POSSESSING LITTLE HISTORY of its own, the Society of Fellingham’s initiation rights were still a work in progress. They weren’t as barbaric as those boorish fraternities, to be sure. Win Gubbins had heard rumors that over at Beta, pledges were taken one by one, blindfolded, to a second-story balcony where each was instructed to tie a small rope around his scrotum. A brother would then raise a pledge’s blindfold slightly, just enough for him to see he was on a second-story balcony and that the other end of the rope was secured to a cinder block by his feet. The blindfold was replaced and the pledge was asked, “Do you trust the brotherhood?” Allegedly, this was after an entire day of blindfolded activities, including sitting for hours on a basement floor while listening to the song “Baby,” by Justin Bieber, at volume ten, over and over. After answering “Yes, sir!” the pledge, pants and underwear still bundled at his ankles, was told to hold out his arms, into which the cinder block was placed.
The next words were “Throw it.”
By this point in the day, Stockholm syndrome was in full effect and a pledge could be counted on to do pretty much anything, including throwing a cinder block attached to his balls from a twenty-foot balcony. The rope, of course, measured twenty-two feet, which the brothers deemed a sufficient margin for error. It was a source of great hilarity, one heard.
Another time the initiates staged some performance art where they supposedly put whiskey, beer, and some visibly used feminine-hygiene products in a blender. The note de grâce was a live mouse that someone procured from a bio lab. It was dangled and dropped with little splash. Someone hit PURÉE and the pledges were made to drink the resulting cocktail. That skit was deemed disgusting even by Beta standards.
Win wasn’t sure he believed such stories, but those Beta fellows weren’t quite caught up on the evolutionary scale, so anything was possible. He did notice they made their pledges carry them around to classes one day in a sedan chair. He wished he’d thought of that one, what with its colonial overtones.
The Fellingham initiation was a more civilized affair, although it, too, would have its share of adult beverages. When Alexander Hargrove founded the society, he’d googled English initiation rites and discovered that at Cambridge initiates in one drinking society were forced to wear kippers around their necks for a whole day of classes. This struck Hargrove as amusing and appropriately British, so he set off on a tour of Havenport’s markets in search of just the right kippers, preferably ones of considerable pungency. Discovering that Havenport was a kipper-free metropolis, he pronounced the city “uncivilized” and returned to Google, where he discovered that kippers were readily available online. He procured several pounds. Subsequently, each initiate was made to wear a string necklace of a dozen kippers for a day, strung together like puka shells. It became widely known in the Devon community that on the second Thursday of each October one needed to sit as far as possible from anyone who appeared to be wearing a food product around their neck.
It was seven o’clock, and Win expected the initiates at any moment. There were seven this year, including the fetching Harris girl, which would bring the society up to twenty-six members. Frazier, Shelley, and the others were dressed in black capes, while Win’s was bloodred. Each cape had a hood, which they lowered to obscure their faces. The lights were off, and flickering candles were everywhere. Some were perfumed, to ward off the imminent arrival of rotting kippers.
“They’re coming!” said Frazier, who’d been keeping an eye through a drawn curtain. Win went quickly to the mantel and grasped the scepter, then jogged back to the entry hall. He stood at the center of the others, and they arranged themselves into a phalanx, Win at its point. The doorbell rang.
“Tripp, music,” whispered Win.
Tripp Maynard, another member, got out his phone, which was bluetoothed to some speakers. It began playing some Gregorian chants he’d downloaded earlier in the day.
Attende Domine …
“Who seeks entry?” Win cried, doing his best to lower his voice an octave.
“Uh, you told us to get here at seven?” said a male voice outside the door.
Bloody idiots, thought Win. “Who seeks entry?” He tried to sound angry this time.
“Oh, right. Uh, it is we, the postulants … O … High … Scepter.”
Someone outside snorted.
“Enter!”
They came through the door, including Lulu, who eyed the robed phalanx and the candles with suspicion. Was this going to be a serious thing? She could only presume this was all done ironically. Best to play along.
