Secret Society (18 page)

O
n Monday morning, Patch's producer called him in for a meeting. He had told Simone what had taken place on Wednesday night with the two thugs who had been sent by the Society, but she was undeterred.

“I want you to know that what happened on Thursday was unacceptable,” she said, after taking a sip from her ever-present coffee mug. “I need to be able to trust that you're on board with me.”

“Simone, it was Thanksgiving Day,” Patch said. “And you expected me to cover a death in Central Park?”

“This is not always a fun business. Sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. You're supposed to be covering this scene: the good, the bad, the ugly.”

“I understand that,” Patch said.

“Good. I had a feeling you would. Which is why I know you'll understand the next thing I'd like you to do.”

“What's that?”

“Figure out a way to get inside the Society.”

 

For Phoebe, classes started up uneventfully after Thanksgiving break. Aside from the occasional passing reference, no one talked about what had happened to Jared nor about what happened to Alejandro, although many Chadwick students knew of the incidents. As Anastasia had predicted, these things had a way of drifting into the past. Jared's family held a memorial service, which Nick attended begrudgingly, mostly because it was the right thing to do. He told Phoebe that it had made him sick.

Aside from Nick, Phoebe didn't see much of anyone. She had filled Lauren in on what had happened between them, but mostly, she was trying to keep her head low, hoping no one had found out about her mini breakdown. Of course, no one had; she realized she was being silly for even thinking that anyone cared.

She recognized, too, through hanging out with Nick, doing simple things, like grabbing a grilled cheese or coffee together, how much she always overanalyzed everything. Phoebe wanted to be more like Nick, to live more in the moment, not to care if her hair looked perfect or if she were
wearing the right outfit. She resolved to do that for the new year.

It was a distracting time, with exams and final papers and Christmas plans—possibly the worst time to start a new relationship. And yet Nick, in his dogged, stubborn way, seemed intent on making it work.

The two of them were hanging out together after school one afternoon, getting chai lattes at the Starbucks near Chadwick. Phoebe said they were being corporate whores by going there, but Nick insisted that their lattes were the best, so she had acquiesced.

They sat together at one of those round crowded café tables that give you the awkward illusion of privacy when you're in a room full of strangers. It was a chilly day, and Nick pulled off his brown wool cap, shaking out his messy, unkempt curls. He was wearing his German army jacket over his Chadwick blazer, which Phoebe thought was adorable.

He gulped his chai latte before looking at her. “So I guess we should, you know, um, define what we are?” he asked, as tentatively as she had ever seen him.

She shivered a bit, although it wasn't only from the cold. “What do you mean?” She wasn't going to be the one to define it—no, she had seen her girlfriends make that mistake too many times.

“Well, Phoebe Dowling.” He leaned forward and looked
into her eyes, clutching a paper napkin in his hand. “I would like to ask you to be my girlfriend.”

Phoebe grinned. “And what do I have to do to earn this honor?”

Nick paused. “Chai lattes once a week?”

Phoebe leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the lips. “Done.”

 

The conversation with Simone had occurred nearly a week earlier, and Patch had been mulling over her demands. Was it unreasonable what she was asking? It made him feel like a fraud, a sham. You were supposed to be asked to be part of a secret society. You weren't supposed to spy on them, to claw your way in. In some ways, though, it was exactly what he had always wanted to do. Here was an incredible investigative story, as well as a medium for telling it.

And maybe, just maybe, he could learn more about his family's past.

He would be foolish not to take the chance.

On Saturday morning, he went down to St. Mark's Place, a street in the East Village that was known for its carnivalesque display of tattoo and piercing parlors, cheap pizza and falafel joints, college bars, and vintage clothing stores. He picked the store that was least likely to give him a hard time with his fake ID.

He didn't bother flipping through the book of tattoo
designs. He pulled out a photocopied piece of paper with a sketch on it. If he wanted to infiltrate the Society, he figured he should look like a member.

After lifting up his hair, he showed the woman where he wanted the ankh: on the back of his neck.

E
xam week flew by, as most Chadwick students were consumed with doing well on their tests. The last exam was scheduled for Friday, the day school let out for holiday break. That afternoon, Phoebe was packing up her book bag when she received a text message about the evening, from the cryptic number she now recognized as the Society's.

