Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [88]
Sea Bass rolled down his window. “Nice!” he called out to a pair of girls on cross-country skis. The girls turned their heads and gave him a cheery wave. It was that kind of day.
“Holy shit,” Damascus cried, pointing. “What’s going on?”
Black smoke erupted from Root’s roof. The dorm appeared to be on fire.
“It’s not the dorm.” Geoff squinted out his window. “It’s a forest fire out back.”
Sea Bass put on his blinker and pulled into the driveway that led to the temporary parking lot on the other side of the quad, behind Root. Just beyond the parking lot, near the woods, was a gigantic bonfire. The flames were twenty feet high and dark orange. Sparks flew up into the air like firecrackers. The snow around the fire had already melted.
“It’s the yurt,” Nick said, feeling almost pleased with himself. It served that loser right, living in there without his permission. “The yurt is burning down.”
“No way,” Eliza gasped. The whole damn thing was ablaze. She squeezed his hand protectively. “Holy shit.”
“Holy fucking shit,” Sea Bass exclaimed.
“It’s burning all the way the fuck down,” Damascus said, stating the obvious.
Everyone was quiet for a moment, transfixed by the flames. Then Geoff opened his door. “Hey, come on, you guys,” he said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Let’s check it out.”
They staggered out into the snow. The fire was magnificent. And the authorities didn’t seem to have noticed it yet. Swaying a little from shock and lack of sleep, Nick raised his hand to shield his sore eyes from the smoke. Just beyond the fire rose the chapel spire, its blue light burning bright and blue and true as ever.
Patrick pulled the car up in front of the emergency room. He flicked on the hazard lights and glanced into the backseat. The girl lay in a pile of bloody fur on the plush beige leather, her dark hair spilling onto the floor and her knees bent in a fetal position to accommodate her long legs.
He stepped out of the car, wondering if he should notify someone inside or if he should just carry her in. In movies they just carried them in.
There were a few old people in the waiting room, sleeping.
“She’s bleeding,” Patrick told the woman behind the desk. “She might already be dead,” he added, although he’d seen the girl’s nostrils flare and her brow furrow when he’d dragged her out of the car.
The receptionist stood up and peered at the girl in his arms. She picked up the phone. “I have a bleeder. Possible NGMI. I need wheels!” she barked into it and then slammed the phone down. She pushed a clipboard across the counter. “You’ll need to sign in.”
Patrick just stood there, breathing hard. The girl was heavy in her fur coat. “What should I do?” he said. “Put her on the floor?”
The receptionist took back the clipboard. “Is she your wife?”
Patrick stared back at her for a moment. “No. I don’t even know—” He stopped, and then started again. “She’s my friend.”
“Name? Date of birth?”
“Who, me?” he stammered.
“No, her. What’s her name?” the receptionist said impatiently. “When was she born?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick admitted. “She’s young.”
The receptionist picked up the phone again. “Where the hell are my wheels?” She slammed the phone down. “You can both have a seat until they get here,” she told Patrick.
He staggered over to the nearest chair and sat down with the girl across his lap. Her face was purple and she smelled weird. She looked terrible. The weekend morning news played on the little television rigged in the corner near the ceiling. Just before the commercial, the camera flashed on the big Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. His dad used to take him to see that tree, just the two of them. Every Christmas break, from the time he was about eight until he left for Dexter, they’d ride in on the train, go to Brooks Brothers to buy him a new pair of pants and a jacket, and then they’d visit the tree. They’d just look at it without talking. Sometimes they drank hot chocolate. Then his dad would say, “Better get you back home,” and they’d walk back to Grand Central and he