Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [74]
Half his surf and turf remained on the platter, untouched. That was the thing about eating a big meal when you’re not used to eating much. He just couldn’t get it all down. He signaled the waitress and requested a doggie bag. He thought about getting up and asking the boyfriend’s parents for directions, pretending he didn’t know his sister, that he was just some visiting dweeb from Connecticut. But then he chickened out. Spying on her was only fun when she had no idea he was there.
Or maybe she did know and she just wasn’t letting on. He’d found a whole bag of men’s clothes from the Darien Sports Shop in the front seat of the car. He was wearing some of them right now. Not that he needed them. That girl who’d brought food and clothes to him in that big tent over Thanksgiving had pretty much set him up, although the stuff from the Darien Sports Shop was nicer.
He reread his sister’s poem. What if she knew he was around and the poem was supposed to be some kind of message? He stared at her over the top of the journal, sending out telepathic messages the best way he knew how. I’m right here, can you see me? Without a glance in Patrick’s direction, his sister wiped off her boyfriend’s mouth, removed a drinking straw from its wrapper and stuck it into his glass of milk. Doggie bag tucked under his arm, Patrick stood up, put on his new black hat and gloves, and left the restaurant, brushing past the back of her chair as he went.
Mrs. Ferguson was trying very hard not to let Tom’s odd behavior ruin the meal. “So how do you like school?” she asked Shipley.
Shipley wiped the chowder drool off Tom’s lower lip and then offered him another spoonful. She took a sip of wine, wishing she could smoke.
“It’s funny how you come to college and just sort of fall in with people,” she mused. “People you never would have expected to fall in with.”
“And have you two fallen in with a good crowd?” Mrs. Ferguson asked, frowning at her son.
Shipley crossed her legs and then uncrossed them again. She wouldn’t exactly call Tom and Nick and Eliza a crowd. They were more like a focus group, although she wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be focusing on.
“Yes. I have some nice new friends.” She crossed her legs again and ate a spoonful of chowder with the same spoon she was using to feed Tom. It was hearty stuff. She licked her lips, gaining courage. “I just think it’s strange how you wind up getting involved with people and, you know, pursuing different avenues than you ever would have otherwise, because of these early connections, the friends you make your first day here. I mean, what if I hadn’t even signed up for orientation and met Tom that first day? Or what if I lived in a different dorm or was a day student?” She thought of Adam.
Mr. Ferguson had finished his drink and was trying to get the waitress’s attention.
“But you’re happy with the way things are?” Mrs. Ferguson asked. She seemed genuinely to care.
Shipley smiled at Tom. His eyes were closed, but he was still eating. “So far so good.”
Mr. Ferguson had two more rounds of scotch. Then the fries and lobsters arrived with the nostril-penetrating odor of hot, fishy grease. Tom had eaten Shipley’s entire bowl of soup and half of his own, although he still had not uttered a word.
“How about some claw meat, son?” Mr. Ferguson suggested. “You love the claws.”
Shipley picked up the cracking tool and wedged a lobster claw inside it. She squeezed the tool between her fingers, cracking the shell. A geyser of clear juice spattered her plate. Using the tiny fork provided, she fished the meat out of the shell and dipped it into a bowl of melted butter. She held the fork up to Tom’s lips. He opened his eyes and stared at the dripping, quivering, coral-colored meat with a dazed expression.
“It looks delicious,” his mother said encouragingly.
“Just a little bite?