Under the Rose by Diana Peterfreund Read Free Book Online Page A

Anything wrong?”

 
    I hereby confess:
    I’m not proud of my Hit List.

 
    4.
    Assignations

    W HY I D ON’T L IKE S UNDAYS (T HIS O NE I N P ARTICULAR )
    1) Upon waking, am smacked upside the head by calendar date and thereby reminded of all the things I need to do before Monday (usually comprising term paper, test, problem set, etc.).
    2) Often regret whatever I did Saturday night. (This week it was attending an early October Jane Fonda marathon at the Eli Film Society, which was Kevin’s—a.k.a. Frodo’s—idea, though he’d ducked out somewhere in the middle of Barefoot in the Park. By the end, I thought someone had roofied my Solo cup, but then I realized it was just Barbarella. George had intimated he’d show up as well, but he’d obviously found someone better to do. Ugh.)
    3) Always find a huge debate waiting for me on the D177 e-mail loop. (These are usually started by Graverobber, about the deplorable state of the society—like he would have anything to compare it to!—and seconded by Juno. It’s as if they insist the pot get stirred immediately prior to our Sunday meetings. Though this week, I was more than willing to get into a debate about the future of the society. I found it far preferable to the official event on the docket….)
    4) My C.B. is tonight. Gulp.
     
    The C.B.s, or Connubial Bliss reports, are a rite of passage for every Digger. Each of us is assigned one evening starting in late September to stand up in front of all of our brothers and discuss our love lives, soup to nuts. It’s supposed to be some sort of bonding experience—as if, after carefully detailing all the sordid details of romances gone wrong, the rest of the club will somehow think it’s made us closer, rather than giving us juicy fodder with which to earn us a spot on a Matt Lauer show of the future.
    We’d had two already: Josh Silver’s and Clarissa Cuthbert’s. Josh, being first, wasn’t quite sure exactly how much information was too much, but thankfully we’d stopped him short of any description of bodily fluids. Though single at the moment, he’d had a bunch of girlfriends over the years, none who’d really knocked his socks off. Perhaps, he explained, that was the reason why he’d never been able to remain faithful to any of them. Every single one of his serious relationships had ended when Josh had failed to keep it in his pants.
    “This,” George had whispered to me from our position on one of the leather couches in the Inner Temple, “is why I don’t get into relationships. No heartache if you were never trying to be faithful in the first place.”
    But Josh remained hopeful. “I like having a girlfriend,” he’d insisted. “It’s nice to know there’s someone who will be there for me.”
    “Even if you’re not there for them?” Demetria had asked. Nikolos snorted, which, I was learning, was his standard reaction whenever he thought discourse in the tomb was growing too girly. This occurred with annoying frequency (cf. his firebrand e-mails). Unfortunately, no serious discussion ever took place on the topic because Nikolos didn’t see any cure to what he perceived as the problem, except to get rid of the Diggirls, full stop. This had been his argument for the past six weeks, ever since we’d lost Howard.
    Clarissa’s C.B. was every bit as dishy as one would expect. Of course, she discussed her misspent youth, including the thirty-year-old boyfriend she’d hidden from her parents while in high school. Odile had nodded in silent empathy, having no doubt played the ingenue to plenty of would-be movie moguls in her time. (No one could wait to hear her C.B. and find out if the rumors about her and the various movie stars and hip-hop artists were true.) A sample of the type of anecdote to which our club was subjected:
     
    Clarissa: I mean, who amongst us hasn’t tried anal?
    Most of the Rest of Us (I bet you can guess who wasn’t included in that number!): (raises hand) Um,