S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller (11 page)

The other students were mostly white with a few Latinos and a couple of Asians. Banjo was the only black kid—if he was, in fact, black. Everyone was incredibly fit and athletic-looking. According to their name tags, they were from Atlanta and Cleveland and Seattle and Miami, and at least two were from San Diego. There was one international student—a waifish girl from Germany, although she sounded American. “My father’s stationed there,” Cody overheard her say. All the boys were clean-shaven. It appeared everyone had gotten a haircut right before they’d arrived.

“It’s my real name,” said a stunning Asian girl named Sin, cornered by the name-police Banjo. “It’s Asian. Where the hell did you get yours,
Banjo
?”

Pearl was a gracious, multitasking hostess. She alternated between overseeing the catering staff as they boiled kettles of shrimp on a portable kerosene cooker to the setup on the picnic benches covered in red-and-white checked tablecloths to seamlessly introducing Archer to Buzz and pulling Elliott from the shadows to talk with a bubbly blonde named Houston, who was clearly a few beers in. In between gentle pairings, she’d stand to the side, hands on hips, and peer out over her brood, mother-hen-like.

“Fletcher! Bring yourself over here for some shrimp and grits, ya hear?” she bellowed across Abbo’s Alley—the wild, vast field of oaks and daffodils and sweet clover that abutted Rebel’s Rest and connected the campus to the staff housing in the dark wilderness beyond. Fletcher was walking home with his beast Nesta who seemed almost bipolar—one minute calmly snooping and then suddenly lunging into the air at her master. Nesta was a handful.

“I don’t like that dog,” Banjo muttered.

Fletcher begged off, claiming he had more work to do before the start of the school year, “As soon as I go lock this rascal up!” Fletcher looked worn out. He was too old for a dog so spirited.

Caleb was the natural leader of the section. He was tall and blond with a bright, wide smile and perfect teeth. Cody had watched him work the crowd, meeting everyone with ease, and was a little wary of anyone so outgoing. From a distance, he seemed like a tool. All that changed when it was Cody’s turn in Caleb’s spotlight.

“New Jersey gets a bum rap, but I think it’s beautiful,” Caleb from DC said, focused on Cody like he was the only one at the party. “I really trust Jersey people. They say what they think.” It was like meeting an Olympian. It was impossible not to like him. Within minutes, he knew almost everything about Cody’s life and seemed genuinely curious and interested. “Dude, you’ve grown up in some awesome cities. I’m jealous.” Caleb spoke about himself only if it were needed to keep the conversation going. Not surprisingly, he was a S’wanee legacy. Cody wondered if he might be a future US president. “Hey bud, you need a refill?” Caleb asked, taking Cody’s empty cup back to the keg.

“Cody, get some food in your stomach,” Pearl ordered, bringing him a plate of shrimp and biscuits and cole slaw and yellow porridge. “I don’t want you wobbly.”

“Thank you, Pearl,” Cody replied, wondering if he seemed drunk. The porridge was gritty and cheesy and good.

By now it was dark, and the warm air was dotted with blinking fireflies, which Banjo called lightning bugs. The freestanding speakers piped in an eclectic mix of acoustic, rock, and alternative, none of which Cody recognized. The crowd was liquored up and increasingly animated. A few were bumming cigarettes and smoking. Skit and Sin rhythmically weave-danced with each other off to the side.

“That Sin’s a little tigress,” Banjo slurred in Cody’s ear. “I could get into a little Ching Chong with that…”

Ross silenced the music for his impromptu welcome speech by the crackling fire pit. Lit from below, Ross looked even older. Apparently college turned kids into adults quickly. He urged the newbies to conserve their energy for the busy week ahead, prompting the expected dismissive laughter. He and Pearl lived on-site at Rebel’s Rest and were there for any questions, concerns, or general counseling, all through freshman year. It was their job. They were all one big family this first year.

Girls clustered around Ross after the music returned. He was instantly the center of female attention. Upperclass authority clearly had its privileges. Even the Adonis Caleb ranked lower and was forgotten for the moment.

Cody’s iPhone jolted him. He already knew who it was.

“It’s almost midnight!” Marcie snapped. “What the hell is going on down there?” Ross was right about S’wanee’s cell phone reception: It was so crystal clear, he could hear Marcie drag on her cigarette.

“I forgot to call,” Cody whispered from the porch, his back to the party. “It’s been so busy here.”

“I
know
you forgot to call, kiddo. Why are you whispering? What’s that music?”

“It’s just a party, Mom. With my classmates.”

