Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [6]
Laird Castle, a senior at Nick’s boarding school when Nick was a freshman, had built a yurt behind the science building and lived in it until he graduated. Laird was supposed to have gone to college at Dexter, but his tent pole was struck by lightning on a camping trip in the Berkshire Mountains, killing him instantly. Nick hadn’t really known Laird, except to admire his collection of hand-knit earflap hats, the “Meat Is Murder” bumper sticker on his beat-up Subaru, and the constant plume of pot smoke emanating from the air holes in his yurt. But he had taken it upon himself to carry on Laird’s legacy at Dexter. He liked to think of Laird as Yoda, the hobbling, green centuries-old Jedi master from Star Wars, and himself as the young Luke Skywalker. In order to master the force, a Jedi knight in training needed a safe hideaway in which to hone and perfect his skills. The yurt would be that place.
Nick sneezed violently and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Then he sneezed again.
“Jesus, man,” Tom exclaimed in disgust.
“Sorry,” Nick apologized. “Allergies.”
“Bless you,” Eliza murmured from the back.
Tom loosened his canary yellow belt a notch and shifted away from Nick. Obviously his sneezy new roommate couldn’t wait to invite him camping. They could have a gay old time in their tent or yurt or whatever, drinking hot toddies and wiping each other’s nose and rear-ending each other. Damn it to hell, why couldn’t school just start already so he could get the next four years over with and start working for his dad? He didn’t need any stupid orientation. He was already pretty fucking oriented, and all compasses pointed toward four long years of mise-fucking-ry, starting with an entire year rooming with this allergic twat from Manhattan.
Professor Rosen started up the engine. “Here comes our last passenger—finally. Scoot over, boys.”
Shipley had smoked another cigarette while she looked for a parking space. She wasn’t even sure if she was smoking correctly, but just imagining what her mother would think if she saw the car’s ashtray stuffed with old butts gave her a singular thrill.
“There were no spots left so I had to park in the grass,” she told the professor. “Hope that’s okay.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and contemplated where to sit. Eliza was all the way in the back, squashed between three girls wearing matching pink T-shirts.
“Sit here!” Two boys parted ways, clearing a more than adequate place for her between them. One of the boys wore the same oatmeal-colored J. Crew beach tunic she’d bought as a swimsuit cover-up last summer. The flaps of his wool hat barely covered the headphones of his Walkman. The other boy wore blue seersucker Bermuda shorts and had to crouch to keep from hitting his closely shaved head on the roof of the van.
Shipley sank into the seat as the van eased out of the parking lot and down the hill toward town. Warm wind whipped in through the open windows, blowing her blond hair backward.
“That breeze feels so good!” one of the girls in the back cried.
“Amazing!” her friend agreed.
“Awesome!” the third one chimed in.
“Listen, I’m Tom.” The big preppy boy thrust his right hand at Shipley. “From Bedford,” he added with the implied assumption that Shipley would know what he was talking about. And she did. Bedford, New York, was Greenwich, Connecticut’s smaller kissing cousin. It was hunt country, as in horses and hounds. Shipley had ridden in pony trials in Bedford almost every weekend when her old pony was still sound. “And that’s Nick over there.” Tom glanced at the other boy. “Don’t even try calling him Nicholas. I did and he almost bit me in the sac.”
“Oi!” Professor Rosen shouted from behind the wheel.
Eliza snorted and kicked the back of Shipley’s seat. Nick grinned. “I’m Nick,” he said in a loud voice. He pulled his headphones off and leaned toward Shipley. He smelled like basil, sort of. “You know the person driving, our anal leader?” he whispered.
Shipley giggled. “What about him?”
“He