The Morgendorffer girls arrived at Fielding the next day. "All right girls," Jake said, "don't do anything here that I wouldn't do." He laughed at his own joke.

"I can't promise that - we might be asked to assemble a rifle blindfolded," Daria answered.

"Really?" Jake asked, astonished.

"No, Daddy," Quinn said. "That's just Daria and her dumb...her dumb...her dumb whatever-she-does."

"Oh," said Jake, still slow on the uptake. "Anyway Daria, Quinn, I'll see you when I get back in two weeks." Jake pulled away from the curb and almost rear-ended a vehicle. "DAMMIT! MOVE YOUR CAR, YOU RICH JERK!" The two listened as Jake's curses filled the lane as he drove away, on the way to the airport and his flight to Chicago.

"Only your second week at Fielding," said Daria, "and you're practically erudite. You didn't call what I did a 'thing'. By the end of next month, you'll be a grind, just like me."

"Ugh. Get lost." Quinn walked away without so much as a goodbye.

Daria smiled. "The best part of the day. Several hours without as much as a word from Quinn. It's going to be a great day."

The crash of thunder overhead belied Daria's hope.

(* * *)

As Quinn walked to find her first class of the day, the rain started falling. "Dammit," Quinn muttered. However, before she could walk very far, she was joined by an unexpected companion.

"Hello, Quinn. How-do-you-do? Name's Pat. Patrick Hackney the Seventh in full, but my chums just call me 'Pat', or even better, 'Pat Seven'. Can't forget the other six, you know. Wouldn't be right, all that hard work for nothing."

Quinn gave Pat a serious evaluation. With everyone dressing more or less the same, she tossed out her clothes-based cues to determine Pat's overall worthiness.

Blond hair, sloppily combed. Eyeglasses - ugh - with big black frames. Acne scar on right cheek. Crooked teeth. Head is too big. Expensive watch. Frayed belt loop. Expensive Italian shoes, but scuffed. "Hello. Quinn Morgendorffer." Quinn smiled as she said it, but Quinn's voice betrayed neutrality at best.

"Oh, I thought it would be a shame if you got wet. Here you go!" Pat held his copy of the WSJ over her head.

"Thanks," Quinn said, somewhat perfunctorily.

"Quinn - that is, if I might call you Quinn? Got to move quickly in this world you know, fast friends and all that? Anyways, Mater and Pater were thinking of taking the old wooden scow out to sea in Crabtown. With fall break coming up, let me say that you would be definitely invited - hee hee - 'on board' as they say, nautically. The sea salt is good for your skin, or so they say. Not that you'd need it of course, but you know, 'every little bit'. And there are definitely places to eat and things to see along the meandering path."

"Mmmm. That's nice," Quinn said. "But I have so many plans on fall break. Full schedule! Sorry!"

"Oh, don't let's leave me crestfallen. Tell you what. Do what you can in clearing out the ol' schedzh and we can revisit the matter in, perhaps, a few days?"

"Well...it would be so impolite to turn down my previous commitments. You understand?" Quinn said, batting her eyes.

"Right. Right. Extremely and perniciously impolite to suggest otherwise. Perhaps though, we could make an exception? And there are other fish in the seas, that is to say, other opportunities? You wouldn't happen to have an e-mail address?"

"Uh...yeah. Right. Oops, class. Gotta go." Quinn practically rocketed away. Pat sighed. Why, even the backs of her knees are cute.

Patty Clark almost accosted Quinn as she walked into Algebra I. "Hi, Quinn!"

"Patty...?"

Patty embraced Quinn. "Oh, Quinn. You have to forgive me for being so inattentive to our dear friendship. It's been such a rotten week. I just wanted to congratulate you for Tops."

"Uh...okay." Quinn still didn't know what 'Tops' was, aside from Jill's vague description. Was it some sort of official thingie, or...? Quinn's book of The Knowledge remained closed in her backpack.

"This means we get to spend so much time together! And of course, you'll be meeting Edmonda and Sue Bee at lunch, where you'll be proclaimed a Top along with Meesh."

Quinn was just glad to be talking to females again for the first time in a long while. "I'd love to meet them," she said, honestly. "Trust me...some of the guys here are really geeky. I thought that all private school boys looked like Robert Pattinson."

"Oh, Jesus, no," said Patty. "It's like opening a sampler box and praying that you don't find coconut."

"Right. Or looking for regular socks in a discount bin." The two giggled. "Some geeky guy tried to have a chat with me."

"Trust me, Quinn, as a Topisienne, you'll be in great demand. Expect all of the boys to come by and visit."

"Oh, I know. Being cute and popular is such a burden. I almost felt sorry for that guy. I can't remember his name but it had a seven in it. Or maybe an eight."

"You mean Pat Hackney?" Patty asked. "Sue Bee's old beau?"

"Yeah. He wanted to take me on his rotten wooden boat."

Patty was silent. "Dear Quinn...Patsie wanted to take you on his yacht. A forty-foot racing yacht, anchored in Baltimore. His father competes. Why Quinn, you'd be the envy of every girl here if you went. Mind you, you'd have to put up with Pat, but you might have to crack open the oyster to get to the pearl inside."

"He has a yacht?"

"Pat Six has the yacht. But it will be Pat Seven's someday. Pat can sail it, or so Sue Bee tells the tale. Mind you, there's a crew for that. But the Hackneys could probably buy all of Boston Harbor if they wanted to. 'Rents are big in the yacht club."

