Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [68]
Tom held onto the bottle in his pocket. “Got it,” he said. He’d been on edge all day. Hopefully this would help.
“Here, you can use this,” Grover said when they were outside. He removed the red bandanna from his shaved head and handed it to Tom. “Good luck, son.”
Wills gave Tom a high five. “You’re the shit.”
Liam pulled Tom into a bear hug. “Break a leg.”
“Bonne chance,” said Geoff.
Tom headed off on his own toward the Student Union. The setting sun looked like Tang-flavored crude oil, dripping from the treetops. It was already December, but the weather was freakishly warm. The quad was littered with tired, overcaffeinated students sprawled on top of their discarded parkas, taking a break from cramming to enjoy the sunset. The day’s last gunshots resounded in the woods beyond campus as hunters all over Maine enjoyed the weather and brought in their seasonal quota of deer, quail, grouse, pheasant, fox, coyote, squirrel, raccoon, woodchuck, and rabbit. At midday the thermometer had skyrocketed to seventy degrees. Around midnight the temperature was set to drop, and a heavy snowfall would commence.
For his costume, Tom had settled on a plain white undershirt, a pair of black suit pants without a belt, and his battered Stan Smith tennis sneakers with no socks. Jerry seemed like the kind of guy who would pick up a pair of suit pants from the Salvation Army because he thought they would last a long time and they cost only fifteen cents. Tom thought he looked sort of like Marlon Brando in one of his old movies—Brando with a big bottle of diethyl ether in his pocket. He quickened his pace. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to get thoroughly intoxicated before the curtain rose.
Out in the Student Union visitors parking lot, Adam leaned into the open passenger-side window of his parents’ pickup and stole a french fry out of the greasy McDonald’s bag Tragedy had been carrying around with her all day.
“I can’t believe you said there’d be horseshoes,” he muttered.
Tragedy rolled her eyes. “The party will rock. You’ll see.”
Eli Gatz switched off the ignition and pulled on his droopy gray mustache. His blue eyes were wide and excited-looking. Adam could tell his father was nervous for him. Acting in a play was not something Eli had taken on during his tenure at Dexter. In fact, he hadn’t taken on much except Ellen and tab upon tab of LSD.
“Son, why don’t you run in and get ready?” Eli said. “We’ll stay here while your sister finishes her snack.”
Ellen sat in the middle of the pickup’s crowded cab, her stocky legs straddling the gearbox. “Her revolting snack,” she said, holding her nose.
“That’s what you get for raising me organic,” Tragedy quipped, stuffing her face.
Ellen leaned across Tragedy’s lap and admired her handsome son. Adam wore a gently worn charcoal gray 1960s J. Press suit, courtesy of Family Clothes of Yesteryear. She’d bought a genuine raccoon fur coat for herself at the same time, just for a hoot.
“You look very smart, hon. We’re taking off for your Uncle Laurie’s right after the play. So break a leg, and have a wonderful party, but try to keep it in the barn,” she warned. “Or trash the house and get a girl pregnant—just don’t come whining to me about it.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Adam said.
A group of students headed inside the Student Union.
“Stay gold, Pony Balls.” Tragedy made the sign of the cross in the air with a french fry.
“Okay, see you guys.” Adam buttoned the middle button of his suit jacket and stepped away from the pickup, his body stiff with nerves. He and Tom really did have the play memorized, and Professor Rosen had been all smiles at rehearsal, but it was bound to feel different in front of a live audience—in front of her.
Oddly enough, their nightly rehearsals this past week had been almost therapeutic. Every night he got right up close to his jealousy and resentment instead of moping alone in his room. And each night Tom seemed more and more unhinged, muttering to himself and