Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [7]
“Her name is Professor Darren Rosen,” Nick continued. “I’m pretty sure she teaches Freshman English.”
Eliza stared out the window as she eavesdropped on their conversation. She’d actually seen Tom’s and Nick’s ears perk up when Shipley got into the van. They’d pointed, like horny bird dogs. Her father used to have two springer spaniels that he used for hunting ducks. She knew pointing when she saw it.
The van paused at a stop sign and a pale, skinny jogger ran by, his maroon Dexter basketball jersey flapping loosely against his limbs. He reminded Tom of Salvador Dalí’s famous painting of dripping clocks. He’d been running so long, he was melting.
“Pay attention, folks!” Professor Rosen announced. “We’re about to cross the Kennebec River. Two miles downstream is our camp. If anyone has to go pee-pee, find a spot away from the river. It’s ramen noodles for dinner. You’ll be eating a lot of ramen this winter, so why not get used to it now?”
“Ew. Yuck!” The three pink-T-shirted girls moaned a chorus of dismay from the back.
A farm flashed by. A trailer home. A dilapidated barn. More clover, more daisies, more buzzing bees. Motionless cows blinked at the van, insects hovering over their heads in clouds.
“Damn. Did you see that? This whole geographic region is freaking depressing as hell,” Tom complained.
“Hey, man,” Nick countered. “People live here. And they probably hate us, you know? Rich city kids turning up to go to college in their town? Littering on their farms? Driving up the price of bacon or coffee or whatever.”
Nick could feel his earlobes flush a deep, hot pink. He tugged on the flaps of his hat and glanced self-consciously at Shipley, who was busy pretending to gaze dreamily out the window while secretly admiring Tom’s bulging triceps. Eliza continued to glare at the back of Tom’s meat-headed skull, while Tom marveled at the way in which the sunlight reflected off the tiny blond hairs on the tops of Shipley’s thighs, causing them to sparkle. The van turned onto an old logging road that led directly into the woods. It barreled over a pothole, tossing its passengers together as the trees enveloped them.
2
The relationship between town and college is often fraught with tension. The town would like to think it doesn’t need the college, however pretty, to draw visitors. After all, the town has its old mill, its tannery, its rushing river, its dramatic dam. Elm Street is still almost postcard-perfect despite the blight of Dutch elm disease. The pizza and pancakes aren’t half bad. The high school wins the regional championships in both basketball and hockey nearly every year. And the townies are friendly, for the most part.
“Of course you don’t have any money,” Tragedy snapped at her brother. She manipulated her ever-present Rubik’s cube, scrambling it up so she could solve it again. “Neither of us does. And we never will, unless we get the fuck out of Dodge.”
Adam and Tragedy Gatz were not related, but they were brother and sister nonetheless. Tragedy was adopted, and she never let anyone forget it. Their parents, Ellen and Eli, were hippie subsistence farmers and crafts fair vendors. They had both grown up in Brooklyn and had dropped out of Dexter their junior year after taking too much acid and missing too many classes. They got married and, with their parents’ help, bought a dilapidated horse farm right there in Home. Instead of horses, they raised sheep. Ellen spun wool and Eli welded hand-wrought oversized fork, knife, and spoon-shaped fireplace tongs. They ate their own grass-fed lamb and pesticide-free organic vegetables. They baked their own bread and made their own sheep’s milk cheese and yogurt. And they gave birth to a son, Adam. When Adam was four years old, Ellen and Eli adopted the infant daughter of Hector Machado, a Brazilian sheep trader who’d died of a heart attack right on their doorstep, or so the story went. As he lay dying, Hector asked the Gatzes to take care of his baby daughter, whose mother