Now, Quinn was interested. "Hmm. Tell me more about this "Pat"..."

(* * *)

Daria walked into the Fielding library. Even at lunchtime, she could tell, the grinds were hard at work. There were students who were veritably buttressed by large stacks of books, feverishly working on whatever projects they were trying. Daria hoped to find some critical commentaries on Shakespeare's sonnets, in hopes of supplementing what she was missing.

No luck. Those books were checked out. "Those books disappear at the beginning of the term," said the librarian. "It's always the same few students reserving those books. Like a circle. I suspect that there's a hidden circulating library somewhere under the quad, with squirrels as librarians. I can obtain these from the Baltimore Public Library, if you're willing to wait."

"I'm surprised these books weren't purchased," Daria said.

"Out of print" was the librarian's response. And it looks like you haven't learned yet that the wealthy are notoriously cheap. Remind me to tell you my salary sometime - you look like the kind of person at home in a library.

"Go ahead and put me on the list. Is there a place where I can check my e-mail?"

The woman pointed to several unoccupied terminals. "I don't think anyone's asked that question since last term. It was a visitor. Everyone here has a computer in their room and an iPhone on their person."

Daria dropped her bag into the seat and logged in. Checking her GMail account, she found a response waiting for her. It was sent from the Cato Institute.

Daria,

I found your letter amusing. You're invited to visit at the Cato Institute if you have free time - which means we won't be meeting soon, if your letter was sincere.

Stephen Stuart

Daria didn't know if Stuart was being kind or being insulting. She chose the first interpretation. The problem was that the Cato Institute was in Washington, a long way away. There was no one who could drive her there during a school day. Her father was out of town, and her mother was working at the law firm. But she knew that someway, somehow, she was going to buttonhole Stephen Stuart and demand the secrets of his success.

(* * *)

Patty practically led Quinn by the hand to a table in the lunchroom where practically the entire membership of Tops was waiting. (Sue Bentley was absent, claiming nausea.)

"Quinn," said Patty. "Let me introduce you to Eddie Sterling, Tops Chair. Quinn, this is Misha Janisson, your fellow inductee."

"Hello," Misha said, smiling and offering a hand. "I'm sure we're going to be great pals." Quinn was admired at how poised and put together Misha was for an eighth grader.

"How-do-you-do?" Eddie said, offering a hand. "Quinn...Misha...it's a great honor to be called to Tops. Ever since the first class of women arrived in Fielding in 1972, the Fielding men have voted on the women they felt represented the best Fielding womanhood had to offer - in beauty, in style, in background and in spirit. Those named to the Tops List - the Topisiennes - represent the elegance of Fielding. Quinn, Misha, you are the most elegant of the elegant. Those seated here would be honored if you would accept. Will you?"

"I'd be delighted, Eddie," Misha said.

"Wow. This is...this is great!" Quinn cried. "Sure!"

"Katy?" Eddie was handed two long jewelry boxes. She handed one to Misha and one to Quinn. "This is your Tops bracelet. Wearing this bracelet signifies to others that each of you are Tops. Those first Tops wore these very bracelets purchased by the male class of Fielding in '72. Those bracelets have been handed down for over twenty-five years, from young woman to young woman. Please accept the poor offer of this trinket and the greater offer of our friendship and love."

Quinn opened the box. There was a small, stylish gold bracelet with twisted links and a flat plate. Enscribed on the plate were the words "Toppermostest - 1994".

"Nineteen ninety-four?" Quinn asked.

"Yes," said Patty. "Some bitch didn't give her bracelet back when she was booted in '93. Shameful really. A replacement."

"Quinn," purred Eddie, "you'll have my bracelet when I graduate. It's time for The Call."

Eddie stood up on the bench and raised her left hand with her bracelet. "Tops, Tops!"

Every other girl raised her bracelet hand, shaking their jewelry "Tops, Tops!" It was a unified response, and Quinn just missed it, but managed to at least get standing and avoid the faux pas.

Immediately, there was a roar that rattled with windows. Every single male student in the lunchroom, from third grade up to seniors, stood to attention and roared at the top of his lungs. "TOPS ARE TOPS! TOPS ARE TOPS! TOPS ARE TOPS! FIELDING, FIELDING, RAH RAH REE!" There was a great hullaballoo that followed.

(* * *)

"So anyway, the tale is told that Stewie came into class one day and he smelled like curdled breast milk. It was two weeks before finals. A senior said, 'My God, Stuart, you bathe, don't you?' And Stewie looks him dead in the eyes and says - I swear to God - 'I'll bathe when finals are over!'. Dar, I'm sure he's a dreamboat. What shall you have for a wedding present?"

Daria had to chuckle. "All right. If he's buried under a layer of crust, I'll bring a hammer and chisel with me."

"Well, at least get pics," Elsie said. "He missed his pictures in yearbook. I've always thought of him as 'Not Pictured Stephen Stuart'."

"TOPS ARE TOPS! TOPS ARE TOPS! TOPS ARE TOPS! FIELDING, FIELDING, RAH RAH REE!" Daria and Elsie's peaceful lunch was interrupted by screaming males and the banging of metal eating implements.

Daria held her hands over her ears. "What the hell is going on?"

Elsie sighed. "The boys have decided who the new Twats are going to be."