24
THERE’S MORE THAN JUST SHOES AND JEANS IN SPENCER’S CLOSET
“The limit of x is…,” Spencer murmured to herself. She propped herself up on one elbow on her bed and stared at her brand-new, just-covered-with-a-brown-bag calculus book. Her lower back still burned with Icy Hot.
She checked her watch: It was after midnight. Was she crazy to stress over her calc homework on the school year’s first Friday night? The Spencer of last year would’ve whizzed over to the Kahns’ in her Mercedes, drunk bad keg beer, and maybe made out with Mason Byers or some other cute lax boy. But not the Spencer of now. She was the Star, and the Star had homework to do. Tomorrow, the Star was visiting home design stores with her mom to properly accessorize the barn. She might even hit Main Line Bikes with her dad in the afternoon—he’d pored over some bicycling catalogues with her during dinner, asking her which Orbea frame she liked better. He’d never asked her opinion about bikes before.
She cocked her head. Was that a tiny, tentative knock at the door? Putting down her mechanical pencil, Spencer gazed out the barn’s large front window. The moon was silvery and full, and the windows of the main house blazed a warm yellow. There was the knock again. She padded over to the heavy wooden door and opened it a crack.
“Hey,” Wren whispered. “Am I interrupting?”
“Of course not.” Spencer opened the door wider. Wren was barefoot, in a slim-fitting white T-shirt that said, UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA MEDICAL, and baggy khaki shorts. She looked down at her black French Connection baby tee, short track-star gray sweat shorts from Villanova, and bare legs. Her hair was pulled back in a low, messy ponytail; wisps hanging around her face. It was a completely different look from her everyday Thomas Pink striped button-down and Citizens jeans. That look said, I’m sophisticated and sexy, this look said, I’m studying…but still sexy.
Okay, so maybe she’d planned for the off chance this would happen. But it goes to show you shouldn’t just throw on your high-waisted underwear and old, ratty I HEART PERSIAN CATS T-shirt.
“How’s it going?” she asked. A warm breeze lifted the wispy ends of her hair. A pine cone fell out of a nearby tree with a thump.
Wren hovered in the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be out partying? I heard there was a huge field party somewhere.”
Spencer shrugged. “Not into it.”
Wren met her eyes. “No?”
Spencer’s mouth felt cottony. “Um…where’s Melissa?”
“She’s sleeping. Too much renovating, I guess. So I thought maybe you could give me a tour of this fabulous barn I don’t get to live in. I never even got to see it!”
Spencer frowned. “Do you have a housewarming gift?”
Wren paled. “Oh. I…”
“I’m kidding.” She opened the door. “Enter the Spencer Hastings barn.”
She’d spent some of the night daydreaming about all the potential scenarios of being alone with Wren, but nothing compared to actually having him right here, next to her.
Wren strolled over to her Thom Yorke poster and stretched his hands behind his head. “You like Radiohead?”
“Love.”
Wren’s face lit up. “I’ve seen them like twenty times in London. Every show gets better.”
She smoothed down the duvet on her bed. “Lucky. I’ve never seen them live.”
“We have to remedy that,” he said, leaning against her couch. “If they come to Philly, we’re going.”
Spencer paused. “But I don’t think…” Then she stopped. She was about to say I don’t think Melissa likes them, but…maybe Melissa wasn’t invited.
She led him to the walk-in closet. “This is my, um, closet,” she said, accidentally bumping into the doorjamb. “It used to be a milking station.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. This is where the farmers squeezed the cow’s nipples or whatever.”
He laughed. “Don’t you mean udders?”
“Uh, yeah.” Spencer blushed. Oops. “You don’t have to look in there to be polite. I mean, I know closets aren’t that interesting to guys.”
“Oh no.” Wren grinned. “I’ve come all this way; I absolutely want to see what Spencer Hastings has in her closet.”
“As you wish.” Spencer flicked on the closet light. The closet smelled like leather, mothballs, and Clinique Happy. She’d stashed all her undies, bras, nightgowns, and grubby hockey clothes in wicker pull-out baskets, and her shirts hung in neat rows, arranged according to color.
Wren chuckled. “It’s like being in a shop!”
“Yeah,” Spencer said bashfully, running her hands against her shirts.
“I’ve never heard of a window in a closet.” Wren pointed to the open window on the far wall. “Seems funny.”
“It was part of the original barn,” Spencer explained.
“You like people watching you naked?”
“There are blinds,” Spencer said.