Cum Laude

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Tom nodded. The little history lesson was interesting and all, but he really couldn’t give a fuck. Grover sat down next to him at the table, his electric shaver in hand. He turned it on and ran it over his closely shaved head, buzzing off the few filaments of brown peach fuzz that had accumulated since he’d shaved his head the day before. The kitchen windows just grazed the grassy edge of the quad. Outside a bunch of sporty-looking girls played Ultimate Frisbee.

  “What you do is put it on your tongue, flip it back, and swallow it,” Grover explained, pinching a tablet between his thumb and forefinger and demonstrating the technique.

  Liam came over and stuck out his tongue with a lizardly flicker, waiting for Wills to place a tablet on its tip. He flicked his tongue back inside his mouth. “It goes down kind of dry, but pretty soon you’ll be feeling it and you won’t care.”

  Tom poked at one of the tablets with his fingertip. It looked like confetti or baby aspirin. “Feeling what?”

  The Grannies chuckled. Wills leaned over and sucked a tablet into his mouth right off the table like a human vacuum cleaner. “Like a god,” he elaborated enticingly. “Like you’re all dick.”

  Tom liked to think that he felt that way all the time, but maybe the enhancement of his existing attributes was exactly what Professor Rosen and Mr. Zanes meant by digging deeper. He put a pink tablet on his tongue. It was bitter and wrong-tasting, like he was eating a crumb of squirrel shit off his shoe. He swallowed it down. If this smidgen of trash could get him off, he’d be pretty freaking amazed. “Now what?” he demanded. He couldn’t just sit in his dorm kitchen staring at the Grannies while they waited for the E to kick in.

  Wills pushed his chair back and stood up, his wraparound skirt cascading down to his ankles. “Now we go for a really long walk.” He reached out and patted Tom’s shoulder. “And when we get back, you’ll be a different man.”

  Hands tucked innocently into their coat pockets, the pre-rapturous huddle of boys crossed the quad and headed for the fivemile running loop that snaked around the periphery of Dexter’s pretty brick and ivy campus. Mr. Darius Booth, the frail president of the college, could be seen creeping along the loop every morning at 5:45 A.M. with his three terrifying German shepherds. Tom knew this because he’d actually woken up a few times at that hour and gone jogging himself. He’d thought he wanted to stay in shape, but all he got from running that early was a killer cramp and some serious heartburn that lasted all day.

  He’d come to Dexter with every intention of joining the rugby team. After all, he’d played rugby for the Bedford school district since he was twelve. But he really wasn’t up for spending weekends at away games and going through the fratlike hazing rituals of a men’s team. Weekends were all about having sex with Shipley, sleeping late with Shipley, and ordering in with Shipley, not necessarily in that order. Besides, he’d heard the guys on the rugby team actually made the freshmen eat a saltine with a senior team member’s jizz on it. Not exactly appealing. So he’d skipped the first practice and didn’t even mention it to his dad, who’d been captain of Dexter’s rugby team his senior year and had probably eaten a whole bucketful of jizz in his day.

  Tom hadn’t noticed before what a perfect fall day it was. The leaves were gold and crimson and hot pink, and the fading sun slid down the hill behind campus like a giant egg yolk. As they walked, the hair on the backs of his hands took on a lovely coppery sheen. Wills walked directly in front of him, his tie-dyed skirt swaying back and forth, his long platinum hair bouncing liquidly in the late afternoon light.

  “Nice,” Tom observed, allowing Liam to take his hand. Grover started to skip. The toes of his dirty bare feet were painted with silver nail polish. He played a cheerful Irish-sounding ditty on the harmonica strapped around his neck, accompanied by some enthusiastic chest beating and overall strap jangling. Grover liked to make noise, which made sense, given that he was the Grannies’ percussionist.

  A jogger strode up behind them. His long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his cheeks were sunken and sallow. A maroon Dexter basketball shirt flapped from his bony shoulders as his sinewy arms and legs pumped away. Besides the shirt, he sported a pair of those flimsy Dexter running shorts with the built-in mesh underwear that no full-grown man would ever wear, and white Asics running shoes with no socks. The thing was, this guy wasn’t full-grown. In fact, he looked like he was shrinking as he ran. When they were shoulder to shoulder, the jogger turned to look Tom square in the eyes, not accusing or threatening, but penetrating Tom’s very soul and mind-melding with him. A powerful chemical odor pervaded the air. If Tom weren’t on E, he would’ve been freaked out.

