Cecily Von Ziegesar

by Cum Laude (v5)

He was bald, Nick realized. He’d grown out the curly fringe around the base of his skull to give the illusion of hair. He looked like he was wearing one of those rubber clown masks—big nose, crab apple cheeks, and a ring of hair around a bald rubber pate.

  “Morty’s an accountant,” Nick’s mother explained. “Freelance. He’s using your bedroom as an office.”

  That was only part of the story. His mom had left out the crucial elements, for instance where Morty had come from in the first place, where he was sleeping, and how long he planned to stay. Dee Dee still liked to get in bed with their mom in the middle of the night. Did she crawl in between Mom and Morty now?

  A small white TV that hadn’t been there before showed the preparations for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Huge balloons hung in the air over the trees of Central Park. Clifford the Big Red Dog. Babar the Elephant. The Pink Panther. Goofy. Nick’s family had always pooh-poohed the parade. It was too commercial, too crowded, too bridge-and-tunnel—not genuinely New York.

  Dee Dee spun around and grabbed a piece of toast off her plate. She was five years old, but small enough to pass for three. “I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t wait!” she sang.

  “Well, hurry up then,” Morty said. “Get your coat on.” He turned to Nick. “We’re going to the parade. You coming?”

  In the movie version of this Nick and Morty would bond over losing Dee Dee in the parade and then finding her again. Or Morty would choke on a parade-side pretzel and Nick would give him the Heimlich maneuver, indebting Morty to him for life. Nick would ask Morty to leave his mother alone, and in an effort to win him over Morty would get Nick tickets to Paul Simon’s sold-out concert, or courtside seats at a Knicks game. Eventually Nick would embrace him as the father he never had. But this wasn’t a movie.

  “Mom, are you going?” Nick asked.

  “I’m staying here to cook,” his mother said. “But you should go. I could use the peace and quiet.”

  Nick bit his lip. “I think I’d rather just grab a bagel and walk around for a while. I’ll give you a hand when I get back.”

  He walked around the corner to H&H on Broadway and bought a still-warm poppy seed bagel and a cup of black coffee. Avoiding the mayhem of the parade near Central Park, he headed over to Riverside Park and down to the Boat Basin, wondering for the millionth time what it would be like to sleep on a houseboat docked in Manhattan. Probably not the same as sleeping in a yurt in the woods in Maine. He’d wanted to tell his mom all about the yurt. He’d even brought pictures.

  That’s my babe, he’d imagined her saying. You’re the coolest.

  He didn’t even know why he’d built the yurt anymore. He didn’t like camping out. It hurt his back, it was cold, and there were noises—bats and raccoons and hunter’s gunshots before dawn. There wasn’t enough light to study by, there was no heat or toilet or running water. It was unpleasant.

  Come to think of it, maybe he shouldn’t have gone to Dexter at all. He could’ve gone to NYU or Columbia or even City College. That way he could’ve lived at home and kept his bed and prevented his mother from sharing hers with Morty.

  He thought about calling his friends from Berkshire. Dewey and Bassett both lived in New York, and they were both big potheads. Dewey had gone to UC San Diego and Bassett was at UNH. Seeing them could go two ways: he’d either get majorly bummed out about how much things had changed, or they’d cheer him up. But his mood was far too gloomy for that even to be possible.

  “Don’t say anything about the election,” his mother warned him when he got back. Morty and Dee Dee were still at the parade. She handed him a colander full of potatoes and a peeler. “Morty’s a Republican.”

  “Jesus.” Nick sat down and hacked at one of the potatoes. He sneezed violently. “Is there anything good about him?”

  His mother looked up from the plate of tofu she was marinating. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Nick’s shoulders sagged. He picked up another potato and sneezed again.

  “It would help if you could be nice. Morty might well be Dee Dee’s father.”

  Nick put down the potato. “Jesus,” he said again. He’d always known he and Dee Dee had different dads. Dee Dee knew it too. “I’m a free spirit,” his mom would say with an easy laugh. It occurred to him now why she’d been so keen on his going to boarding school. She’d said it was because boarding schools had better sports, but Nick had never been very athletic. The truth was she’d wanted him out of the house so she could have men over and not feel awkward. His grandparents paid for it, and off he went.

