Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [94]
She pressed her back against the wall. The only place to sit down was the bed, and Patrick was already sitting on it.
“That depends,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what it depended on. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Patrick had spoken face-to-face. “Did you know Mom and Dad split up? Did you know Dad has a place in Hawaii? He’s taking me there, after exams. Oh, and that big tent thing on campus caught fire. The yurt. It’s totally wild.” She put her hands on her hips. “What have you been doing all this time anyway? Where have you been?”
Patrick shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve been around.”
He wasn’t surprised about their parents. They’d always argued a lot. And he wasn’t surprised about the tent either. He’d made a pretty good fire.
“So are you going to bail me out?” he repeated. He needed to see how that girl was doing. He didn’t really care, he just needed to know.
Shipley glanced around the room. Now that she’d been in there for a few minutes it felt more like a cell. There was no window, and nothing in it except a cot, a toilet, and a sink. “What are you reading?” she asked.
Patrick turned the book over in his hands. “It’s the Bible,” he said. “I was reading something else, but it got ruined. And you know, the Bible isn’t so bad.”
Shipley waited for him to launch into some kind of sanctimonious religious lecture. Patrick had been known to delve into certain belief systems, like paganism or mysticism, becoming very devout and intolerant of anyone who didn’t share the same beliefs, until he found something new to believe in. And there was always a book. The Bible was almost too obvious though. With his long hair and unkempt beard he already looked a lot like Jesus.
“Maybe I should read it sometime,” she said, although she had no intention of doing so. They’d taken her bag at the front desk; otherwise she’d have lit a cigarette. “So what will you do when you get out of here?” she asked. “I mean, you can’t keep on stealing the car.”
Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. Besides, that car’s mine too.”
Shipley rolled her eyes. She really wished she had a cigarette.
“I have to see someone,” Patrick told her. “Can you please get me out of here so I can do that, please?”
Shipley had never heard him speak in this way, like he actually cared about something. “Fine,” she said. “You know I have exams tomorrow?” She poked her head out the door and beckoned the waiting officer. “What do I have to do to get him out?”
Because Shipley had not pressed charges, and there was no evidence that Patrick had done anything else illegal, all she had to do was get a cash advance on her credit card and post bail.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said as she signed the receipt.
The same male officer led Patrick out to the reception area and handed him over to her, like a gift she didn’t want. Again she thought of calling their parents, but it was more interesting not to. She would have enough of them at Christmastime.
“Okay, so who is this person you so desperately need to see?” she asked once they were outside.
It would have helped if Patrick knew the girl’s name.
“Only family,” the hospital receptionist told them.
“But I brought her here,” Patrick protested. “She was wearing a fur coat and she was bleeding. Are you saying she’s alive?”
Shipley wondered if maybe she should have called her dad after all.
The receptionist squinted at a piece of paper on her desk. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Patrick.”
She squinted at the paper again. “Do you by any chance go by Pink Patrick?”
Shipley walked over to a chair. “I’ll just wait here while you visit.” She sat down and picked up the November issue of Time magazine with Bill Clinton on the cover.
“She’s been waiting for you,” the receptionist told Patrick. “It’s upstairs. Tragedy Gatz. Room 209. Just got moved out of surgery.”
Shipley dropped the magazine on the floor. Patrick was already walking toward the elevator. “Wait!” she called, rushing over to join him. “Wait for me!”
The receptionist