Cecily Von Ziegesar (18 page)

Tom staggered and wrapped his arms around his mother's waist. Despite the bib, the front of the white dress shirt his mother had brought for him to put on after the play was tie-dyed with vomit.

“I love you, Mom,” he mumbled.

“We'll have to throw his clothes away,” Mrs. Ferguson commented as she staggered under her son's weight.

Shipley took hold of Tom's elbow. “Come on. Let's get you to you room.” She reached inside Tom's pants pocket for his key.

“Hey, stop it. That tickles!” he gasped.

Mr. Ferguson held open the door. “You get him settled. I'm just going to buy him a cola from the vending machine. And I think I'll make a quick phone call while I'm at it.”

The room was a mess of old paint tubes, coffee cans full of dirty water, empty milk cartons, and lolling paintbrushes. Nick's bed was still upended and the linoleum floor was tacky with spilled paint. Tom collapsed onto his bed. Shipley removed his sneakers while Mrs. Ferguson peeled off his soiled black pants.

“I've been to the zoo,” Tom murmured with his eyes closed.

“Now your shirt,” Shipley instructed.

“Come on,” Mrs. Ferguson coaxed. “Help us out a little, Tommy.”

They succeeded in stripping him down to his underwear and tucking him under his quilt.

“I'm glad to see he's using the bedding I ordered,” Mrs. Ferguson said, standing back to watch her son sleep.

Mr. Ferguson pushed open the door and grimaced at the sight of the messy room. “I spoke to that professor. She said he's just plain exhausted. Said he's locked himself in his room all week trying to get that damned painting done.”

He stood in the doorway, unwilling to walk all the way into the room. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, and his usually neat gray hair had sprung up on one side. He looked tired and disoriented, like someone who'd been through an ordeal—a storm at sea or a car accident.

He looked at his watch and then back at Tom. “We were
planning on waking up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to head back,” he went on. He shook his head and stamped his loafered foot on the linoleum floor. “I've got to get back to the office, dammit. I don't know, darling,” he sighed. “What do you think? Maybe we should stick around tomorrow and check up on him.”

Mrs. Ferguson was that particular breed of Westchester mother who was not easily fazed. She'd raised two rambunctious, strapping sons and was married to a man who, on more than one occasion, drank so many martinis with his cronies at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central that he came home, passed out, and wet the bed.

“Oh, he'll be all right.”

She went over to Tom's desk and sorted through the discarded paintings of Eliza's naked body parts. Frowning, she picked up the paint-smudged Polaroids of Shipley with the red Macy's bag over her head. “I'm certainly ready to hit the hay,” she announced, placing the nude snapshots facedown on the desk.

Shipley stepped away from the bed and rummaged around in her bag for her cigarettes. “I think we should let him sleep,” she said, leading the way out of the room.

She escorted Tom's parents out to their car and kissed them good-bye. Despite Tom's behavior, it was nice to have gotten to know them a little better.

“We're at the Holiday Inn,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “Tell Tom to call if he needs anything.”

“I will,” she said, and waved them good-bye. It was only nine o'clock. Adam's party would just be getting going. She could drink a beer, maybe smoke a few cigarettes, maybe talk to Adam for a while. She might even try a game of horseshoes.

She walked across the quad to retrieve her car and found that it was gone. Tears sprang to her eyes as she stalked across the
road again and into her dorm. Just inside the door was a white campus phone. She picked up the receiver, scanned the laminated campus directory that was nailed to the wall, and dialed the extension she was looking for.

“Dexter Security,” a gruff voice answered.

“Yes,” Shipley said evenly. “I'd like to report a theft. It's my car. It's been stolen.”

T
he sun had set at five o'clock and the air was seized by the balmy stillness of an approaching storm. By seven the temperature had dropped to forty-five degrees. Now that it was past nine, it hovered just above freezing. Adam sat in the yellow rocking chair on his front porch, hands stuffed into the pockets of his ski jacket. That afternoon Eli had bought three kegs and put them on ice in the oversized watering trough in the barn. Hoping to keep their visitors away from the house, Tragedy wrote “KEG” in black marker on a fence slat, with a big arrow pointing to the barn.

