Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [73]
“Drink some water, Tom,” Mrs. Ferguson told her son. “You’re probably dehydrated.”
“He’s drunk,” Mr. Ferguson countered. He raised his hand to signal the waitress. “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks, and my wife would like a glass of white wine. Chardonnay, or Pinot Grigio, or whatever you have.” He glanced at Shipley. “Make that two. And a glass of milk for the boy.”
Tom put his head down on the table. “Oh wow,” he moaned. “Wow!”
“Let’s get some food in you,” Mrs. Ferguson said as she perused the menu. “You always love a nice big lobster.”
“Why don’t we share one?” Shipley suggested, placing her hand on Tom’s knee. She and Tom hadn’t seen each other since before Thanksgiving. It was a relief just to be near him, even if he wasn’t quite himself.
Tom flinched at her touch. His pant legs were damp with sweat. “I’m not really hungry,” he slurred.
Mrs. Ferguson sniffed her wine and took a gingerly sip. “What is that dreadful smell?”
“It’s fish, dear,” Mr. Ferguson said, tipping back his glass. “This is a fish restaurant.”
“No. It’s a chemical smell,” Mrs. Ferguson argued as she sniffed the air. “Like formaldehyde or paint.”
Shipley could smell it too. She’d smelled it on the way over, in the backseat of the Fergusons’ Audi. It was coming from Tom. She wondered if it were possible to do so much ecstasy that your sweat smelled like chemicals. In fact, she’d been so distracted by Tom’s odor, and by his behavior in general, that she hadn’t even noticed her car parked outside the Lobster Shack.
Tom’s parents ordered two lobsters for everyone to share, a basket of fries, garlic bread, and fish chowder to start. Tom’s head was still on the table. He appeared to be asleep.
“Tom?” Shipley leaned down to whisper in his ear. Her lips brushed his hair. “We’re in a restaurant.”
Tom turned his head and kissed her on the mouth. His lips tasted terrible, like salt and rubbing alcohol and bleach. Shipley pushed him away, blushing. “I think he’s okay,” she told his parents.
“Drink your milk, son,” Mr. Ferguson commanded and gulped down his scotch.
Tom sat up and stared at the tall glass of cool milk. Milk had always seemed so appealing to him before—he couldn’t get enough of it—but now the idea of drinking it seemed completely foreign to him. The idea of doing anything except breathing in more ether vapors did not excite him at all. The bottle was in his coat pocket, with Grover’s bandanna. He could just slip off to the men’s room and—
“I mean it now,” Mr. Ferguson said firmly.
Tom did as he was told. The milk was lukewarm and felt furry going down. The waitress brought their chowder. Chunks of white fish floated in a gelatinous creamy stew.
“Now eat your soup,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It looks delicious. I don’t know what they feed you up here, but you’re wasting away to nothing.” She shook her head. “We used to worry about putting on weight at college.” She smiled at Shipley and took a sip of wine. “Just be sure to get your vitamins, both of you. You’re still growing.”
Shipley picked up her spoon and tasted the soup. “It’s very good,” she confirmed. She tied a plastic bib around Tom’s neck, dipped her spoon into the bowl, and offered it to him. “Here, taste.”
Tom’s trembling lips parted and he allowed her to feed him the soup. It was salty and hot and he hadn’t eaten in days. “More,” he murmured, leaving his own spoon untouched. “Please?”
From across the room, Patrick watched his sister spoon-feeding her boyfriend like he was some kind of overgrown baby. It was sort of hypocritical of her to write a poem about how nutso he was when her own boyfriend couldn’t even hold a spoon. The guy was like a giant version of a doll she used to have, the one that ate applesauce and then crapped it out into its little doll potty. Real Live Baby, or whatever the hell it was called. She looked happy, feeding him. So happy she had no idea she was being watched. Once he’d decided