Free Secret Society Girl by Diana Peterfreund

I pointed at my desk drawer. ―Is there any way on earth that your society could take things more seriously than mine ?‖

    Oops. Her face turned hard. ―And the true colors come out. Pardon me for intruding. I should have known a peon like me had no business invading the room of a high and mighty Digger .‖
    She practically spat the word. At the door, she paused. ―Don‘t wear the velour,‖ she said coldly.
    ―It makes your butt look huge.‖

    As luck would have it, I owned a pair of cargo pants with a drawstring waist and Velcro fastenings, and so, properly attired at last, I set forth to meet my destiny. At Whitney Tower, I hung out, periodically checking the time on the clock face and hoping I looked more casual than I felt. Five minutes after the Whitney Tower Carillon finished sounding off the eight o‘clock hour, I did an about-face and marched toward the Rose & Grave tomb. I was determined not to repeat the mistakes of my interview—I wasn‘t going to be late for initiation.

    As I approached the tomb, I caught sight of another figure walking toward me from the south side of the street. Dammit. I couldn‘t enter the Rose & Grave yard with someone standing right there watching me, could I? How did the members keep their secrets without a private entrance?

    The figure passed beneath a sodium streetlight, and I could see it was a man. He wore a shiny black jacket festooned with more zippers than one reasonably expected to see on the average overcoat. I knew that jacket. It belonged to George Harrison Prescott.

    ―Heya, Amy!‖ he said as we met on the sidewalk directly in front of that hated wrought-iron gate. George rested his hand on it (as if it were just any gate and not the entrance to the Diggers‘
    tomb) and planted his feet directly in my path. ―Whatcha up to?‖

    ―Um…‖ I flickered my eyes toward the tomb. ―Not much. You?‖

    ―Same.‖ He winked at me, his gorgeous copper-penny eyes glinting even more from behind the shiny bronze rims of his glasses.

    I clamped my thighs together, then prayed fervently that he didn‘t notice. George Harrison Prescott was not only the most beautiful man in my class in Prescott College (and no, that‘s not a coincidence about the names), he was also a Player with a capital ―P.‖ Remember Marissa Corrs, who played opposite Orlando Bloom in that costume drama last year? Well, she recently took a leave of absence from Eli to concentrate on her acting career, but while she was here, guess whose room she was seen exiting every Sunday morning?

    Yep. Chick could have had Orlando, but she chose George Harrison Prescott. Of course, if you squint your eyes a tad, George and Orlando could be twins, but for George‘s glasses, which, as far as I‘m concerned, make him ten times hotter.

    Marissa was just one of many on what I‘m sure is more like George Prescott‘s Hit Dictionary.
    From what I‘ve heard, George has slept with half of the straight and/or available women in Prescott College, and from what I know, the other half are impatiently waiting their turn.

    Not me, of course! George and I are just friends. Acquaintances. The kind that nod in recognition when we pass each other on the street, or sit together in the Prescott dining hall when none of our other friends are around, chitchatting with each other in honor of class- and college-affiliation solidarity.

    And if a girl indulges in the occasional sexual fantasy about accidentally stumbling into George Harrison Prescott‘s bathroom while he‘s in the shower—well, that‘s no big deal, right?

    ―Headed home?‖ he asked, and I tried not to fixate on his mouth.

    Since I was walking in the precise opposite direction of Prescott College, it struck me as a rather unusual question. ―Nope.‖

    ―Okay.‖ He smiled genially and neither of us moved an inch. At last, giving up, I sidestepped him and walked a few paces down the street.

    George waved, but didn‘t budge. By the time I reached