S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller (12 page)

For the first time, Cody saw a large cross section of his fellow students milling about. He couldn’t tell the new from the returning; they all seemed equally comfortable in this place. The trio stuck together, booth to booth, although Banjo’s screaming hat attracted plenty of attention to all three.

There were College Republicans and Democrats, the Arcadians—student tour guides—and something called Ducks Unlimited, which seemed like an environmental group. The ubiquitous Habitat for Humanity was signing up volunteers to build an elementary school extension down from the Mountain. The university orchestra’s string quartet played on the side, and across the way singers from the S’wanee Cadence stood in a semicircle and smiled and crooned in harmony at one another. It was awkward watching them.

On the edge of the fair, outside the largest building Cody had yet seen, stood a cluster of parents watching the student activities. They were dorkily dressed fathers—starched short-sleeve shirts tucked into pressed khakis—and Cody was once again glad Marcie hadn’t come, since she would have had nothing in common with them, or likely their wives either. She was young and hip and unguarded; these stragglers were older and proper and, frankly, embarrassing—milling about and staring. They, too, had discovered Banjo’s fluorescent hat and, one by one, locked on to the trio.

Ross came out of the large, gleaming building and welcomed the parents. The building looked brand-new, with tall windows and electric sliding doors, but made of the same dusty-pink sandstone blocks that blended in with the rest of the ancient architecture. One of the fathers whispered to Ross, and Ross turned and looked out at the fair, by chance catching Cody’s eye. He smiled and winked at Cody and then nodded at the father. As Ross herded the parents inside, Cody saw the name engraved in the concrete slab above the portico: Spencer Hall. Cody was increasingly in awe of Ross’s magnetism; even the parents treated him like a rock star.

The school radio station WUTS—“WUTS in Your Ear?”—had freestanding speakers blaring an eclectic mix that reminded Cody of last night’s mixer. Their members weren’t so much recruiting as passively grooving in a stoned stupor. Their booth was comically sandwiched between the Young Life Christian Group and the Bacchus “responsible drinking” Society, which also handed out condoms in a rainbow of colors. “
Why don’t we get drunk and screw
?” Banjo sang as he passed.

Over near the S’wanee Natural History Society, Bishop and Vail were socializing with a group Cody hadn’t seen before. Not surprisingly, Caleb was glad-handing another gang by the Student Government Assembly. Either they were all more adept at intermingling than Cody was, or else they knew one another from before. Clearly, the freshman class was crawling with legacies.

There was a canoe team, crew team, men’s and women’s rugby clubs, cycling team, climbing club, martial arts club, and fencing, all staffed with incredibly fit athletes who seemed to own the school. There was also table tennis and paintball, which partially piqued Elliott’s interest. Cody himself sniffed closer to the ultimate Frisbee club. “Look, but don’t touch,” Banjo warned him. “These clubs are for the full-fare kids. We won’t have time.” Although friendly and welcoming, nobody actively recruited the trio, as if they could smell their scholarship status and its constraints.

Nevertheless, Cody loaded up with flyers and Frisbees and water bottles and key chain bottle openers, which he stuffed into his orange L.L.Bean backpack. A sudden sharp pain flashed through his arm. The vaccine still felt thick in his shoulder, like it was clogged there. He instinctively flicked his hand back and forth fanlike, and the pain eased a bit. When he looked up and around, he locked eyes with a most unusual girl, who was staring at him from across the fair.

Or at least he thought she was staring from behind black catlike sunglasses. Her hair matched her glasses and hung just below her ears, cut straight and severe, like a boy. In fact, her angular, curveless body could pass for a boy’s. But her milky, flawless skin, fitted black tank top, and shock of red lipstick instantly cleared up any confusion. Over her shoulder slung a zebra-print purse with her freshman name tag pinned on the strap, too far away to read.

She was with a small group of girls, all blond and bubbling, over by the S’wanee Peace Coalition. As strikingly unique as she was, she folded effortlessly into the group. Like his own trio, her first friends at S’wanee were preordained by geography. She patiently nodded at their gigglings and appeared to add a comment of no importance. Then she removed her black cat-eye sunglasses and leveled an even gaze right at Cody.