  “What?” his mom said. “Don’t you think it’s sort of nice that I’ve found someone?”

  Nick peeled the potato very slowly. Peels fell on the tabletop like dead skin. Underneath, the potato was wet and slippery and rank. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, and kept on peeling.

  When Morty and Dee Dee returned from the parade, Morty came up behind Nick’s mom at the sink and put his arms around her waist. “You would have loved the new Goofy float,” he told her. “It has great karma.” He lifted up her hair and kissed the back of her neck. As if he knew anything about karma.

  At dinner Nick learned that Morty had yearned for his mother ever since he’d laid eyes on her at U Maryland, their alma mater. “Corinne used to wear flowers in her hair every day. Drove me wild,” he told Nick. “But she always had a boyfriend. I never even came close. Plus we had different lifestyles. Sure, I smoked dope, but your mother. Whoa.”

  Nick wondered if he should get out the gigantic red bong his mom kept stashed in her closet. He could have really done with a great big bong hit just then.

  “We ran into each other about six years ago in a taxi of all places,” Nick’s mother said. “I was getting in and he was getting out. I didn’t remember him, but Morty remembered me.” She smiled at Morty, who responded by putting his hand over his heart. “It was nice.”

  “Your mother invited me back here for some wine. You were at a sleepover,” he told Nick. “Of course within five minutes she’s offering me—” He glanced at Dee Dee. She was busy making a hole in her mashed potatoes for gravy. Morty pinched his thumb and forefinger together and put them up to his lips.

  “Morty!” Nick’s mother exclaimed.

  Nick pushed the tofu around on his plate. There was an unspoken rule between him and his mom that they did not talk about pot, they just smoked it, separately. He was pretty sure she knew he stole from her stash whenever he was home, but she didn’t say anything about it, and he never mentioned it when the apartment reeked of the stuff. Now the secret was out, even though it wasn’t a secret.

  “Then one thing led to another and well—” Morty cleared his throat. “Your mom was pregnant with your sister. I wasn’t in any sort of shape to be a dad just then. I’d already tried it and screwed it up. And your mom is such a great mom. I knew she could handle it.”

  “After you left for college and Dee Dee started kindergarten, I got kind of lonely.” Nick’s mom picked up the story. “I called Morty and he came by and cooked us dinner.” She reached across the table and grasped Morty’s hand. “And I just fell in love with him. I couldn’t let him leave. And Dee Dee adores him, don’t you, Dee Dee?”

  Dee Dee picked up her caveman-sized drumstick and gnawed on it. “He’s pretty cool,” she said. Morty poked her in the ribs and she giggled. “Okay, okay. He’s the best!”

  Morty laughed. “And now of course I’m, you know—” He put his thumb and forefinger up to his lips again. “Every day.” He rubbed his relatively flat stomach. “As long as I keep jogging and keep away from the donuts.” He winked at Nick.

  “Excuse me.” Nick stood up and made a beeline for his mom’s bedroom. Her closet had been rearranged to accommodate Morty’s clothes. He retrieved the giant red bong, and an enormous Ziploc bag full of pot from her sock drawer, and took them to his room, where he stuffed them into his duffel bag. Back in high school he’d pinch only negligible amounts, enough for m
aybe two or three joints. But what could she do if he took her whole stash? He proceeded to troll his room for any books or personal belongings he’d be sorry to leave behind, sneezing over and over as he pillaged the dusty shelves. His MAD magazine collection went in the bag. The Three Pillars of Zen stayed on the shelf. His signed and framed Simon and Garfunkel poster was too big. He’d have to send for it later. Because after this weekend, he wasn’t coming back.

  “Thanks for cooking,” he told his mom when he returned to the table. He sneezed again, making sure to aim it right at Morty’s plate. Then he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes, and raised his water glass, which was half-empty. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  14

  Holidays are a state of mind. You spend all day preparing the meal, tolerating your family, and trying to be pleasant. Then, when you sit down to eat, that thing that’s been nagging at you—that thing you thought was hunger—is on the tip of your tongue, and you just have to blurt it out. The inevitable result: tears or, at the very least, shouting.