“And you’re drinking, aren’t you?” Cody was amused by Marcie’s newfound maternal concern. She must already be lonely. It seemed like days since he’d last seen her.

“A little. Arianna Huffington said it was okay.” Cody peeked around to make sure no one saw him talking on his cell.

From the back of the party, near the keg, Emerson grinned and shouted, “Save S’wanee!”
Caught
. Houston joined in, and then Huger and Caleb and even Banjo, good-naturedly chanting in unison, policing their own. “Save S’wanee!”

“Mom, I gotta jet,” Cody said, covering his other ear.

“‘Save S’wanee’? Is that
code
for something?” Marcie demanded. “Who are those idiots?”

The crowd was upon him, encircling him.

“I’ll call tomorrow. I promise!” Cody said, and Skit poured her full beer on his head. Huger followed. And Sin. Even Elliott joined in.

“It sounds like a damn
cult
…” Marcie started as Cody cut her off and submitted to the drenching assault. It felt good in the hot night, and he had never laughed so hard.

•   •   •

P!nk and Heath Ledger were hosting the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, which had been moved this year to the S’wanee Quad, right across from Cody’s bedroom window. They had built an ice rink in front of All Saints Chapel, around the huge evergreen tree. Disney on Ice sent Rapunzel and the Seven Dwarves to perform for the show, and they were rehearsing on skates.

Fletcher and Ross oversaw the decorating of the tree. Two workers on hydraulic lifts replaced several of the branches while Ross buried the electrical cables in the sod so nobody would trip. An older gentleman with silver hair and an iPad was really in charge and seemed to give Ross a hard time. Soon after Shapard Tower struck four o’clock, there was a loud, cracking pop that startled everyone and extinguished the thousands of fireflies. The cast of
Survivor
crowded around Cody’s window to watch and urged him to go back to bed, which he did.

“P
ut your shoes on before you come to my dining room!” Pearl ordered Huger, who had stumbled in barefoot from his cabin out back. “I’ve told you before.”

The breakfast buffet steamed with scrambled eggs and thick slab bacon and homemade buttermilk biscuits with a creamy sausage gravy Pearl called “sawmill.” Cody poured a mug of coffee, which was unusual for him, but he needed a jolt. He loaded it up with cream and sugar, since he hated the taste. “That’s some faggy coffee,” Banjo sniffed.

The conversations were muted all around. “What time did you crash?” and “I think Paxton booted,” and “I can’t find my hair band; did you borrow it?” and “The beds are better here.” The dining room was simultaneously chatty and hushed: groggy mutterings punctuated by clinking forks and plates, as Rebel’s Rest recharged for the busy day ahead. A bed-headed Bishop and Vail came in together, and Cody wondered if they’d hooked up.

On the low-volume wall TV, CNN’s morning show reported on the Brazilian president’s trip to the White House and how the weak economy was swelling the ranks of army recruitment and the latest theories behind the mysterious deaths of birds, cows, fish, and whales washing ashore worldwide. There was a rumor a famous sitcom star was adopting a child.

“Banjo, turn that off during meals,” Pearl said.

“Yes’m.” Banjo bowed and clicked it off.

Ross bounded in, freshly showered, and lifted the room’s energy. “Rally, Tigers!” He cheered like a den leader. “We got a ten o’clock!”

S’wanee had a packed Freshman Week schedule, some events optional, most mandatory. As the Rebel’s Rest section migrated across University Avenue, the scholarship trio fell back in together, slightly separated from the group. Without alcohol to embolden their mingling, this seemed to be their natural state. Banjo had his hard hat on again, like a beacon.

Shapard Tower was belling out a song to wake up the campus. Cody listened carefully to decipher it.

“Are they playing ‘Poker Face’?” he asked.

“Probably,” Banjo grumbled. “Yesterday they were playing ‘Yellow Submarine.’ Dude up there must be on some serious herb.”

New student check-in was organized in Burwell Garden, near the center of campus, in rotating shifts by section. Upperclass volunteers with iPads ran the show, and it was efficient and surprisingly high-tech.

“Welcome to S’wanee, Cody.” Perky sophomore Lauren in school T-shirt and name tag smiled as she checked off his name. From a rolling plastic cart, she located and handed him an iPad, his name labeled on the back cover. “Yours for the year, hooked into the school’s network. All your reading assignments, problem sets, and correspondence are delivered here automatically. We’re paperless. Please take good care of it.”

“I’ve seen you,” Cody said, unable to resist. “You were on the DVD.”

