Sarah shook her head. “That’s a cop-out. You and I were closer than that.”
Gabriel stared down at his drink.
The silence in the room thickened.
“You know, there’s something I never told you, Gabriel,” Sarah said, suddenly sounding urgent. “And I guess I’m going to have to say this in front of my little brother and his best friend, which is fine, but…” She held her breath. “Okay. Gabriel, the main reason—above all others—why I did any of this was to impress you.”
Gabriel nearly dropped his glass. The ice cubes rattled. “Excuse me?”
Sarah nodded. “It’s true. I never realized how jealous I was of Madeline, of how you had a crush on her. And when we came up with the big plan to rip off your dad…I wanted to show you that I was just as crazy and smart and out there as she is.”
“But that’s just wrong,” Gabriel protested.
“So what? You know what else? I also thought that it would turn out to be a joke. I mean we’ve always been so detached and ironic with one another—all five of us. We’ve always had these walls built around ourselves. Just listen to the way we talk.”
Gabriel shook his head. “But what about that stuff you said about your parents? That you weren’t just doing it because of my dad. That you did it because they drive you crazy?”
Sarah lifted her shoulders. “They do drive me crazy, but that was a cop-out, too.” All at once she turned to me. “Hen, you know the only reason they’ve been obsessed with your finding a job this summer is because they’re terrified that you’ll turn out like me. That you’ll turn out to be a criminal. That’s why they didn’t tell you what happened. They knew. Gabriel’s dad called them and told them that he was out two million dollars and that he had a hunch who took it. But Mom and Dad didn’t want the police to find us, so they kept it a secret.”
I had no idea what to say. I didn’t even know how I felt.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t turn into a criminal, Sarah,” Emma said quietly. “I’ll keep him on a tight leash.”
Sarah smiled softly. “Thanks.” She turned back to Gabriel. “But, look. The thing is, I did it to prove to them what I wanted to prove to you as well…that I wasn’t just a good girl. That I could be bad.”
“But why would you want to prove that?” Gabriel said, stepping toward her. “It doesn’t make any sense. You are good—”
“Ahem!” Emma cleared her throat. “Just a guess here. But maybe also part of the reason Sarah did it was because her parents are so overprotective, and part of the reason you did it is because your dad isn’t protective at all? I mean, I’m saying this as the only relatively sane human being in this room—emphasis on ‘relatively’—and, ah, also because my own insane parents fall somewhere in the middle.”
Gabriel chewed his lip, nodding thoughtfully. “I don’t know. You may be right.”
Sarah tossed her hat on his unmade futon. “So, look. I sold the house to Karl. I’ve got a cashier’s check from Banco Federal in my suitcase for almost three million dollars, made out to Roger Stern. It’s all over now. All of it. No more house, no more crime, no more stolen money. Do you forgive me?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gabriel shouted. “I should be asking you that. That’s why I made you come back to the States with me! I was supposed to figure this part out myself! And now you’ve gone and made everything right on your own? Jesus, Sarah!” He slammed the drink down on top of the pile of manuscripts, spilling some of the liquor. “What’s your problem? I was supposed to fix this. Not you! You’re always fixing everything for me!”
I still have absolutely no idea why, but this compelled Sarah to pounce on Gabriel and start kissing him. Blecch. I suppose I should have foreseen a sappy make-out moment. I mean, I got it now. Gabriel knew so much about Emma and me because he lived a mirror image. But I hadn’t imagined his epiphany moment with my sister would be so in-your-face. It was almost grotesque.
“I think we’re embarrassing Hen and Emma,” Gabriel whispered, pulling away.
“I don’t care,” she said, clinging to him. “Gabriel, remember that book I got you in Puerto Plata, the one on that indigenous Caribbean tribe, the Tainos?”
Gabriel swallowed. “Of course.”
“Remember how the names the Tainos gave each other were so beautiful? They all spoke to the person’s identity. The one who heals. The one who sows. The one who battles. If you had a Taino name, you know what it would be?” She leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. His face turned bright red.
