Pass It On

by J. Minter

  “David for you,” Patch’s little sister, Flan Flood, said. She was in her riding outfit, complete with crop and velvet helmet, which she’d begun to wear around the house obsessively. Arno stared at her. Although she seemed nice enough, he had no idea why Jonathan had been so drawn to her—but this was mostly because she was in eighth grade and way too shy to speak directly to Arno. She banged off down the hall without another word.

  “Hey.” David ducked into Patch’s room. Arno and Patch nodded at David, who threw himself down on a yellow chair shaped like a paint blob that had somehow made its way into Patch’s room along with loads of other assorted family junk.

  David sighed. He was in his standard oversized jeans and blue hooded Yale sweatshirt that had been personally sent to him by the Yale basketball coach. He was about six foot four and handsome, with a big hawk-nose and black hair that he was currently wearing in an outdated and messy David Schwimmer-like crew cut.

  “Have you seen Jonathan?” David asked.

  “Not yet today,” Patch said.

  David shrugged. “My parents were out with Jonathan’s mom last night. My dad says there’s some thing with her that’s an emergency.”

  “Patch just told me that Jonathan was freaking out last night,” Arno said.

  Patch stopped rocking on his skateboard. “I did not say that.”

  “My dad says something went wrong with his dad,” David said. “But then he got started talking about all this other stuff and I tuned him out after that.”

  The three friends were quiet for a moment. Outside, the crackling November wind was blowing hard and could be heard under the music, so Patch switched over to the new Ebony Eyes CD and turned it up.

  Then they heard Flan scream. They all looked at each other and nodded.

  “Mickey,” Arno said, staring into a mirror, arching one perfect eyebrow, and then the other.

  “Fuck you!” Flan screamed. There was a popping noise, of what must have been her riding helmet bouncing down the stairs.

  “Your stupid friend is here,” Flan announced from the hall.

  “She’s getting cuter by the minute,” Mickey said as he came into Patch’s room. “Jonathan was right about her.”

  “What do you mean?” Patch asked.

  “Forget it,” Arno said quickly.

  Mickey was in a black and silver tracksuit. He’d cut off his blond tips and now his thick hair was nearly an Afro, with corkscrews shooting off in all directions. His goggles dangled around his neck along with a ring of keys to his parents’ various houses. His mother had him wearing a beeper now. Ever since he’d tried to eat a freshman a few weeks ago, and nearly gotten himself kicked out of school, his parents were keeping him on a much tighter leash. He was still allowed to go out with Philippa Frady, though. They were still in love.

  “Bleeah!” Mickey said, and fell on David.

  “Hey you nitwits,” Flan yelled from downstairs. “Mom and Dad said to eat without them. They’re not coming back from Connecticut after all.”

  “Mmm. Let’s get Jonathan and go over to Odeon for some fried chicken,” Patch said, and started to look for a phone.

  “Sounds good,” Arno said. He stood up.

  Suddenly, there was a ringing noise from under a pile of dirty jeans. Patch started to dig. Then the noise stopped.

  “Patch!” Flan yelled. “It’s Selina for you!”

  “He’s with that shy Selina Trieff now,” Arno said to David.

  “Wow, I wonder what that’s like,” David said.

  “They’re probably all quiet together—I bet they barely even talk.”

  “Like the opposite of me and Amanda.” David’s beeper went off. It was Amanda. He rummaged through his schoolbag to find his cell so he could call her.

  Mickey and Arno stared at each other.

  “Mickey!”

  Even though the room was loud with music, they could hear Philippa Frady yelling from her town house across the yard from Patch’s. Mickey and Arno looked over. She was waving. She was a tall girl with a loud voice and she always looked extremely prim—now she was wearing a long black skirt and a white sweater—but everyone knew she was kind of crazy underneath it all, which was why she loved Mickey.

  “My parents still haven’t come back,” she yelled.

  “I better get over there.” Mickey nodded to Patch and David, who were both on the phone. “Tell them I said ‘later.’”