  Adam scooped another spoonful of stuffing out of the turkey that his dad had lovingly dressed and roasted.

  “I’m thinking of transferring,” he announced. “You know, to another college? In maybe even a different state?”

  Shipley had continued to avoid him even after their kiss, and each hour he spent on campus was torture. Tragedy was right. He never should have gone to Dexter in the first place. He should have gone somewhere far away, where he never would have met Shipley and where he’d be too busy sightseeing and learning the language to feel as miserable as he felt right now.

  “I hear it’s very nice in Argentina this time of year.” Tragedy pulled the platter toward her, picked up the carving knife, and sliced off four big slabs of juicy breast meat. She glanced up at her parents. “Don’t try to talk him out of it.”

  “Watch it, baby,” Eli Gatz warned, his drooping mustache drenched in gravy. “Don’t cut yourself.”

  Ellen Gatz smashed her stuffing into her potatoes and swirled in some peas. Her frizzy salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into the purple plastic clip she wore only on special occasions. “Where would you go?”

  Adam poked his drumstick with the tines of his fork. He hadn’t been very hungry lately. “I’m not sure. UMass? It’s pretty cheap and not too far away. Or maybe I could try for a scholarship somewhere great, like, I don’t know, Stanford?”

  “Ha!” his mother exclaimed.

  “Your grades are good, but not that good,” his father said.

  Adam glared at them. This from a guy who hadn’t even finished college. “Well, it’s worth a shot.”

  “Ev’ry morning, ev’ry evening, ain’t we got fun? Not much money, oh but honey, ain’t we got fun?” Tragedy belted out as she got up and dug around in a kitchen drawer for a plastic bag.

  “Tragedy, what in the world are you doing? Get back here and eat your dinner!” Ellen shouted.

  Tragedy returned to the table with three empty yogurt containers and a rumpled paper bag. “Waste not, want not,” she said. “I’m taking some food to the hungry. That okay with you folks?”

  “Our little Samaritan,” Ellen trilled, although she didn’t look too happy about it. Ellen had long given up trying to lose the extra fifty pounds she’d gained while pregnant with Adam. She liked to eat.

  “Well, just make sure you leave us enough for turkey sandwiches tomorrow,” Eli said. “And maybe give away those brownies you made yesterday. They gave me the runs.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Adam said, his mouth full of gravy-drenched mashed potatoes.

  Ellen grabbed the turkey platter before her daughter could raid it any further. “Stop stealing our dinner and go get some beans. We’ve got frozen beans from the garden up the wazoo.”

  Tragedy put her hands on her hips. “Mom. Ellen. Frozen beans? What’s a hungry person with no kitchen going to do with frozen beans? I’m sure they’d much rather have a Big Mac.”

  “Well, this is our dinner and we’re still eating it.” Ellen turned back to Adam. As was the way with so many parents who’d frittered away their own educations, she didn’t want her son to fritter away his. “Seems to me you haven’t given Dexter much of a chance, hon. They’re giving you free tuition, and it’s a way better school than UMass. What’s wrong? You told me you liked all your teachers.”

  “I know,” Adam said. “It’s just…I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

  “What is it? Are the kids there not nice to you? You’ve always been a little shy.” Ellen frowned. Then her face lit up. “I know! Why don’t you have a party? You could throw one after the play next weekend. Invite the whole damn school. We don’t care. We’ll leave you to it. We can spend the night at Uncle Laurie’s.”

  Tragedy pulled a bag of frozen beans from the freezer. She turned it over in her hands and sniffed it. Then she tossed it back inside the freezer and slammed the door. “A party? Rock on!”

  “No one would come,” Adam said quietly.

  “Please,” Tragedy argued. “All you have to do is make it very clear that there will be beer, and believe me, people will come.”

  Adam rolled a pea across the table. He flicked it at his mom. She flicked it to his dad, who flicked it back to Adam. “Go on, son. We promise to get out of your hair,” Eli said. “And we’ll get the keg. Heck, we’ll get five kegs!”

