Cecily Von Ziegesar (6 page)

“Plum,” Tom said, gazing down at the side of Shipley's head. “That's what color I'd start with if I were going to paint your hair. Everyone thinks blond hair is yellow, but it's really not.”

“Mmm.” Shipley had never been this intoxicated. She'd long given up trying to speak. Way down at the other end of the sofa she could feel Adam's knuckle brush against her bare foot. She closed her eyes.

The next song was a slow one. Rather than attempt an awkward promlike slow dance, Tragedy and Nick knelt down beside Eliza to help her with the puzzle.

“It's from the Mensa Society,” Tragedy told them. “I joined just for fun. It's a picture of the first landing on the Moon and it's got eighteen hundred pieces—eighteen hundred and only four corners. I've been doing it for almost a week and I lost the cover of the box with the picture on it so now I'm really screwed.” She grabbed the piece Nick had just picked up. “Hey, gimme that. That's Neil Armstrong's thumb.” She pressed the piece into place. “One small step for womankind!”

Another slow song came on, and even as their bodies continued to participate with what was happening in the room—talking to each other, moving puzzle pieces around, pretending not to fall asleep or stroke a foot or a lock of hair—their minds were elsewhere. Each of them in his or her own way was marveling at how they'd gotten there, to this particular house in Maine, this wee-hour moment together, when at breakfasttime they'd been in their own houses, in their own hometowns, with no inkling of this whatsoever.

“Life is like an hourglass. Consciousness is the sand.” Nick repeated a phrase he'd memorized from a book of Taoist meditations, or maybe it was another one of Laird Castle's bumper stickers. His mom had been putting away money to send him to college since he was in utero, and here he was, throwing it all away on the very first night. It was only a matter of time before they got caught, and then they'd be in deep shit.

Eliza weighed her own propensity for violence. In the last twelve hours she'd seen five guys fall under the spell of Shipley's infuriating white shorts—their neighbors in the dorm, the injured Nick, puke-faced Tom, and now this farm boy. If the serial killer never showed, she would have to murder Shipley herself.

Tom was having second thoughts. When he'd filled out his preregistration forms, it was all about Economics and Government. But Shipley's hair was an inspiration. Tomorrow he'd sign up for painting. Even if he sucked, it would probably be an easy A.

Tragedy had just realized that she did not own a single book about space travel. After she'd visited every destination she'd marked up in her travel guides, she'd start saving for the Moon, Mars, or your anus—
gotcha!

Adam was also dreaming of an extraterrestrial existence. If this were
Star Trek,
he thought, boldly taking hold of Shipley's drowsy bare foot, I'd beam everyone back to the ship except for her. We'd start our own civilization on some abandoned planet, and I'd set up some kind of force field around her so nothing bad could ever happen to her. Even if keeping up the force field meant sapping power from the planet, or losing contact with Earth or the mother ship, I'd do it. I'd even die for her. All at once, his life was imbued with meaning.

But in the fecund forest of her imagination, Shipley had already yielded to another boy's charms. The wood creaked as Tom carried her upstairs, the gray cat butting ahead of them like a nosy chaperone. He laid her down on a bed. The comforter was purple and blue Ralph Lauren paisley and the walls were decorated like a diorama at the Museum of Natural History. Ducks skated across icy ponds, the tips of their wings touching. A rabbit crouched, sniffing the air as it held up its injured foot. The branches of a willow tree wafted over a burbling brook. Sheep grazed on a grassy hilltop. A wolf looked up from its prey, its fangs dripping. Tom kissed her and their clothes fell away like onionskins. The animals stood watch while they made love.

Tragedy picked up her Rubik's cube. “Who wants to time me?”

Like jigsaw pieces that had been cut to fit but until now had
roamed randomly disassembled in the box, the six of them were now inextricably linked. Of course the puzzle was largely unfinished—it would take a lifetime to complete, or at least four years.

The screen door banged in the kitchen. Shipley bolted upright on the sofa, relieved to find that she was still wearing her shorts.

