Class

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “I think we’ll need some big stuff if we’re going to use the fire to cook with.” Nick patted the trunk of a huge half-dead spruce, as if he just so happened to have in the pocket of his embroidered tunic the chainsaw they’d need to cut it down. They didn’t even have a hatchet. He looked up, examining the upper branches of the tree. He’d come to Maine for its natural beauty. Well, here was his first opportunity to commune with nature.

  Tom watched in awe as Nick let out a wild-boy yelp and hurtled himself through the air and into the arms of the tree, desperately straddling its wide, sturdy trunk.

  “Jackass,” Tom chuckled admiringly. “Jesus. Watch your balls, man.”

  Nick could feel his eyes water and his hands break out in a rash as he shimmied clumsily up the trunk toward the next set of branches. He turned his head to the side so as not to breathe in too much of the tree’s noxious, hive-inducing fumes.

  “Take it slow, monkey nuts,” Tom warned.

  The tree tolerated Nick’s scraping and kicking like an old horse that is used to abuse. How had he done this as a little kid without castrating himself? The rough bark tore up the skin on the insides of his knees and bruised his crotch. There were splinters beneath his fingernails and he’d already skinned both elbows. Ten feet off the ground was a thick branch around ten inches in diameter that had been stripped of its bark by a porcupine. If he hung on long enough, jiggling his weight up and down just a bit, maybe gravity would work its magic and the branch would snap. He released his grip on the tree’s trunk and swung, Tarzan-like, onto the branch.

  “Dude!” Tom crowed. “You’re a fucking kamikaze!”

  Nick flailed at the branch, but before he could even wrap his fingers around it, the base of the branch came away from the trunk, splintering wetly. He crashed to the ground face-first. The rotten branch thudded against the back of his head.

  “Ouch.” Tom approached his fallen companion. “Did you break anything?”

  “Ow,” Nick moaned pitifully. “It hurts.”

  “Wood’s rotten as shit, man,” Tom observed standing over him. “I could’ve told you that.”

  Nick clambered to his knees and swiped at his face with the backs of his hands. Blood smeared his knuckles. He touched the stinging space between his eyebrows and his fingers came away bloody. He could still see though. He was fine. And now he had a war wound.

  He reached for the splintered branch and used it as a crutch to stand up. “Think it’ll still burn?” he asked, holding the branch out for Tom’s inspection.

  Tom liked to think he was tough, but not around blood. During rest time in preschool he used to have to lie down next to Wallace White, who suffered from chronic nosebleeds. He threw up every time.

  “Oh shit.” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “Dude, you’re bleeding.” He staggered off toward camp, retching. “I’m going back.”

  Nick wiped his hands and face on his shirt. The blood was tacky, like red paint. “What about the wood?” he shouted, but Tom was already out of sight.

  “He’s fucking bleeding!” Tom crashed through the woods like a rabid bear and threw up a few yards away from the tent that Shipley and Eliza had just managed to pitch, no thanks to the boys.

  “Who? Nick?” Shipley dropped the dented pan they were expected to cook ramen in, denting it even more. “What happened? Is he okay?” Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest and she could actually feel her light blue eyes turn a deeper shade of blue. College was already so exciting.

  Eliza emerged from the tent holding a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. “Look what I found. It’s probably twenty years past its sell-by date, but who cares? It’s better than ramen. Hey, where’s our wood?” she demanded of Tom.

  Tom’s face was ashen. He sat down cross-legged beside the fire ring that Eliza and Shipley had only just finished assembling out of sturdy rocks. There was no fire because there was still no wood. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Excuse me?” Eliza responded, about to lay into him.

  “Something’s happened to Nick,” Shipley interrupted. “Stay here,” she told them importantly. “I’ll go.”

  Just then Nick himself strode out of the woods, a parcel of sticks cradled in his shirt. “I fell out of a tree!” he announced. “I’m okay though.”

  Shipley hurried over to help him with the wood. She touched his cheek. “Your face is bleeding. Come on, there’s a first aid kit in the tent.”

