You've heard of these groups - the secretive ones that only the crème de la crème are invited into, the ones outsiders speculate about for centuries - I'm the second in my family invited to attend, but to them, I'm fresh meat. New blood. New money, too. They think they'll elbow past me, that I'm here for their amusement, for them to walk all over, they'll find out soon enough that I'm not. I may look like one of them, with my designer bags and clothes straight from the Parisian runways, but I'm not. I'm here for answers, to take revenge for blood spilled on their centuries-old Persian rugs. I transferred here in search for answers about what happened to my older brother, who hightailed out of here, and my friend who seemingly disappeared into thin air. I certainly wasn't here for the attention of the star hockey player, regardless of how much he willed my eyes his way. I wasn't here for his scrutiny or his judgment or to read into his mysterious aura. I was here for the society, because only they held the answers I needed. That was, until I found out that in order to get those answers, I needed to go through him. He's saying if I want in, I have to play by their rules, follow their lead. It's a game I'm willing to play. I may be the second person I know of to be invited into their society, but I'll be the first to make it out int