Now I really wanted to gag. Note to self: Never be as insane, secretive, and pretentious as my sister or her friends. Never allow things to get to the point where robbing Emma’s father would seem like the only solution to some invented problem. On the other hand, never be as detached or ironic, either—Jesus, listen to me. I sound like Gabriel freaking—
The intercom rang: BZZZT!
Everybody winced. Our eyes all flew to Gabriel.
“I bet that’s Madeline and Karl,” Sarah said. Her voice shook slightly. “I told them to meet us here.”
I turned to Emma. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was—that to cap off all this insanity, we were about to meet a real-live, eighty-year-old Nazi. It was kind of fitting, in its own fantastical way.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Gabriel said. He stepped over to the door and pressed the button. “Hello?”
“It’s your father, Gabriel,” a tinny voice barked through the static. “I’ve brought the police.”
Uh-oh. A Nazi might have been preferable.
Emma’s grip tightened around my fingers, cutting off the circulation.
“And Sarah Birnbaum’s parents, too!” my mother’s distorted voice cried. “Where the hell are my children?”
My face twisted. Jesus.
Emma giggled. Sarah shook her head, stricken.
Gabriel, on the other hand, remained calm. “So here it goes. Time to ante up.”
“What do you think will happen?” Sarah asked fearfully.
“I’m not sure,” he said, pressing down on the button to let them in. “But whatever happens, it’ll be the right thing. Even if I have to go to jail…or whatever. But hopefully, my dad will just take the check and let me off the hook.” He grinned. “You know, Sarah, I’ve always wanted to introduce my dad to your parents.”
A tear fell from Sarah’s cheek. “Please don’t joke around right now,” she said.
“It’s not a neat ending, is it?” I whispered as Gabriel opened the door.
He glanced at me with a puzzled smile. “What do you mean, Hen?”
My heart pounded. Footsteps approached. “It’s not a neat ending to your memoir. You said you had to find an ending.”
“Oh, no.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, Hen. This isn’t the ending. How could it be? It’s kind of a screwy story, you know? It’s just what happens next. The story never ends. Not until we all kick the bucket.”
EPILOGUE
Why the Band Journey Sucks, and What This Says About Life
Gabriel’s evil dad decided not to press charges, thank God. He seemed very happy with the three-million-dollar check Sarah handed him.
So it was sort of a neat ending—at least on that front.
Not long after he and the cops and my parents burst in, Emma and I decided to slip out. Gabriel’s East Village crash pad was just a little too crowded with crazy people. Besides, we needed to psych ourselves up for Journey. My first concert ever at Madison Square Garden! With the most heinous possible band! (Okay, okay. Styx would have been more heinous.) My parents let me go without a fight. Honestly, they were still too pissed at Sarah for disappearing again. They were still yelling at her when we left.
About the concert…
As I later found out, Journey performed with a substitute singer. A permanent substitute singer. That’s right: The earnest cheeseball who fronted the band that night was not the same male diva who gave the w
orld such hits as “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’,” “Don’t Stop Believin’,” and “Any Way You Want It.”
I thought to myself, then why are all these retirement-age people showing him the love? Don’t they see that Journey took the easy way out? Instead of calling it quits like they should have, they hit the road with a fraud. They cheated their loyal fans.
See, if I learned anything from Sarah and Gabriel that day, it’s that there is no easy way out. Of anything. You can pretend like something is perfect—a crime, a friendship that should be something more, a washed-up band with a fake singer—but sooner or later, the Unseen Hand will come knocking at your door.
But maybe I’m overthinking things. I’ve been doing that a lot lately (Gabriel’s fault). There’s probably no connection at all between Journey and a valuable life lesson. Of course there isn’t. Jesus.
Honestly, as far as the Unseen Hand goes, it should have wrung that guy’s neck. The Journey front man, I mean. It was a terrible, terrible show. I’ve never seen anything more horrendous, not even on VH1 Classic. And in real life there’s no way to change the channel.