Frazier, acting as Win’s right-hand man, pointed at a trash bag near the door. “Remove those bloody fish!”
This was fine with Lulu, who, despite having lost her sense of smell by third period, still found the kippers revolting. Part of her, though, had enjoyed the day. Most people around campus knew about the kippers, and it signaled that she had been chosen for something that they had not, even if they weren’t sure what it was, exactly.
Frazier instructed them to go to the living room and kneel in a row. “Postulants!” he cried. “You will now present us with your offerings.”
The residential houses at Devon each had a grand dining hall with its own unique patterned china, and the postulants had been instructed to pilfer a full set. Win thought it a fun task to assign, and after all, stealing stuff was an honored college tradition. That the society was low on cash and needed some kitchenware factored only somewhat into the decision.
The postulants held out their plates, which one of the members collected. “You will now each bow before the High Scepter,” said Frazier.
“But we’re already kneeling,” pointed out one of the boys.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Just bow your head a little when he gets to you.”
Win approached the first postulant, a girl from the Philadelphia Main Line. He was accompanied by another member, Fielding Wallace, who wielded a large silver loving cup. “Postulant, state your name!”
“India Knox.”
“Postulant, state your name!”
“India Knox … O High Scepter.”
Win held out the scepter and placed it on India’s shoulder, as if she were being knighted. “India Knox, do you pledge to hold the values of the Society of Fellingham above all others, and do you further pledge to exercise everything in your power to restore the primacy of the queen’s monarchy to all her former subjects?”
“Uh, sure.”
“As a sign of your troth, you will now drink elixir from the Cup of the Marquess.” Fielding leaned down and handed the loving cup to India, who grasped both handles and drank. Lulu looked over and noticed the cup said, William O’Leary—for 40 Years of Dedicated Service—Appetuck Valley Volunteer Fire Department—1984.
“Now, rise.” India stood, and Win placed his right hand on her shoulder, holding the scepter with his left. “You are now a full member in good standing of the Society of Fellingham. Long may you live for its glory!”
“Huzzah! Huzzah!” cried the members.
Win then made his way down the line, repeating the ritual with each postulant. When he got to Lulu, she suppressed the urge to giggle, not to mention ask for the precise definition of troth.
“Absolutely!” she said responsively. She drank from the cup, noting that the elixir of the marquess tasted precisely like Pimm’s No. 1.
When Win finished with the last postulant, he said, “One more order of business. Brother, if you would.”
Frazier handed each postulant a small gold plaque printed with their name and graduation year.
“We will now proceed to the chapter room, our sanctum sanctorum,” said Win.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Frazier unlocked a door. “Enter,” he commanded. The smallish room must once have been someone’s bedroom, Lulu thought, although now it just had some old furniture. A picture of Queen Elizabeth was on one wall, along with a small painting of what could only have been Lord Fellingham himself. Numerous gold plaques, similar to the ones they’d been given, adorned the opposite wall.
“You will now affix your plaques to the Wall of Belonging,” said Win.
Lulu noticed some double-sided tape was on the back of her plaque, so she pressed it on the next available slot. Alexander Hargrove’s plaque was the first, so they appeared to be in chronological order. She supposed the new plaques would be screwed in later, like the rest.
When all the plaques were in place, Win held the Cup of the Marquess aloft and cried, “Brothers and sisters, your names will be upon this wall forever. To Lord Fellingham!”
“To Lord Fellingham!” came the response.
“Long live the queen!”
“Long live the queen!”
Win removed his hood, which signaled to the others to do the same, and declared, “We shall now all drink to excess.”
A cheer went up as Tripp Maynard killed the Gregorian chants and flipped on his party mix. Someone produced a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, spraying it everywhere, and the evening was on in earnest.
For a few hours Lulu managed not to obsess about her upcoming appearance in On the Avenue. At last, she’d met some people she could tolerate, perhaps even like. Shelley, with whom she was growing close, even held Lulu’s hair as she vomited into a second-floor toilet later that night.
But by then, her only thoughts were how cool the porcelain felt against her cheek.