Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [19]
The blond girl’s lips parted. Her blue eyes shone up at Adam with luminous intensity. “We’re not lost,” she insisted.
“Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly…!” Tragedy belted out ridiculously. Any excuse to make as much noise as possible. Adam wanted to smack her.
“Can we help you?” he greeted the visitors.
“We were looking for Dunkin’ Donuts,” the girl with the bangs explained. “You’re probably going to tell us they don’t even have Dunkin’ Donuts in Maine.”
Adam was disappointed. He was hoping their van had broken down or their orientation leader had had a heart attack. Something dire. “The nearest one is in Augusta, I think.”
The big guy chuckled. “That may mean something to you, but not to us. Can you draw us a map?”
“Hold on.”
Adam was about to go inside and get a piece of paper and a pencil when Tragedy shoved him aside. No way was she going to pass this up.
“Hey, why don’t you guys come in? Our parents are away and we’re so friggin’ bored. We have beer and wine and fresh sheep’s milk. It tastes like ass, unless you add a whole shitload of Quik. Then it’s not bad.”
Pot did wonders for Shipley’s shyness. She took a step forward, placing her right flip-flopped foot on the porch step. The wood creaked. “I’m sorry. I’m a terrible driver. You’re lucky I didn’t run over your dogs or whatever.” She glanced around, looking for signs of animals. She thought she’d seen a cat scamper beneath the porch.
“I’m Adam,” the lanky redheaded boy introduced himself with a freckle-faced smile.
“And I’m his little sister, Tragedy,” the tall, olive-skinned girl standing beside him explained, hands on the hips of her white chef’s apron. She wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a white bikini top and a Yankees cap. A blue teddy bear peeked out of her apron pocket. She was obviously a sports fan. “Let’s hope you didn’t fuck up our lawn or my dad will nail your ass to a tree. He’s completely anal about his grass.”
“Do you have any food?” Tom asked, barging up the steps. “We’re starving, so if you have anything to eat at all, we’d really appreciate it.” He knew he ought to have been more polite, but all that vomiting had left him feeling pretty hollow inside. If he didn’t get a ham sandwich, quick, he was going to pass out.
“Of course. Definitely.” Tragedy held the screen door open wide. “Please, come on in.”
Shipley glanced behind her to see what Nick and Eliza were up to. Nick stood on one foot like a flamingo, looking hesitant and uncomfortable with that ridiculous Band-Aid pasted between his eyebrows. “And then we’d better get back,” he mumbled. “Otherwise they’ll think we got eaten by bears or something.”
Eliza stuffed her hands in the pockets of her cutoffs and approached the porch. “As long as they’ve got food,” she agreed with stoned reluctance.
The four newcomers sat stiffly at the kitchen table while Adam and Tragedy dug around for food and drink. The house was topsy-turvy, with books and clothes and tools for gardening or welding or fixing cars scattered all over the place. A woodstove hunkered in the corner of the kitchen. It seemed to be the only available cooking device.
“Is this really where you live?” Shipley asked incredulously. She meant was this where they lived all the time; it wasn’t just a country house where they pretended to be farmers while most of the time they lived someplace urban and modern like Los Angeles.
“I was even born here in the house,” Adam admitted.
“Mom doesn’t believe in doctors,” Tragedy elaborated. “She and Dad are from a place called Park Slope, in Brooklyn. They met at Dexter, but they dropped out to start this farm. They grow vegetables and raise sheep for wool and milk. And they make these totally useless fireplace tools. That’s where they are now—at a crafts fair, selling their stupid tools.”
Adam put four brown bottles on the table. “Dad makes his own beer. It’s kind of cloudy and it tastes a