  Mickey made his way down the stairs. Arno turned and listened to his other two friends as they made plans with their girlfriends. So Arno called Liesel.

  “Arno,” Liesel said. “How’d you know to call? You must have ESB. Come uptown right now. We’re planning a Monday night party and we could use a little downtown flair.” Which she pronounced fleah. She was originally from Germany and often said she missed it terribly. Arno was still a bit awed by her. She went to Nightingale, was stinking rich, and was generally considered to be the most beautiful sixteen-year-old girl in the city, if not the state, and probably, therefore, the country. Except L.A., which didn’t count.

  “Okay.” Arno ended the call with her and turned to his guys. But David had already left for Amanda’s and Patch was looking around for a shirt so he could get over to Selina Trieff’s house.

  “Let’s all hang out later this week,” Arno said as he left the house with Patch, who’d given up on the idea of a shirt. Apparently finding a clean one was just too complicated.

  “Definitely.” Patch dropped his board on the sidewalk and stepped on. “I’ll call Jonathan and make sure he arranges it.”

  i get some really good, and some very bad, news

  Early on Sunday evening, I finished packing the bag I planned to take to Arno’s. My mom was still puttering around, waiting for her car to drive her to the eight p.m. flight to Paris. I figured that when she left I would too, since the painter was coming at seven the next morning and I had no reason not to get myself over to Arno’s. I checked again through my things—my fall sweaters and the several pairs of shoes I’d fit into red felt bags.

  Patch had called in the afternoon to say that we should all get together soon, and I could hear in his voice that he was worried about me, or something. My dad hadn’t called the night before when he was over, but I’d told him about my dad and PISS anyway. I knew Patch wouldn’t tell anyone before I did, and I really appreciated that about him.

  “I’ve got a good idea!” My mom practically ran into my room. “You’ll come with me in the car out to Kennedy, and then drive back to the city. That way we’ll have some time to talk.”

  “That’ll take two hours.”

  “It’ll be fun! And I was sorry I didn’t get to see you more yesterday.”

  “You were out at dinner with the Grobarts from six till midnight.”

  “And that’s part of why we need to talk now, because dear old Sam Grobart really helped me see some things—”

  The phone rang then. I assumed it was the car company saying that her car was downstairs, so I answered it “Talk to me,” which I knew my mom hated.

  “Jonathan?”

  I froze. It was my dad. “Hey. Um, sorry about that. I thought you were the car service.”

  “Nah, just me, son.” Since moving to London, my dad had developed an unfortunate faux British accent, like Madonna. It killed me. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Dad. You?”

  We went on like that for a minute while my mom wandered around my room and took a seat on my bed, watching me, which was weird. I congratulated him on PISS, though I didn’t call her that, and still felt I had to turn away from my mom when I said it.

  “Jonathan, there are some things I’d like to tell you. The first is that you’ll soon have a stepbrother. His name is Serge. He’s your age and very cool. He’s like you in a way, only a bit taller. Anyway, he’s going to join Penelope and me on our honeymoon next month.” I made a face at my mom like Dad was being totally nuts, but he kept talking. “Penelope is incredibly wealthy.”
>
  “Great, Dad.” My voice was flat.

  “She has a boat, a yacht, a ship, whatever you call these two-hundred-fifty-foot sailing monstrosities. The crew is bringing it from the Mediterranean to the States right now, and after Christmas we’re taking it from Miami, through the Caribbean, to Venezuela to visit Penelope’s family. We’d like you to join us as well.”

  “Um, well, I can’t really sail.” Other than saying, no fucking way am I bunking with a weird kid named Serge in the middle of the ocean, this seemed like the most legit excuse.

  “Not relevant. There’s a sixteen-man crew, incredible food, and all the luxuries of a five-star hotel. You won’t have to worry about a thing, unless you feel like joining Serge for the waterfall hikes in Venezuela, of course.” He chuckled like that was a really hilarious image, which, of course, it was. “It would mean a lot to me, Jonathan.”