  “Fucking fuck!” Tom exclaimed. He lunged forward and puked directly into the fire ring. “Please get him the fuck out of here,” he gasped.

  “Poor baby.” Eliza tsked unsympathetically. Camping out with these three was like watching the Westminster Dog Show on TV. The first dog in our terrier group is the Bedford Terrier, known for its loud bark and tiny penis. This is number 44, Tom Ferguson, Bedford Terrier. Next is the Boarding School Terrier, known for its shaggy coat and perma-grin. This is number 33, Nick Hamilton, Boarding School Terrier. And finally, the Florence Nightingale of Greenwich Terrier, known for its lovely blue eyes and willingness to hump. This is Shipley Gilbert, number 69, Florence Nightingale of Greenwich Terrier.

  “Come on.” Shipley led Nick into the tent and rummaged around in the Dexter-issued orientation pack for the first aid kit. “Sit down. I’m just going to get you cleaned up, and then we’ll make a nice dinner.” She knew nothing about first aid or cooking, but she liked the idea of playing nurse. She daubed an alcohol swab on the torn-up skin between Nick’s eyes.

  “Yeesh!” Nick gasped through clenched teeth. Tears streamed down his dirt-smudged cheeks. It stung so badly he wanted to kick her.

  Shipley lifted her hand away, but only for a second. The wound was dirty. She had to get it clean. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts,” she murmured, swabbing it determinedly.

  There is probably nothing more painful than rubbing alcohol on an open wound. Nick shivered from head to toe and forced a smile to his face, trying to remain zen. “As long as you’re the one hurting me, I can take it,” he told her through gritted teeth.

  Shipley blushed. She was aware that he was flirting with her, but she had no idea how to respond. She selected a round Band-Aid from the first aid kit and pasted it over the cut. It looked a little silly, but it would have to do.

  Eliza ducked into the tent. “The Cowardly Lion is resting and replenishing his fluids. I moved the fire to a nice, vomit-free spot and put a pan of water on to boil. I just came up with a great invention though: a battery-operated camping microwave. Imagine the millions I could make on that.” She dug around in one of the packs in the tent and then glanced at Shipley and Nick, kneeling only inches away from each other. “You guys done playing doctor?”

  Shipley sat back on her heels. The round Band-Aid wasn’t very professional-looking, but it would be too painful to take it off and put on a new one. “I did my best,” she said apologetically.

  “It feels better, thanks,” Nick told her gratefully, even though he could feel the Band-Aid’s adhesive trying to adhere to the wound itself. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  Eliza could practically see his tail wagging happily through the back of his tunic. “I’m looking for some pepper or maybe some garlic powder or herbs,” she explained, still rummaging. “Something to spice up the mac.”

  “But that’s my bag!” Nick protested.

  Eliza removed a Ziploc bag full of clumpy dried green leaves from Nick’s backpack. She opened the Ziploc and sniffed its pungent contents. “Is this pot?”

  Nick crossed his arms over his chest. He’d wanted to introduce the pot after dinner as a sort of get-to-know-each-other aperitif. “Yeah, it’s pot. I brought it for all of us.”

  Shipley stared at the Ziploc bag. Her brother was sent to boarding school for the first time because of pot. He got kicked out of Brunswick for breaking into the school after hours and stealing pot from another student’s locker. Pot was illegal. It did things to you. She was terrified of it. And she’d always wanted to try it.

&
nbsp; Eliza watched in fascination as her new roommate’s eyes grew very round and took on a silvery blue glow. She looked like Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole.

  “Can we smoke it now?” Shipley demanded.

  Nick stood up and retrieved the bag of pot from Eliza’s hands. “Come on. I’ve got rolling papers in my pocket.” He led the way out of the tent.

  “Hey, wake up.” Shipley crouched next to Tom’s prone form and whispered into his ear. “Nick has pot!”

