Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [93]
“No,” Nick protested.
“But they’re so unhairy,” Eliza insisted. “Are you sure?”
Nick snorted and kicked his feet. “Would you like to inspect them more carefully?”
Eliza disappeared beneath the blanket. Shipley turned up the volume on Tchaikovsky and reread the same passage of Byron for the third time.
“Hey!” Nick squealed. “Stop it!”
Shipley scraped her chair back and yanked the earphones out of her ears.
“I’ll see you guys later,” she called out, even though neither of them was listening. Out in the hall she picked up the phone and dialed the Gatzes’ number.
“Leave a message or be square!” Tragedy’s loud, cheerful voice intoned on the answering machine.
“It’s Shipley Gilbert calling for Adam,” Shipley said. “There’s no message,” she added stupidly before hanging up.
She lingered in the deserted hallway for a moment, trying to decide what to do. She hadn’t seen Tom yet—no one had—but she suspected he was still sleeping. A good girlfriend would have brought him a free cup of Starbucks coffee and a plate of toast from the dining hall. A good girlfriend would have spent the day with him writing out flash cards and testing him in Econ so he wouldn’t fail his exam. But she’d already proven that she was not such a good girlfriend.
The midday sun was high and bright. Through the hall window she could see the black Mercedes, parked neatly by Dexter Security in a spot near the road. What was the trunk full of now? Donuts? Croissants? Cupcakes?
Four months ago she would have called home to tell on Patrick, but she was not the same person she’d been four months ago. She was not as virtuous or as loyal or as discreet. She was not the good little girl her bad older brother had either teased or ignored. She was not the little sister Patrick had hated so much. She had no idea who she was or what she was becoming, but it was possible that going to see Patrick in jail would help move things along. Never mind Byron. She’d learned enough about Romance over the course of the semester to wing the exam.
Jail was a concrete addition to the Home police station, a low rectangular building with a wheelchair ramp leading up to the entrance. A steady stream of townspeople marched up the ramp and in and out of the door as if it were the post office. What reason did people have to visit the police station, Shipley wondered, unless they were visiting someone in jail?
“Parking tickets to your right,” the uniformed woman behind the front desk told her.
“No, it’s not that,” Shipley faltered. “I’m here to see someone. In your jail?”
“I need your name, relationship to the detainee, and your ID, please,” the woman said.
After she’d waited a few minutes, a male officer led her through the station house to the jail. There were no bars. The only indication of security at all was that once they’d gone through the door to the jail, the officer locked it behind them.
“You have a visitor,” the officer said, knocking on another door in a narrow hallway before opening it with a key. “You okay with him in there?” he asked Shipley.
Now Shipley wished she hadn’t come. It would be fine if someone else were there to do the introductions and most of the talking. But she was on her own.
“I guess,” she told the officer reluctantly. “But can you leave the door open?” The idea of being trapped in there with Patrick was completely terrifying. What would they say to each other?
“That’s fine,” the officer said, opening the door all the way. “That’s standard procedure.” He stepped away from the door and drew up a folding chair in the hallway. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
Patrick sat on a cot, holding a book, his blond hair and beard long and wild. He wore the wool sweater she’d bought him at the Darien Sports Shop, a pair of maroon Dexter sweatpants, and work boots without laces. His ever-present jacket had been removed.
“Hi,” Shipley said. “Nice sweater.”
Patrick looked down at the sweater and then back at his sister. “Thanks.”
“Nice sweatpants too—anyone would think you were still a student.”
Shipley