  I paused. Something was off here. “Dad, what’s going on? There’s something else. I can tell.” I said it with more authority than I felt, which was probably good, since I wasn’t nearly strong enough to hear all the things I was about to start hearing.

  He made an uncomfortable noise. “Yes, Jonathan, there’s more. You’re right, but I don’t think you need to hear it from me. Your mother has always been better at this type of thing. I think she should tell you.”

  “This is kind of freaking me out.” The “out” got caught in my throat, and I made a clearing sound like it itched, even though I knew that wasn’t the problem.

  “Just remember, Jonathan, it’s not about the money.” I heard him cover the phone for a second with his hand and say something to someone with a twittery voice that I could only imagine was PISS. “And you can bring one of your friends. I’d say bring them all, but even a few hundred feet can get crowded in the middle of the Caribbean. And buy the clothes that you’ll need for the trip, too. You have the AmEx, son.”

  It occurred to me as I hung up the phone that I didn’t exactly want my dad calling me “son” right then, even if it was attached to a shopping spree. Not until I knew what the hell was going on, at least. I turned back to face my mom, who was still on my bed.

  “Did he tell you, sweetheart?”

  My mom never said things like “sweetheart,” so I started to really panic. “He told me he’s taking me on a huge yacht and that I could bring one friend and that you would tell me the rest.”

  The phone rang again, and I answered it with a normal greeting, even though this time it was the car company after all.

  “Just come with me darling—there’s nowhere better to talk than in the back of a cozy black town car.”

  “Fine,” I said, not sure what else to do.

  So we zipped up our bags and made a last-minute check of the apartment. We went and got into the elevator with old Richard, the elevator guy.

  “Big paint job coming,” Richard said mournfully, like a paint job was a hurricane, or a blackout.

  “Yes. Sorry about that,” my mom said.

  “I guess nothing can be done now.” Richard sighed. My mother rolled her eyes at me.

  In the lobby, Richard helped us get our bags into the back of the town car. My mom’s driver had quit a few weeks before to start a Brazilian restaurant on the Lower East Side, so we’d been using a service. This driver had a shaved head and wore a headset. He barely looked at us. We clambered into the back and then my mother turned to face me.

  “So there’s more?” I asked. The car was warm, but it also smelled strongly of cologne. I tried to open the window, but it didn’t work. We drove toward Houston Street, but the traffic was heavy. So we sat there, only two blocks from our house, in traffic. “Look, can I just get out? I’m going to be late for dinner at the Wildenburgers.”

  My mother brushed at the air in front of her. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is far more important. Frankly, I wish you didn’t have to know, but here we are.” She stopped talking and looked out the window at a guy passing by on a bicycle.

  “Mom?”

  “Right, yes. So, your father seems to have chosen the occasion of his upcoming wedding to come clean about a few things.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “It isn’t good. When we were all younger, back when you and your friends were schoolmates at Grace Church Elementary, your father helped everyone with their taxes. He was a true wiz with a tax form. Perhaps we should’ve been suspicious even then …”

  “I thought he was an accountant.”

  “He became a sort of investment counselor. And he lost great sums of money for all of his clients. At least, that was how it appeared.”

  “But he earned it back, right? I mean, he’s got a lot of money now, doesn’t he?”

  “He also lost money for the Wildenburgers and the Pardos and the Floods and the Grobarts. Sam Grobart and I had a long session before we went out for dinner last night. If he weren’t my therapist, I don’t know what I’d do. It was his suggestion that I be open and honest with you about all this, even if your father isn’t.”

  “Come on, Mom, even David admits that his dad is crazy. I thought you knew that!”

  “That’s wholly untrue. The man’s a genius. Anyway, years ago we thought everything your father did was perfectly legal. And then he and I divorced. And he fled to London.”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen him like twice since then.”

  “Yes, well, he’s done a poor job of being in touch with any of us. But his checks have always arrived on time. Now your father has admitted that he didn’t lose all of that money after all. Apparently, he made it look as though he’d made some bad investments, but really, he stole the money.”

