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Authors: Amber Dermont
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any point during the evening. Every night before lights out, Yazid turned the paper in to Coach Tripp as proof that all of us was asleep and accounted for even if none of us was asleep or accounted for. Tazewell called Yazid “Prince Yaz” to his face and “the Assassin” behind his back. Yazid had nicknamed Tazewell “Boyat” and Kriffo “Sharmuta.” He promised that these were Arabic terms of respect, but I wasn’t so sure.
Yazid was busy wearing giant headphones and beating a pair of drumsticks against an electric drum pad. I waved, wrote my name on Yazid’s sign-in sheet, and left the dorm.
While the New boathouse actually held the crew shells and team equipment, the Old Boathouse functioned as a clubhouse. As we walked into the night, Taze explained his plans to paint “Class of ’88” on the Old Boathouse roof. When I asked him why we were going to paint this rather lame graffiti, he countered, “Because I’m a maverick. We’re mavericks.”
“Then why don’t we paint ‘Mavericks’ on the roof instead?” “Then no one will know who painted it.” Tazewell chugged a beer,
then smashed the glass against the asphalt. “It has to be ‘Class of ’88.’ That way, the whole world will know it’s us. Otherwise, some lame- ass sophomore will claim credit.”
As pranks go, it was pretty innocent, not at all what I expected from Tazewell. Toward the end of our freshman year at Kensington, Taze was the only one of us ballsy enough to seek revenge on the seniors for all of their dickish hazing. On his own dime, Taze bought thousands of crickets from some pet shop and released the critters inside the seniors’ dorm. “A plague on their house,” he joked. What made Taze’s prank especially diabolical was that he did it during finals week. The seniors couldn’t study or sleep with the dorm buzzing from all those crickets hacksawing their legs together.
The rest of the gang waited for us in the dark, swinging paint cans and brushes. Race stood in the middle with a long metal flashlight. He shined the beam at our faces.
“Fuck off, Race,” Tazewell said.
Race took a playful swing at him. They grappled. I could still see the rope burns and bruises around Race’s neck. We’d barely exchanged words since the accident.
“Cut it out, you two.” Diana wore a black minidress and velvet headband, with a pack of Marlboro Reds tucked down into her cleavage.
She made me want a cigarette.
Diana held her same silver lighter by her side, snapping but not igniting the cartridge. “We have to be careful,” she warned.
“Listen to Tough Girl here,” Kriffo said, carrying two buckets of paint in one hand and a bottle of Southern Comfort in the other.
Tazewell let go of Race. “Is anyone up top?”
“We waited for you,” Kriffo answered.
“Onward, then.”
I followed Tazewell and asked, “We have a ladder?”
“Ladder? We don’t need no stinking ladder. Build our own human chain.” Tazewell leapfrogged onto Kriffo’s back. He stood on his friend’s shoulders, grabbed hold of the gutters, and pulled himself up onto the roof. “Who’s next?”
Race climbed onto Kriffo’s shoulders, went up, and then helped Di, Brizzey, and another girl I didn’t recognize. The girls carried paintbrushes and lifted cans up to Tazewell. Everyone smelled like cheap beer. I went last.
“How’s Kriffo getting up?”
“Big guy’s afraid of heights. It’s cool, though. He’ll be lookout.” Tazewell opened a paint can with Race’s new Swiss Army knife. “Jason, I’d like you to meet Nadia. Her mother’s Yugoslavian, but she’s a Southern belle, a Georgia peach. Directly descended from Gone with the Wind .” He motioned to the girl who stood holding a paint roller, staring at her own feet.
Nadia looked significantly younger than any of us. Her brown hair fell just below her ears. Her body petite and boyish. If she’d been wearing a baseball cap, I’d have mistaken her for somebody’s kid brother. Brizzey
Yazid was busy wearing giant headphones and beating a pair of drumsticks against an electric drum pad. I waved, wrote my name on Yazid’s sign-in sheet, and left the dorm.
While the New boathouse actually held the crew shells and team equipment, the Old Boathouse functioned as a clubhouse. As we walked into the night, Taze explained his plans to paint “Class of ’88” on the Old Boathouse roof. When I asked him why we were going to paint this rather lame graffiti, he countered, “Because I’m a maverick. We’re mavericks.”
“Then why don’t we paint ‘Mavericks’ on the roof instead?” “Then no one will know who painted it.” Tazewell chugged a beer,
then smashed the glass against the asphalt. “It has to be ‘Class of ’88.’ That way, the whole world will know it’s us. Otherwise, some lame- ass sophomore will claim credit.”
As pranks go, it was pretty innocent, not at all what I expected from Tazewell. Toward the end of our freshman year at Kensington, Taze was the only one of us ballsy enough to seek revenge on the seniors for all of their dickish hazing. On his own dime, Taze bought thousands of crickets from some pet shop and released the critters inside the seniors’ dorm. “A plague on their house,” he joked. What made Taze’s prank especially diabolical was that he did it during finals week. The seniors couldn’t study or sleep with the dorm buzzing from all those crickets hacksawing their legs together.
The rest of the gang waited for us in the dark, swinging paint cans and brushes. Race stood in the middle with a long metal flashlight. He shined the beam at our faces.
“Fuck off, Race,” Tazewell said.
Race took a playful swing at him. They grappled. I could still see the rope burns and bruises around Race’s neck. We’d barely exchanged words since the accident.
“Cut it out, you two.” Diana wore a black minidress and velvet headband, with a pack of Marlboro Reds tucked down into her cleavage.
She made me want a cigarette.
Diana held her same silver lighter by her side, snapping but not igniting the cartridge. “We have to be careful,” she warned.
“Listen to Tough Girl here,” Kriffo said, carrying two buckets of paint in one hand and a bottle of Southern Comfort in the other.
Tazewell let go of Race. “Is anyone up top?”
“We waited for you,” Kriffo answered.
“Onward, then.”
I followed Tazewell and asked, “We have a ladder?”
“Ladder? We don’t need no stinking ladder. Build our own human chain.” Tazewell leapfrogged onto Kriffo’s back. He stood on his friend’s shoulders, grabbed hold of the gutters, and pulled himself up onto the roof. “Who’s next?”
Race climbed onto Kriffo’s shoulders, went up, and then helped Di, Brizzey, and another girl I didn’t recognize. The girls carried paintbrushes and lifted cans up to Tazewell. Everyone smelled like cheap beer. I went last.
“How’s Kriffo getting up?”
“Big guy’s afraid of heights. It’s cool, though. He’ll be lookout.” Tazewell opened a paint can with Race’s new Swiss Army knife. “Jason, I’d like you to meet Nadia. Her mother’s Yugoslavian, but she’s a Southern belle, a Georgia peach. Directly descended from Gone with the Wind .” He motioned to the girl who stood holding a paint roller, staring at her own feet.
Nadia looked significantly younger than any of us. Her brown hair fell just below her ears. Her body petite and boyish. If she’d been wearing a baseball cap, I’d have mistaken her for somebody’s kid brother. Brizzey
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