Not far from the yurt, Tom was locked in his room, painting. The Grannies had sold him enough E to last the weekend. He had six tabs left.
For a project of this size, floor space was key. He’d tipped both beds on end—he couldn’t sleep when there was so much work to be done—but there was still hardly enough room for him to move around. The mini fridge in the corner was chock full of milk. That’s all he needed. E and milk. Food and sleep and social interaction had become irrelevant, especially if the painting was going to be finished by next weekend.
He’d decided to do Shipley’s portrait on small eight-by-ten prestretched canvases purchased at the college bookstore. He’d bought out their whole supply, all forty of them, and laid them on the floor on top of strips of double-sided tape to form one giant rectangular canvas. His aim was to complete the portrait exactly as he’d photographed it, head to toe, Macy’s bag included. Then he’d shift around the canvasses and remove some entirely, so that the final product would look like one of those little puzzles where you move the squares around, after it had been scrambled up. So far he’d completed four canvasses—the two red squares that formed the lower half of the Macy’s bag, and Shipley’s breasts. Now he was working on her hair where it hung below the bag, spaghetti-length strips of plum and black and cream and tangerine.
“I feel it! I feel it!” he shouted, egging himself on. Naked, he squatted over the canvas and blotted his brush on his bare calf. “Nice and easy,” he said, remembering that Nice ’n Easy was a brand of shampoo or hair color. He’d seen the ads on TV.
The phone rang out in the hall. It had been ringing all day. He was pretty sure it was his parents, but he couldn’t very well talk to them when he had so much work to do. And he didn’t trust himself to talk to Shipley. He was too excitable. Oh boy, did he want to kiss her! He’d already made out with her Polaroid. He’d even tried to kiss his own penis, and found he wasn’t flexible enough. Just this week of solitude—long enough to get the painting done—and he’d put the bed back where it belonged, let Shipley in, and show her how much he’d missed her.
He took a step back to admire his efforts, his jaw working as he gnawed the end of his paintbrush. Everything he’d painted before was bad because basically all he’d been doing was sending a big fuck-you message to Eliza, telling her to put some clothes on and stop annoying him. With this one he wasn’t trying to make a statement or tell anyone anything. He was just showing what he saw. It wasn’t about him, he was just the vehicle. On a journey. On a path to discovery. Of course he didn’t know what he was discovering, but he’d know when he found it.
It was exactly like the Volkswagen ad when they used that crazy German word, Fahrvergnügen. It didn’t really mean anything, but you knew you wanted your car to have it. Fahrvergnügen transformed the driving experience. When people looked at his painting, they would never be able to see things in the same way again. Everything would be imbued with color and beauty. Yellow would no longer be just plain yellow. Blue would no longer symbolize the sky or water. There was blue in Shipley’s breasts and yellow on her thighs. The red Macy’s bag wasn’t a red Macy’s bag anymore. It was the color red. He was going to change people’s lives, or at least better them, one canvas square at a time.
He squatted down and smeared a tendril of grayish-purple paint on the canvas with his thumb. It might be nice, he thought, if she had a few tentacles mixed in with her hair.
15
December came, and it was as if Thanksgiving had never happened. The days were short. The nights were long. Students were getting nervous about midterms. Would cramming for Psychology damage their synapses? Was it possible to read Moby-Dick in one night? Would there be an essay or just multiple choice? Would exams be graded on a curve? The library was suddenly the most popular hangout on campus and the suggestion box in Coke’s dining hall overflowed with pleas to Make the coffee stronger!
Nick still couldn’t get into his room. Each morning after Nick showered, Tom was kind enough to toss some extra clothes out the door.
“It’s only for the week,” he promised. “And you’ll be glad you made the sacrifice. You’ll be thanking me.”
Nick thought he’d go back to sleeping in the yurt, but it was too damned cold and dark, and he was already sort of over it. The honest truth was he’d built the yurt to impress his mom, and he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about it. He didn’t really want to live out there anyway. Eliza had given him a camping stove, which was very thoughtful of her, but he hadn’t even taken it out of the box.
