Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [60]
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.