The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,55

seat.

Upholstered in a phlegm-colored vinyl, the Chevy was equally ugly on the inside as it was on the outside. It was, however, scrupulously clean. The immaculate interior was especially remarkable considering the impromptu nature of the lesson. I mean, it’s not like Sam Goody had any time to quickly clean his car in the effort to impress me. This was its natural state.

And I was impressed.

Until I got a better look.

Sam had put the rear seats down and loaded the hatchback with ropes, metal clamps, a kinky sex-harness type thing…?

Oh my God, a serial killer travel kit.

I knew next to nothing about Sam Goody! What had I been thinking when I followed him to this dark, deserted parking lot? Murders were at a record high in Manhattan, but it was just my sucky luck to fall for a hometown killer.

Sam Goody saw me eyeing the serial killer travel kit and laughed.

“Rock-climbing equipment,” he explained.

“Rock-climbing equipment?” I replied incredulously. “You’re a rock climber?”

I really knew next to nothing about Sam Goody.

“Since I was thirteen,” he said. “A hippie cousin took me out for the first time when we were visiting family in Oregon one summer. I loved the challenge of it—like figuring out where to grab and grip and get myself up there. I was always a cautious kid, not much of a risk-taker, but rock climbing was my way of, I don’t know, being a bit of a daredevil.” He popped open the hatchback and removed a J-shaped metal device. “I guess you could say I was…” He held the clamp up in the space between us. “Hooked right away.”

“That pun,” I groaned, “was way worse than the possibility you were a serial killer.”

“Believe or not, I wasn’t exactly the sporty type in high school.” He swept his hand through his hair and reconsidered. “Actually, that’s not true. I was athletic, but I wasn’t sporty.” A wistful smile crossed his face. “I was the king of the Presidential Physical Fitness Test in elementary school. Remember those?”

I grimaced at the memory of this annual assessment of our athleticism—or lack thereof.

“I could do more pull-ups and climb the rope ladder faster than the jocks—you know, the real jocks—the football, basketball, baseball meatheads,” he said. “And they hated me for it. Especially when I refused to join any of their teams because I wanted nothing to do with all that macho gorilla rah-rah locker-room chauvinism.”

He grunted and pantomimed like a primate—or a typical Pineville High linebacker.

“No high school rock-climbing teams,” I said.

“No championship tournaments,” he added. “No varsity letters.”

“Not much rock climbing in the City of Brotherly Love either, I imagine,” I said, referring to the home of the UPenn campus.

He gave a regretful nod.

“I didn’t think about that when I applied or when I was accepted,” he said. “But I thought about it all the time after I got there.”

This made me wonder what I wouldn’t know I’d miss until after I got to Barnard.

“Let’s get this lesson started, shall we?”

I lowered myself into the driver’s side bucket seat. He walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door—no sticking this time—and got in next to me. Separated by the center console, it was still the closest we’d ever been.

“What’s that smell?” I asked.

He reeled back, alarmed.

“You smell something bad?” he asked. “I try to keep this car clean…”

“Oh no! It’s a good smell! It’s like…” I sniffed. “Lavender?”

“It’s my Yardley Brilliantine hair pomade.” He seemed slightly embarrassed to admit this. “It’s British.”

Sam Goody’s hair was longer than it was when we first met. The pompadour still crested off his scalp, but in a shaggier, less sculptural way. I liked this looser look on him. He wore it well.

“Well, it’s a good smell.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

Mercifully, he did not comment on the funk emanating from my borrowed denim.

From me.

Just to be safe, I took off Sonny’s jacket before pulling my seat belt across my chest.

“So,” Sam Goody said.

“So,” I said.

He dug into the front pocket of his jeans.

I wanted my hand to join his.

I wanted to dig deeper.

I wanted …

He extracted a set of keys on a simple silver ring and dangled them in front of me. I liked that he wasn’t someone who expressed his individuality through quirky keychains. When he dropped them into my outreached palm, I felt a palpable disappointment that our fingertips hadn’t touched. Maybe I had misread Sam Goody yet again. He wasn’t interested in me in the way I was starting to think I