Hold On Tight

by J. Minter

  “Mm-hmm,” Sara-Beth managed through tears. David stroked her back as she began to calm down. Finally, when the tears had stopped, she turned her face up to him. Her lips were trembling, and her eyes were still that intense blue color. It was visually stunning, and he had a front row seat. “Sometimes I wish I could just throw myself through all that glass,” she said dramatically.

  “Don’t even talk like that,” David said. He was wondering if maybe he’d inherited the therapy gene from his parents, because all he wanted to do right then was make this girl feel safe. “I think this place is really unhealthy for you. I think you should get out of here, and as soon as possible.”

  “But I can’t even picture living anywhere but here …,” she wailed. “I’m like a bird, and this apartment is my cage.”

  “But you could go anywhere! There are so many different kinds of places to live. Like, take my parent’s apartment in the Village—it’s probably a quarter of the size of this place, but it feels cozy and lived in, you know?”

  “I love the Village,” Sara-Beth said, sniffling. “Is your apartment near the Magnolia Bakery?”

  “Um, kind of …”

  “David,” Sara-Beth said, pushing herself up onto his lap and fixing her now-dry eyes on his. “Let me come live with you.”

  A few hours and a lot of talking later, David and Sara-Beth were in the Grobart’s kitchen, whispering so as not wake up his parents. Sara-Beth was still wearing the white dress, but now she was also wrapped up in David’s Potterton sweatshirt. She looked especially tiny in it; he couldn’t stop looking at her.

  David had considered Jonathan’s advice about the whole see-saw thing. He tried to really second-guess what was happening in the cab, which Sara-Beth had insisted on taking because she was afraid her driver would call her mother in Malibu and tell her where Sara-Beth had gone. But then she had crawled onto his lap and promised never to call him Arno again, and David had pretty much stopped thinking about any playground-equipment metaphors.

  “What kind of eggs do you want?” David whispered at her. He was taking breakfast ingredients out of the fridge.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “What kind of eggs do I like?”

  When she said this, she sat up straight as though she were awaiting direction.

  “Um, I don’t know, what kind did your mom make you when you were a kid?”

  “Please don’t bring her up,” she said darkly. “That’s not what I mean, anyway. What kind of eggs does SBB like, do you think?”

  “Uh,” David said. He almost said poached, but then he realized he didn’t know how to poach an egg. “Scrambled?” he said eventually.

  She nodded, like she was considering the deeper implications of scrambled eggs. “Yes, that’s exactly right. Scrambled, with a side of Northern fruit.”

  David took out a pan and was poised to put it on the stove when he heard a footstep in the hall. He froze, pan in the air like he might smack an intruder with it. Sara-Beth, thankfully, did not freeze. She jumped up and leaned against his back, her silhouette entirely engulfed by his to the person stepping through the kitchen door.

  “David,” said Sam Grobart. His hair was sticking straight up and he was wearing boxers and his Psychoanalysts Do It Better T-shirt. David realized with relief that he was not wearing his glasses. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just making a little snack, Dad.”

  “No, what are you doing back home from Vassar?”

  “Uh … I came back early to, um, study.”

  “Good boy. Well, get some rest.”

  David could feel Sara-Beth’s hands running up and down his spine, and he was really hoping that his dad would go away soon.

  “That’s what I’m going to do at any rate,” he said, turning. But before he disappeared back down the hall, something occurred to him. “By the way, David, how did that interview go?”

  “Super, Dad,” David said, even as the one person who knew that it had not gone super was blowing on his neck. Or, more in the direction of his neck, as the top of her head was at about his chest level. “Almost perfect, I’d say.”

  i’m back, and i’m trying

  As it turned out, a weekend away did just the trick. When I got back to the city I was feeling all amped—everything just seemed possible, you know what I mean? It was nice to know that there was a light at the end of the dark tunnel that was high school, and it was called college.

  Seeing my brother had been even better than I’d imagined. He hadn’t really made me feel better about myself—at least not in the way I’d been expecting—but he’d taught mean important lesson, which is that when you get a little distance from yourself you really can transform. All these icky feelings about being a shallow person who cared too much about that whole HPSB thing didn’t really matter, because by the time I got to college I was going to be known as someone who really cared. About something.

  I just hadn’t quite figured out what, yet. That was the one little anxiety I brought back from Vassar with me.

  Just to get my foot in the door with this whole caring thing, I attended all my classes on Monday. This seemed to go pretty well. We were reading Romeo and Juliet for our Drama as Literature class, and after we all went around reading different parts from a couple scenes in act II, Arno raised his hand.

  “I think I finally get what this is all about,” Arno said. “I think what Shakespeare is trying to say is that absence is the single most important ingredient to desire.”

  We had a sub that day—he graduated from Princeton like last year or something so he’s really young, and he just teaches part-time. He looked at Arno in this way that made me think he’d never heard the word desire said out loud before.

  “Mr. Preston?” I said, raising my hand. “I just wanted to say that I couldn’t agree more. Arno, that was a really intelligent point.”

