about five feet off the ground.
“See.” Keith grabbed the sill and pulled himself up to peer through the darkened window. “Easy.”
What he was describing as “easy” would have been better described as “too high, too narrow, and too locked,” but Ginny kept this thought to herself.
“All right,” he said, hopping down. “I’ll get the window open. Just needed a tool for the job. . . .”
He poked around in the trash for a moment until he found an extremely unstable-looking chair. If it looked risky in the dark, Ginny couldn’t even imagine how bad it would have seemed if she could have gotten a good look at it. But Keith climbed up on it nonetheless and started working away at the window.
“Is it locked?” she asked.
“It’s not a problem,” he whispered. “Lower your voice.”
At first, he must have been trying to ease it open, but when it didn’t give after a minute or two, she heard his efforts getting louder, and his tone became more frustrated and determined. Finally, there was a splintering noise and he swung the window open in triumph.
“There you go!” he said, stepping down from the chair. “No problem. Up you get.”
“Me first?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
Ginny climbed onto the chair. The legs were wobbly and the seat was made of some kind of basket weave that felt like it was going to give at any second, so the sooner she stepped off of it and got through the window, the better. She shoved her head and shoulders through. The room was pitch-black, with a terrible, vaguely septic smell. She could just make out that it was small, and that there was a white object just below her—the toilet. This made it impossible to slide in headfirst. In fact, there seemed no way in at all. She was just dangling there, about five feet up, half in and half out of the building, with nothing to hold on to. Plus, she was fairly certain that her hips would not actually fit though the opening.
“Come on,” he said. “Have to be quick here. I’ll give you a boost.”
And with that, his hand was under her foot, pushing her up and in up to her waist. From there, she teetered between the world of the toilet and the world of the alley, her upper half facing a terrible fate, and her lower half flailing in Keith’s direction. Her hips, as she had already guessed, caught her, leaving her to seesaw.
“Turn on your side,” he whispered up to her.
“I know,” she said. She tried to rotate herself slowly, so that some kind of graceful cartwheel maneuver could be pulled out of this. Once she began to turn, she started to fall forward again, right into toilet land. Keith had her legs now and was holding them for support, so now she was dangling over the toilet. Lacking any other choice, she scrabbled to put her hands on the seat. Her loose hair hung upside down, right into the bowl. There was no point in resisting now. She let her weight fall forward and slid gracelessly toward an old French toilet. And then she was on the floor, with the final, horrid indignity of a strand of her dampened hair landing in her mouth. She spit it out.
Keith had a lot more experience with this kind of thing and managed to pull himself up on the window frame and swing in feet first, stepping onto the toilet seat and landing silently and more or less gracefully upright with little effort.
“See?” he said. “Easy.”
The bathroom was a very small place, no bigger than a broom cupboard, which meant that they were pressed in close together . . . not face-to-face, but face-to-side-of-head. She was close enough that she was sure she heard him smile.
“Shall we?” he whispered. She could just feel the brush of his lips through the hair that covered her ear. For a moment, she bitterly regretted not having her braids. There definitely would have been lip-to-skin contact. And now, he was rubbing her stomach in his attempts to find the door handle.
This was too much. She was getting lightheaded. It was lucky that it was
“See.” Keith grabbed the sill and pulled himself up to peer through the darkened window. “Easy.”
What he was describing as “easy” would have been better described as “too high, too narrow, and too locked,” but Ginny kept this thought to herself.
“All right,” he said, hopping down. “I’ll get the window open. Just needed a tool for the job. . . .”
He poked around in the trash for a moment until he found an extremely unstable-looking chair. If it looked risky in the dark, Ginny couldn’t even imagine how bad it would have seemed if she could have gotten a good look at it. But Keith climbed up on it nonetheless and started working away at the window.
“Is it locked?” she asked.
“It’s not a problem,” he whispered. “Lower your voice.”
At first, he must have been trying to ease it open, but when it didn’t give after a minute or two, she heard his efforts getting louder, and his tone became more frustrated and determined. Finally, there was a splintering noise and he swung the window open in triumph.
“There you go!” he said, stepping down from the chair. “No problem. Up you get.”
“Me first?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
Ginny climbed onto the chair. The legs were wobbly and the seat was made of some kind of basket weave that felt like it was going to give at any second, so the sooner she stepped off of it and got through the window, the better. She shoved her head and shoulders through. The room was pitch-black, with a terrible, vaguely septic smell. She could just make out that it was small, and that there was a white object just below her—the toilet. This made it impossible to slide in headfirst. In fact, there seemed no way in at all. She was just dangling there, about five feet up, half in and half out of the building, with nothing to hold on to. Plus, she was fairly certain that her hips would not actually fit though the opening.
“Come on,” he said. “Have to be quick here. I’ll give you a boost.”
And with that, his hand was under her foot, pushing her up and in up to her waist. From there, she teetered between the world of the toilet and the world of the alley, her upper half facing a terrible fate, and her lower half flailing in Keith’s direction. Her hips, as she had already guessed, caught her, leaving her to seesaw.
“Turn on your side,” he whispered up to her.
“I know,” she said. She tried to rotate herself slowly, so that some kind of graceful cartwheel maneuver could be pulled out of this. Once she began to turn, she started to fall forward again, right into toilet land. Keith had her legs now and was holding them for support, so now she was dangling over the toilet. Lacking any other choice, she scrabbled to put her hands on the seat. Her loose hair hung upside down, right into the bowl. There was no point in resisting now. She let her weight fall forward and slid gracelessly toward an old French toilet. And then she was on the floor, with the final, horrid indignity of a strand of her dampened hair landing in her mouth. She spit it out.
Keith had a lot more experience with this kind of thing and managed to pull himself up on the window frame and swing in feet first, stepping onto the toilet seat and landing silently and more or less gracefully upright with little effort.
“See?” he said. “Easy.”
The bathroom was a very small place, no bigger than a broom cupboard, which meant that they were pressed in close together . . . not face-to-face, but face-to-side-of-head. She was close enough that she was sure she heard him smile.
“Shall we?” he whispered. She could just feel the brush of his lips through the hair that covered her ear. For a moment, she bitterly regretted not having her braids. There definitely would have been lip-to-skin contact. And now, he was rubbing her stomach in his attempts to find the door handle.
This was too much. She was getting lightheaded. It was lucky that it was
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