Ryleigh Riche commutes to school like the rest of us. She begins her morning by parking her modest oil slick Cybervan in her assigned spot beneath the Nest, exercising her social awareness by not hitting any cyclists during the three minute drive from her unpretentious Wesbrook condo, which is about five kilometres from the modest mansion she grew up in on Point Grey Road.
It’s a soggy mid-March morning, and Ryleigh — a self-proclaimed campus “it girl” who’s like, totally for the people though — has yet to tell me what our day might entail. Ryleigh’s rep had been rather cagey about what exactly it is Ryleigh does, beyond telling me her official job title is “VP Vibe Curation and Student Indoctrination” for UBC’s student body. It became clear to me that Ryleigh holds no ordinary position from the moment we stepped into the private elevator reserved specifically for her, disguised as a service door.
“Technically it’s listed in the building plans as a freight elevator, but I had it renovated to be more … up to my standards.” Looking around at the sleek silver mirrors, plush velvet and selfie-perfect lighting, it was clear Ryleigh has discerning taste. She reassured me this is a routine expense for high profile representatives like herself. The elevator smoothly slides downwards, deep into the earth. Ryleigh takes this opportunity to tell me that she used to be afraid of elevators because she was once trapped inside of the one inside her great uncle Leonidus D. Cabrioche’s Hamptons estate. “It ruined small spaces and ‘summering’ for years.”
We start walking down a dimly lit hallway, with an aesthetic halfway between dark academia and frat boy with red LEDs in his bedroom. Ryleigh is planning to begin renovations once her embezzlement consultant figures out how to siphon more funds from less-important services like student health care.
I ask where we are going and Ryleigh answers with a wink, saying our destination is “both literally and figuratively underground.”
UBC has long been rumoured to be home to a handful of secret societies, many of which have been lost to time or the campus newspaper archives.
As a series of torches flicker to life when we begin winding down a shabby chic cobblestone staircase, and it appears Ryleigh has led us into the halls of one of these societies — that, or I’m about to get murdered.
“You wouldn’t survive long in a horror movie, would you?” Ryleigh casually reapplies her lip combo, a tasteful nude liner paired with S.A.N.T.A lip glossy smear cream in her custom shade “Berry Evil.” Ryleigh is also wearing jorts from Acme Studios’ line of vintage anvil-pressed denim, and a shirt she stole from the closet of UBCO alum Bibinose with a “yaoi-style” illustration of the aforementioned singer making out with popular rapper Old Condiment. She pairs this fit with eight-inch pumps. “It’s always important to know what eight inches looks like at all times.”
All of a sudden, a bag is thrown over my head and I’m being fireman-carried through what sounds like a series of doorways, but is probably just someone repeatedly opening and closing the same door. Ryleigh takes this opportunity to monologue about her childhood.
“I come from a really humble family. My parents are discriminated against because they work in the oil industry and, growing up in B.C., that’s a really tough spot to be in. When I was younger, I felt accepted. But when I came to UBC, I had to start hiding my Blarkin Bag inside a plain tote bag so that people didn’t try to snatch it out of my hands so they could resell it and somewhat afford to pay tuition. I mean, I don’t get it, all they have to do to skip the whole tuition paying thing is to become a part of the elite group that I’m about to show you.”
The bag is quickly ripped off of my head. Ryleigh has changed into an elaborate robe, sustainably and ethically produced by stitching together the overstock of AMS baseball jerseys her coworkers had ordered at the beginning of the year.
Ryleigh begins to ceremoniously light the candelabras that are artfully arranged throughout the cavernous space as students in other similarly-constructed robes — my personal favourite is the one made entirely of UBC boxers — step out of the shadows. They are all wearing masks that resemble derpy seagulls. The relationship between Ryleigh and the crowd is evident. If this is a circus, she is the ringleader. If this is a sermon, she is the preacher. If this is a pack of wolves, she is the alpha. If this is a student body, she is their president. Wait… This is a student body… So is she the president?