  “That guy eats only Granny Smith apples,” Liam explained in a whisper as the jogger pulled away from them. “You know how the grocery store puts wax on the apples to make them shiny? Well, he scrapes the wax off with the file on a pair of nail clippers because he doesn’t want to ingest the extra calories.”

  “He’s very pure,” Wills added from up ahead, his voice bulging with admiration. “All he does is apples and ether.”

  “We should hit the Pond and go for a swim!” Grover shouted gleefully, puffing on his harmonica a few times for emphasis. He stopped in his tracks and pulled a pack of Doublemint gum from the chest pocket of his overalls. “It’s seriously minty,” he said as he doled out pieces to each of the boys.

  They continued to walk. Tom unwrapped the gum and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted unbelievably fresh. His jaw thrilled with the act of chewing.

  “Come on. Who’s up for a swim?” Grover said again, skipping backward down the road.

  “I’m not ready to get wet yet,” Liam murmured, gripping Tom’s hand even tighter. “Get wet yet,” he repeated, smiling goofily.

  “Neither,” Tom agreed, chewing hard on the gum. They were walking faster now. He could feel it in his legs. It felt awesome, he felt awesome. “What I really want to do is paint something,” he continued, licking his lips and quickening his stride. He didn’t have to stick to what they were painting in Portraiture. He could paint the leaves if he wanted to. He could paint the sky!

  “I’m burning up, son,” Wills called out to Grover, who was skipping and leaping and prancing ahead of them. “A swim would be good.”

  A green road sign loomed up ahead. ENTERING HOME CITY LIMITS. POPULATION 9,847.

  “There’s no place like Home,” Liam declared, rubbing the earflap of his hat against Tom’s burly shoulder.

  A white Dodge minivan drove by, slowing to avoid Grover’s flailing arms and legs. Tom gave the driver the thumbs-up, and the driver gave Tom the thumbs-up in return. It was Professor Rosen.

  The van stopped. On the rear bumper was a sticker that read SONA SI LATINE LOQUERIS. Professor Rosen stuck her head out. “Hey, Tom. Need a ride to rehearsal?”

  Tom had forgotten all about rehearsal. He dropped Liam’s hand and walked toward the van.

  “Hey, what’re you doing, man?” Wills demanded.

  “Come on,” Tom called. “She’ll drive us wherever we want to go.”

  The boys followed him to the van. Tom slid open the back door. A blast of cooked air hit him in the face.

  “Van’s been parked in the sun all day,” Professor Rosen explained as he slid into the seat behind her. He’d never noticed how beautiful and shiny her hair was—coppery brown, with gold flecks like mini sun rays. It was darker than Shipley’s, but just as complex. Shipley’s hair, Tom remembered, was what had inspired him to take up painting in the first place. It was Shipley he needed to paint, not the sky or the leaves, and definitely not Eliza. Shipley was his gorgeous golden goddess—his woman, his love, his muse!

  The other boys slid into the van after him. “We went for a walk,” Liam told Professor Rosen, glancing conspiratorially at his bandmates. Next thing he was going to tell her all about the E they’d taken.

  “Hey, teach, what’s with the bumper sticker?” Wills demanded cheerfully. “Is that like a quote from Chaucer or something?
”

  “It means ‘Honk if you speak Latin.’” Professor Rosen glanced in the rearview mirror. “Hey, Tom, are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, but I just gotta paint something,” Tom said, rubbing his hands together and chewing hard on his gum. “I gotta find some paint.”

  “And we gotta go swimming,” Wills mimicked Tom’s urgent tone.

  “Brrr,” Liam agreed, rubbing his arms. “Oh man, you gotta feel this!” He offered his arm to Tom. “Here, rub it.”

  Tom met Professor Rosen’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She had the prettiest greenish brown eyes, and skin like milk. Milk! He could drink a whole carton of it right now, a gallon even. Milk was so white and pure and cold, and all of a sudden he was extremely thirsty.