  Adam put the pea back on his plate. If he had a party, maybe she would come. And if she came, she might give him another chance. She might even kiss him again.

  “We’ll need to put up flyers,” Tragedy advised. “But we have to make sure they’re not queer. You know, so people will actually show up.”

  “We’re having a party!” Ellen slapped the table with her pudgy, work-worn palms. She glanced at Adam. “Are you in, or what?”

  “All right,” Adam said. “I’m in.”

  Tragedy gathered up her containers and put them into the backpack she’d filled with warm clothes stolen from her father. Then she added a couple of bottles of home brew.

  Ellen elbowed Eli in the arm. “She’s running away again.”

  Eli tugged on his mustache. “Honeybunch, you’re not, are you? You’re not running away.”

  Tragedy cinched up the pack and slung it onto her back. For once in her life the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “And miss the party? No freakin’ way.”

  Patrick stood in front of Nick’s yurt, admiring it. It was beautiful. Bent timbers, white canvas walls, and a high ceiling with a hole in it so you could see the stars. He’d been watching it all day. No one was in there. Almost everyone at Dexter had left campus, including his sister. But she had taken her car, and now he had no way to get around, no place to sleep, and nothing to eat. Last night he’d slept in the woods. When he woke up his limbs were so stiff he could barely stand. This big tent would still be cold at night, but he could use the sleeping bag the guy who’d built it had left behind and maybe build a fire.

  Normally he went south at this time of year. Florida was always good, as long as he stayed away from Miami Beach. Sleeping on Miami Beach was like writing yourself a personal invitation to jail with no get-out-of-jail-free card. But he couldn’t leave now. Not when things were just starting to get interesting.

  He snuck into the tent, put down his copy of Dianetics, and scooted into the red sleeping bag, curling his legs around the pole that held up the roof. It was newly dark and the flap in the ceiling was open. He could just make out the handle of the Big Dipper, beginning to twinkle. The sky was a deep violet, enhanced by the purplish-blue light that shone atop Dexter’s chapel spire. Vaguely he remembered a Dexter myth about that light. It was supposed to shine all the time, twenty-four hours, rain or shine, winter and summer. The light would only go out when a girl managed to graduate with her virginity intact. Back in the day, his goody-two-shoes sister might have been a contender, but not anymore. Now that she wasn’t so good, he was even starting to like her.

  “Hey, you hungry?”
/>   It was that girl. She was standing in the doorway of the tent. “You better be, ’cause I brought a shitload of food.”

  She had turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing and brownies and bottles of beer. Patrick hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He wasn’t sure where to begin.

  “What happened to your Rolls-Royce, or whatever that car was you were driving?” the girl asked.

  He grabbed a brownie and shoved it into his mouth.

  “Man, I can’t watch you eat.” Tragedy glanced around the yurt. “It’s pretty awesome in here, but you should close up the roof. It’s getting cold.”

  Patrick didn’t say anything. Why was she being so nice to him when he hadn’t done anything to deserve her kindness? He unwrapped the turkey and devoured it. Tragedy grabbed the long pole that Nick had rigged to pull the roof flap closed, and wrestled with it until the heavy canvas flap covered the hole.

  “There. Snug as a bug.” She rested her hands on her hips, waiting for Patrick to speak. He was the worst conversationalist she’d ever met. “I put some blankets and some clothes in the pack. My dad’s a little smaller than you, but a sweater is a sweater.”

  Patrick cracked open a bottle of beer and slurped it greedily. “Mmmm,” he murmured.

  Tragedy sat down and picked up Dianetics, paging through the book without reading it. Her hands needed to keep busy and she’d forgotten her Rubik’s cube. “You don’t care how I knew you were in here or why I’m, like, feeding and clothing you, or how come I’m even wandering around at night when I’m supposed to be at home eating drumsticks and dancing to Saturday Night Fever?”

  Patrick watched her hands as they worked the pages of the book. “That’s my book,” he said.

  Tragedy glared at him. “So?” She put the book down. “There, you happy?”

  Patrick cracked open another beer.

  “Did you know it was a leap year?” she demanded.

  Patrick just sipped his beer.

  “Freaky things happen in a leap year.”