He just had to face it, he’d never be like Laird Castle, no matter how hard he tried. Laird was hard-core, the type of guy Nick’s mom would have shacked up with in college. She would have been delighted to sleep under the open roof flap, stargazing and toking up and expounding on the wonders of karma. But sleeping outdoors wasn’t even safe—look what had happened to Laird. The common room had a TV, and the sofas were about as comfortable as the futon his mom had replaced his bed with. He could make do, as long as it was just for the week.
Tom stopped painting and left the room only for play rehearsal. He and Adam had the whole play memorized, and they were down to their last three rehearsals.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” Professor Rosen gushed after their Wednesday night run-through in the auditorium. “Tom, I had my doubts about you at first, and I don’t know how you’ve done it, but that was incredible. What’d you think, Nicholas?”
Nick was up on a ladder, adjusting the lights. He hadn’t really paid attention to the rehearsal because he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. The Zoo Story was a one-act with only two actors who never strayed far from the park bench at center stage. He really only needed two spotlights. The problem was figuring out which ones. It didn’t help that he was so high. The pot he’d stolen from his mom was pretty intense.
He sneezed once and then sneezed again. It was dusty up there in the rafters. “Great,” he called back. “Definitely really great.”
“I’m having a party after the play on Saturday,” Adam told Tom. “You should come.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his wool pants. “There’s going to be a keg.”
Tom hadn’t had a drink since he discovered ecstasy. He hadn’t been to any parties either. Or eaten many meals. “Cool,” he said, furiously working his jaw. His beltless, paint-spattered khaki pants hung a few inches below his boxers and his white undershirt clung to his half-starved stomach. His dark brown hair had grown out and stuck up in all directions. He looked nothing like the preppy Westchester boy his parents had dropped off in August.
“Are we done here?” he asked Professor Rosen. “Because I have a lot of work to do.” He’d finished the top two-thirds of Shipley’s portrait, but he still had the entire bottom third to do.
“Same time, same place tomorrow night and Friday. Don’t forget,” Professor Rosen reminded him. “And I like the disheveled look, but try to find something to wear without any paint on it,” she called as Tom barreled toward the exit. “Jerry doesn’t paint.”
Adam remained onstage. “Shouldn’t I wear a suit?” he asked. “Peter goes to the park from his job. He works in an office. Wouldn’t he be wearing a suit?”
“Just wear whatever you have,” Professor Rosen said. “He’s sitting in the park. He’d probably take off his tie and his jacket. Just a nice white shirt and a pair of trousers and loafers would be fine. And maybe a suit jacket and tie to put down on the bench next to you.”
The only suit Adam had ever owned was the Frankenstein suit he’d worn for Halloween three years running. And he’d never had any need for a tie. “Can’t I borrow something from the costume department?”
Professor Rosen laughed. Dexter’s theater department was tiny. Adam made them sound like the Metropolitan Opera. “You could ask your father,” she suggested.
Adam nodded. His dad didn’t wear ties either, but his mom’s favorite store was called Family Clothes of Yesteryear, a used clothing store lo
vingly run out of a trailer beside the Baptist church in the next town. She could probably rustle up something there.
One of the doors in the back of the theater swung open. It was Shipley and Eliza, dressed all in black except for Eliza’s hot pink earmuffs—long black coats, black boots, black gloves, and black wool hats. They looked like spies.
“Oh!” Shipley exclaimed when she saw Adam onstage. Her face flushed. “I’m so sorry. We were looking for someone else.”
Ever since they’d returned to campus, she and Eliza had been fast friends. They dressed together in complementing colors. They ate together in the dining hall. They even peed together, giggling through the walls of the stalls.
It was Eliza’s idea to make a game of finding Patrick. Of course it was Patrick who’d borrowed Shipley’s car for days at a time, leaving those surly notes and storing food in the trunk. It was a wonder he hadn’t left any books behind. He never went anywhere without a book—Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, George Orwell’s 1984, On the Road by Jack Kerouac. He even carried around Mein Kampf for one long, scary week in Barbados. And he never took off his jacket. What a jerk. As a child Patrick was forever stealing Shipley’s thunder. Now he was stealing her car.