“What DVD?” Lauren was puzzled.

“From the school. The one they sent.” Cody had studied every frame.

“Oh, right.” Lauren laughed, moving on to the next freshman. “I didn’t think anybody saw that. Yep, my big debut. Have a great S’wanee Day!”

“An inch to the left. No, your other left,” junior Clifton guided, digital camera in hand. “Big smile now.” He snapped Cody’s awkward grin in front of the Burwell Garden fountain, and moments later his S’wanee ID card spat from a dispenser at the next table.

“It’s an all-in-one,” junior Meade schooled him. “Library, McClurg Student Center, sporting events, movies, whatever. It’s loaded up with your Tiger Bucks. Please keep it with you at all times.” Cody looked goofy on the card but didn’t ask for a do over, since others were waiting. “You’re all set, Cody. Have a great S’wanee…Oh wait…” Meade checked something on her iPad.

“Cody Marko? The infirmary needs to see you. This morning.”

Cody checked his printed schedule and stammered, “I…have to meet my academic adviser.”

“That can wait.” Meade shrugged. “Do you know where the infirmary is?”

“I’ll show him,” Banjo said. “I had to go yesterday.”

•   •   •

“You had your MMR as an infant, but I don’t see the measles booster in your records,” Dr. Nagle told him. The school infirmary looked like another little stone house from the outside, but inside was sterile-looking and cliniclike. Dr. Nagle was dressed in an open-collar shirt and khakis, like he hadn’t planned to work that day, although he didn’t seem to mind. Cody sat on the padded table covered in white paper, his feet dangling.

“Most teens have the booster for extra protection,” Dr. Nagle continued. “The FDA recommends it. Do you remember if you had one?”

“I don’t remember,” Cody said. “I haven’t had a shot in a long time.”

“I called your mother. She didn’t remember either. She said maybe she forgot to get you one.”

That wasn’t surprising.

“It’s odd your high school didn’t follow up. Measles is so contagious that one case at a school is considered an epidemic.” Cody wasn’t surprised his high school had dropped the ball either. They scarcely knew his name.

“No matter.” Dr. Nagle stood up in the turquoise and white examination room. “We can give you another. S’wanee requires that booster.”

“Okay.” Cody shrugged.

“You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

“No. I mean, it’s what it is.”

“How about your flu shot? It’s a bit early in the season, but might as well give you both, since you’re here. One needle instead of two.”

“Sure,” said Cody.

Dr. Nagle returned a few minutes later with a handheld contraption that looked like a weapon.

“You ever had the vaccine gun?” Dr. Nagle asked.

“I don’t think so,” Cody said, not liking the look or sound of it.

“This might fall on deaf ears”—the doctor smiled—“but you shouldn’t drink for twenty-four hours.”

Cody first smelled and then felt the cold antiseptic swabbed on his upper arm. He was looking the other way.

“Just a slight pinch and sting.” The doctor whistled in through his teeth, and an instant later, a spring unloaded with a
thwack
.

It hurt like hell: a sharp, searing jolt that seemed to blow his shoulder muscles apart and penetrate deep into the bone. He’d never felt anything like it. Were shots always this painful?

“Piece of cake,” Dr. Nagle said, taping a cotton swab across his arm and covering it all with a Band-Aid. Cody still hadn’t looked; his arm felt heavy and stiff and violated. He wondered if the quack had broken off the needle inside him.

“It might be sore for a day or so,” Dr. Nagle advised. “It’s a live vaccine. But if it gets inflamed or you feel feverish, let us know immediately, won’t you?”

“You never had the gun before?” Banjo asked when he and Elliott picked Cody up outside the infirmary. “It’s a bitch, right? I’d rather catch the fucking flu.”

•   •   •

The student activity fair, called Tiger Tracks, was in full swing on the front lawn of the DuPont Library, each group vying to lure freshmen into their clutches. There was the bimonthly campus newspaper, the
S’wanee Purple
, the S’wanee Model UN, the
Mountain Goat
arts magazine.

“‘Mountain Goat’ is S’wanee-ese for ‘closet queer,’” Banjo schooled him. “Figures.”

From his book, Cody remembered that Mountain Goat was originally the name of the steam train that used to connect the mile-high campus to the real world below. “‘Riding the Mountain Goat’ clearly has a different meaning these days,” Banjo huffed, not particularly interested in Cody’s history lesson. Elliott didn’t get the joke. He was too busy casing the other students furtively, eyes flicking up and down, hands in pockets. He was like a coiled, stuck spring. At least he wasn’t yawning.