Tragedy's hokey but suggestive promise of “refreshments and horseshoes” had worked. The lawn was littered with cars, and the barn was heaving. Adam liked the idea that the party was happening despite him, the invisible host. All anyone really needed was a place to go and something to drink. It was the guests who created the atmosphere, set the tone, kicked off the series of random events that would inevitably follow.

A lone black crow cawed its warning from the roof of the barn.
Then the tinkling sound of music filled the air. It was the Grannies, playing “Eyes of the World” from inside the barn.

Adam rocked in his chair, waiting with forced patience. She will come, he told himself, she has to come. Even if she was with Tom, she might steal a moment to talk to him. He could show her his room, his dad's welding shop. Girls liked stuff like that.

“Hey, loser!” Tragedy shouted at him from the open barn door. “What the fuck? You want a beer?”

 

T
he barn made Nick sneeze, but it felt good to be off campus, especially after the tedious hell of review week and the nerve-wracking job of managing the lights for Professor Rosen's show. He'd been so intent on doing a good job he'd even refrained from getting high—all day—which was a first for him.

Sea Bass and Damascus were manning the kegs. Eliza watched as Damascus lay down on the floor at his friend's feet and put the tip of a red plastic funnel—the kind used for oil or gasoline—into his mouth. Sea Bass picked up the long rubber hose and dispensed beer into the funnel.

“Hey, you know what I really want for Christmas?” Sea Bass said while his friend was furiously swallowing. “A blender. You know, so we can make cocktails and, like, fruit smoothies, right in our room?”

The keg glugged and sighed. Damascus swallowed and swallowed. Finally he smacked Sea Bass in the leg, indicating that he'd had enough. Sea Bass tossed the tap aside. Damascus sat up and let out an enormous burp.

“Your turn,” he said, handing the funnel to Nick.

Nick shook his head. “No way, man.” He picked up a plastic cup and filled it halfway with beer. Dust motes rose up from the barn floor. He sneezed, spraying snot all over the keg. “Can't lie down. Hay fever.”

“Here, I'll take it.” Eliza swiped the funnel out of Damascus's hands and lay down in his place.

Nick stood over her, watching. She was mad at him about something, he could tell. Now she was going to make herself sick just to spite him.

Eliza rested her head in Damascus's lap and slid the tip of the funnel into her mouth. Sea Bass picked up the tap and dispensed the beer. The cold liquid tickled her tonsils. She pretended she was at the dentist, except instead of asking her to spit, the dentist's orders were to swallow, swallow, swallow.

“All right!” Damascus cupped the back of her head in his hands. His fingers were warm and comforting against her skull. She closed her eyes and kept on swallowing. “Nice and steady.”

She'd missed dinner, but now she was filling up with beer. It sloshed around in her belly and seeped down into her tights. It didn't even taste bad lying down. Perhaps if she'd eaten canned creamed ham lying down as a child, she would have been able to stomach that too.

“Nice,” Damascus coaxed. “Nice.”

Finally she made a little gurgling sound and Sea Bass released the lever on the tap. Damascus helped her into a sitting position.

“You okay?” He put a gentle arm around her. “You gonna hurl?”

Eliza wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She shook her head, gripping her knees with her hands to steady herself. Her center of gravity had shifted. The barn was set at a tilt.

Nick gave her his hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get some air.”

He led her over to the barn door and propped her up against the door frame. Her black bangs hung over her eyebrows. She needed a trim.

“
They're dancin', dancin' in the streets!
” Grover sang and rattled his tambourine.

The Grannies had set up their instruments in the corner of the barn and were running through their playlist of Grateful Dead songs. All three Grannies had taken hits off Geoff's bottle of ether, and their playing was loud and sporadic, with spontaneous drum outbursts and random elated shrieks.

