Hold On Tight (11 page)

“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.”

“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.

“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 interesting. “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.

“Why would you assume that?”

“Oh, well, you have a kind of lovesick air to you.”

“Oh?”

“And you're blandly handsome in that way
all
actors who play Romeo are.”

“Oh.” Arno's good looks had
never
been called bland before. “That's not where your know me from,” he said. “I'm not an actor.”

“Really? Because you look super familiar.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“But you're not an actor?” She asked, her eyebrows growing dramatically closer. Arno shook his head. “Then I'm sure I don't know you. My world's pretty small like that.”

Arno nodded slowly, enjoying the fact that she knew nothing about the Hottest Private School Boy fiasco. The girl with SJP hair snapped another bubble back into her mouth. “You sure you don't recognize me from someplace else?”

“Nope. But it's nice to meet you now,” she said. “I'm Gabrielle. But everyone who knows me calls me Gabby.”

“I'm Arno,” he said, carefully monitoring her face for any signs of recognition. There were none. “Arno Wildenburger.”

“Wow, that's a mouthful,” she said. Arno felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. She definitely didn't know him.

“So, you're an actress?”

“Hell no!” This girl wasn't a total beauty, but Arno kind of liked what she could do with her features. He had been thinking about what Lara said—that you didn't really grow up until you'd been in love—and then this girl showed up. It seemed almost
too
convenient, but she was cute, after all. Also, the jumper thing really showed off her legs. She had nice legs.

“But this is your scene?”

“Yeah, I'm a costume designer,” she threw up her hands, “I make gowns. This theater company was started by my parents, too. I guess I should cop to that right now. Nepotism—woohoo!”

“Wow, your parents live on the L.E.S.?”

“No, thank god. Not any more. They have a house in Nyack, where they live most of the time, you know, dictating from afar.”

“And where do you live?”

“Down the street, around the corner, on Clinton. My parents rented the place for what was a small fortune in
1982, but the rent's locked in, so it costs them peanuts now. That's my dowry, apparently.” She gave him an audaciously flirty smile. “But enough about me. What's your story?”

“You really don't know?” He still couldn't quite believe that.

“No, why would I? Are you the son of a studio head or something?”

“No. I'm a junior at Gissing.”

“Adele Biggs, sophomore,” she laughed, putting her hand on her chest. “Wow, you really know how to talk to a girl.”

Arno knew this meant that she wasn't impressed by his conversation, but it didn't really bother him.
He
knew that he had had really meaningful conversations with an incredibly sophisticated Sarah Lawrence sophomore just two nights ago. And this Gabby chick
didn't
know that she had just been cast as the girl who would make a grownup out of Arno Wildenburger. There were levels here. He was feeling deeper with every passing moment.

Arno put his arms around her waist, pulled her into him, and kissed her like a leading man. She tasted like watermelon, too, and she smelled a little like sweat and rose perfume, like she had been dancing earlier in the night to Gwen Stefani with her girlfriends.

Everyone made ooh, ah noises, because there was a trapeze artist swinging from the ceiling, but Arno didn't bother to look up.

He didn't let go until he heard a familiar voice, saying: “Excuse me people, but this is a benefit.” Arno turned to look at Jonathan, whose eyebrows were raised in disbelief.

“Gabby, this is my friend Jonathan,” Arno said. Gabby smiled and looked up at Arno like she was enamored already, so she missed Jonathan mouthing
What about Lara?

“Jonathan,” Arno said, “this is Gabby. I think I'm in love with her.”

David had extra-large feet, but he was doing his best to keep them from making a sound as he moved down the hall past the living room. His parents were in there, and luckily for him, they were having a loud conversation about one of his dad's patients. David, still sweaty from his off-season basketball clinic, moved slowly away from them toward his bedroom, where he stealthily turned the knob of the door. Once inside, he turned the lock.

“Hey there,” he whispered.

Sara-Beth peeked out from under the covers. “Where have you been, where have you been, where have you
been?”
she blurted out loudly. She was wearing a vintage black slip and her hair was falling messily around her shoulders.

“Shh …,” David said, coming over and putting his large, basketball-palming hands on her narrow shoulders. “I'm here now. I just had to go to practice.”

“I was so
lonely …”

“I know. I'm sorry. But if I didn't go it would look weird, you know?”

David realized that he was probably more concerned with things looking weird than Sara-Beth, but he was worried that if his parents found out she had been hiding in his bedroom for the past two days things would get really bizarre. He was sure his mother would be upset—he could practically hear her lecture on “boundaries” already—and he really thought that Sara-Beth was too fragile to be sent back home right then. He was also worried that once she met his weirdo parents, SBB wouldn't even want to stay there anymore.