Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [8]
Right now Adam and Tragedy were sitting in Adam’s battered white Volkswagen GTI on the shoulder of the road leading through campus, directly opposite Dexter College’s new Student Union. They were arguing about whether or not to try and finagle some free coffee. Of course Tragedy would be the one to do the finagling; she always was.
“I don’t see why you can’t just make coffee at home,” Adam said, trying to be reasonable.
But Tragedy was never reasonable. “Doesn’t taste the same. Especially not with ewe’s milk.” She set her Rubik’s cube down on the dashboard. “A feta-cheese-fucking-cino?” She stepped out of the car. “No, thank you,” she added and slammed the door.
The freshmen had left for their orientation trips, and registration for the upperclassmen wouldn’t begin until the day after tomorrow. Except for the few older students who’d arrived early, the campus was quiet. Adam watched his sister cross Homeward Avenue and stride purposefully up the walk to the Student Union, her waist-length ponytail bobbing behind her.
It was Tragedy’s fault Adam had graduated from high school virtually friendless. Over the course of his senior year, Tragedy had grown six inches taller in as many months. Her hips and chest developed at the same rapid rate, forcing her to switch from junior misses to women’s sizes. “Your sister is ridiculously hot, man,” Adam’s classmates would protest. “How can you stand it? After all, you’re not even related.” Then someone seeded the rumor that Adam’s relationship with his sister was more than brotherly, and instantly both he and Tragedy became social outcasts.
Of course nothing had ever transpired to justify the rumors, but Tragedy kept right on developing, and for the population of Home High and the town of Home itself, that was justification enough. The irony was, Adam didn’t see it. He didn’t see what was so ridiculously hot about his sister. She was simply his little sister—annoying, confrontational as hell, impossibly demanding, constantly around, and because beggars can’t be choosers, his only friend.
Tragedy studied the menu board on the wall of the Student Union’s new Starbucks café, trying to make sense of the ridiculous Italianate lingo. Tall was small, grande was bigger, and venti was the biggest. A few Starbucks had opened in Maine’s larger towns—it had been reported that the chain was growing at a rate of one new outpost per day—but this was Home’s first, and her first time ever inside one. It was very clean and orderly, definitely a step up from Boonies, the greasy muffin shop littered with old newspapers and overflowing ashtrays and equipped with the most disgusting bathroom in New England.
The pimply guy behind the counter stared her up and down. He was probably wondering why he’d never laid eyes on her before. She was kind of hard to miss.
“I only have a dollar,” she told him boldly. “But I don’t want to spend it.” She was fond of getting away with murder. It was her favorite sport.
“That’s okay,” the guy responded, staring moronically at her chest. He dragged his palms across the green fabric of his apron. “What can I get for you?”
She glanced up at the board again, searching for the most expensive beverage they offered. “I’ll take a venti mocha cappuccino thingy with lots of whipped cream and chocolate powder and a couple extra shots of espresso. And give me one of those chocolate biscotti cookies too, please. Oh, and make sure you use fair trade coffee.”
The guy’s pimply cheeks turned pink. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘fair trade.’ It’s okay if you can’t pay for it.”
She stared at him, enraged. How hard was it to know what was going on in the world? How hard was it to use your mind? “You sell coffee but you don’t know what fair trade means?” she demanded with disgust. “And they call this a liberal arts college. Who grew that coffee? Who picked it? Who’s profiting here?