Eliza's now ever-present black down coat was unzipped. Underneath she wore black cutoff shorts over ripped black tights. “I hate this music,” she belched. No one at Dexter besides the Grannies even liked the Grateful Dead. Everyone was into Nirvana and Jane's Addiction and R.E.M.

Occasionally the music was punctuated by the clang of horseshoes knocking against each other and the cries of some of the players. Tragedy had rigged a horseshoe throwing area in the lambing stall in the back of the barn, and a crowd of beer-wielding horseshoe enthusiasts had formed around it.

“Want to play horseshoes?” Nick asked.

Eliza shook her head, clapped her hand over her mouth, and took a few stumbling steps outside the barn. Then she puked in the grass.

“Oh God,” she gasped, wiping her mouth. “That feels so much better.”

A neatly coiled green hose hung from a hook just inside the barn door. Nick put down his beer, turned on the hose, and held it out to her. “Here,” he said. “Drink.”

Eliza took a few cautious sips, tipped her head back, gargled, and then spat. “There.” She handed back the hose. “Good as new.”

Nick turned off the hose and put it back on its hook. Eliza leaned against the door frame again, taking deep breaths of cool night air. He went over and stood beside her, looking out into the darkness. The kitchen lights were on in the farmhouse, and someone was sitting in the rocking chair on the front porch. “You know it's supposed to snow later,” he said. “Like, a lot.”

“Thanks, Storm Field.” Eliza reached for his arm and tugged him toward her. She stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth against his. Her tongue scraped against his teeth, prying them open.

Nick pulled away. “Hey! What are you doing?”

She scowled. “I just want to have sex with you, is that so much to ask? Think of it as a random act of kindness. And don't tell me you're saving yourself for someone, because that's bullshit. Obviously if the person you're saving yourself for doesn't want to do it with you now, they're not going to want to do it with you later. Capisce?”

Nick stared at her for a moment, enraged. Of course she was right. He'd been saving himself for Shipley, which was ridiculous. Shipley wasn't even there, and when she was there she was with someone else. Eliza was right here, and she wanted him. Besides, she was practically a campus sex symbol now that her naked portraits had been revealed at the open studio. Even Damascus and Sea Bass seemed to be into her.

He picked up his abandoned cup of beer and chugged the rest of it. It was probably a good thing he hadn't smoked any pot today. “Okay,” he agreed and then sneezed. “Let's do it.”

 

“I
told you people would come.” Tragedy handed Adam a cup of beer.

“Yeah.” Adam took a sip. “There are definitely a lot of people here.”

“Obviously not the right people though,” Tragedy observed. She swiped her Rubik's cube off the porch steps and scrambled it up, shivering in her thin white sundress. “Brr.” She went into the house and came back wearing Ellen's hairy raccoon fur coat. It looked great with her black rubber boots.

“If you want to, like, go forth and seek your fortune, I've got it covered,” she offered. “You could just drive by the dorms or whatever. See if she's around.”

“Maybe,” Adam said. He looked up at his sister, his eyes bright and hopeful. “Are you sure?”

Tragedy worked her Rubik's cube. “Please. Just stop moping and get the fuck out of here. And don't come back until you find her.”

The rocking chair teetered as Adam stood up. “You'll have to bring in the sheep.” He zipped up his jacket and fumbled in his pocket for his car keys. “And don't forget the kittens. If it gets much colder, they need to go in the house.”

“I'm not a moron,” Tragedy said.

“Okay. I'm going.” Adam smiled goofily at his sister. “Have fun.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him the finger. “Yeah, you too.”

The air was heavy and cold, the sky a low dark gray mixed with orange. The red taillights of Adam's VW disappeared down the road. Tragedy tossed her Rubik's cube onto the rocking chair and headed back to the barn.

It was a good party. The music was loud and everyone was already too drunk to notice how cold it had gotten. The clank of horseshoes resounded in the cool, hay-dusted air.

