Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

Nat carried Lorenzo’s tank out of the bio lab by himself. “Sure you don’t want help?” Izzie said.

“It’s not heavy.” But it got heavier, and Nat was glad they were walking ahead of him, unaware that although he was carrying it, and would do so for as long as he had to, he wasn’t doing it with 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.

“We 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.”

“You had fish for supper?” Nat said.

A pause. They laughed, first Izzie, then Grace.

“Dinner,” Grace said.

“But 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.

“We’d better get going,” Grace said.

“You’ve been great,” Izzie said.

“The 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.

“Where’re you headed?” said Izzie.

“Headed?”

“Where do you live? Maybe we could give you a lift.”

“Plessey.”

“I mean where are you going for Christmas?”

“Nowhere.”

“You’re a faculty kid?” Grace said.

“No,” Nat said, and told them where he was from.

“Yeah?” said Grace. “Do you know Billy Duckworth? He’s from around there somewhere.”

“No.”

“Wait a minute,” Izzie said. “Are you saying you’re not going home for Christmas?”

Nat nodded.

“How come?”

“It’s kind of far.”

The girls glanced at each other. “You’re not going anywhere?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You’re staying here?” Grace said.

Nat nodded again.

“But that’s insane,” Izzie said.

The girls glanced at each other again. “Tell you what,” Grace said.

“Yeah,” said Izzie.

Why 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 with age, but that had to be the effect of the weak light coming through the window.

“Who’s this?” Izzie called from the outer room; Grace was driving the car around to the lot behind Plessey.

“My mom.” Her picture was on his desk. Patti’s picture was in the bedroom. In the bedroom, out of Izzie’s sight: he smothered that thought at birth.

“You look like her,” Izzie was saying. “In a Y chromosome kind of way.”

He found himself staring at Patti’s picture. Was her smile a little forced? He’d never noticed.

“What’s this thing?” Izzie called.

“A shrine to Alfred Hitchcock.”

“Yeah?”

Something in her tone made him add, “It’s my roommate’s.”

“Who’s your roommate?”

Nat told her.

“Is he from Sewickley?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my God what?” he said, leaving his bedroom.

“Nothing.”

But when they got to the car that was the first thing she told Grace.

“How did he get in here?” said Grace.

“He’s brilliant,” Nat said. “What are you talking about?”

Izzie got in the front, Nat in the back, beside Lorenzo. Grace drove out of the lot, onto Spring Street, which soon became Route 2. She stepped on the gas. Red-wrapped gifts spilled out from under the front seats.

They floated out of town, or soared, or simply zoomed, but whatever it was had nothing to do with any car ride in Nat’s experience.

“How’s Lorenzo?” Izzie called back.

Nat checked. Lorenzo was doing what he did, the water in his tank almost motionless. “The same.”

“Quel relief.”

Except for Thanksgiving, Nat hadn’t been out of Inverness since his arrival, had seen little of the countryside. Now it scrolled quickly by, dark and austere, but at the same time there was something he liked about it, maybe just that it seemed so ancient. Snow began falling, tiny flakes that never landed, melted in midair by the silent blast from the many vents of the car’s heating system; no one even suggested putting the top up. Nat thought of Mr. Beaman’s snow globe collection; then remembered that his mom would be calling on Christmas Day.

He leaned forward into the space between the girls. Tendrils of their hair-Grace’s light blond, almost silver, Izzie’s darker, almost brown-blown by the wind, brushed his face from both sides. “Could we stop at the next phone booth?” he said. “I forgot to make a call.”

Izzie tossed him a cell phone. He’d never used one, but of course there was nothing to it. He checked the time, dialed Mr. Beaman’s office. His mom answered. Nat wanted to say, “Guess where I’m calling from?” and almost did. Instead he told her he was going to New York with friends, would call from there.

“New York City?” she said. “That’s so exciting. Is it all right with the parents?”

“Yes.”

“Be sure to bring them a present. And write a thank-you note after.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“And Nat?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

He heard Mr. Beaman calling her in the background. A very clear connection-Nat could even pick up the impatience in his tone.

The hero du jour. It was like one of those fairy tales where the young adventurer performs a bold deed-in this case, the rescue of Lorenzo the Magnificent-and is brought to the castle. They were crossing the George Washington Bridge, towers by the score rising before them, when Nat thought of the perfect present: a bottle of that pink wine, zinfandel, preferably a big one. Thank God he’d memorized the label.