Crying Wolf by Peter Abrahams

ease. Glancing down, he caught Lorenzo shitting again.
    Grace and Izzie led Nat over the hill, back to the freshman quad, around to the parking lot behind Lanark. There were two cars in the lot; the nearest was one of those second-generation Volkswagen Beetles, a very cool car in Nat’s estimation, and he could easily picture them buzzing around in it. He moved toward it, but they kept going.
    The second car was something Nat had seen only in movies, the kind of movies with big stars and holes in the plot. Huge and creamy—the color of farmer’s cream his mom sometimes brought back from the stand on the edge of town—with the top down, despite the cold, and inside soft red leather and dark gleaming wood.
    Grace held open the rear door. Nat started to set the tank on the floor, but she said, “Seat’s okay,” and so he put it there. The leather didn’t feel like any leather he’d ever come in contact with. It was a perfect car for Lorenzo. That was what Nat thought.
    But what he said was: “I thought freshmen couldn’t have cars on campus.” A dumb remark that came out all by itself.
    â€œWe don’t,” Izzie said, tearing off a length of plastic wrap and covering the tank. “We’d been home for two days before we realized we’d forgotten him.”
    â€œYou had fish for supper?” Nat said.
    A pause. They laughed, first Izzie, then Grace.
    â€œDinner,” Grace said.
    â€œBut yes, that’s exactly what happened,” Izzie said.
    They looked at him. He looked at them, saw what he probably would have seen right away if it hadn’t been for the differing color of their hair: they were twins, identical even to the gold flecks in their blue-green irises, gold flecks that gave their eyes that yellow hue similar to Lorenzo’s. He didn’t say,
You’re twins,
because he knew they must hear it all the time. A silent moment or two went by, as though to allow for the phrase to be said; Nat got the feeling they were waiting for it.
    â€œWe’d better get going,” Grace said.
    â€œYou’ve been great,” Izzie said.
    â€œThe hero du jour,” Grace said, sliding in behind the wheel. Izzie sat beside her. Nat stepped away from the car, saw the
RR
on the grille. Grace started the car; it made a wonderful sound.
    â€œWhere’re you headed?” said Izzie.
    â€œHeaded?”
    â€œWhere do you live? Maybe we could give you a lift.”
    â€œPlessey.”
    â€œI mean where are you going for Christmas?”
    â€œNowhere.”
    â€œYou’re a faculty kid?” Grace said.
    â€œNo,” Nat said, and told them where he was from.
    â€œYeah?” said Grace. “Do you know Billy Duckworth? He’s from around there somewhere.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWait a minute,” Izzie said. “Are you saying you’re not going home for Christmas?”
    Nat nodded.
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œIt’s kind of far.”
    The girls glanced at each other. “You’re not going anywhere?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œYou’re staying
here
?” Grace said.
    Nat nodded again.
    â€œBut that’s insane,” Izzie said.
    The girls glanced at each other again. “Tell you what,” Grace said.
    â€œYeah,” said Izzie.
    * * *
    W hy not? Nat couldn’t think of a reason. True, he hardly knew them, but he hardly knew anyone at Inverness, and what better way to start? He did ask, “Shouldn’t you check with your parents?”
    And was told: “No problem.”
    He hurried back to his room—how dreary it seemed now, how much he wanted to get out—to throw a few things in his backpack, collect
Young Goodman Brown
and a few other books, get the money he kept in a shoe in his closet: $70. The list on the wall—
clean room, laundry, write home, work out, get to know town and surroundings,
→
on next semester
—seemed yellowed