. Lauren started to open it, but Emily stopped her. “Read it later. When you get home, or tomorrow. Here's the most important thing. You have to destroy it when you're done. No one can see it.”

“What happens if you don't destroy it?” Lauren asked.

Emily shrugged. “I don't know. No one's ever kept it.”

Lauren put it in her purse, the new one that had been given to her that afternoon.

“Nice bag,” Emily said.

“Thanks—it was a gift.”

“Ah, the gifts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things are going to start happening for you, sometimes in a mysterious way. But you can't question it. You just need
to go with it. That's the only way you'll succeed. Take it as it comes, and accept it willingly.”

Lauren nodded, attempting to hide her unease.

“Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it.” Emily glanced at her watch, which, to Lauren, looked expensive. “Oh my God, it's late. We'd better get the second part of the evening going. I have an audition tomorrow afternoon with a major casting director.”

“On Sunday? Is he a member?” Lauren asked. She hoped she wasn't prying.

“I don't know,” Emily said. “But he certainly knows people who are. See, that's the thing. Aside from you guys and the class above us, we never really know who the members are. They can introduce themselves, so I know a handful of them well, and have met tons more at events, but there's no published directory. It's all networking. That's how you get to know people. The older members attend some of the functions, and you start to get into the flow of it all.”

Lauren nodded.

“It's really a miracle,” Emily said, her eyes wide. “I mean, this casting director is visiting from Beverly Hills for one day and he has thirty people he's seeing. No spots are open. And then he decides to see me on a Sunday, to make a special exception, which is so cool.”

“Are you nervous?”

Emily ran her fingers through her hair. “I wouldn't say
nervous
. More like excited, you know? These things have a way of working themselves out.” She looked at Lauren and smiled. “Don't you worry—before you know it, things will start working out for you as well.”

P
atch had woken at nine that evening, having passed out after watching the first three hours of the footage he had taken of the Society initiation. Since then, he had holed himself up in his room, emerging only to use the bathroom or to refill his bowl of microwave popcorn. It was all too strange, everything he had captured. The previous night, after seeing the address on Nick's phone, all of Patch's suspicions about what Genie had told him had been confirmed. He knew he had to get footage of what was going on. And he had to admit, he felt a bit stung that he hadn't been invited himself. His parents, after all, had been important people in New York, before his father's death and his mother's hospitalization. He deserved to be a member as much as anyone, that is, if it really was the fantastic thing that people made it
out to be. But now he wasn't so sure.

He also knew there was some kind of secret Genie was hiding from him about the Society, although he had no idea what it was. He could have rifled through her papers to search for it, but she was nearly always at home, except for during the day, when he was at school. Besides, she would have noticed his snooping, and he didn't feel right about it. What kind of creep would go through his grandmother's things?

The previous six times he had left and come back to his room that Saturday night, Patch had locked the door behind him, but this time he had forgotten. He heard a quick knock and a turn of the doorknob. He leaned over to try to switch off his monitor, but instead only managed to knock over the stainless steel bowl of popcorn; it clattered and spilled all over the floor. On his screen was a frozen shot from the Society initiation. There were some fuzzy lines on the image, which was the grill of the air duct he had managed to crawl through, giving him access to five different locations. But aside from those lines, the action behind them was clear: a man in a leather mask giving what looked to be tattoos to some of his classmates, Nick included. It made Patch sick to his stomach.

His grandmother stood there, her arms folded at her chest, a scowl on her face. “Well, aren't you going to play it?”

Clearly, she knew something.

“Genie, I can't. I don't think—”

“It's my fault you got into that mess.” She put one hand on the doorframe, as if to steady herself for what she was about to say. “Goddammit, Patchfield! What on earth were you thinking? I told you about the Night of Rebirth because I wanted you to be careful, because I was worried that they would get to you.”

He nodded. “I know.”

She looked at him dryly. “As it turns out, it seems like they had every reason not to ask you.”

“Genie, don't be that way.”

“You think that camera allows you to waltz in wherever you please? There are rules, Patch. Rules that must be followed. You don't mess with an organization like that.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You don't even
talk
about it. You don't know what you're dealing with.”

“Genie, I know. I saw. It's creepy stuff.”

“Oh, that's all smoke and mirrors. That's not what it's really about. It's the same as it was fifty years ago. The tattoos, now I admit that's different. It used to be—” She shuddered. “It used to be absolutely vile.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was growing up, tattoos were something that sailors got. When you were admitted to the Society, you didn't get a tattoo of an ankh.”

“What did you get?”

“You got an ankh on the back of your neck, all right.” She
paused, her eyes shining fiercely. “You got an ankh branded right into your flesh.”

 

Emily van Piper clinked her glass with a cocktail stirrer. “Okay, everyone, get up! We're going to the roof!”

Phoebe looked up, astonished. What could possibly be next? Emily led everyone up the main, kilim-carpeted staircase. They followed her up another staircase, past a dozen closed doors, hallways adorned with paintings—landscapes, portraits, all in aging gilt frames. Memorabilia was displayed on the walls: medals, trophies, plaques, photographs, framed letters from presidents and senators. They got to the top level, which had a white marble floor and a tiled dome ceiling. Blue light flickered on the carved wall panels.

