Class (8 page)

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.”

“Are your parents pretty strict?” Adam asked, only because his parents weren’t.

“They’re not, not really,” she mused. It was she who was strict, with herself. How could she screw up when her brother had screwed up enough for the both of them? She was about to tell Adam all about Patrick and the tense silences between her parents at dinnertime, when Professor Rosen’s head loomed large in the open window.

“Shipley Gilbert, do the words ‘roaming restrictions’ mean anything to you?” she demanded. There was no way for Shipley to know this, but roaming restrictions as a form of punishment had been put in place during her brother’s tenure at Dexter.

Shipley sat up and glanced at Adam. His face was very red. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “This isn’t his fault. My car was stolen. I thought the week was pretty much over, and I needed some bug repellent for tonight.”

Professor Rosen frowned and turned her attention to Adam. “Maine plates” she observed. “You live around here?”

Shipley decided not to remind her that she’d already been inside Adam’s house.

Adam wondered if he was in for it now too. “Just a few miles away. River Road, toward China.”

Professor Rosen’s eyes lit up. “No kidding. We’re on River too, the Homeward end.” She squinted at him for an awkward minute. Her hair was pretty, Shipley noticed for the first time, light brown with natural reddish blond highlights that reflected the sun. “I have to ask,” the professor continued. “You don’t happen to have any acting experience, do you?”

Acting in front of an audience was not something Adam had ever considered. In fact, the idea terrified him. “No, not really. Sorry.”

“Well, I’m putting on a one-act play. I do one every year. This year’s
The Zoo Story
by Edward Albee. Know it?”

Adam shook his head.

“There are only two parts, Peter and Jerry, and you’re just right for Peter.”

“Okay.” Adam nodded politely, even though he had no intention of ever acting in the professor’s play.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Adam. Adam Gatz.”

“All right, Adam. Think about it.” Professor Rosen rapped her knuckles on the roof of the car, directly above Shipley’s head. “Now, be a good kid and drive her back to campus where she belongs.”

6

D
exter was an earnest place. Eliza had been waiting all week for something ironic to happen—a deadly hailstorm of Hacky Sacks, or a Birkenstock-induced foot fungus requiring amputation—with no luck. And the student population was dead-set on being
into
things—the Woodsmen’s Team, football, the election, beer—that she simply could not get excited about. If she wanted to enjoy the next four years she would have to amuse herself. Which was fine. She was used to that. And there was certainly plenty of fodder.

“It’s nice to know you’re not ashamed that your mothers still dress you,” she greeted Nick and Tom outside her dorm. The boys lived in Root, on the opposite side of the quad from Coke. Tonight Tom wore a pair of navy blue shorts with little green dogs stitched all over them, a yellow Lacoste shirt, a kelly green cotton webbing belt, and Docksiders without socks. Eliza thought it took courage not to be influenced by all the crunchiness around him. Nick, on the other hand, wore a strategically shredded purple T-shirt with a picture of a yellow gummy bear on it,
a pair of ancient brown corduroys, and his trademark earflap hat. “How’s married life?” she asked them.

The boys shrugged their shoulders uncomfortably. Obviously neither one was too pleased to be rooming with the other.

“Any luck in the employment office?” Nick asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” Eliza said. “You?”

“I did okay,” Nick responded carefully. He’d been waiting for Tom to tear into him for needing a campus job at all. The less said about it, the better.

Eliza and Nick’s tenure at Dexter was contingent on financial aid, and their financial aid package was contingent on their keeping a campus job. The best-paying jobs were in Dining Services and Physical Plant, but the upperclassmen usually snagged those while the freshmen were at orientation. Other jobs included assisting professors with their photocopying and filing, mail room detail, helping students with their papers in the Writing Center, shelving books in the library, operating the audiovisual equipment for films or lectures or performances, or modeling for Studio Art: Portraiture classes.

At a big public university you could get away with a modeling job without the fear of being constantly recognized, but not at Dexter. It was a small school, and after a few months there were no new faces. A model for any of the studio art courses could count on the fact that by graduation half the campus would have seen her naked. This did not deter Eliza. It was way better than skinning and filleting raw chickens, a restaurant job she’d had in the past.

Nick had taken a job in the audiovisual department. He liked the idea of getting to watch movies from a little booth in the back of the theater, and he already knew how to use a slide projector. Back at home he often got out the carousel full of slides of his mom smoking pot on the beach while pregnant with him,
or of his dad digging sand castles. That was before his dad went to California for business and met a yoga instructor from Santa Cruz, home of the most captivating women in the world. They hadn’t had much more than a postcard from him since.

“Where’s Shipley?” Nick demanded.

Eliza made a face. “Who cares?” She’d gotten into the routine of hating Shipley. She even hated her underwear, which looked like it was dry-clean-only, and her jeans, which she hung up on hangers. Her jeans! “I think she already went to the barbecue. She said she’d meet us there.”

T
he sun hung low and hot. The Grannies, Dexter’s Grateful Dead cover band, were tuning their guitars on a small makeshift stage beside the Pond, the impressive man-made lake on the edge of campus. It was an all-male band, but each of the Grannies wore the type of flowing Indian-print skirt bought from vendors in the parking lot at Dead concerts. Throngs of students milled around on the grass eating hamburgers and hot dogs cooked on smoking charcoal grills provided by Dexter Dining Services. A few students browsed the literature stacked on tables set up along the banks of the Pond, one table for each of Dexter’s special interest groups: the Women’s Group; the Bisexual, Gay, and Lesbian Group; the Woodsmen’s team; the Chess Club; Dexter Recycles; the Dexter Republicans; the Dexter Democrats; Dexter ROTC; the Dance Club; the Drama Club; the Ultimate Frisbee Club; Dexter Vegetarians; the Knitting Circle. Some of the upperclassmen sipped from plastic cups of Busch near a cordoned-off keg manned by a security officer holding a sign that said, “Please provide ID.” Professor Darren Rosen stood on the fringes of the crowd drinking beer with a group of sleep-deprived poetry majors wearing woolen cardigans despite the heat.

Nick spotted Shipley almost immediately. She was registering to vote at the Dexter Democrats table, aided by that redheaded guy from the farm.

“Democrat, Independent, or None?” Shipley wondered aloud. “My parents are both Republicans.” She wasn’t sure about her brother. Probably he didn’t vote.

“None,” Adam advised, wishing he could touch her hair. His parents had driven him to Augusta to register on April 10, the day he turned eighteen. They were both registered Democrats, but they’d told him not to register for a party unless he was sure who he wanted to vote for in the primaries, and how could he know that if he never bothered to read the paper or listen to NPR? They had both been gaga for Jerry Brown, and had helped him win the Maine caucuses, baking brownies for fund-raisers and cheering him on at rallies, but they didn’t seem to mind that Bill Clinton had won the Democratic nomination. “Clinton gives a fabulous speech,” his mom would say. “Plus he dodged the draft. And,” she’d continue, raising her voice, “he has
gorgeous
hands!”