Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [82]
Shipley blushed. “I’m sorry. Do I stink?” The dorm was so quiet she hadn’t felt comfortable taking a shower. It was too spooky.
“Kind of,” he admitted. “But don’t worry, it’s not too terrible.”
“I’m sorry.” She moved away from him on the bed.
“No.” He closed up the space between them. “It’s really not bad.”
Shipley allowed herself to look at him again. His face was only inches away. She could see his freckles now. “Someone stole my car,” she told him. “Again.”
“You have to be more careful,” Adam murmured hoarsely. He couldn’t stop smiling. They were breathing all over each other.
This was better than any daydream. Shipley didn’t care what she smelled like, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She bowled Adam over on the bed and straddled his hips.
“I really wanted to go to your party,” she confessed.
Adam kissed his way up to her lips. “It’s better here.”
Shipley slipped out of her shirt and unbuttoned her jeans. The sonata’s final notes resounded from her boom box. Adam kissed her bare hip and slipped her jeans down over her thighs.
She fell back on the bed with an indulgent sigh. “I really need to learn the name of that song.”
Patrick was glad he’d stayed in Maine for the winter. Winter there was so extreme. Sometimes there were warm days like earlier today—a balmy pre-Christmas offering, or a reminder of August. Then the snow came, piling up on the sides of roads and on the roofs of houses, whitening everything and making summer unfeasible.
Back when he was living at home, they’d spent Christmas in the Caribbean. Their parents liked undiscovered beaches on islands where they were the only white people. He’d played dominoes with the local boys on Salt Key. “Patrick, Patrick! Dominoes, Patrick, dominoes!” the boys shouted up at his window in the simple guesthouse where they’d stayed. None of the boys wore shoes, and the palms of their hands were pink like the inside of a fish. The local women made little sundresses for his sister. They went to a parade in the village, and she looked like a doll in her bright yellow dress, her blond hair braided with red beads. His dad took him spear fishing and he caught a barracuda.
The Mercedes skidded on the unplowed road. Up ahead was a nice-looking white farmhouse. Cars were parked willy-nilly all over the yard, and a small herd of sheep was clustered expectantly behind the barn, as if someone had forgotten to feed them. The kitchen lights were on inside the house, but the party was clearly in the barn. He could hear the thrum of guitar music even before he stepped out of the car.
“Bill Clinton is so freaking hot!” A girl’s voice rang out through the chilly air as he trudged through the snow to the house. He mounted the porch steps and peeked through the smudged kitchen window. The house was still and quiet, as if it had been lulled to sleep by the snow. The door was unlocked.
Inside, the kitchen was messy. Patrick opened the fridge, which was covered with paper reminders—Call vet for wormer. Sell manure. Cheese!!—and all manner of crap. The contents of the fridge were even messier. Half-eaten brown apples. Moldy cheese. Hard bread. He was craving something sweet, but he could do a lot better at the Dumpster. A pint of yogurt looked promising, but when he pulled the top off the container, he saw it was filled with coffee beans. He went for a round Saran Wrapped ball of soft cheese that looked fresh and a bunch of green grapes in a plastic bag still tied in a knot from the store. He stuffed the whole ball of cheese into his mouth and then ran the cold tap to wash it down.
Eating the grapes three at a time, he pushed open the kitchen door and stepped out onto the porch. It was snowing even harder now. He could barely even see the barn. When he finally reached it, he slid open the big wooden door and poked his head inside.
Dexter students,