The Finishing School

“I think it was for ratings.”


“You say that because, like most Americans, you think it was a victory for us,” Armand lectures. “But we’ve yet to see how many of our returning soldiers will die from the chemical and biological warfare you never heard much about. CNN didn’t feature that aspect in its nightly war broadcasts.”

“But I’m not American,” Magnus says.

The waiter shows up with their raclette and expertly shaves globs of melted cheese onto their plates. They eat in silence for a few minutes, stretching melted Gruyère from their plates to their lips.

“What’s with all those SIDA stickers everywhere?” Armand says, changing the subject.

“Stop AIDS,” Cressida answers.

“It’s an epidemic here,” Deirdre murmurs, nibbling her potato and avoiding the cheese. “It’s because of all the heroin addicts in Zurich.”

“They just closed one of those needle parks in Zurich to try to stop the spread of HIV.”

“Our French teacher is worried he’s got it,” Magnus says. “He thinks he contracted it from a mosquito when he was in Africa last year.”

“Is that possible?” Deirdre asks, turning white.

“Anything is possible,” Armand says. “We still know so little about it.”

“People are still so ignorant,” Cressida mutters.

“Maybe you could make a musical parody about AIDS,” Magnus says.

Later, after her parents go back to their hotel, Cressida, Magnus, and Kersti head down to Ouchy with a bottle of vodka. They climb the Molecular Structure—their name for what’s supposed to be some sort of art sculpture, but is really just a massive 3-D metal star—and settle in for a few more hours of drinking in the bitter cold, looking out over the black lake.

“Is it just me or are my parents assholes?” Cressida asks them.

“They’re assholes,” Magnus agrees.

“They’re so pretentious. I can’t stand them.”

“I love that the word grandiloquence was dropped into the conversation,” Magnus says. “Well done, Armand. You obnoxious fuck.”

“What’s the point of Parents Weekend anyway?” Kersti says.

“Maybe spending two days a year with us alleviates their guilt?”

“The alternative is they don’t come at all,” Magnus says. “Which is just as bad. Isn’t it, Kuusk?”

“Are you sad your parents didn’t come?” Cressida asks him.

“My father’s doing an album,” he says, sounding a little defensive.

He takes a swig from his bottle and crawls over to Cressida. “It’s with the Edge,” he brags. “He can get you an autograph if you like.”

Cressida snorts in response. Then they start kissing and Kersti stares up at the starless sky, feeling unwanted. She peels off a stop sida sticker and wonders why she keeps subjecting herself to this new arrangement, a threesome in which she is the extraneous third. “I’m going,” she announces. “I’m freezing.”

“Don’t go, Kerst!”

“Let us at least drive you,” Magnus says, slurring his words so it sounds like less least drivoo. Vodka is dripping out of the Rikaloff bottle, which is tipped sideways in his hands.

“I’ll get a taxi,” Kersti says.

“He’s fine to drive,” Cressida assures her, climbing down from the top of the Molecular Structure.

“He’s not fine,” Kersti argues. “He’s wasted. You can kill yourself if you want.”

“It’s just straight up the hill,” Magnus says. “I’ll drive slow.”

They jump down, all three of them stumbling as they land. Magnus throws the vodka bottle out toward the lake but it doesn’t reach and instead smashes on the concrete.

“Gotta work on my throw,” he says, draping his arm around Cressida’s shoulder and leaning on her for support. They stagger over to his uncle’s Mercedes, and against Kersti’s better judgment—which is now highly impaired—she slides into the backseat.

He starts the car. One hill, straight up to the school. All he has to do is not kill them.

Cressida turns back to look at Kersti. She’s typically a happy drunk. Or she’s happy drunk, if there’s any difference. Kersti thinks there probably is. Magnus pulls onto the street with an abrupt jerk and a loud screech of the tires. Kersti reaches for her seat belt and buckles up, instantly regretting her decision not to get a taxi. She looks back wistfully at the lineup of them at the taxi stand. As Magnus swerves around the corner, Cressida flops sideways and slams against the door. Both girls cry out, half-exhilarated, half-terrified.

“Put your seat belt on!” Kersti shouts. Cressida doesn’t listen.

Magnus cranks up the radio. It’s an angry Alanis Morissette song that throbs in sync with Kersti’s pounding heart. She’s got her eye on the speedometer and it’s climbing fast. Sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety kilometers per hour on the curvy cobblestone streets. “Slow down!” she cries. “Are you fucking crazy?”

Magnus ignores her, taking the corners like a Formula 1 driver, recklessly pressing down on the gas, relishing the girls’ terror. “Stop the car!” Kersti yells, gripping the seat in front of her. “Stop the fucking car! I want to get out!”

Without any warning, Magnus abruptly stops. Kersti flies forward but the seat belt jerks her back, probably saving her life. Cressida, unbuckled in the front, instinctively throws up her leg to protect herself. There’s a terrible smashing sound, a loud scream—possibly Kersti—and then silence.

Kersti opens her eyes, looks around to assess the damage. See who’s still alive. They haven’t crashed into anything.

“Holy fuck,” Magnus mutters. “Look what you did, Cress.”

That’s when Kersti notices the windshield. The glass is cracked in a spiderweb pattern. It looks like a bullet hole, but it’s Cressida’s boot heel that did it.

“Look what I’ve done?” Cressida says, incredulous. “That would have been my head if I hadn’t put up my leg!”

“Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck. My uncle’s car.”

“Serves you right,” Cressida admonishes.

“Are you okay?” Kersti asks her. Her voice is a tremor, her whole body shaking.

“Yes, thank you for asking. What about you?”

“I’m okay,” Kersti responds, too shaken to move.

“You should go, Kerst,” Cressida says. “Or you’ll get in trouble. It’s almost curfew.”

Kersti leaves them sitting in Magnus’s car, battered and fighting, with their shared death wish and extraordinary sense of entitlement. When she gets back to school, Mme. Hamidou knocks on her door.

“Where’s Cressida?” she asks. “It’s past curfew.” She has her usual nighttime smell of toothpaste and cigarettes. She’s wearing a green velour robe with running shoes.

“She was in a car accident,” Kersti says.

“A car accident? With her parents? Why hasn’t anyone called the school?”

“Not with her parents.”

“With who? Is she all right?” The panic on Hamidou’s face is as genuine as if Cressida were her own daughter. She more or less is.

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