  I made a little throttling sound in my throat. “From who?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

  “From everyone, darling—the Floods, the Pardos, the Grobarts, the Wildenburgers. Others, too, it seems.”

  I stared at the headrest in front of me, not saying anything.

  “We’ll need each other’s help through this period, Jonathan. I’d ask your brother to come home, but to be honest, I’ve always found him a little remote. Of course you’ll need counseling. This will not be easy.”

  “How can we help each other if you’re going to Paris? And aren’t you pissed at Dad?”

  “Well, yes I’m extremely—”

  I pulled at the door-lock. We were near the Williamsburg Bridge, but we weren’t on it yet. I could still get out of the car and be in Manhattan.

  “But this was all a long time ago. Jonathan, do you understand? Everything is different now.”

  “How?”

  My mother stared straight in front of her at the back of the driver’s head, which had grown redder as he listened to our strange family tale. Immediately I hoped he didn’t drive for any of my friends’ families.

  “Dad said it wasn’t about the money …” I trailed off.

  “The hell it’s not.” She sighed. “But if this Penelope is so rich, perhaps that should take care of some things.”

  “I think I’m going to get out of the car now.”

  “Sam Grobart says you can go and talk to him if you want.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen.”

  She touched my cheek, which I let her do since she is my mother, after all. “You should still go on that boat trip. This, too, shall pass.”

  I pecked at her cheek, zipped up my jacket, and got out. The trunk opened and I grabbed my bag and gently pushed it shut. I could feel my mom’s eyes on me as I tried to decide which direction to go. My eyes were smarting and I wiped at them. After a moment of indecision, I headed northwest, in the direction of Arno’s house. I figured I’d walk for a while and then grab a cab.

  But I slowed down. Wait. If Mr. Grobart knew all about what happened—that my dad had stolen bundles of money from him and from all my friends’ families—and if he’d talked to my mom about it, would that mean David knew?

  I walked quickly along Delancey, back toward the West Village. I passed McDonald’s and Burger King
and Sneakerworld and Sneakerhaven. Usually if I was this far east, it was past midnight and I was with my guys, but right now it wasn’t even totally dark out. I turned to look behind me at the stream of cars going over the bridge. I hoped my mom would be okay. I hoped her friend Milla would help her out.

  And then I hitched my bag over my shoulder and put my head down and got going, walking fast, with the hope that I’d get to Arno’s with enough time to chill out and forget all this and maybe get some homework done before dinner.

  arno is in the bright, burning beginning of a very wild relationship

  Arno was at Liesel’s house, playing music and fooling around with her.

  “You fucking stud,” Liesel said. She was in his lap. Arno stared at her. He smiled, and hoped his look suggested that people should only say things like that as a joke, even though she wasn’t kidding. They were drinking leftover champagne from the fridge and eating some square-cut sandwiches they’d found on a silver tray in the kitchen.

  “You’re so into it.” Arno tried to sound gruff, but he didn’t even know what he meant by it. He just couldn’t think of what else to say.

  “Yeah,” Liesel roared at him. She was certainly a knockout. She was nearly six feet tall—exactly as tall as, if not a bit taller than, Arno. She had practically no hips and very small breasts. But her eyes were huge and blue and she had a thick mane of ash-blond hair. Her voice was almost as deep as Arno’s and she had a tendency to swallow and then roll her r’s, so she could be both loud and a little bit hard to understand. Any way he looked at it, she freaked him out.

  After he met her on Friday night, they’d spent all day Saturday in bed. And then, once it was Saturday night, they went slumming at the 40/40 Club and ended up making out in a bathroom stall. Then he’d gotten away from her for those two good hours at Patch’s and now he was back. And it was only now, in her house, that he realized her parents were the Reids, well-known art collectors. Of course, his parents were well-known art dealers. They were dangerously well matched.

  “Let’s watch repeats of that stupid Newlyweds show!” she yelled. Arno practically had to cover his ears. She stood up, shirtless, and bounded out of the room, toward her bedroom.