Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [63]
It was exactly like the Volkswagen ad when they used that crazy German word, Fahrvergnügen. It didn’t really mean anything, but you knew you wanted your car to have it. Fahrvergnügen transformed the driving experience. When people looked at his painting, they would never be able to see things in the same way again. Everything would be imbued with color and beauty. Yellow would no longer be just plain yellow. Blue would no longer symbolize the sky or water. There was blue in Shipley’s breasts and yellow on her thighs. The red Macy’s bag wasn’t a red Macy’s bag anymore. It was the color red. He was going to change people’s lives, or at least better them, one canvas square at a time.
He squatted down and smeared a tendril of grayish-purple paint on the canvas with his thumb. It might be nice, he thought, if she had a few tentacles mixed in with her hair.
15
December came, and it was as if Thanksgiving had never happened. The days were short. The nights were long. Students were getting nervous about midterms. Would cramming for Psychology damage their synapses? Was it possible to read Moby-Dick in one night? Would there be an essay or just multiple choice? Would exams be graded on a curve? The library was suddenly the most popular hangout on campus and the suggestion box in Coke’s dining hall overflowed with pleas to Make the coffee stronger!
Nick still couldn’t get into his room. Each morning after Nick showered, Tom was kind enough to toss some extra clothes out the door.
“It’s only for the week,” he promised. “And you’ll be glad you made the sacrifice. You’ll be thanking me.”
Nick thought he’d go back to sleeping in the yurt, but it was too damned cold and dark, and he was already sort of over it. The honest truth was he’d built the yurt to impress his mom, and he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about it. He didn’t really want to live out there anyway. Eliza had given him a camping stove, which was very thoughtful of her, but he hadn’t even taken it out of the box.
He just had to face it, he’d never be like Laird Castle, no matter how hard he tried. Laird was hard-core, the type of guy Nick’s mom would have shacked up with in college. She would have been delighted to sleep under the open roof flap, stargazing and toking up and expounding on the wonders of karma. But sleeping outdoors wasn’t even safe—look what had happened to Laird. The common room had a TV, and the sofas were about as comfortable as the futon his mom had replaced his bed with. He could make do, as long as it was just for the week.
Tom stopped painting and left the room only for play rehearsal. He and Adam had the whole play memorized, and they were down to their last three rehearsals.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” Professor Rosen gushed after their Wednesday night run-through in the auditorium. “Tom, I had my doubts about you at first, and I don’t know how you’ve done it, but that was incredible. What’d you think, Nicholas?”
Nick was up on a ladder, adjusting the lights. He hadn’t really paid attention to the rehearsal because he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. The Zoo Story was a one-act with only two actors who never strayed far from the park bench at center stage. He really only needed two spotlights. The problem was figuring out which ones. It didn’t help that he was so high. The pot he’d stolen from his mom was pretty intense.
He sneezed once and then sneezed again. It was dusty up there in the rafters. “Great,” he called back. “Definitely really great.”
“I’m having a party after the play on Saturday,” Adam told Tom. “You should come.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his wool pants. “There’s going to be a keg.”
Tom hadn’t had a drink since he discovered ecstasy. He hadn’t been to any parties either. Or eaten many meals. “Cool,” he said, furiously working his jaw. His beltless, paint-spattered khaki pants hung a few inches below his boxers and his white undershirt clung to his half-starved