“Okay, everyone,” Emily said, “close your eyes.”

Phoebe did as she was told. She heard the sound of a pair of doors sliding apart.

They were instructed to open their eyes. Before them was a swimming pool covered with a glass roof that looked right up into the sky. Tall palm trees in black ceramic urns adorned the sides of the pool, blocking any view of the city.

Phoebe blinked at this surreal sight. A swimming pool on a rooftop in Manhattan? She had heard of such things, but never imagined them really to exist.

The girls were motioned to one side and the boys to another, where there were swimsuits waiting for them and
bathing cabins in which to change. Was this the kind of perk they were talking about? Phoebe wouldn't mind a place to swim laps after school.

After changing into their square-cut trunks, Nick, Thad, and the other boys dived in and started splashing around. Phoebe couldn't help sneaking a glance at their bare bodies, Nick's especially. It was lean and taut, a runner's torso with broad shoulders, as she had suspected. His chest was smooth, with the slightest bit of hair running down past his navel. It felt strange to look at him this way after everything they had been through in the last twenty-four hours, but by this point in the evening, she was too tired to care. She noticed Lauren and the Argentinean guy, Alejandro Calleja, horsing around by the edge of the pool, flirting, and she wondered if they had known each other before tonight.

Phoebe stepped into the warm water. Surprisingly, she didn't feel body conscious at all; maybe it was the alcohol, or the odd circumstances. She realized, actually, that she looked pretty good, as good as the other girls, almost as good as Lauren with her long legs and toned stomach. The bathing suits they had been given were all the same, simple black one-pieces, as if they were members of an incredibly austere swim team. It didn't matter—something felt transcendent about the experience. Lauren paddled over and gave her an affectionate squeeze on the arm.

Phoebe let herself float in the water. Everyone's shadows
danced against the palms lining the sides of the pool. Voices echoed in and out. She turned her attention to the sky, looked up at the stars. One could almost never see the stars in Manhattan, but tonight she saw them clearly. Maybe it was some kind of optical illusion, a projection.

She was reminded for a moment of a line: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde had written it more than a hundred years ago; an English teacher of hers had emailed it to their class last year while they were reading one of his plays.

She wasn't exactly in the gutter, not even on the sidewalk anymore. It was almost by magic, how fast she had risen. Was that the way with Manhattan? One afternoon you're wondering if you'll ever fit in, and the next thing you know, you're swimming in a private pool, looking up at a starry night?

It occurred to her that she had forgotten to ask what the Folly was. She would have to remember at the next meeting.

If, that is, she found out when the next meeting was.

 

Lauren shivered a bit as she wrapped herself in a towel that someone had handed her. She had noticed the brand name on it, and it certainly wasn't the nicest towel she had ever used. It was similar to those used at old-school athletic clubs, like the one her father belonged to. Clean, but not terribly soft and a tad ratty, as if it hadn't been replaced in the last ten years. Probably good old-fashioned WASPy thriftiness, Lauren sur
mised. It fit in with the old money decor of the place, that deep-seated odor of cigars and spilled whiskey.

She got dressed and said her good-byes; the swimming, even in the heated pool, had sobered everyone up, at least enough to realize it was time for the night to end. She stepped out through the entryway, noting that the detritus from the drinks party earlier—cigar butts, empty glasses, sticky cocktail napkins—had already been cleaned up. As with the previous night, cars were waiting for them outside.

On the steps of the brownstone, Lauren shared a glance with Alejandro Calleja. Earlier, she had been drawn in by his eyes, dark and brooding, a vivid contrast to his easy manner.

“So is this everything you ever dreamed of?” he said with a shy smile, as he tied his sweater around his shoulders. She couldn't tell if he was joking or serious.

“Sure,” she said, nodding.

“I hear it only gets better.”

“I can imagine.” Lauren saw that Phoebe was next to her. “See you later?”

“Of course,” Alejandro said. He gave her a squeeze on the shoulder.

“Ride with me?” Lauren said to Phoebe, even though they were going in opposite directions.

Phoebe nodded.

It was four-thirty A.M. Lauren wanted to go to a diner or something, to compare notes with Phoebe, but she was too
tired, and the driver was already heading up Madison. How did he know where she lived? She leaned forward and peered into the front seat. On the passenger side was a folder, open to a page that had all of their photographs—the standard-issue yearbook photos that Chadwick published—and their home addresses, which were certainly not public knowledge. Weird.

“My mom is going to kill me if she hears me coming in,” Phoebe said. “She thinks I've become a total party monster.”

Lauren laughed. “As if mine would even notice. I think she's happy for me to go out. All she ever wants me to do is find a new boyfriend.” She realized that Alejandro wouldn't be a bad candidate.

“Not sure mine would even notice,” Phoebe said.

“Mine might not either. Too busy hitting the sauce.”

There was an awkward pause. Too much information? Lauren usually wasn't so candid. She wanted to invite Phoebe up, but decided to hold back. She gave her new friend a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, and then jumped out of the car.