by J. Minter
David walked out of Mickey’s room and down the long corridor toward the front door. On the way he passed Ricardo Pardo, who was puffing on a cigar the size of a hot dog and singing almost as loudly as the opera was playing.
“Hey!” Ricardo yelled at David. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“That’s why I’m leaving!” David yelled back and pulled away from Ricardo. He felt a sudden chill. Ricardo Pardo was tough and he couldn’t believe he’d yelled at him.
“Condena’o,” Ricardo said, wiseass, and puffed out his cheeks so his beard stood on end.
The corridor was awfully cold. Ricardo made David wait a very long and uncomfortable minute for Caselli to come and unbolt the front door, run the security code, and let him out onto West Street.
i take a walk with my little friend
Flan Flood looked concerned. “I’m getting worried about Patch.”
We were holding hands and walking up Fifth Avenue. She’d said her hands were cold, and when I took one, it was. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d spent one very dull school day text-messaging people and having those messages go unanswered. Arno was back from Florida, I knew, but only because I’d heard from my mom that Kelli had had a really good interview at Sarah Lawrence earlier in the day.
“What?” I asked. I wanted to pay attention to Flan, I really did, but it was hard to do because I was so worried about my friends.
“Patch!” Flan said, and punched me in the shoulder.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Right. I haven’t had a chance to think about him. Where is he?”
“I don’t know and I’m getting sick of covering for him.”
“When was the last time you saw your parents?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Flan blubbered a little. She was only about an inch shorter than me, but she seemed very small just then. I looked both ways and put my arm around her. The sun was really bright, but it was a little cold. I had on a new Andre Longacre zipup cashmere sweater and Flan was wearing what was probably her father’s button-down and jeans and red Sigerson Morrison high heels and white socks.
“Your sweater feels good,” Flan said. So of course I took it off and gave it to her.
“Who’s been taking care of you?”
“February,” she said. She wrapped herself up in my sweater. I only had on a black T-shirt and black jeans, but that was cool.
“Seriously?”
We began to walk in the direction of the Flood house.
“Well, Patch said he’d be around, and it was just supposed to be for a couple of days at the end of last week, but then my mother went down to St. Lucia and my dad stayed up in Connecticut in that tower of his where nobody is allowed to go, and Patch was gone that whole time, so I guess I’ve been taking care of myself. I order sushi or Thai food sometimes for me and February, when she remembers she’s hungry.”
“Wait … Patch has been gone since last week?”
“Last Wednesday.”
“Wow,” I said. “And meanwhile, everybody else is in trouble, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Arno’s chasing after my cousin and making an ass of himself, Mickey got suspended and maybe kicked out of school, and David broke up with his girlfriend and can’t stop crying in public.”
“And Patch is gone.”
“Right,” I said. “That, too.”
We walked quietly for a little while, and then we were in front of her house. I took a quick look up and down the street. I still had my arm around her.
“Do you want to come upstairs and watch School of Rock on the big TV in my parents’ bedroom?”
I took a deep breath. I knew what would happen if I did that and though I’m not a big fan of fighting with my own impulses, I knew I had to this time.
“I always fall asleep during that movie,” I said, and moved away from her. But we were still holding hands.
“Well, we could … nap together.”
“No. I think I shouldn’t.”
“Jonathan, I can’t wait for you much longer.”
“You shouldn’t. What I said the other day—it’s true. I just like hanging out with you in a friendly way. That’s all.”
“But then that night, you called.”
“Yeah. I know those two things are totally contradictory, but still,” I said. And I knew that sounded pretty lame. I was still holding her hand and I let it go. Because she was totally too young and everybody was laughing at me about hanging out with her, and stupid as it may sound, I knew that just because I was feeling something, it didn’t mean it was the right thing to feel.
“Look, I’ll call you later and we can figure out what to do about Patch.”
“Whatever,” Flan said. She was all frustrated-looking, suddenly, and she opened the door and went into her house without saying goodbye to me.
I wandered home. I thought I’d see how my mom was doing. We hadn’t talked in a couple of days. But when I got in, she wasn’t around. Kelli was in my room, lying on my bed, actually.
“You’re still here?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’re not going back till Sunday morning. Or I might just take a different plane back than my mom. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’ve got a lot of stuff to take care of here in the city.”
“Um,” I said. I dropped into my desk chair. “Don’t you have to go to school?”
“The stuff I’m doing here seems more important.”
“I don’t get it. Your interviews are over. What are you still doing here?”
Just then her cell phone rang. She stood up and smiled at me like I was nine years old and it was time for me to go to bed.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m having a really, really good time.” Then she went out of the room and I sat for a moment, spinning the disc on my iPod, and thinking about how I never remembered to use it. That reminded me of the thing I needed to do. Find Patch.
I went ahead and called Flan, and we agreed that my guys and I should meet at the Flood house the next night and find him, if he hadn’t come home by then. February Flood might help, too, though Flan hadn’t seen her big sister since the day before. Her mom had called from St. Lucia, so she knew her parents would be back by Sunday. Which meant we needed to find Patch before then.
