Class by Cecily von Ziegesar Page A

I’m his little sister, Tragedy,” the tall, olive-skinned girl standing beside him explained, hands on the hips of her white chef’s apron. She wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a white bikini top and a Yankees cap. A blue teddy bear peeked out of her apron pocket. She was obviously a sports fan. “Let’s hope you didn’t fuck up our lawn or my dad will nail your ass to a tree. He’s completely anal about his grass.”
    “Do you have any food?” Tom asked, barging up the steps. “We’re starving, so if you have anything to eat at all, we’d really appreciate it.” He knew he ought to have been more polite,but all that vomiting had left him feeling pretty hollow inside. If he didn’t get a ham sandwich, quick, he was going to pass out.
    “Of course. Definitely.” Tragedy held the screen door open wide. “Please, come on in.”
    Shipley glanced behind her to see what Nick and Eliza were up to. Nick stood on one foot like a flamingo, looking hesitant and uncomfortable with that ridiculous Band-Aid pasted between his eyebrows. “And then we’d better get back,” he mumbled. “Otherwise they’ll think we got eaten by bears or something.”
    Eliza stuffed her hands in the pockets of her cutoffs and approached the porch. “As long as they’ve got food,” she agreed with stoned reluctance.
    The four newcomers sat stiffly at the kitchen table while Adam and Tragedy dug around for food and drink. The house was topsy-turvy, with books and clothes and tools for gardening or welding or fixing cars scattered all over the place. A woodstove hunkered in the corner of the kitchen. It seemed to be the only available cooking device.
    “Is this really where you live?” Shipley asked incredulously. She meant was this where they lived all the time; it wasn’t just a country house where they pretended to be farmers while most of the time they lived someplace urban and modern like Los Angeles.
    “I was even born here in the house,” Adam admitted.
    “Mom doesn’t believe in doctors,” Tragedy elaborated. “She and Dad are from a place called Park Slope, in Brooklyn. They met at Dexter, but they dropped out to start this farm. They grow vegetables and raise sheep for wool and milk. And they make these totally useless fireplace tools. That’s where they are now—at a crafts fair, selling their stupid tools.”
    Adam put four brown bottles on the table. “Dad makes hisown beer. It’s kind of cloudy and it tastes a little funky at first, but once you get used to it it’s pretty good.”
    “I’ll have wine,” Eliza said.
    “Me too,” Shipley agreed.
    “A wise choice.” Tragedy arranged this morning’s batch of chocolate chip cookies on a plate and presented it to her guests. She liked to bake. It helped relieve the boredom. “Let me guess. You guys are freshmen and you bagged the overnight?”
    “Kind of.” Hat Boy shoved a cookie into his mouth. “I’m Nick.” He pointed at the beefy guy seated across from him. “That’s Tom.” Then he pointed at the blonde. “That’s Shipley.” Finally he pointed at the girl with the bangs. “And that’s Eliza.” He swallowed the cookie and reached for another one. “Sorry if we’re acting wacko. We’re pretty stoned.”
    So that was their problem. Tragedy removed the blue teddy bear from her apron pocket—a weird accessory, even for her. Then she grabbed a tall Coca-Cola glass and filled it to the brim with red wine. “Adam’s going to be in your class.” She handed the glass to Shipley and poured another one for Eliza. “He was too cheap to sign up for orientation though.”
    Adam uncapped a beer and took a gingerly sip. “I would have had to pick $150 worth of blueberries to pay for it,” he told his sister. He noticed Shipley was staring at him and instantly regretted any mention of picking blueberries.
    “That’s a lot of blueberries,” Tom observed with his mouth full of cookies. He’d never eaten anything so good in his entire life. He