Fortunately, the average college student has the environmental acuity of a beanbag chair. They don’t even look both ways before crossing the street. So they didn’t look down High Street at the girl who was stuck to the Rose & Grave gate.

I ripped my hem free, and then, torn denim flapping on the cement behind me, sprinted away from the tomb at a pace that would have easily earned me a spot on the Eli track team.

I didn’t slow to a jog until I was back inside my residential college courtyard. Eli University, kind of like Harry Potter’s Hogwarts, is arranged according to this British boarding school–style residential house system. We don’t use a magical sorting hat or anything like that, but when you matriculate, you’re assigned to one of twelve residential “colleges” that determines where you live, which dining hall you eat in, what allegiance you take during intramural sports, and which dean has the privilege of lowering the ax when you screw up. Every one of the twelve colleges comes supplied with resident faculty as well as its own dean, a sort of collegiate “principal” who serves as an academic advisor and resident disciplinarian, and a college master, who oversees our social scene and college-specific organizations. If you couldn’t turn in a paper on time, you went to your dean for help. If you wanted some funds to hold a Prescott College chili cook-off, the master was the go-to guy (or girl).

The worst punishment you can get at Eli short of expulsion is called “rustication”—which means that after a fun-filled period of suspension, you are welcomed back into the bosom of Eli but stripped of your college identity. From that point on, the rusticated individual can’t live on campus (all undergrad housing is based on college designation) and doesn’t have a college master or dean to turn to in the rough times. You’re merely marking time and classroom credits until the diploma. It’s named after a type of banishment popular during the Roman Empire, which says a lot about these schools’ puffed self-images. College identity is paramount, even to people with much more powerful affiliations—like Rose & Grave. If ever you meet another Eli grad, the very first question you’ll be asked is, “What college were you in?”

I was a member of Prescott College, which was named after one of the school’s founders. Other colleges are named after Connecticut towns (Hartford College, where Glenda lived) and famous historical figures, scientists, and religious leaders (such as Calvin College, next to the Rose & Grave tomb). Though nowadays your college assignment is mostly random (but you can choose to be in the same college as your sibling or parent was), it used to be that each college had a specific personality based on its members—kind of like secret societies. Prescott College was once known as the “legacy” college—it’s where the President lived while he was at Eli, as well as his father before that. It still has a lot of money in trust from alumni donations, and really big rooms. So I lucked out there, since I’m neither a legacy nor richer than Trump.

I looked up at my suite; still dark, which meant Lydia hadn’t come home yet. I thought about going to find some of my other friends, but knew that no conversation would last ten minutes before I blurted out, “Would a secret society tap a person then disappear? Hypothetically, of course.”

Oh, I was pathetic. After a thorough inspection of the courtyard (during which I stumbled across one puddle of vomit, one pile of unidentified books, and one fellow junior making out with someone who was decidedly not her boyfriend—but no sign of robed figures), I headed back to my room, utterly defeated and more than a little pissed that I’d torn my jeans.

According to every legend I’d ever heard, this is not what Tap Night was supposed to be like. What a letdown. I changed into my pajamas and padded into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Flossing, fortunately, gave me the opportunity for a good long observation of myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a member of one of the most notorious secret societies in America. I didn’t look like someone who could claim brotherhood with the head of the CIA, the President of the United States, or the new CEO of Fox.

“Faeth it,” I garbled to my reflection through the floss. “Youffe been hadth.”

I fully intended to be out of the suite before I saw Lydia and was forced to tell her all about what hadn’t happened to me the night before. I even dressed for the part, in secret-mission dark jeans (not the ones I’d torn) and my fade-into-the-woodwork Eli University crest hoodie.

What I did not anticipate was that she’d be waiting for me in the dining hall, having staked out a spot right next to the cereal bar. This is the problem with best friends. They know exactly what breakfast you’re going to go for. If I’d been in the mood for a bagel rather than a bowl of Frosted Flakes, she never would have caught me.

“Nice outfit,” she murmured over her coffee cup. “You really look the part.”

I splashed some skim milk into my bowl and plopped down across from her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gestured with her teaspoon at my outfit. “Dark colors, mysterious hoods…it’s very subtle.” She smirked.

“I’ve worn this sweatshirt a hundred times.”

“Never when you were actually in a secret society.” Lydia was dressed in a pale pink blouse and a pair of khakis, and looked about as mysterious as a church picnic.

Okay, maybe I didn’t look coy, but I could sure as hell play the part. “What makes you think I’m in a secret society?” I asked, spooning up my flakes.

“The dozen robed figures who carried you bodily out of our suite last night.”

Ha! I took a deep breath. “How do you know they were a secret society?”

She gave me a look that said, I’ve got a 3.9 GPA, and you know it.

But all of a sudden, I very much wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter. “Seriously, Lyds, how do you know? How would any of us know that they weren’t a bunch of guys in hoods playing a practical joke?”

“I think the Rose & Grave letterhead is a good clue.”

“You looked at the envelope.”

“It’s pretty hard to miss, Amy. Little flower, great big coffin?” She eyed me warily. “Are you going to get up and leave the room now?” By all accounts, secret society members had to leave the room if anyone mentioned the name of their organization. Supposedly it was to protect them from entering into discussion about the society, but it always seemed like a raw deal to me. Say you were at a rocking party and some chick wanted you out of the picture so she could mack on your man. All she had to do was start listing societies until she hit on yours. I suppose this is the kind of thing you have to think about when you join one.

“It depends,” I said, setting down my spoon. “Dragon’s Head. Book & Key. Serpent. You going anywhere?”

Lydia said nothing. We sat there, staring at each other. Either she wasn’t following the rule, I hadn’t named her society, or she was just as unsure of what was going on as I was.

I tried turning the tables. “I came back to the room not five minutes after I left it, and you weren’t there anymore. And you didn’t come back for the rest of the evening. Were you tapped by someone after I left?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“No, I don’t!” I noticed my raised voice had attracted some listeners from nearby tables, and leaned forward to talk to her more privately. Luckily, dining halls are mostly deserted during the breakfast hours—especially on Fridays. “I don’t know anything about how this works. I don’t even know if those guys in their robes were serious last night. As far as I know, I wasn’t tapped by anyone, Diggers or otherwise.”

At the word “Diggers,” Lydia flinched.