I slipped on my headset, concentrated on Patch for the first time in a while, and started to speed dial the necessary people.
mickey’s troubles grow
Mickey and Philippa were in her third-floor bedroom after school on Friday, though only Philippa had actually gone to school. They were in the middle of her bed and they were French-kissing so heavily that they kept running out of breath. Philippa had a grandfather clock in one corner that was ticking loudly, and they were listening to pre-fuse 73, because Philippa used to date a deejay and had developed a taste for arcane house music.
“I need to get over to the Floods,” Mickey said as he slowly pulled away from Philippa. “I promised Jonathan.”
“Come on,” Philippa said. “Forget him, can’t you?” She was wearing nothing except the red lingerie she’d bought at Le Petit Coquette on the way home from school. Mickey had to look away from her and close his eyes in order to form a sentence.
“Well, Patch has been missing for a while, and Jonathan needs us to help find him.”
“But what about us?” Philippa said, and laughed.
“The other thing I need to do is sneak out of here before your parents come.”
“That’s true,” Philippa said. “So you think you’re really kicked out of school?”
“Actually, I think my dad is supposed to talk with your dad about that,” Mickey said. He faced the wall, where there was a big painting by Randall Oddy; a beautiful green eye scrunched up and winking. Mickey stared at it. He thought it was pretty cool.
“Since my dad’s on the board at Talbot.”
“Right,” Mickey said.
Philippa was supposed to go with her parents to their place in Amaganset
t in an hour, which was part of the deal she’d made with them after getting in trouble last weekend—that she’d spend more time with them and treat them like human beings and not ATM machines.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Philippa said.
“Come over later,” Mickey said. He got up and pulled on his jumpsuit, and looked around on the floor for his boots.
“I can’t. Mickey, have you completely given up on underwear? Anyway, you know I’m going away.” He turned back around, and they fell onto the bed, and began to kiss again. But Mickey’s phone was ringing, and they both knew who it was.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Maybe I’ll come back on the Jitney and find you tomorrow night. My parents will be sick of me by then.”
“Sounds good. We’ll find Patch. And then you and I can hang out. And put in a good word for me with your parents, would you?”
“Maybe that’s not such a hot idea,” Philippa said. Mickey nodded, because she was right.
Then he ran down the stairs as fast as he could. He had to get out of there before the Fradys came home. He was now completely forbidden to go anywhere near their daughter. He got to the front door and tried the lock, but for some reason, it didn’t give. He pushed, and it seemed to pull. Then it moved on its own. A ghost? Mickey reared back as Jackson Frady pulled open the door.
“Ah, Mr. Pardo,” Mr. Frady said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Uh, I was just going to leave, actually.”
“No, Mr. Pardo, your plans have been changed. The six of us will dine tonight.”
“Six?”
“Our daughter, your parents, and of course my wife and I. And you. Six.”
Mickey looked around. He pointed at his chest. Me? Six? Shit.
“We’ll take this opportunity to straighten a few things out once and for all.”
arno can’t connect his emotions and his actions
Before going out, Arno put on a black suit even though he normally never wore that sort of thing. He thought it would make him feel better. It was a Ralph Lauren purple label suit and he was basically stealing it from his father, who was still down in Florida. Arno was in his room, getting ready to go over to the Flood house. He played Bright Eyes and sang along. It wasn’t that he liked Kelli. It was just that she kept saying no. And that was making him feel extremely weird.
“Which one of us would be the foolish one?” he sang out. “Which one of us’d be the fool? Could you please start explaining? You know I need some understanding!”
And then he threw himself on his bed, bawling, without having a clue why.
Then the phone rang. Jonathan.
“Where the hell are you, dude?”
“I’m coming. I’m just …” But he couldn’t even think of the word. After he got off the phone, he just stood there in his dad’s suit and a ripped white Oxford shirt, and he wished he had someone to talk to. Finally he had the idea to call Liza Komansky. She’d always been nice to him. She would understand.
“Aren’t you over at the Floods? Finding Patch?” Liza asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m on my way there. I’m on the street, but I was thinking it’d be great to see you first.”
“Well you’ll probably see me later,” she said, “when the whole thing turns into a party.”
“But I need to see you now.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Well,” she said. “Okay.”
They made a plan to meet for a very quick burger at the Corner Bistro, where Arno never got carded.
Arno grabbed a booth in the back where you could practically set off M-80s and no one would notice. Liza came in a few minutes later. It had started to rain. Liza’s black hair was dewy and wet and when she sat down, she tried to lick a drop of water off the tip of her nose and Arno reached out and flicked it out of the way. Then they looked at each other. Liza pulled back to the wall and smiled at Arno.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“No problem,” Liza said.
They ordered burgers and some two-dollar Rheingold, which tasted like colored soda water.
“It’s just—” Arno said. But then he couldn’t say it. How could he? He was Arno. So he sulked, and he pouted, and he was weirdly unable to do anything but scratch his black crocodile loafer, which was nowhere near as bizarre as what Jonathan wore on his feet. Finally, Liza came over to his side of the bench.