Here we go, Eliza thought morbidly. Cue chain saw.

“If you're in there, I want your rear ends back in the van!” It was Professor Rosen. She sounded winded, like she'd been running hard. “I'm taking you back to campus. Obviously you can't be trusted on your own in the woods.”

C
ollege has a break-in period. First there is the unfamiliar task of sleeping in a strange bed in a noisy building with a virtual stranger sleeping across the room from you. Your roommate might be an early riser who, after snagging the first shower, is fully dressed and blow-drying her bangs by seven. The roar of the hair dryer hurts your head. When you get up, you will probably have to wait outside the bathroom down the hall to use the toilet or shower or sink. You might be hungover after staying up most of the night doing funnels with the upperclassmen next door. Then there is breakfast in the dining hall, a confusing combination of preschool cereal options and tiny cups of weak coffee.

Next is registration, a madhouse in the field house. Professors of unpopular courses like Geology or German try to hawk their syllabi like door-to-door salesmen, while the line to sign up for Creative Writing or Film Studies goes out the door. You remember what your high school guidance counselor said about taking a variety of courses your first two years of college. By dabbling in
every subject you will open up more options as to your major and complete your core requirements so you can focus on the courses you really want to take. Besides the required Freshman English, you sign up for Intro to Geology to fulfill your science credits, Intro to Psychology to use up your social science credits but also because you think the class consists of lying on a couch and talking about yourself, Music Comprehension (aka Clapping for Credit), The Romantics because it sounds romantic, and Creative Writing: Poetry because Fiction was full and poems are shorter and therefore require less work.

For the first week of school you cling to the people you met on orientation, not because you have anything in common, but because you don't know who else to talk to besides the guys in the room next door who are both majoring in their favorite subject: beer. You enjoy your classes and lectures this first week because they are among the faculty's best performances, their chance to win you over so you won't drop the course before Friday's add/drop deadline. Since most of the students are still in the process of buying their books, the workload is light, a false representation of what it will be like later on.

Cut to Friday, the end of the first week.

Just like all the other freshmen, Shipley, Eliza, Tom, and Nick remained clustered in their orientation clique, eating together in the dining hall, studying together in the library, watching TV together in their respective dorms, not because they liked each other particularly, but because they were being punished.

“The punishment must fit the crime,” Professor Rosen had said before giving the four miscreants “roaming restrictions,” which meant that for the first week of school they could not leave campus.

By Friday morning, Shipley had had enough of that. Dexter's
welcome BBQ picnic was tonight, and she needed cigarettes, insect repellent, and if she could muster up the courage to buy them, condoms. She'd never even seen a condom out of its wrapper, but it seemed to her that every self-respecting college girl, however virginal, should have condoms on hand just in case the guy she'd fallen for during orientation stopped bickering with his roommate and started noticing her. Her first class didn't start until eleven, and there was a gas station with a convenience store only just down the hill. The week was almost over. Surely Professor Rosen wouldn't mind if she roamed to the edge of town for just a minute.

The car should have been right where she left it, nose in the shallow dip of mown grass in the rear corner of the lot, tail sticking out onto the pavement, keys on the left front tire as was her family's habit. She circled the perimeter of the lot, glancing back across the road at her dorm to make sure she was in the right place—the student parking lot across from Coke, where she'd left her car last Saturday. There were very few black cars in the lot at all, and the only Mercedes was an ancient beige convertible. Her car was gone.

Shipley folded her arms across her chest and bit her lip. Who could she tell? Not her parents, and definitely not her advisor, who happened to be Professor Rosen. She'd seen a Campus Security car patrolling the road at night, but it seemed to be a oneman operation, and she wasn't sure how to contact him. Perhaps it was best not to tell anyone. The car would turn up eventually—maybe. And it might be a good way to get to know people, having to ask for rides. Tom had a car, and she definitely wanted to get to know him. Blushing to herself as she played out a little fantasy of losing her virginity to Tom in the backseat of his Jeep, she traipsed down the hill toward town, flip-flops scuffing the
loose stones on the shoulder of the road, early September sun baking her bare arms. It wasn't long before a white Volkswagen pulled over to wait for her.