“Hey, beautiful.” A guy with ridiculously large mutton-chops greeted her. He shoved a frothy cup of beer into her
hand. “I'm Sea Bass,” he said with a cocky smile. “And this is Damascus.”

A stocky guy with a shock of dark, curly hair leered in her direction. “Wanna try a funnel?”

 

N
ick followed Eliza up a rickety ladder to the hayloft. The boards were loose and bouncy, and they could see their fellow party-goers through the cracks. Four bare bulbs dangled from the barn's post and beam ceiling. Silvery dust motes rose up into the air, sparkling in the harsh yellow light. The impending snow was palpable now. People huddled around the water trough full of kegs as if it were a campfire, their shoulders draped in dusty woolen horse blankets someone had unearthed from the feed room.

“Wish we had a blanket,” Eliza said wistfully. The hay was soft underfoot, but scratchy against her skin. The few times she'd had sex, she'd done it on her pink and blue Cinderella sheets back home, the ultimate defilement. She unzipped her down coat and laid it out on top of a pile of hay.

Nick watched her with his hands in his pockets. “You're not planning on getting completely naked, are you?”

“Pretty naked,” Eliza said, laughing. She unbuttoned her cardigan. The blunt ends of her dark hair brushed the pale skin of her collarbone.

“You're actually really beautiful,” he said.

“Actually?” She folded the sweater and placed it on top of a hay bale. Then she yanked off her top. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” She stepped out of her cutoffs. In her red bra and holey black tights she looked like a circus performer.

Nick sneezed. Then he sneezed again and again. He wiped
his nose on the back of his hand. “Sorry. I guess my allergies aren't very sexy.”

“Actually, they are.”

His eyes were bloodshot and tearing and his nostrils were inflamed. There was a small pink scar between his eyebrows where he'd hurt himself at orientation, the day they'd first met. Eliza reached out and wiped the snot from his nose. She knocked off his stupid flap hat. “You're probably just allergic to your hat,” she said, pulling him toward her so she could kiss his neck.

“You really are pretty,” Nick said again and slipped his hands inside the waistband of her tights. Below their feet the Grannies lit into “Fire on the Mountain.”

“There's a dragon with matches that's loose on the town. Takes a whole pail of water just to cool him down….”

Eliza unbuttoned Nick's jeans and yanked them down around his ankles. She sat down on top of her coat “You need to take off your sneakers.”

Nick stood over her with a big boner poking out of his Fruit of the Looms. He looked like a unicorn, sort of.

He squatted down to untie his laces. “I'm probably going to break out in hives.”

Eliza hadn't expected him to be so dainty. “You're the one who built your own yurt,” she accused, knocking him over onto his back. She tore off his shoes and yanked his pants off all the way. “Stop being such a wuss. I've waited too long for this.”

Nick sneezed violently. “All right, all right,” he said and rolled on top of her coat to escape the hay. It was actually pretty comfy, although he was allergic to feathers too.

“I brought condoms and everything,” Eliza announced. “I got them at the health center.” She fished one out of the pocket of her discarded shorts and examined the small print on the wrapper.
“You'll be glad to know they've got some kind of special sauce on them for extra sperm-killing power and glide. Oh, and ridges, just like Ruffles potato chips.”

Nick sneezed again, even more violently this time. “They'll probably give me a rash too.”

“Oh Jesus.” Eliza tossed the condom at him. She took off her tights and threw them at him too. “Do you want to do this or what?”

Nick sneezed again and opened up his arms. “Come here,” he said. “You must be cold.”

Eliza giggled and dove on top of him, scattering an avalanche of hay out of the hayloft and onto the heads of the throng below. “Actually I'm getting warmer,” she murmured. His boner pressed against her belly button. She reached down and took hold of it. “Warmer, warmer. Hot!”

“All right! I'd just like to congratulate whoever's up there getting it on!” one of the Grannies shouted. “Good times, man. Good times!”

 

W
aiting for a snowfall is like watching a flower open. Scratch your nose and you miss the first flake's fall. Next thing you know, the horizon is as white as a plate.