But, hey, the fans seemed to enjoy it. Fat bald men and gray-haired women even raised their lighters at one point. (I think the song that prompted the flood of emotion was, in fact, called “Lights.” They’re not big on subtlety, Journey.) Mr. Wood shouted “Disco sucks!” five separate times during this number, one for each beer he drank.
Emma owes me one.
Then again, I owe her one, too. I mean, who knows what would have happened if she hadn’t showed up at my door that morning and kissed me? I might have even given up my fantasy of being a rock star. That is, instead of bugging Mr. Wood all night to agree to listen to our demo until he finally broke down and said, “Fine, goddammit, now shut your pie hole!”
APPENDIX
The Document I Received in an Email Attachment a Week Later
The Heist
By Gabriel Stern
Contact number: 347 555 7809
Email: [email protected]
Intro: A Surprisingly Lame Thing to Say
My father’s all-time favorite cliché is: “Be careful what you wish for, or it might come true.” He uses it as often as he can (or at least he did back when I was still in touch with him)—when I applied to Columbia, for instance. He’d also said it to my mother when she was still alive, when she told me she wished I would grow up. I never understood why he liked it so much. It’s a surprisingly lame thing to say, even for him.
Phase One
Sarah told me that robbing my father of almost two million dollars would make me feel “tingly”—like the way you feel when you’re about to hook up with someone for the first time. But this is the way I feel when I’m about to pee in my pants. There’s nothing “tingly” about it. Maybe we should wait. It’s the middle of summer. It’s too hot to think straight. We could put it off until Labor Day, until after we move out of the loft. The money will still be there.
7:03 P.M.
“It’s almost time,” I announce.
The five of us pace the living room. We avoid one another’s eyes. My T-shirt is soaked with sweat. The air conditioner is broken. We leave a hastily scrawled apology for the owners of our illegal sublet, along with five hundred dollars to buy a new unit. The humidity is stifling. The air in Chinatown is cream-of-homeless soup, uncollected garbage consommé. I’ll have to wash myself down with a prison hose when this is all over….
No, no: Bad idea to think about prison.
“Hey, Mad? Don’t you think you should get going?”
“Relax, Gabriel. The reservation is at eight.”
Madeline has never looked more beautiful. She’s Renée Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, decked out in jewelry and evening wear: an exquisite actress, utterly charming.
“Do they serve vegetarian dishes at this place?” Sarah asks. “I’d like to eat a vegetarian dish in honor of Hen. Seeing as I’m never going to see him again.”
“It’s a steak house,” Rich points out.
I’m barely listening. Even after all these years, I still can’t believe that my dad actually dines at Sparks Steak House. It’s almost too fitting. It’s ludicrous. There’s a legacy of foul deeds associated with the place. Mafiosi used to eat there all the time. John Gotti had Paul Castellano rubbed out in front of Sparks. My dad is just as fat and slick and corrupt as both of them. Maybe even more so.
“I bet they serve big salads,” Tony says.
Sarah shrugs. “As long as I get a good meal. I’m hungry.” She is wearing makeup: eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. She never wears makeup. It makes her look clownish and sleazy, like a prostitute. Some men might find it sexy. Older men.
Phase Two
We’re committed. Sarah and Madeline are already on their way to Sparks. Rich and Tony are on their way to my Madison Avenue apartment. My home. Where I spent senior year, alone. Dad and me and ten big rooms.
I gave them the key to the back staircase. Once inside, they will slink into my dad’s study, where Tony will to proceed to hack into the fat pig’s bank accounts on his own computer.
STEAL YOUR PARENTS’ MONEY.
None of us have any concerns about Tony’s capabilities. Only three days ago, he hacked into the New York City mayor’s office, just to show off. He’s more gung ho about this than any of us, even me. He sees it as an intellectual challenge, devoid of any moral implications, like doing the crossword puzzle. Or at least that’s the impression he gives us.
I consider jumping into a cab and chasing them. But I know it’s too late. In essence, we were committed to The Plan yesterday. We were committed the moment Madeline called Dad and suggested that they meet to talk about my future.