Adam couldn't believe his luck. He'd been looking for her all week. In fact, he'd seen her several times—at registration, buying coffee at Starbucks, in the library, in the computer lab—but she was never alone, and there was such a rush of blood to his extremities every time he saw her, he was afraid of what he might say. Tragedy wasn't with him, but it was her voice he heard yelling,
Stop, you wussy, stop! Pull over!
So he mustered up his courage and stepped on the brake.

“Need a ride?” he called out through the open window.

It was the boy from the farmhouse. “Oh, it's you,” Shipley said, embarrassed that she couldn't remember his name. “I was just going down the road to buy cigarettes. I lost my car,” she explained, opening the VW's passenger door.

“Here. Sorry.” Adam swept the pile of books and caseless cassettes from the front seat to the back so she could get in. “Do you want to file a report with the police—for your car, I mean?”

Shipley yanked her denim miniskirt down over the tops of her legs. “Police? No, that's all right. I just want some cigarettes.”

The car careened down the hill toward town. Monday had been Labor Day, and summer's warm breath was already tainted with the chilly afternote of fall. Soon the leaves would turn and the woods around campus would echo with the sounds of gunshots. Hunting was big in Home.

“Are you going to the barbecue tonight?” Shipley asked brightly. “I heard there's going to be a band and everything.”

Adam turned on the radio and quickly switched it off again, unsure of what to do with his hands besides change gears and rotate the steering wheel. “I would go if…” His voice trailed off. Why had he begun the sentence that way? If
what
? If she went
with him and held his hand? If she promised to go home with him afterward? If she let him kiss her?

Shipley didn't seem to mind that he'd left a blank for her to fill. “Well, we're going. Me and my roommate, Eliza, and Nick and Tom.” She cocked her blond head. “We've been hanging out all week.”

Adam bristled at the mention of Tom, his apparent rival, and abruptly changed the subject. “How long have you smoked?”

“I only just started.” Shipley laughed. “It's not like I'm addicted or anything. I'm just trying it out.”

Adam squeezed the button that dispensed windshield wiper fluid onto the windshield and switched on the wipers. They flapped wildly back and forth before he could stop them again. Scummy blue fluid dripped into the open windows. “Sorry,” he muttered, annoyed with himself.

The gas station was just ahead. “You can drop me off here,” Shipley told him. “I don't mind walking back.” She was about to get out of the car when she saw Professor Rosen pumping gas into a white minivan.

“Shit!” she cursed, ducking down in her seat. “I'm not supposed to be off-campus.” She glanced at Adam and smiled, her cheeks flushed. “Do you mind just sitting here until she leaves?”

Mind?

Adam switched off the engine and slipped down in his seat so their heads were at the same level. It was very romantic. Or it would have been if he could think of something to say. Instead he just stared at her. He could stare at her all day.
Don't talk. Just kiss her!
Tragedy's disembodied voice shouted. And even though he wanted to—oh, how he wanted to—he thought it might be wise to become friends first.

“Are you liking Dexter so far?” he asked.

Shipley shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head in a so-
so sort of way, obviously bored by his boring question. She glanced around the car for something with his name on it, feeling stupid that she still couldn't remember. “You didn't get into any trouble, did you?”

Adam shrugged his shoulders. “My parents were kind of surprised to find all that beer and wine gone, but they didn't really mind. And I don't think the professor knew I was a student.”

It was becoming increasingly apparent that as a day student Adam would not get the full college experience. His mother still made his eggs and did his laundry. His father still helped him with his car and whistled while he was trying to read. He still had to take out the trash. He still had to endure Tragedy parading on the porch and belting out show tunes while she watered the geraniums. He never had to wait in line for the shower in the morning, and he would never have to pull an all-nighter in the library to keep from waking his roommate. If he wanted to get to know his fellow students and become a member of the Dexter community, he would have to put himself out there—join sports clubs, try out for plays, become politically active. But he was not a joiner by nature. Even the idea of attending Dexter's welcome BBQ made him break out into a nervous sweat.

