Cecily Von Ziegesar Read Online Free PDF Page B

was unlocked. Patrick slid in behind the wheel and put his coffee in one of the cup holders between the seats. Closing the door, he sank back into the cushiony tan leather. The car smelled stale and sweet. He touched the steering wheel with his fingertips. It was hot.
    Shipley had been nine years old when he left for boarding school. Whenever he got kicked out, he’d return home for a brief stint before moving on to yet another school. But even as the years passed, he still thought of his sister as that nine-year-old girl, dutifully setting the table, a headband in her blond hair. Her fingernails were clean, she chewed with her mouth closed, she wore a tutu. How could anyone be that good all the time? She was fourteen when his family dropped him off at Dexter. She wore braces and dangly earrings, but she was still good. And she seemed frightened of him, as if his complete disinterest in pleasing anyone else would somehow rub off on her, cause her to miss the school bus.
    Was it possible that Shipley was now at Dexter?
    He removed a cigarette from the half-empty pack and lit it with the little yellow lighter that was tucked inside.
    The summer he was sixteen, he’d gone on an Outward Bound hiking trip in the Canyonlands of Utah. The group consisted of seven kids between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, three other guys, three girls, plus two trip leaders who were both male and in their twenties. He was the only kid whose parents had paid for the trip. The others had been sent as an alternative to juvenile detention or drug rehab, and their tuition was subsidized. Hissister was up in Vermont at sleepaway camp, learning to ride horses and shoot a bow and arrow. She’d begged their parents to go. He hadn’t made any plans at all. So there he was, in Utah.
    â€œLet’s gather around in a circle,” one of the leaders said on that first morning, after a van had dropped them off in the middle of some dusty nowhere and they’d strapped on their packs and hiked for a few miles. Except for the provisions that had been distributed evenly among them, Patrick’s pack was empty. Outward Bound had sent a list of what to bring, but he’d left his bag on the plane. He was totally unequipped. He didn’t even have a toothbrush.
    â€œWe’re going to do a little get-to-know-you exercise,” the leader explained. He wore a pair of Smith ski goggles on his head even though it was summer.
    â€œJust say your name and then the first thing that comes into your head,” the leader continued. “We’ll start with you first.” He smiled at a skinny girl with bruised shins.
    She squirmed around a little before speaking up. “I’m Colleen. I steal.”
    The leader nodded like that was good news. He pointed at the next kid.
    â€œI’m Roy. I’m jonesing.” Roy had a red mohawk.
    The leader pointed at Patrick.
    â€œI’m Patrick.” He told them. “Pink Patrick.”
    The entire group howled with laughter, leaders included.
    â€œMotherfucking faggot!” Colleen shrieked, covering her mouth with her gold-ringed hands.
    After that he was Pink Patrick for good. On the second night of the trip, he hitched his pack onto his shoulders and started walking. No one followed him. They were too busy playing I Spy and Concentration.
    He walked through the desert for an entire night and all thenext day without eating or drinking anything. It was hot. He was wearing jeans. His eyelids and tongue were swollen and heavy. Finally he reached an Indian reservation—a group of trailers and RVs with pieces of Astroturf cut to fit around them like lawns. An overweight Indian smoking a cigarette in a plastic lawn chair outside an RV stood up and handed him his half-empty can of Tab. Patrick gulped it down, feeling it burn the lining of his stomach with its fizzy brownness. He waited on the piece of Astroturf while the Indian went inside. He came out and handed Patrick a