When I question her identity, she laughs in a very sinister manner. “You’re finally starting to catch on,” says Ryleigh. “Everyone thinks that Vibe Curator isn’t an important position. That’s the way I like it. Or, how I like it for now. At first, I was devastated that nobody thought Indoctrination Coordination was an important task. Ridiculous, given I emanate respectability; drinking beers at the Gal is a respectable hobby; beer is like ‘take me seriously juice.’ But one day I woke up and got over that ‘cuz I realized that power lies in anonymity and being underestimated. Everyone loves an underdog, just look at President Cory Elain Ess Snowflake, or the blonde guy from the Kung Fu Infant, or the other blonde guy from Hairy Sculptor. These are all characters we can’t help but root for. So I decided to embrace the ‘Society’ in our name and create a space for power to run unchecked and corruption to flourish!”
Ryleigh pauses, creating a very dramatic effect.
“But then I realized that is literally what we have already in our student government and like, society. So I decided to take it a step further! Hit it boys!”
Ryleigh and the discontinued-merchandise clad mascot-faced folk surrounding her launch into an elaborate musical number, drawing obvious inspiration from the musical stylings of your next door dorm neighbour singing in the shower at 4 a.m.
“The first step to starting a cult is some good ol’ propaganda / Creating a secret society’s easier with a plan, duh!” The song, half 90s power ballad half punk anthem, continues for seventeen consecutive minutes, wherein I manage to free my hands from the jumprope they were bound with.
Ryleigh’s charismatic resonance as she performs only enhances the points she makes. Her cult, aptly named “Society” offers its members a 115 per cent discount off of tuition, meaning students are guaranteed to leave each term with more money than they originally planned on paying. Society promises its devotees consistent opportunities for cross-faculty socialization and collaboration on resume-boosting projects like “hacking into the mainframe” and “P.R. training on how not to wind up as ‘Canada down.’”
Ryleigh has dedicated much time to helping her minions become the best version of themselves. She claims to take inspiration from social media algorithms, curating her interactions with her cult members to be as addictive as possible — the adoring fans trailing her as she gives me a tour of Society’s sweet underground digs shows this is evidently working. “I do not want this to just be an underground syndicate for low and high level crimes, but also a family.”
“The only reason I can’t go mainstream yet is because Society relies on the funds that the Big Guys Upstairs — like the so-called ‘president’ and ‘VP finance’ and whatever — bring in. My goal is to eventually onboard all of the student body into Society, besides those people who work in like… administration or politics or for things like newspapers, or for the parking ticket companies because that’s just inherently unchill. Everyone else can join though, and we’ll just start selling the random shit in the basement until there’s nothing left.” Ryleigh then opens a trapdoor and ushers me inside, where she points to a pile of gold doubloons and what appears to be previously lost items of immeasurable value including Picasso’s painting about the pigeon and a pile of fat juicy jewels next to a discarded high visibility vest.
I feel my eyes lighting up, cartoon style, with big ol’ dollar signs. Ryleigh hands me a tiara and I let the cold metal warm to the temperature of my blood. I feel my heart beat in time with the steady chanting of the students above us, navigating the intricate labyrinth of tunnels and chambers making up Society’s headquarters. Suddenly, I am overcome by visions of myself living like Ryleigh. Following Ryleigh. Being Ryleigh.
“By the way, we’re unionized,” says Ryleigh.
It was everything I could have ever wanted: a student society, but less corrupt and more cohabitating with bats. I immediately dialled my editor at Vague and pitched a series on Ryleigh’s brilliance, magnetism and unparalleled swag in hopes of securing a little more time in the radius of her radiance. Call it what you want: a girlboss getting shit done, a writer in desperate need of a consistent assignment, the fumes in the basement culminating due to Ryleigh’s “open hotbox” policy, or the adrenaline from narrowly escaping [redacted] after I wrote the first draft and claimed [redacted], so Ryleigh’s computer people found me at [redacted] and threatened to [redacted] if I didn’t [redacted] — at the end of the day, I’m riding for Ryleigh. Whether you’re from the cult or looking to join us, it seems Ryleigh Riche is just getting started.