  “Why don’t you harness some of that creative energy for our rehearsal?” Professor Rosen suggested. “And then maybe later you can paint.”

  “Okay, but I’m super thirsty.” Tom stuck out his tongue and began to pant. “Think we could grab some milk?”

  Professor Rosen grinned. Tom appeared to have done his homework. He was coming unhinged right there in her car. “Sure, sure.”

  Adam was early. He sat cross-legged on the floor of the small, dimly lit studio on the second floor of the Student Union, reading through the script.

  The Zoo Story had nothing to do with the zoo, and not much happened until the ending. It was all about these two lonely guys who run into each other in Central Park. Peter, the part Adam played, was just an everyday businessman, sitting on a park bench after work, watching the world go by. Jerry, the part Tom played, was this scary creep who starts talking to Peter and basically ruins his life. Peter was actually a lesser role because Jerry did most of the talking, including a giant monologue about a slobbering, mean, black dog that went on for six pages. How Tom was going to pull that off, Adam had no idea.

  Professor Rosen was very passionate about the play. She said it was about the loneliness and isolation we all feel, and the ways in which we reach out to others to find meaning in an existence that is basically absurd, since we’re all going to die anyway. It was actually sort of depressing. But Adam had been looking for a reason to spend more time on campus, and when Professor Rosen accosted him in the bookstore and begged him once more to try out, he gave in.

  That she’d seen Peter written all over his face astounded him. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see anything written on his face, not a thing, except freckles and a shadow of red stubble. Why hadn’t she cast him as Jerry, the explosive lunatic who terrorizes Peter? Jerry was virile and alive, while Peter was robotic and uninteresting. Still, he liked the deliberateness of acting, and it was nice to be someone else for a change, even if the guy he was playing was just as lonely and lackluster as he was.

  This was their third rehearsal. Tom and Professor Rosen arrived together, Tom swilling from a gallon of milk. It ran down his chin as he chugged it thirstily. Would Shipley find that attractive? Adam wondered with dismay.

  “All right, boys,” Professor Rosen began. “Are you both as excited as I am about the election on Tuesday?”

  The boys nodded their heads dutifully.

  “Good, good.” The professor removed her script from her purse. “Listen, I have a date tonight, so let’s make this quick. There’s less than eight weeks till showtime. I’d like you to read through the entire play, from start to finish. That way you can get a feel for the buildup of energy. Just get into the groove and let the words slide off your tongues. I bet you’ve even memorized a lot of it already.”

  Adam pursed his lips. The only time he remembered getting “into the groove” was when he’d sat on his sofa at home holding Shipley’s feet and fantasizing about what it would feel like to hold the rest of her.

  Tom guzzled another few quarts of milk and cracked open his script. “I’ve been to the zoom,” he read.

  “It’s zoo,” Professor Rosen corrected him. “I believe it’s been mentioned on numerous occasions that this play is called The Zoo Story?”

  Tom ran his hands over his hair and gritted his teeth menacingly. “I’ve been to the zoo. I said, I’ve been to the zoo. Mister, I’ve been to the zoo!”

  Adam glanced up from the script. Perhaps Tom was right for the part after all. Perhaps Tom was a more nuanced actor than he’d first thought. “You’re a lucky man,” he muttered.

  Tom looked confused. “Am I on the wrong page?”

  “Just stick to the script,” Professor Rosen advised.

  Adam cleared his throat and read his line. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

  Tom gritted his teeth. “I need more milk.”

  Professor Rosen sighed and handed him the jug of milk. “Why don’t you finish that off and start again from the beginning.”

  Tom tossed his head back and guzzled the milk. He smacked his lips and wiped them on the back of his hand. “I’ve been to the zoo,” he began, sounding even more guttural and crazy than before.

  Professor Rosen clapped her hands together. Her jade earrings jangled. “Yes!” she cried excitedly. “Yes!”

  “Er. Ahem,” Adam coughed politely into his hand. At the end of the play he got to stab Tom in the gut with a plastic knife. He couldn’t think of anything more satisfying. “Are you talking to me?”

  10

  Why take the job when she didn’t need the money? Shipley wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Perhaps it was a matter of fitting in—most of the students at Dexter had some sort of job—or maybe she just needed to do something on her own, independent of Tom. She hadn’t even told him where she was going.