He glanced at his watch. He was about to miss his second Intro to American Studies class. His professor, Dr. Steve, was one of those great old lecturers who could talk about anything—light-houses, Civil War battles, coal mining—and make it completely fascinating. But it was worth missing class just to be able to sit beside Shipley and breathe the same stale car air that she was breathing. Maybe he'd even invite her home for lunch.

 

O
n the other side of the pumps, Patrick sat behind the wheel of his family's black Mercedes, watching his old English teacher
pump gas into her minivan. She had been his advisor when he was a student at Dexter. When he missed his first scheduled advisor meeting and the first month of classes, she'd shown up outside his dorm room with a tin of Toll House cookies and a copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
. Patrick took the cookies but told her he'd already read the book, which was a lie. So many shrinks and guidance counselors had given him the same book that he could guess what it was about: alienation, loneliness, lack of interest in school, breaking the rules. People assumed that reading the book might somehow change his life. Maybe he'd feel less alone. Maybe it would give him perspective. Maybe he'd realize that his experience was not so unique. He preferred nonfiction.

It was great to finally have a car. He'd spent the last few days cruising the old dirt roads and sleeping in the backseat. He'd driven to the shore and swum in the ocean. He'd been to Baxter State Park, where he saw a brown bear, and Moosehead Lake, where he saw a whole family of otters. Now there wasn't much gas left in the tank, and he couldn't risk pumping and driving away without paying, because there was a Home Police Department patrol car parked outside the convenience store. He'd been to jail twice—once in Miami for sleeping on the beach and resisting arrest, and once in Camden, Maine, for breaking into an empty condo during a hailstorm. Miami kept him for four months. That's when he'd discovered
Dianetics,
by L. Ron Hubbard. He'd read it twice. Maine let him out after five days.

He started up the engine, deciding to leave the car in the Dexter parking lot exactly where he'd found it last Saturday. Before turning onto Homeward Avenue, he eased up alongside a white VW parked near the curb with its windows rolled down. The people in the front seats looked like they were kissing. All he could see was the tops of their heads. One of the heads was very blond like his sister's and one of them was very red. He recognized the
car. It belonged to the asshole who'd gotten all uptight outside of Starbucks the other day. He revved the gas pedal and laid hard on the horn as he pulled out onto the street.

Reluctant to give up the car and the easy freedom that came with it, Patrick took the long way back to campus, driving through town, past the Walmart and the Shop 'n Save. Home High School was just up ahead, across from the on-ramp to Interstate 95. A girl stood beside the road with her thumb out. He slowed down and lowered the passenger-side window. It was the girl from Starbucks.

“I'm out of gas,” he told her, “but I can take you up the hill to Dexter.”

“Fuck that.” It was the first day of Tragedy's sophomore year of high school and she'd left the building during homeroom, already bored to tears. She rested her elbows on the window frame. “I was thinking Texas, or maybe Mexico.” She squinted at him. Patrick was still wearing his ripped parka and dirty Dexter sweatpants. They were the only clothes he had. “Hey, you're that guy. Where'd you get this schmancy car?”

“Found it,” he said. “Do you want a ride or not?”

“Nah.” Tragedy removed herself from the window. “I'm holding out for Texas.” She planned to get as close to the border as possible, then stroll on into Mexico. She'd get a job making tacos or training donkeys.

Patrick pulled away and eased the car up the hill toward campus. The gas light had been on all day. He pulled into the parking lot across from Coke, did his best to emulate his sister's terrible parking job, and left the keys on the tire.

 

S
hipley squirmed in the front seat of Adam's car while Professor Rosen disappeared inside the convenience store to pay for
her gas and stock up on Pringles and Oreos, or whatever else sustained her.

“I can't believe I've only been here a week and my car was stolen,” Shipley fretted. “My dad's going to kill me.”