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Authors: Diana Peterfreund
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Night guests to use so as not to disturb the people in the main dining hall with their sticky outfits.
2) Mr. Rebel-Without-a-Cause Twilo was actually a trust-fund baby from Manhattan who‘d grown up on the Upper East Side and attended the same twee private school as Clarissa.
3) Never finish a Green Tory‘s Cup.
And I never did like Clarissa Cuthbert after that. Slumming!
So here I was, two and a half years later, watching Clarissa fondle my letter from Rose & Grave with a smug little smile plastered on her (probably plastic surgery–enhanced) face.
I swallowed. ―Why, thanks,‖ bitch ―Clarissa!‖ I said in what I hoped was a tone of sincere gaiety, but probably came across as forced brittleness. ―I was so wondering‖ why you"d steal my books ―what I‘d done with that‖ secret society letter ―birthday party invitation.‖
―Can it,‖ she said, and beckoned to me with the letter. ―Come here.‖
I started to trot over, then remembered that, whatever Clarissa might have said freshman year, I am not an obedient little puppy, stopped, and held out my hand. ―Please give me back my letter.‖
―As soon as we ascertain that it belongs to you.‖
That brought me fully into the alcove. ―It belongs to me and you know it,‖ I hissed.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, a look of serene innocence on her face. ―No name on it.‖
I clenched my jaw. ―Then let me describe it to you.‖
―Oh, please do!‖ She smiled sweetly. ―Especially what‘s on the inside.‖
I sat down on the chair opposite her. ―Clarissa, I‘m not kidding around here. Give it back.‖
She hesitated, frowned, and handed it over. I snatched it out of her claws and, after ensuring the seal remained unbroken, shoved it between the covers of WAP. Well, that was easier than I thought it would be. Dude, if it were me, I‘d have put up a real fight to get a look inside her letter.
All business between us seemingly at an end, I rose to go.
―Wait, Amy.‖ She touched my arm, and I was quite proud of myself for not jerking away in revulsion. ―We should talk.‖
―About what?‖ I said haughtily.
―You know about what.‖ Her eyes softened for a second. ―Please?‖
What a crock. Like she‘d be my friend now that I had won the approval of a group like Rose & Grave? I pulled out of her grip. ―Sorry, Clarissa. I‘m not into slumming.‖
The inside of the letter had been burned in places, and large charred blotches left black streaks on my hands as I tried to unfold it and read the writing. Like before, the print was lopsided on the page, which was folded into an irregular hexagon. This time, it smelled like smoke.
This is what it said:
Neophyte Haskel,
At five minutes past eight this evening, wearing neither metal, nor sulfur, nor glass, leave the base of Whitney Tower and walk south on High Street. Look neither to the right nor to the left.
Pass through the sacred pillars of Hercules and approach the Temple. Take the right Book in your left hand and knock thrice upon the sacred portals. Tell no one what you do.
—Rex Grave
Um, okaaaay. I knew what all those words meant, but the sum was still a mystery. Who wears sulfur? The glass restriction was okay, since I was blessed with 20/20 vision, but the metal thing would be a tough one. Jeans were out—what with all those copper rivets and the zipper and buttons. In fact, most of my pants had metal zippers in them, and even the button-fly ones had metal buttons. Was I supposed to wear a skirt? Sweatpants?
Lydia knocked on the door as I was ripping open the lining to one of my bras.
―What are you doing?‖ she asked, sticking her head in.
―Trying to find the underwire.‖ Aha! I yanked it out, only to discover that ―wire‖ was a relative term, and that Victoria‘s Secret apparently used some sort of hard, springy plastic. ―Ruined that one for nothing,‖ I said, tossing the torn bra to the bed.
―What do you have
2) Mr. Rebel-Without-a-Cause Twilo was actually a trust-fund baby from Manhattan who‘d grown up on the Upper East Side and attended the same twee private school as Clarissa.
3) Never finish a Green Tory‘s Cup.
And I never did like Clarissa Cuthbert after that. Slumming!
So here I was, two and a half years later, watching Clarissa fondle my letter from Rose & Grave with a smug little smile plastered on her (probably plastic surgery–enhanced) face.
I swallowed. ―Why, thanks,‖ bitch ―Clarissa!‖ I said in what I hoped was a tone of sincere gaiety, but probably came across as forced brittleness. ―I was so wondering‖ why you"d steal my books ―what I‘d done with that‖ secret society letter ―birthday party invitation.‖
―Can it,‖ she said, and beckoned to me with the letter. ―Come here.‖
I started to trot over, then remembered that, whatever Clarissa might have said freshman year, I am not an obedient little puppy, stopped, and held out my hand. ―Please give me back my letter.‖
―As soon as we ascertain that it belongs to you.‖
That brought me fully into the alcove. ―It belongs to me and you know it,‖ I hissed.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, a look of serene innocence on her face. ―No name on it.‖
I clenched my jaw. ―Then let me describe it to you.‖
―Oh, please do!‖ She smiled sweetly. ―Especially what‘s on the inside.‖
I sat down on the chair opposite her. ―Clarissa, I‘m not kidding around here. Give it back.‖
She hesitated, frowned, and handed it over. I snatched it out of her claws and, after ensuring the seal remained unbroken, shoved it between the covers of WAP. Well, that was easier than I thought it would be. Dude, if it were me, I‘d have put up a real fight to get a look inside her letter.
All business between us seemingly at an end, I rose to go.
―Wait, Amy.‖ She touched my arm, and I was quite proud of myself for not jerking away in revulsion. ―We should talk.‖
―About what?‖ I said haughtily.
―You know about what.‖ Her eyes softened for a second. ―Please?‖
What a crock. Like she‘d be my friend now that I had won the approval of a group like Rose & Grave? I pulled out of her grip. ―Sorry, Clarissa. I‘m not into slumming.‖
The inside of the letter had been burned in places, and large charred blotches left black streaks on my hands as I tried to unfold it and read the writing. Like before, the print was lopsided on the page, which was folded into an irregular hexagon. This time, it smelled like smoke.
This is what it said:
Neophyte Haskel,
At five minutes past eight this evening, wearing neither metal, nor sulfur, nor glass, leave the base of Whitney Tower and walk south on High Street. Look neither to the right nor to the left.
Pass through the sacred pillars of Hercules and approach the Temple. Take the right Book in your left hand and knock thrice upon the sacred portals. Tell no one what you do.
—Rex Grave
Um, okaaaay. I knew what all those words meant, but the sum was still a mystery. Who wears sulfur? The glass restriction was okay, since I was blessed with 20/20 vision, but the metal thing would be a tough one. Jeans were out—what with all those copper rivets and the zipper and buttons. In fact, most of my pants had metal zippers in them, and even the button-fly ones had metal buttons. Was I supposed to wear a skirt? Sweatpants?
Lydia knocked on the door as I was ripping open the lining to one of my bras.
―What are you doing?‖ she asked, sticking her head in.
―Trying to find the underwire.‖ Aha! I yanked it out, only to discover that ―wire‖ was a relative term, and that Victoria‘s Secret apparently used some sort of hard, springy plastic. ―Ruined that one for nothing,‖ I said, tossing the torn bra to the bed.
―What do you have
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