Shipley found it completely infuriating. Patrick had always gotten all the attention with his hyperactive tantrums and need for specialists. He was ADD. He had sleep apnea. Chronic ear infections. Reflux. Doling out his medication alone took over breakfast and bedtime. And then there were the special private skiing instructors and running coaches because he was so good at sports. Five boarding schools, and he’d managed to get kicked out of every one. Meanwhile there Shipley was, the younger sister, trying not to cause any trouble or attract any attention.
Patrick didn’t know her anymore. He’d never taken the time to get to know her. To him she was still the little girl he’d always ignored, teased, or outshined. More than anything, Shipley feared his presence would somehow cause her, out of sheer habit, to revert back to the demure simpleton she used to be. And her new life—the life she’d made for herself at Dexter—would be taken away from her.
They decided to lure him by displaying the clothes Shipley had bought for him on the front seat of the car. It didn’t take long. They’d returned from Greenwich on Sunday night. Fifteen minutes later, the car was gone.
Tonight it was back.
“We’ll just look everywhere until we find him,” Eliza declared that night at dinner.
But Shipley wasn’t so sure she wanted to find him. What would she do with him when she did? Still, she decided to play along because Eliza was so keen, and it was better than studying.
“Hello, Shipley,” Professor Rosen called down to her from the stage. “You just missed a fabulous performance. But you’ll be here for the real thing on Saturday of course.”
“Definitely,” Shipley agreed, blushing beneath Adam’s steady gaze.
“Tom went back to the dorm,” Nick called from atop his ladder. He sneezed. A shower of backlit germs rained down on the stage. “Hey, is he, like, lit up enough? Can you see him?”
Nick’s earflap hat was askew. He looked very professional up on that ladder. Eliza stuck her chest out even though she was wearing her full-length black down coat. “I can see him fine.” She turned to Shipley. “Hey, I forgot to tell you, Tom cut Portraiture today. He missed a good class too. It was so fucking awesome. I got to wear this snake they borrowed from the Bio lab. I felt like a fucking goddess.”
Shipley was too busy staring back at Adam across the rows of seats to hear what Eliza was saying. His red hair shone in the hot white spotlight and his freckles danced around on his cheeks as he smiled at her.
“Hi,” he said.
She opened her mouth and then closed it again. “I’m sorry,” she said and spun around, using her entire body to force open the heavy black door.
“What the hell was that?” Eliza demanded, following Shipley into the Starbucks café. “Why’d you take off?”
“I don’t know.” Shipley put her hands on her knees and closed her eyes. She was out of breath even though she hadn’t been running. She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her coat pocket and lit one. “Patrick wasn’t there anyway. Where else should we look?”
“Hey, you can’t smoke in here!” the guy behind the counter called out.
Shipley tossed the smoldering cigarette into the trash. “I’d like a double shot of espresso,” she told the guy. “You want anything?” she asked Eliza.
“Make that two.” Eliza nudged Shipley with her elbow. “That guy Adam. You’re boning him, aren’t you?”
“No!” Shipley protested. She inhaled the pungent smell of freshly ground espresso beans. “Well, not really.”
Eliza grinned. “I knew it! You’re such a fucking slut!” She held up her palm for Shipley to slap. “I love that you’re fucking Tom over. Put it here, Slutcakes.”
Shipley grinned weakly. Eliza’s distaste for Tom had become a constant joke between them. “I’m not fucking anyone over,” she insisted. “I kissed Adam once. End of story. Tom is my boyfriend. You’ll see. As soon as he’s finished with his crazy top secret art project, we’ll all hang out together.”
“Motherfucking fuck!” Eliza pointed out the tall windows of the Student Union. Shipley’s black Mercedes pulled out of the parking lot across Homeward Avenue and swept downhill toward the interstate.
“That’s okay,” Shipley said, relieved. She had enough to think about without having to worry about Patrick. “He can’t go far. There’s hardly any gas in the tank.”