The address that had been given was down on the Lower East Side, but when they arrived, there was nothing that looked like a nightclub or party space, only a little bodega. Could they have gotten the address wrong? About ten of the Initiates were standing around outside, clueless and confused.

It felt like another test.

“Wait,” Lauren said. “I have an idea. I read about this in a magazine.”

There was, curiously, a pay phone booth (which no one ever seemed to use in the city anymore) next to the deli, against the wall of the building. Nick peered inside the grocery store and pointed out to everyone that the lines of the wall didn't match up; it was as if the bodega had a false wall, or a secret passageway. Lauren went inside, picked up the phone, and said a few words. The wall behind the pay phone opened up to reveal a door. She looked back, grinned, and motioned for the others to follow.

Phoebe was right behind her. “How on earth did you know to do that?” Phoebe asked her.

“I read about a place like that in the East Village,” Lauren said. “Like a secret after-hours club. It was a lucky guess.”

“Lucky indeed.” Phoebe shook her head in amazement. Was any of this more than a giant twisted treasure hunt? And if so, what was the treasure? They had been through so much in the past several weeks that Phoebe felt like they didn't need any more nonsense.

Nick held her hand as they followed Lauren and the others down a dark alleyway that clattered with steam pipes. Graffiti covered the walls, and fire escapes dangled from the windows above. They walked through another tunnel and then to a large black door, behind which they could hear the faint sounds of thumping music.

“Do we just go in?” someone asked. Nick pulled on the wrought iron door handle, and it opened.

 

The club was called Prohibition, and it had been open for only two weeks. A DJ was in a booth that looked over the wood-paneled room, playing MGMT, Mark Ronson, and Vampire Weekend. Apart from the music, it was as if a Victorian bordello had been re-created on the Lower East Side. There were red velvet drapes, large plush banquettes, and little mirrored tables. In a nod, Lauren thought, to
Alice in Wonderland,
people drank cocktails out of old teacups; beer was served in paper bags. It all had the feel of an outlaw party. After the tunnel they had gone through, Lauren didn't even know which direction they were facing, which was an unusual sensation.

That was the thing about Manhattan: No matter where you were, you almost always knew which way was uptown.

Unless, of course, you were thrillingly, hopelessly drunk, which was exactly what was happening to everyone, as waiters in white gloves continued to pour drink after drink. The word was that the party was to celebrate the Initiates and their bonding over the last semester.

Lauren wondered how much they actually had to celebrate.

In a room with green tartan wallpaper across from the DJ booth, a group of seven Initiates was sitting around a table. Waiters brought out tray after tray of large silver cups, which were filled with drinks of varying colors. One was blue, another was green, another was purple. Everyone had to drink
from the cups, like a ritual sacrament being taken.

“Come on, Lauren.” Claire Chilton motioned to her. “Isn't this a hoot? Just like my dad always talks about at Yale.”

Lauren nodded. She had heard about Mory's, the Yale eating club where they did this. But what did this club on the Lower East Side have to do with that? It all seemed like an elaborate imitation of Ivy League life, as if by copying the manners and mores of a Yale eating club, the fifteen of them might feel like they were destined to be part of the real thing.

She went over to sit next to Alejandro. Lauren had been disappointed after what had happened the previous weekend, but she knew he felt bad about it. His parents had been on his case as well, not letting him go out at all during the week, which was probably for the best. Despite all the awkwardness between them—the text messages, his drunken shenanigans, his flakiness—Lauren couldn't ignore her feelings for him.

When she sat down at his booth, Alejandro scooted next to her—they were sitting so close, she could feel the warmth of his body. Bradley Winston, Thad Johnson, and a few other Initiates were all downing glasses of champagne. Thad, who Lauren knew was much smarter than the other boys, looked slightly out of place, but appeared to be trying to keep up.

“We need more drinks!” said Bradley. His bowtie was askew, as if he were headed for a rough night.

At that moment, Charles Lawrence, one of the Conscripts
who seemed to be a sort of chaperone for the party, came over. “You guys having fun?”