Dad goes to Sparks tonight believing that Madeline is trying to help mend his relationship with me.
Dad has always loved Madeline. On several occasions, he told me that Madeline is too good for me, and that I’ll never hook up with her. He thinks that I need to learn some humility.
On the phone, Madeline told him that it breaks her heart to see me cut off from my own flesh and blood. Maybe she can help Dad reach some sort of understanding…if he’s willing to listen.
“Oh, by the way, can Sarah join us? Did Gabriel ever mention to you that Sarah has a thing for older men? Her last boyfriend was a fifty-year-old investment banker. Just like you, Mr. Stern.”
I picture the dinner as Madeline says it will unfold.
Cocktails first, courtesy of Dad. Lots of witty banter and laughs. They settle into their meals. They get comfortable with one another. Dad notices Sarah stealing glances at him. He never paid any attention whenever I introduced them, but thanks to Madeline he suddenly sees that this girl is very attractive. She’s twenty-two—but hey, he messed around with one of his secretaries, and she was twenty-six! What difference does four years make? The girl is still legal, right? Barely, sure—but as a veteran of countless lawsuits, Dad appreciates the difference.
Sarah is starting to get a little tipsy.
They’re all starting to get tipsy.
Madeline finally broaches the subject of my future. She asks Roger (it’s all right if she calls him Roger, isn’t it?) to step back and think of me as a helpless little boy. No, don’t think of him as an adult. Think of him as your son. Your baby. Just look at a picture of him. You have a picture, don’t you?
Yes, he does. In his wallet.
Oh, goody! Madeline wants to see it.
He hands it over, nearly shoving it into her dress.
Under the table, Sarah starts to fondle his knee. Now we’re talking. Things are looking good. Madeline is staring at the photo. It’s Dad’s chance to play Casanova. He turns to Sarah—
Madeline pockets his bankcard. She returns the wallet and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
9:37 p.m.
I arrive at the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue. I’m secretly hoping that Madeline won’t show. I imagine that something went wrong:
that Sarah decided to forgo the salad and ate a huge steak and barfed, that Dad stormed out of the restaurant…that Madeline never got the card. I imagine that The Plan failed completely.
But my dad is too predictable, too lecherous. Madeline appears within seconds.
I can’t stand still. The streetlights are very bright. I feel we should be meeting in the dark, even though I know we’re safe. We’re anonymous: two pedestrians in the chaos of midtown. But I can’t keep my eyes from darting at all of the passersby.
“Relax, Gabriel,” she says. “He thinks I’m in the bathroom, remember? Girls take a long time in the bathroom.”
She hands me the card. It’s gold. I can tell by her smile that she appreciates the symbolism. Gold: the color of buried treasure.
For a moment, I stare at it. The printed matter is in Dutch, except for his name and a Visa logo. This is real. This is actually happening. I can feel my heart against my rib cage—a convict’s fists, banging against jailhouse bars.
“Any problems?” I whisper. My voice quavers.
“No,” she says. She is perfectly calm.
“How’s Sarah holding up?”
“She deserves an Oscar for tonight. We owe her, Gabriel. I wish you could see her. That fat slimeball…” She doesn’t finish. “Sorry. I know he’s your dad.”
She kisses me—very quickly—and disappears back down the block.
Phase Three
I’ve finally done it.
I’ve kissed Madeline. I’ve made contact.
After that, my perspective on the evening changes. I’m ready to kick ass. True, the kiss was brief, but it was a historic moment, a harbinger of the thrills to come in our brand-new mansion on the ocean. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be dancing naked in the sand with her. And more.
My perspective on our entire group’s dynamic changes, too. We’re no longer merely five losers who share a love of the nineties. No…we’re a real band now. More than Friends. Even though Sarah and Madeline don’t play instruments, they’re in, too. In fact, I see the five of us now as avatars of Fleetwood Mac.
Friend Is Not a Verb Page 17