  And you’re thinking right now: he’s either being sarcastic or very Dr. Phil, but you would be wrong. I raised my hand because I thought that what Arno said was really smart, and I cared enough to say so.

  After class we went to the computer lab to check our e-mail. This always makes me a little sad, because Flan always used to send me little stories from her day—even before we were going out, when she was just Patch’s little sister to me—and she doesn’t anymore. Now, sometimes all that’s in my inbox is a mass e-mail about a sample sale or something. Flan would definitely know of some way to practice caring, even if it was just the nearest street corner where some kids were trying to find homes for a new litter of puppies.

  There was no platonic love note from Flan this time, although there was a forward from Beatrice, this girl from our Drama as Literature class. It was about a benefit that night for this small, experimental theater company called the Sweet Mercy Theater Company that she’d been ushering for. I skimmed the e-mail and immediately perked up. I knew it wasn’t really that do-gooderish. I mean it was a party—and I’m not really a theater person—but the party was on Ludlow Street, which usually signals it’s the kind of party I’d be down for. And even better, it was a start on the caring thing.

  “Hey Arno.” I peeked over Arno’s shoulder and saw that he was examining the Sarah Lawrence Web site.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  Arno made an indifferent grunting noise and continued scrolling through the pictures in the “campus life” section.

  “Do you want to go to a par— a benefit with me tonight? It’s on Ludlow Street.”

  “Whatever.”

  And just like that, we had Monday night plans that were very not us.

  was that patch flood waiting on a call?

  The cell was going off, and this time it was not the usual annoying jingle. It was the tune of the Beach Boys’ “California Girls,” which meant that it was Greta calling. Patch knew the phone was in his room because he could hear it. He just didn’t know what part of the room. But he was determined to find it before the c
all went to voicemail.

  Patch reached into the pile of semi-dirty clothes on the left side of his bed and started throwing shirts and belts over his head. But the noise remained just as muffled as before and it was not until he was down on his hands and knees that he saw it, underneath the bed. He came up with the phone flipped open.

  “Hello?” he heard Greta saying. “Are you there, hello?”

  “Hey, Red,” Patch said, relieved, leaning back against the bed. He had just gotten back from school, and he was wearing his standard white T-shirt and khakis rolled at the ankle. “I’m here,” he added, kicking off the low-top converse he had been wearing without socks.

  “What happened to you?” she asked. “I kept calling you all weekend.”

  “I know, that sucked. I couldn’t get through to you, either. And the one message from you that I got was all garbled.”

  “Yeah, I was worried that might happen.”

  “So did you have a good time?”

  “Oh my god, such a good time. I wish you had been there. All of these kids who I was friends with when I was a freshman and they were seniors were there—I think you would really like them—and we all went out on the party circuit. It was hella fun. I mean, I live pretty much without parental constraints, but those college kids—they’re something else.”

  “So, was your … ex-boyfriend one of these people?” Patch said, letting his head fall back on the bed. He stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars that Flan had put on the ceiling years ago, as a surprise for his thirteenth birthday. They looked sort of lonely and old during the day.

  “Yeah … it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, it was sort of. It’s just that … I was going out with him when I was a lot younger and easier to manipulate, you know? So seeing him again—it just made me feel all vulnerable all over again. But whatever. He was nice, and those people are all my friends, so it was never really uncomfortable.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Greta said, letting out an exaggerated breath of air. “So how was Vassar?”

  Patch pushed himself off the floor, and started walking around and gently kicking things on the floor. “The campus was cool I guess, really woodsy. I think I’m going to like that about college.”

  “Mmm …” Greta said, like she was listening more to the sound of his voice than to what he was saying.

  “Mickey showed the restaurant pictures to a crowd of hundreds—big success. So it looks like you’re going to be a star now, too.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s funny,” Greta said, but she sounded kind of distant. The night Mickey took those pictures had been so loose and fun, and everyone had wondered who Patch’s beautiful, affectionate, redheaded date was. To Patch, that night seemed far away now. And weirdly, that made him think about how she was a lot closer to, like, a lot of other people … guys … maybe even that one other guy.

  “Greta?” Patch asked, leaning his lean frame against the wall and closing his eyes. “You love where you come from, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “If we’re really going to go to school together, I have to check out some schools out West, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then.”

  mickey v. dad

  “Sure, it’s funny, but I just really like Gatorade…” Mickey said to Lena, Professor Soto’s assistant, who was calling from the Sarah Lawrence Art Department. He was in the middle of enumerating his standard on-site lecture demands, and trying hard not to forget anything cool. “So, yeah, I’m going to need like four twenty-ounce bottles wherever I’m staying. Preferably Cool Blue or Glacier Freeze. Also—the last lecture I gave they put me up in the President’s Guest Cottage. Do you have one of those?”

  “Um, no but …,” Lena said haltingly. Mickey listened as she made a counteroffer, and extended his legs so they rested on the large wrought-iron desk in his room.

  “Okay, that’s fine. Have the limo pick me up on Friday afternoon. I need to keep the departure time loose, though, so have them get here early and they can wait …” Suddenly the line went dead. “What the …,” Mickey muttered as he put the receiver down and swung his legs off his desk.