Everyone nodded.

A waiter arrived with a fresh bottle of champagne. It was poured, and Alejandro and Lauren sipped from their glasses. Then a favorite CSS song of his came on, and both of them headed to the dance floor.

When they came back, Charles handed them fresh glasses. Lauren noticed that he was wearing gloves.

“What's with the gloves?” Lauren asked.

“I guess I'm your waiter for the evening.” Charles grinned and then went off to join the other group.

Alejandro gulped his champagne as if it were water.

A few moments later, he started to slur his words.

“Oh my God,” Lauren said. “How drunk are you?”

“I just had a little bit of—” His eyelids started fluttering, before he shut his eyes. He slumped down in the banquette, his whole body gone limp like a rag doll.

“Alejandro—what the hell? What's going on?” The music was blasting, and nobody could hear her. Drinking, smoking, dancing, the business of partying all around her. She started shaking him as her heart pounded. “I can't—oh my God!” People at the table had started to notice. They prodded Alejandro, but he didn't move. Thad took some ice and put it to his forehead, hoping it would rouse him.

Lauren picked up her phone and started dialing 911. A
hand grabbed hers, and she saw it was attached to a burly security guard who looked vaguely familiar. “Put down the phone, miss,” he said. “There's no need to call. We're going to take him to a hospital.”

“A hospital? But how do you know what's wrong with him?”

“He needs medical attention. That's clear.” His partner grabbed Alejandro's body and hoisted it over his shoulders. In comparison to the 250-pound security guard, Alejandro looked tiny.

“Can I come along with you?”

“I'm sorry, miss, we can't let you do that.”

“What hospital are you taking him to?” The music kept pounding; she wished she could have a moment of silence to think.

The guard gave no answer. Everyone was staring, as if the party had stopped in mid-song. Lauren saw Nick and grabbed him.

“What should we do? They're taking him—but they won't say where!”

Nick followed the security guards, and Lauren chased after him, knowing Phoebe would understand. They ran out the entrance of the club, along the dark alleyways and into the street. The guards were loading Alejandro into a black town car.

Lauren started screaming. “Where are you taking him?”

“Come on, just tell us which hospital!” Nick shouted. “We'll meet you there.”

The guards said nothing. As the car drove away, Lauren pounded angrily on its hood.

A few people on the sidewalk stared at the spectacle, and Lauren realized they must have looked like two drunk kids causing trouble. She was out of breath. She crumpled down on a front stoop.

“Should we try to follow them?” she asked.

“There's not a cab in sight,” Nick said.

“What the hell just happened?”

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

She looked at her phone. Was there anyone she could call? What would she say?
My friend passed out and was kidnapped?
No one would believe her. And it would mean the cops would show up at the party—which would get back to Chadwick and their parents. There was nothing to do.

“I don't want to go back in,” Lauren said. “My purse is still in there. Can you get it when you come back with Phoebe?”

 

The door they had come out of was locked from the street, so Nick walked back through the phone booth and into the tunnel, nodding to the guard who was manning the door. When he returned to the party, the mood was decidedly different. The DJ had switched over to lounge music, and people were standing around uncomfortably, not really sure what they
should be doing. The waiters in white gloves were rapidly collecting glasses and carrying them away on trays. It didn't seem appropriate to continue, but no one really wanted to go home, either.

Nick ran into Phoebe. “I think we should go,” he said. “Do you know where Lauren's purse is?”

Phoebe pointed to the banquette; Nick recognized the bag as the one that had been given to her by Sebastian Giroux. He grabbed the bag, took Phoebe's hand, and led her outside.

Out on the sidewalk, there were cars waiting for them. “Should we take one of those?” Lauren asked.

Nick shook his head. “Come on. We'll get our own rides tonight.”

“What happened to him?” Phoebe asked. “One minute he was fine, and then, suddenly, they were carrying him out.”

“I don't know,” Lauren said. “I mean, I'm not going to lie—I know he likes to party. But I don't think he'd done anything that serious tonight.”

“Maybe someone slipped something in his drink,” Nick said. He looked up the street and saw the stream of black town cars taking the other Initiates home. “I think we need to watch our backs.”