“Do you want me to say it?” Liza asked.
Arno was literally pouting. He was thinking about Kelli, the lopsided grin, the white-blond hair and the dark eyebrows, the way she looked like she was naked and daydreaming about sex even when she was dressed and probably thinking about the next important New York person she could make like her. And now she was somewhere with Randall Oddy and who knew who else, doing some underhanded art stuff, or worse, posing for him or something. Man.
“Do you know that story about Courtney Love?” Arno asked. “How when she was fifteen she made a list of what she wanted to do and number three after make a hit record and be an actor in Hollywood was ‘Make friends with Michael Stipe’?”
“Yeah,” Liza said. “That kind of climbing is gross. But you’re off the subject.”
“What subject?” Arno asked.
“The thing that you want me to say.”
“Oh, right,” Arno said miserably. “Say it.”
“You’ve always been really attracted to me and you didn’t want to say anything because of Jonathan.”
“Um.”
Liza rubbed Arno’s cheek with the back of her hand. She sipped her beer. Their burgers arrived and were placed on the other side of the table. And they both knew that if they didn’t eat them in the next five minutes, they’d shrivel and taste like cold rocks.
“But the thing is, Arno, I’m done with Jonathan. I can’t wait for him anymore, and who knows what he’s up to with Patch’s little sister, which is completely batty and disturbing, and anyway … I think about you, too.”
“You do?” Arno looked at his food. He knew he wouldn’t get a chance to eat it. Why hadn’t he just fooled around with Kelli right when he met her? Then he could forget about her now.
“Yeah,” Liza said. “A lot.”
So Arno leaned over and kissed her, before she said more embarrassing stuff. They ended up making out for ten minutes, then twenty. Liza was pretty hot in an extremely understated way and it was kind of true, he’d always thought she was supposed to be with Jonathan. But it wasn’t like he wanted this. In fact, he didn’t.
“I need to go,” Arno said.
“Let’s not tell anybody about this.”
“That’s a really good idea.”
“Not till we’re ready.”
“I’m with you on that,” Arno said. “Let’s keep it a secret for a long time.”
And after they’d kissed good-bye and he took off down the block, his head went back to the same place it had been since last Friday night, right after he’d stopped fooling around with Amanda and had seen Kelli. Kelli. He wished she’d leave so he could forget her. And what about David? Did David know that he had fooled around with Amanda? Would Amanda have said something? He hoped not. Arno shrugged to himself.
When it came to all this emotional stuff and not hurting people, he really didn’t have a clue.
welcome back to friday night
i never asked to be the referee
During the afternoon, I bought a new pair of shoes. I don’t want to call this a Friday ritual. It’s not that at all. It’s just that every once in a while, and usually it’s on Fridays, I head up to Madison Avenue and buy a new pair of loafers. Today it was a black leather pair with ridged rubber bottoms from Prada and they were pretty hot. They looked like little Porsche Carreras or something, so I went sockless, with some old khakis and a black hooded Penguin sweatshirt over a black polo. I blew two hours before I got myself over to the Flood house, because I had to stop at home and ditch the shoe box, since I didn’t w
ant to show up with some extra shoes and have to change—I’d never hear the end of it if I did that.
When I got up the stairs and rang the bell, I felt nervous about David and Arno seeing each other, and knowing that I hadn’t handled Flan well wasn’t helping either. At least she wasn’t supposed to be around. She was going to the movies and then staying at Dylan’s house. And I hoped she wasn’t just doing that on account of me being around.
The door opened. David stared at me.
“Everybody here?” I asked.
“Just me and Arno.”
“Oh,” I said quietly. I figured Arno hadn’t told David anything, because David looked sad and normal, not angry.
We went into the living room, which one of the maids had rearranged after last weekend’s blowout. It looked very clean, and Arno was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, in one of his father’s five-thousand-dollar suits, with a bottle of Grolsch sweating on his knee.
“You look sallow,” I said and sat on a chair between Arno, who hadn’t gotten up, and David, who’d taken the couch across from him.
“What’s that mean?”
“Pale. Limp. Colorless. Shouldn’t you have gotten tan in Florida? How many days of school did you miss?”
“I went in for a while on Thursday,” Arno said. He sounded totally down and David looked unhappy, too. But I didn’t think either of them knew why they were feeling like that. And I didn’t want to say if they didn’t already know.
“I heard they’re still calling you the Most Sensitive Guy in the World,” I said to David.
“Yeah. But that kid Adam Rickenbacher is trying to keep people from saying it so much. Maybe it was him that Amanda made out with and that’s why he’s acting so nice.”
“I doubt that,” I said, and glared at Arno, who was staring at the floor.
Then none of us said anything for a little while. But we were all, I’m sure, mostly thinking that it’d be great if Mickey would show up and fling something that belonged to the Floods against the wall, and then these two could just have it out, discover who did what to whom, and get it over with, so we could all be friends again.