  “Babysitting?” She could hear him chuckle as he tried to hide her clothes so she couldn’t put them back on. “Fuck that.”

  She shivered as she headed to her car, wishing she had worn a coat. It was five-thirty and already almost dark. She wasn’t due at Professor Rosen’s house until six, but because it was her first time babysitting, she thought it might be a good idea to arrive early and get acquainted with the baby before its parents left.

  The car was in its usual cockeyed spot, keys on the tire. The same person who’d stolen it that first week of school had kept on stealing it, but they always brought it back when the tank was empty. Shipley’s father had taught her to buy gas when the tank was a quarter full, so she kept on dutifully filling it, only to see the car disappear once again. Of course she could have just kept the keys on her Dexter key chain instead of on the tire, but she was terrified of losing them, thus risking the need to call home. The years she’d waited for a car. The years she’d waited to leave home.

  Sometimes the stranger left notes: This car could use a bath. Wiper fluid!! Sorry, I smoked all your cigarettes. Left rear tire feels low. Sometimes the stranger left a present: a particularly pretty pink leaf, a pack of Juicy Fruit, DownEast magazine, a Snickers bar. She liked to pretend the stranger was her ex-husband. She’d left him for Tom. Neither one of them wanted to give up the car in the divorce, so they’d decided to share it. He’d drive around, listening to her music, finishing off her old, stale coffee, missing her. And every hastily scrawled note or thoughtful little token he left behind was his way of telling her he wished he’d never let her go.

  Today the note on the front seat read, Needed: 1 pair wool socks, 1 heavy wool sweater or fleece, 1 pair warm gloves, 1 wool hat. All size Large. Shipley stuffed the note into her pocket. The car smelled like cinnamon buns. She turned the keys in the ignition. The gas tank was so empty the warning light was on.

  Professor Rosen’s house was only a mile or so away from the farmhouse she’d happened upon the first night of college. It even looked a lot like Adam’s house, except less quaint. Weeds grew out from under the worn porch steps, and the screen door hung from the door frame at a jaunty angle. There were no animals, only a fenced-in vegetable plot that had already been dug up and mulched for winter, and a terrifying scarecrow with red button eyes and red yarn hair. The scarecrow was dressed in a billowing white sheet, with a black
trash bag cape and a black witch’s hat.

  Shipley mounted the porch steps and pulled open the screen door. The wooden door behind it was ajar. She knocked on it softly and pushed it open. The kitchen table was strewn with the remains of the baby’s mashed peas and brown rice dinner. Soothing strings played on a portable radio. The baby cooed in another room. A nervous lump formed in Shipley’s throat and she considered leaving.

  “Hello?” she croaked.

  Some woman who wasn’t Professor Rosen came into the kitchen with a fat baby slung over her shoulder. The baby had thick black hair, black eyes, tan skin, and wore a light blue terry-cloth zip-up footie suit. The woman was freckly and blue-eyed, with frizzy blond hair. She wore a multicolored crocheted dress and fringed suede moccasin boots.

  “Shipley, thank God.”

  “I meant to get here early, but I had to stop for gas,” Shipley explained.

  “Don’t worry about it.” The woman put down her jam jar full of white wine. “Darren’s on campus rehearsing her play. I’m Blanche, otherwise known as Professor Blanche. I teach English at Dexter too.” She held the baby under his armpits and offered him to Shipley. “And this is Beetle. Beetle, Shipley. Shipley, Beetle.”

  “Hello.”

  Blanche frowned as Shipley clumsily laid Beetle down in the crook of her elbow and cradled him against her chest the way she’d held her dolls as a child. Beetle’s shiny black eyes glared up at her. His fat brown face was pinched and angry. He whimpered and hiccupped and thrashed his little hands and feet.

  “Um, he prefers to be upright, you know, like looking over your shoulder when you walk around?” Blanche suggested.

  Shipley hiked him up onto her shoulder. He didn’t feel anything like a doll. He felt like a furless, pajama-wearing puppy or a breathing bag of warm, wet sand.

  Blanche stood behind her, talking to Beetle. “See? She’s a nice girl,” she crooned. “You big mama’s boy. You big fart machine. You big whatchamacallit.”