Page 65 of Wicked Pickle

I nod as he leads us back into the building.

It’s quiet, thankfully, the students safely tucked into the next block of classes. We pass the administrative office for political science, and the front desk assistant glances up at us and does a double take at Diesel.

Oh, we’re getting noticed. I hurry our steps.

“Someone’s in a rush to get naked,” Diesel says.

“Shhh!” I drag him to a stairwell.

He glances around. “Risky. I like it.”

I climb the steps, pulling on his hand. “Not here! Let’s find a room.”

The building has three stories, and I figure the top level is bound to be the emptiest. I drag him up another level.

The hall is silent and still. I pause, examining the various doors. I’ve been up here a lot. Most of the classrooms are small. They’ll work.

“Smells like teen spirit,” Diesel says.

This makes me laugh. “I think every school at every level, from elementary all the way to post-doc, uses the same industrial cleaner.”

“And has for decades.” He peers into the tiny square window of the nearest door. “We could have a peep show with these.”

He’s right. We walk down the hall, and every single room has one. Anyone could look in, and there is no hidden corner anywhere.

“Maybe this isn’t going to work,” I say.

“The danger is the fun,” he says, pulling me close.

The bulge between us tells me he’s already picturing what we’ll do. My body buzzes with the thrill.

And I get an idea.

“Let’s see if we can get in.” I turn away to tug on a handle. Locked. “I’ll check the others. Surely one of them was used at some point today.”

I go down the corridor, trying each one. All locked. I guess they don’t need this floor during the summer.

When I turn around to tell Diesel the bad news, he pops one of the doors open. He holds up a credit card. “Old building, old-school locks.”

“How did you do that?”

“Just jiggle it down. Takes some practice.” He holds the door open for me.

“In movies, they always just shove it in there.”

“They purposefully botch it in movies, or else locks would become pointless.”

I see.

The room is semi-dark, sunlight bleeding through the beige roll-down shades. The industrial cleaner smell is stronger in here, trapped since spring semester ended.

Diesel wanders to a wide desk at the front. “This is promising.”

A hot thrill zips through me. The teacher’s desk. That’s the ultimate.

But first, the door window.

I set my backpack on a student desk and unzip the top. I pull out a notebook and a pack of gum.

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