He had seen her somewhere before; she looked so familiar. Not in person, but onscreen, in a passing, fleeting way. For a brief moment, he thought maybe on the S’wanee DVD, and he scrolled through it in his mind, but that wasn’t possible, since she was new here, too. No, it was from somewhere else. A television show, a commercial, maybe even a movie. S’wanee had its share of famous actors in the past. She sorta looked like Sara Bareilles and had a similar style as Gwen Stefani, but she was neither. Maybe she was a model, or just looked like one. She caught him staring back at her, and Cody quickly looked away.

Cody felt a slight chill of fever, even in the hot sun. That damn vaccine was making him sweat, and his face and scalp felt clammy with drip. He wiped it away with his good hand. Now her group had migrated, along with her, to the crew team booth with its tall, bronzed gods, a few of whom had stripped off their shirts both to soak up the sun and to show off the sport’s effects on their ripped physiques. Their scheme was working, and their booth was crowded.

But The Girl kept glancing Cody’s way, eyeing him like a pet in a cage. He wanted to get closer, to see the color of her eyes, to nail down the mystery. But his face felt hot and chilled almost simultaneously. Was he breaking out, or was he blotchy with rash? Is that why The Girl was staring? He needed a mirror.

“Dude, does my face look weird?” he asked Banjo.

“
Dood
, of course your face looks weird,” Banjo replied automatically, not looking at him, eyeing the Tiger Girls in the center dancing a routine. “You’re just now figuring this out?” He shot Cody a puzzled look and kept going.

“‘Cause that chick keeps staring.” Cody subtly nodded in her direction, and Banjo sized her up.

“Probably wants to feast on your blood,” he mumbled, giving a thumbs-down. “She shouldn’t be out in the daylight. The werewolves might get her.”

Then, just like that, The Girl and her preselected friends collected themselves and wandered off from the fair, giggling and chatting. The Girl didn’t look back and was gone.

“Dude, let’s bolt.” Banjo corralled the trio. “There’s a taco bar outside McClurg.”

As they passed Spencer Hall, the parents watched stupidly from behind the lobby’s glass doors and windows. Didn’t they know the school now belonged to the kids? Wasn’t it time to let go?

•   •   •

The afternoon’s campus tour—technically optional but mandatory in Cody’s mind—left him feeling shortchanged. The tour compactly covered just the main buildings that Cody had already seen. The campus stretched out much farther, but their student tour guide—a flat-faced, wiry-haired chick from the Arcadian booth—urged them to explore the rest on their own.

“It’s the besth way,” she said with a sporadic speech impediment that was tough to diagnose. “Just get out and lose yourthelf in the Domain. You’ll find your way back.” She repeated many of the legends and ghost stories from Cody’s book (“Beware the Headlezz Gownsman. He studied so hard hizz head fell off.”) and talked about the S’wanee Fog (“I hear it’s crazy. I mean, I
know
it ith.”) As they passed All Saints Chapel, she warned them about the S’wanee Curse.

“There’s a college seal on the floor in the narthex,” she lectured, pointing at the front door. “You must never step on it. Never. It unleashes the S’wanee Curse.” And Cody asked, “What’s that do?” He’d never heard of a narthex and wondered if it was just another word the girl was mangling. She was an odd choice for tour guide.

“You’ll never graduate,” the guide said earnestly. “It will wreak havoc on your life, and you’ll never graduate.” She smiled, relishing the legend’s threat. “Of course, there are ways to reverth it, but they bring their own perils.” She peered devilishly at Cody, hoping for more questions.

“We won’t step on it,” Banjo grumbled, bored, and the girl soon ended the tour and withed them luck. “Exit Hammerface,” Banjo said as soon as she left.

Banjo led them down University Avenue to the Fowler Sport and Fitness Center to show off his “cotton field,” a joke he had to explain to Cody and Elliott. “Where the slaves slaved.” He pointed to the gleaming counter where he’d be handing out towels. “Slaves worked here?” Elliott asked, still confused, and Banjo dropped it. Cody wondered what his own campus job would be.

The school’s fitness center was more like a plush country club—clean and newly renovated with an indoor Olympic pool, indoor/outdoor tennis, high-tech cardio and weight rooms, all backed against a meticulously manicured golf course that stretched out forever. It was mostly peopled with professors and staff, no doubt enjoying the calm before the imminent onslaught of returning students. The wood-paneled lobby showcased S’wanee’s athletic heritage with dozens of engraved and tarnished silver trophies, cups, plaques, and framed and faded glory photos of long-ago teams. S’wanee apparently had lost its athletic edge, since all the awards were decades old.