  “Just what I need,” Tom mumbled. He sat up anyway, more aroused by the sensation of Shipley whispering in his ear than by the thought of getting high. The fact that he’d managed to puke repeatedly his first day at college was more than a little embarrassing. But pot was known to alleviate nausea and cause short-term memory loss. Maybe it was just the thing. “I want my own joint though. You should hear this guy sneeze,” he told the girls. “Dude’s got freaking TB.”

  They gathered around the campfire, sitting cross-legged as Nick rolled four perfect joints and distributed one to each member of the group. The campsite was in a small clearing a few hundred yards from the riverbank. They’d followed Professor Rosen there on foot from the logging road, fifteen minutes through pathless woods. Tall trees surrounded them in a huddle, offering their silent and unbiased protective service. Nick removed a burning stick from the fire and lit the tip of each joint. They smoked wordlessly for a while, interrupted only by a choking first-time cough from Shipley and Nick’s incessant sneezes.

  “Six years on the rugby team and now I’m smoking up like a total douche-bag,” Tom reflected before taking another hit. His eyes were trained on the strands of Shipley’s hair, set aglow by the firelight. They were gold, platinum, bronze, and rose. Auburn, plum, violet, and lemon. And…peony. “Christ, I’m already wasted.”

  Eliza smoked her own joint with a great deal of skepticism. She’d only gotten high a couple of times, taking hits from bongs at parties when no one else was looking. She liked how relaxed she got, but she hated how stupid it made her feel. Why would anyone want to feel that stupid on a regular basis? Plus, getting high made you want to eat, which made you fat. It was a nobrainer, literally.

  Nick was glad he’d brought the pot. Everyone was mellow now. It was like they were all meditating on the same theme. Twilight had set in, and every atom and molecule swirling around them seemed to glisten. Across the river the girls were singing “Yellow Submarine.” Their voices sounded very far away.

  Shipley wished she could just eat the pot instead of smoking it. Her lungs ached after a day of smoking cigarettes, and the rolling paper stuck to her dry lips. But it was all so naughty, which was what made it all the more fantastic. Her nostrils were buzzing. Her ears were buzzing. She could feel Tom staring at her, and it felt nice. If he wanted to kiss her right now she would let him. She’d run her hands over his bristly head and lick his muscular neck.

  She took two more hits and then rose unsteadily to her feet. “I have to pee,” she announced and walked toward the woods. Maybe Tom will follow me, she thought as she stepped out of the clearing and into the darkening forest. Tree trunks rose up around her like the legs of giants. This was what it felt like to be a small child walking among adults.

  She’d never peed in the woods before. Up ahead was a clump of young fir trees that looked like a promising private toilet. Squatting down behind the bushy trees, she watched in stoned fascination as her pee streamed out of her, making a little hole in the earth. A mosquito stung her thigh. She swatted at it, spun around, and attempted to pull up her shorts at the same time. There were other bites but she wouldn’t notice them until tomorrow.

  No one had followed her into the woods. Her stomach rumbled hungrily as she started back. She could eat a Dunkin’ Donuts cruller. She could eat a dozen of them. She paused and glanced around, unsure of the way. The light between the trees appeared to be less dim in one direction. She headed that way, walking and walking for what felt like a long time. She wondered what Professor Rosen would do when she found out Shipley had disappeared in the night. Would they send out a search party? Dogs? Her mind was preoccupied with wondering what breed of dog was most commonly used to find missing persons and whether dogs liked to eat donuts, when she ran headlong into the maroon Dexter van, parked on the shoulder of the old logging road.

  Professor Rosen had left the keys on the front tire, just like Shipley’s dad did with their old station car, in case someone else needed the car while he was at work. Shipley climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, invigorated by her own daring. This certainly was a day of firsts. She turned on the radio. Guns N’ Roses blared from the speakers.

  “We abandoned the fire,” Nick complained as he followed Tom and Eliza into the woods to look for Shipley. She’d been gone for more than fifteen minutes—longer than she needed to do her business.

  “Oh, Shipley, dear?” Eliza called in a hoity-toity voice. “It’s time to get thine ass back to camp, darling.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” Tom cupped his hands around his mouth. “Where are you?”