“You know if you really don’t want him to take your car, you could keep the keys in your pocket instead of leaving them on the tire,” Eliza suggested. “Then we could probably catch him.”
“You’re probably right,” Shipley responded. Maybe this time Patrick wouldn’t come back. He’d figure out a way to get more gas and just keep going.
They paid for their espressos and drank them on the spot. Shipley shivered violently. The rush of caffeine had given her the chills. She started toward the exit. “I need a cigarette. Come on.”
They headed down the walkway toward Coke. The Dexter chorale was gathered on the steps of the chapel, singing Christmas songs. “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie….” A steady stream of students trudged across the frozen quad, from the campus’s three dining halls to the grand Greek revival–style library, to begin the age-old ritual of cramming for exams. Tragedy was outside Coke, taping a neon orange flyer to a lamppost. Dressed in her father’s gray one-piece welder’s suit and a red-and-white-striped pom-pommed ski hat, she looked like a character from a book by Dr. Seuss.
“Nice earmuffs,” she called out. “Hey, Shipley, have you seen Adam?”
“He’s in the auditorium. They’re just finishing up.” Shipley thought it best not to explain that she had barely spoken to Adam. Tragedy would not approve.
“Good.” Tragedy smoothed down the flyer. “Then he can drive my ass home.” She cocked an eyebrow at Shipley. “Unless you guys want to give me a ride.”
Eliza snorted. Shipley glared at her. “Sorry, my car’s…unavailable.”
Tragedy slung her hand through the roll of tape like a bracelet. “Okay. Well, see you Saturday,” she said. “And don’t forget to bring a blanket. It’s supposed to be warm as summer.”
Tragedy’s long legs propelled her toward the Student Union. Shipley stared after her. Eliza went over to examine the flyer.
“It’s a party,” she said. “Saturday night. The flyer’s sort of old-fashioned. It’s kind of cute. It says there’s going to be refreshments and horseshoes and sheep-tipping.” She giggled. “It also says to bring a date.” She turned back to Shipley. “Who’re you gonna bring?”
16
Even the most bucolic college suffers from bouts of nerves, when tension takes hold and rocks its pretty brick buildings on their foundations. This biannual occurrence is also known as review week. Students slog through cram sessions or cam
p out in the library in a vain attempt to acquire an entire semester’s worth of knowledge in only seven days. If they’d cut class or slacked off and forgotten to read certain critical texts, this is their opportunity to catch up.
Clusters of students could be found huddled in Dexter’s Starbucks café, madly quizzing each other and pumping themselves full of caffeine.
“Describe the events of D-Day.”
“What is the area of the region bounded by the curves y = x2 and y = 1?”
“Briefly describe one of Little Hans’s dreams or fantasies from Freud’s famous study.”
“Define Logos, ethos, and pathos.”
“Which type of mineral deposits are segregated by density?”
Becky, Kelly, and Brianna, that inseparable threesome from the all-girls dorm, had promised each other to give up carbs until break. These unlucky girls had fallen prey to the dreaded Freshman Fifteen. Their pink sweatshirts clung to their newly fleshed-out forms, the hems stretched and frayed from being tugged down unflatteringly over the rear ends of their obscenely tight jeans.
“I could kill for a scone right now,” Becky would moan, staring into the glass case at Starbucks.
“Be strong,” Kelly would tell her loyally.
“Only one more week,” Brianna would remind them. “Think how much better those scones will taste after exams are over.”
“Think how thin we’ll be,” Kelly would add.
“Maybe Lucas will notice me then,” Becky would say miserably.
“Quiet!” someone would shout. “Can’t you see we’re studying here?”
Apart from pastries, academics seemed to be the only thing on everyone’s mind. Well, almost everyone.
Portraiture I’s open studio began at 4 P.M. on Saturday, only an hour before curtain time for The Zoo Story. Most of the paintings hanging in the cavernous art studio were nudes of Eliza in all manner of erotic poses. Eliza had expanded her job description from model to wine steward for the occasion. Her heavy black boots resounded on the wood floor as she tromped around the studio pouring white wine into plastic cups.
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