  He made it to the hall just in time to see his father’s fearsome back turning the corner out of view. Ricardo Pardo was built more or less like him—broad shoulders and short, powerful legs that were made for running. And escaping.

  Down by his feet, Mickey saw the end of the phone cord. It had been ripped out of the wall. There wasn’t much point in wondering who had done the ripping anymore, so Mickey sat down to carefully fuse the brightly colored wires back together. He was crouched over, trying hard not to bash his head into the wall or otherwise physically vent his frustrations, when a gentle voice said: “We used to make life-size sculptures of people out of that type of wire for your dad.”

  Mickey looked up. It was Caselli, the dude who ran his dad’s studio. “Too bad you didn’t hang him with it.”

  Caselli tried to smile, even though smiling made him look kind of silly. He was a big guy with a shaved head, and he was wearing white overalls, which was the same thing that the guys in Ricardo’s studio always wore. Mickey was familiar with the warmer, fuzzier side of Caselli, but that didn’t make it any less silly. “Ricardo just wants what any father wants: He doesn’t want his only son to grow old too quickly.”

  “Man, we’re bros, so I wouldn’t want to say you were wrong,” Mickey gave a little tug on the wire, “but you’re so wrong.”

  “Move over,” Caselli said. He pulled a pair of pliers out of his pants pocket and began to carefully twist the telephone wires back together. “So what do you think the matter is?”

  “I think Dad’s just totally jelly about my whole new art thing. I mean, that thing the Times ran this morning about how I was an artist of rustling feathers? That’s what they used to say about him. He just can’t handle the fact that the torch has been passed.”

  “Listen, this isn’t an easy time for your dad, professionally. People say his best work is behind him, and that’s really frustrating. So hearing himself compared to his son, that’s not going to feel nice.”

  “Okay.”

  “But I’m going to try and make sure he doesn’t take any of that out on you.”

  “Thanks man,” Mickey said, relieved that Caselli had his back but still not quite sure that the elder Pardo deserved any sympathy.

  “No problem,” Caselli said as he fused a few last wires together. They both sat back on their haunches and considered the situation. Before Mickey got very far, the phone rang in his room. He dashed in to get it.

  “The Other Pardo speaking,” Mickey said.

  “Hi, is this Mickey Pardo?” a woman on the end of the line said. After he’d told her it was, she said, “Well, my name is Pia, from Deitch Projects, and we’re having an opening tonight and we would just love it if you made an appearance.”

  Mickey sat down in his rolling desk chair and pushed off the wall so that he went skidding across the floor. “What’s the scene going to be like?” he asked, even though he knew from experience that Deitch Projects was always edgy and cool.

  “It’s preformancey, and it’s going to be very downtown. A little glitter, some electronica. Cass—Cassidy Reed, the performance artist—has even hired pole dancers. We’re expecting a number of bold face names, although I’m sure you’ll be the one everyone will be dying to meet. Can I put you on the list?”

  “I think so,” Mickey said, trying to sound very neutral because Caselli was standing right there in the doorway, still checking in.

  arno tries on a little more complexity

  “It’s amazing how … theatrical these people look,” Jonathan said as he took a sip of his vodka cran.

  “Yeah,” Arno said, even though he thought they all looked pretty bland. Since Saturday night, he had been consumed by the thought of Lara and what it would be like to attend lectures about truth and beauty with her on leafy afternoons. Nothing else seemed remotely inte
resting. “I guess that’s why they’re into theater.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “What?” Arno looked at Jonathan, who was wearing charcoal-colored slacks and a T-shirt with a big Red Cross emblem on the chest. He remembered Jonathan buying the shirt at Barneys almost a year ago.

  “Never mind,” Jonathan said. “Good point. Of course theater people would look theatrical, or of course people who are theatrical dressers would go into theater. That’s an excellent point.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Christ, I don’t know what to do with my hands here. Do you want another drink?”

  “Okay.” Arno watched as Jonathan made his way through a crowd of cackling, dramatically enunciating people, most of whom were wearing something glittery or shiny. The bar they were in was kind of loud, too. It had fish-shaped Christmas lights strung everywhere, and fishnets hanging from the ceiling. Arno was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and some old Diesels he’d had forever. He hadn’t even used product in his hair. The whole look was definitely understated, and the very thought of that word made him feel mature.

  He saw Jonathan reach the bar—that was when he felt the gentle bump of skin against his arm and caught a whiff of the distinctive smell of Bubblicious watermelon flavor.

  “Wherefore out thou?”

  “Excuse me?” Arno looked down to see a petite blonde with great streams of Sarah Jessica Parker hair, staring up at him. Her eyes flashed. Arno had heard of flashing eyes before, but he realized now for the first time what flashing eyes really looked like. Then she blew a big, watermelony bubble.

  “You look familiar, and I thought maybe it was because I’d seen you play Romeo before,” the girl said. She was wearing a red-and-white checked piece of clothing, which seemed to be both sleeveless top and short-shorts in one, and Arno was pretty sure she had blush on her cheekbones. He hadn’t seen a girl wear blush since his fifth grade “Guys and Dolls” play.