The rest of the afternoon’s schedule was packed with optional lectures and presentations. “S’wanee Stories” in Guerry Auditorium, “Living and Learning” in Blackwell, “Embracing Change and Moving Forward” in Convocation Hall.

“Snooze-a-roni,” Banjo decreed, blowing them off. “We gotta track down some action for tonight.” He led the trio back to Rebel’s Rest, where Pearl served homemade peach ice cream and sweet tea on the back porch, while Banjo strummed bluegrass tunes from his rocking chair. In the downstairs parlor, Sin played classical music on the baby grand, superbly. Cody wondered why he’d never learned to play an instrument.

That night, after a delicious but messy picnic supper of fried chicken and waffles, there was an outdoor screening of
Beyond the Valley of the Dolls
on the Quad, which Banjo judged “crap-tastic.” From his bag of too-salty popcorn, Cody scoured the dozens of flickering faces on the lawn, faces he was starting to recognize and remember. But he didn’t see The Girl. The movie was an old, scratchy reel-to-reel; it was a weird, druggy, and surprisingly graphic flick, and after the film broke for the third time, in the middle of a group sex scene, Banjo had had enough.

“Let’s troll,” he ordered the trio, furtively checking a text. “I got a bead on the action.”

Instead of a Greek system, S’wanee had its own collection of not-so-secret secret societies. There was the Black Ribbon, the Sphinx, the Silver Spoon, and the Anchovies. But the big two, and the only ones with houses, were the Highlanders and the Wellingtons.

Banjo easily navigated the dense woods of the pitch-black Manigault Park, following the music and yellow front porch light to the Wellington Lodge tucked toward the back. He turned the knob of the “secret” house, the name clearly visible in leprechaun font, and they waltzed right in. Cody’s first college party was at full boil.

There were sofas and chairs and a pool table, and the air was smoky and stale, and it was packed and hot and loud, and the beer flowed behind the massive oak bar. “Belly up!” hollered an upperclassman manning the tap when he saw the trio. Cody briefly considered Dr. Quack’s warning about booze, but his arm felt better, just a little stiff now, and he grabbed the overflowing cup and took a long gulp.

The Highlanders and Wellingtons were famous for wearing kilts on special occasions, and apparently tonight qualified. Any kilt would do, and nobody matched. They wore them with blue or pink oxford button-downs or faded polos—the damn whale again—and mostly flips or slides. A few shuffled in unlaced Wallabees. Their hair was longer, and they were boisterous, rowdy, and welcoming. There were dozens of girls flitting about, but not The Girl.

“Where you from?” and “Welcome, Tiger!” and “Purple Haze? Great fucking house. I lived there freshman year,” and Cody was on his third beer, and four boys were kneeling around the Ping-Pong table, blowing the plastic ball back from the edge and trying to huff it to their opponents’ side. Each time the ball fell off led to cheers and a chug. They crushed the ball and grabbed a fresh one from a box and started all over. The music was loud, and everyone dripped with sweat and nobody cared.

“So what’s your prank?” a Wellington asked the trio, dealing cards around a table near the back deck. “What prank?” Cody asked, and the Wellington said, “Freshmen gotta pull a prank before classes start to make their mark.” Another Wellington said, “You just got one day left.”

“What kind of prank?” Elliott asked, drinking heavily and surprisingly social. “We’ll pull a prank,” Banjo assured them, sorting his cards. “Any suggestions?”

“Not the clapper,” Ross warned them, pulling up a chair, apparently a member. “Stay away from the clapper, seriously.” Ross seemed to be everywhere always, and effortlessly took charge wherever he went. Cody was proud his big brother was also the big man on campus. He felt cool and accepted just being near him.

“Freshmen used to steal the clapper from the Shapard Tower bell, so it wouldn’t ring and classes wouldn’t start,” Ross explained, as a Wellington poured Cody another beer from the pitcher. “Back in the early seventies, a couple dunderheads fell and got killed. That definitely canceled classes, but the school threatened to replace the bells with a tape-recorded speaker if anyone tried it again.” The Wellingtons booed in unison.

“Pranks are fine, but stay away from the tower,” Ross finished. “Save the bells.” And everyone in the room chanted “Save the bells!” and “Save S’wanee!” and Cody drank deep from his beer and wondered why Ross’s fingers looked dirty and soiled, like he’d been digging. Ross slapped Cody on the back and went off to talk to some girls who were waiting for him.