Video start.
G. Averbach appears with gold and emerald paisley wallpaper behind him. Shelves to his right and left are laden with books and antique trinkets. He nods at the camera. “I am not going to be sentimental—looking at you, Isadora—or perform this like it’s an audition—Vivian—nor am I going to film this like it’s some sort of news documentary—Harry. I don’t think that Izzie can take all the credit for the Order. I have been saying for ages that we weren’t being enterprising enough with our free time, and if it wasn’t for all our competitions, I don’t think Izzie would have the guts for the Order.” He thumbs his chin. “Then again, neither would I.
“The definition of a secret society is a club or organization whose inner workings, rituals, beliefs, activities, history, and membership are concealed from nonmembers.” Brief stop. “Way back in the sixth grade, right when Stepdad Number Two bailed, I got into researching the Bohemian Club.” He massages his brow. “Maybe it was my wanting a father figure that made me curious about a bunch of old dudes. The Bohemian Club is basically a Masters of the Universe club, full of white, powerful, rich men.” Disdainful smirk. “They meet in the redwoods north of San Francisco and spend weeks colluding to rule the world and, since most already do rule it, scheme about how to get even more power.” His fingers tent and move for emphasis. “Their opening ceremony is called the Cremation of Care. It’s part dramatic production, part occult ritual where they burn stuff at the foot of a gigantic owl statue that represented human sacrifice to the Phoenicians. The ceremony symbolizes the shedding of empathy.”
He slides his desk chair closer, its wheels whistling. His face takes up the whole shot. “My point is: Secret societies delve into dark shit. They have iconographies, saints, insignias, druid rituals, pseudo-pagan practices, sacrifices, and ancient ceremonies. And since I don’t believe in half-assing it, I am going to make sure that the Order of IV has it all.”
He stares into the lens as he reaches toward the tripod or mount.
Video stop.
8
We arrived to our palm tree–dotted school parking lot the following morning. My legs juddered with nerves. I wanted to run for the halls to see if the flyers were still posted. “Everybody act normal,” Graham said through his teeth.
The morning sun zapped the moisture from the air. Summer dogging fall, as if it wanted to last along with our fun. Viv clung to my arm. Harry kept veering off, craning to see I-didn’t-know-what deeper into the parking lot.
Finally I followed his frown to Conner and his buddies around his red BMW. I grimaced. Poor Harry, there was no escaping Conner. Seven Hills radiated out from the town square, the knoll, with ten or twelve long residential streets that reached like palm fronds on either side. Some of them climbed into the hills, others bowed close to the ocean. Our street, Driftwood, was home to a lot of our classmates, including Conner.
Conner’s engine announced itself whenever he drove by, going way above the limit, to his family’s driveway. Neighbors had complained. A petition circulated for speed bumps. Conner’s dad silenced the uproar with gift baskets of wine and cheese. It wasn’t like the speed bumps were ever going to happen without Sebastian Welsh’s permission anyway. He was the biggest developer in Seven Hills and sat on the city council.
Viv left sweaty handprints on my sleeves as she drifted ahead to a crowd pressed against the bougainvillea that grew around each bank of lockers. I tightened my hairband and faked a yawn. This was Monday, casual as flip-flops. If I hadn’t been so good at being invisible, my darting eyes might have given me away.
A few of our flyers had slipped from the walls and were kicked up in eddies from hurried legs. Others were passed down lines of students who released blasts of surprised laughter as they read. Kids ruminated over the details.
“Someone finally called out pervy Bedford.”
“It’s signed ‘I-V,’ like an IV drip?”
“Nah, that’s the Roman numeral four.”
“Who’s IV?”
“My personal fucking hero.”
“Let me see,” Graham said easily to a redheaded freshman. The boy obliged and the four of us circled the flyer, playing our part. I shuffled through the appropriate facial expressions: curious, surprised, amused. Our eyes clicked on one another’s.
Graham said, “Someone’s got a serious set of—”
“Boobs,” I said automatically. He smiled.
“Have any teachers seen this?” Harry asked a group snapping a picture of the flyer. That’s right, it would be all over social media, spit in a thousand different directions in milliseconds like one of those confetti party poppers or a bomb with shrapnel, depending on your perspective. How didn’t we imagine that some classmate’s German cousin would be liking our flyer on their feed within the hour?
One of the kids shrugged at Harry, another said, “Hells yes. The principal and Mrs. Wu were in another hall tearing them down and Ms. Hendricks showed up and got in their faces.” Ms. Hendricks was the school’s news blog adviser and Harry’s favorite teacher. “And she was all, ‘You better leave those up. It’s news.’?”
Twenty minutes into first period, Principal Harper made an announcement over the intercom. I was trying to keep up with Ms. Ives’s lecture on the precolonial history of medicine in Africa when the two-note tone sounded. Principal Harper spoke too near his mic, so that the saliva netting the corners of his mouth was audible.
“Good morning, student body. Many of you will have noticed the outrageous accusations plastering our school halls this morning. There’s no cause for concern. My administration is taking this act of vandalism very, very seriously and we fully expect to identify the perpetrator shortly.” The heel of my clammy hand smeared the ink of my notes.
The next news came in third period. The two synthetic musical notes had me twisting around. Viv was four rows behind me, chewing on a lock of hair, seemingly unperturbed that we were probably about to fall from anonymity. Each breath left the invisible laces of a corset cinched tighter around my chest. I was not built for crime. Not then.
But the principal’s tone had changed to contrite. Pending an official investigation, Vice Principal Bedford would be taking leave. If anyone wanted to speak to the guidance counselor about the very serious allegations leveled against Bedford, sign-ups were on the school’s web portal. The corset released my ribs and I slumped in my chair, too full of relief during the rest of class to really grasp the enormity of the events we’d set in motion.