Fire�s school is large and holey, filled with strange new entrances and exits, garrets and alarming fireplaces. It is like a castle, except my handsome prince has a tongue stud and has to go take a French exam, leaving me free to wander. There are no security guards here. I feel deliciously at home.
First I tackle the fourth floor (they have four floors!) It is majestic, with large lead-paned windows that face out onto courtyards that fill, slowly, with students throughout the period. The lockers�the lockers!�are sturdy iron, or steel: some metal, and covered with paintings. Swirling vines and weird, abstract designs, these are obviously student-done but oh, so magnificent. This school has to be an illusion.
I wind my way down a secret little staircase to the third level, and twist around the hallways for a while, opening doors. One of them, a curious little red door with a charming red knocker, I have to stoop to get through. It opens onto a sunny staircase made of wrought iron and windows all the way up: the way to Rapunzel�s room, I am sure. Hardly realizing what I�m doing, I ascend, taking the steep steps two at a time. I can hardly breathe, so taken over with this wicked little staircase.
And at the top is a mirror, old fashioned with a gilded frame and slightly tarnished glass. My reflection, I swear, winks at me, but despite how cool it is, this is just a mirror. I turn to leave, and then something catches my eye.
This mirror has a knob. They have mirrored doors at Fire�s school. This is brilliant. I knock, slowly, trying to figure out where my hand ends and the door begins. And then, like a dream, a boy opens it, wearing a slick little t-shirt and jeans. He blinks, sleepily, and swings the door open. �Welcome to Art.� says he with a sneer. I don�t even care that he kind of reminds me of Tim. I am obsessed with this school.
The Art room is huge, with giant windowsills that gaze out on some expanse of grass or another. There are tables and sewing machines and cans of paint scattered around the room and a smell of clay dust and brand new paper. The floor has a greenish tint to it; I think it�s made of stone. There is paint on the walls, and on the floor, and on the students, who all are not in the least surprised to come across me, and indeed some of them start to sketch me there, gazing around their secret art room. I peek between file cabinets and there are pictures there, painted on the walls. One of them is a view down a subway grate, but the colors swirl all the way down, somehow at once impossible and realistic. Marc Chagall gazes down on us from a high corner; a tiny print of Yves Klein guards the electrical outlet. Someone put a giant photograph on the ceiling, of a girl. The focus is perfect. The teacher is sleeping on his desk, with a portrait of his sleeping image painted perfectly on his forehead. This is Middlebury sleeping-teacher graffiti.
Finally I leave the art room, dizzy and feeling astounding. This place can�t possibly exist, not in real life. The second floor reassures me, this is a place of learning. There are posters on the walls of bands and paintings, but there are also normal wood doors and linoleum on the floors. Granted, it is wicked cool linoleum, but I am calmed by this new discovery.
I peek out of windows and look at people walking. They don�t seem fazed by this school. I am midway through the first floor when a man in a tight black jacket and jeans comes up to me. Security guard meets that wiggly guy from the Strokes. �Hi,� he says. �I need to know where you�re from, please?� I tell him, sweetly, that I�m a cousin of Fire�s from downstate a bit, and he nods and writes something down. �Just come find me when you�re ready to leave,� this strange, purple-eyed man says. �I�ll be in the Drama room.� He seems to pick up on my puzzlement: security guards don�t do theater, and, kindly, he says that I look like a perfect Galinda, confessing, �We�re doing Wicked this year.�
Fire�s school has scouts. I digest this while the man walks away, and then jump when the bell rings. It is a real bell, hidden behind an eerie stuffed raven in a corner and I fall further in love with this school.
Fire comes up behind me and says hello in his best Sid Vicious voice. It�s pretty terrible. He tells me that school�s over, and that I should probably either come with him to his creative writing meeting or convince him to blow it off. I opt for the latter.
We get in his car, and I rave about his school. Fire nods grimly and then, unexpectedly, pulls over. He says, �Look,� and I do, and there are two girls shooting up in the east entrance. I tell him that it doesn�t matter, and that his school is fantastic. He says, �Oh, right, I forgot how fantastic drugs are,� and then softens. �Chill, please. Where should we go? Care to assist with my physics homework?�
I tell him that for a followed of a thirty-year dead fashion statement, he is pretty boring. He says that there is a gritty little bar show tonight, some local hyper reggae-punk band he likes. �Nous pourrions aller ?"
I nod and ask if he can get me some appropriate clothes, and he stares at me with the lusty appreciation of a preppy girl presented with Trent Reznor and a vast array of sweaters and shampoos. �How�do you feel about�.haircuts?� he presents slowly.