  “We haven’t even eaten dinner,” Nick complained. He always got a little whiny when he was high, especially after the munchies kicked in. His mom’s vegetarian three-bean chili. He could eat three helpings of it right now. With cornbread.

  Twilight was fading and the air was cool and still. The ground beneath their feet was damp and alive. Eliza wished she’d put on her sweater.

  “Did I ever tell you guys about the time I actually saw a werewolf and almost died?” she asked. Of course they hadn’t heard her story before. She’d never seen these people in her life before today.

  “I was ice skating on this pond out behind our house and it got dark but I kept skating because I used to be really into it and yeah so fuck me I was the blind girl in Ice Castles. Anyway. All of a sudden the wind starts howling in the trees and there’s lightning and it’s the whole Great Lakes effect storm system coming in and my mom is yelling for me like Aunty Em.”

  She was talking extra-fast to make up for the fact that her tongue felt like a waterlogged hot dog. It was hard to tell if either of the boys was listening.

  “So I realize I can’t find my boots in the storm and I have to walk through the snow back to the house in my skates, which is pretty fucking impossible if you’ve ever tried it, and of course I fall down. What I don’t realize is that I hit my head when I fall down and I get knocked unconscious. I wake up when something is licking my face, and okay that would be totally harmless if we had a dog, but we don’t. So I sit up and there’s this like dog-slash-man werewolf dude with yellow eyes in front of me. You know, complete with drooly fangs and raw meat stew bad breath? I scream and he scampers off, and then I crawl back to the house and my mom puts me to bed and feeds me bouillon with a teaspoon. I was thirteen. I got my period the next day.”

  “Jesus.” Tom gagged at the mention of blood and kept walking. “Almost died,” he snorted disparagingly as he struggled to regain his composure. “You probably just got a concussion and dreamt the whole thing.”

  Eliza glared at his back. Asshole.

  “Maybe it was just hormones,” Nick inferred from behind her. “Because of—you know—what happened the next day?”

  “Shush!” Tom stopped. “Do you hear that?”

  The sound of Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” echoed through the woods.

  “Come on.” Tom broke into a run. The way he ran, dodging the trees, reminded Eliza of horror movies. Freshman Orientation: The Haunting.

  Up ahead, Tom could see the old logging road. Then he saw where the music was coming from. Shipley was behind the wheel of the van, doing slow figure eights in the road. It looked like she was giving herself a driving lesson of sorts. The radio blared obnoxiously. She spotted them and pulled up. Her pale blue eyes glowed in the half-light.

  “Anyone up for Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  4

  The sheep were out grazing and the house was quiet. Ellen an
d Eli Gatz had gone out west to a crafts fair in Stanley, Idaho, and left Adam and Tragedy in charge. The sheep could take care of themselves. It was Tragedy who needed stewardship. If left to her own devices, she would have pawned every pawnable object in the house and hitchhiked to Rio by now. She would have drunk all the wine and burned the house down. Not that she was irresponsible. Quite the contrary—her teachers often said that she was fifteen going on fifty. But she was easily bored, and, as she liked to remind everyone in the family on a daily if not hourly basis, she couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of Dodge. Her bedroom was filled with travel guides.

  Tonight they watched reruns of Scooby Doo while Tragedy played “Global Fashion Charades,” a game she’d invented. She tried on every odd article of clothing in the house—flippers, long underwear, fishing waders, snowmobile suits, beekeeping hats, sunbonnets, snowshoes, hunting vests—and Adam had to guess what sort of international fashion disaster she was dressed as.

  “What am I now?” she asked, jigging noisily across the living room in her mother’s wooden clogs and a white bikini, a fringed green and yellow plaid blanket tied at her waist. Tragedy could tell Adam was nervous about starting at Dexter tomorrow. She was trying to make him laugh. So far it wasn’t working. Adam was wound way too tight.

  “Loud?” Adam replied. “Annoying?”

  “I’m a Scottish hula dancer,” she declared, stomping her feet and undulating her arms like a deranged octopus. “I’d play the bagpipes, but we haven’t got any.”