Break Every Rule (7 page)

There was a note on the door, though.

Mickey picked it up and ripped it open. It was pink, with a red rose design on it, and it looked sort of like a Valentine's card or something. Mickey wasn't usually all that cognizant of dates and major holidays, but he knew that Valentine's Day had already passed. He knew because he and Philippa had gone to Bao 111 for a romantic dinner, and they had gotten into a fight about
something. It had been quite a scene, and not only Mickey but all Pardos were now banned from Bao 111. That had caused an even bigger scene.

The card proved to be un-Valentine's-Day-related. It just told him to be at French Roast on Broadway as soon as possible. Both the card and the location were what Mickey's mother would call middlebrow; they certainly weren't things that Philippa would have picked out.

But Mickey was in a mood (he was usually in a mood of some sort), and he set off for French Roast a little buzzed by the mystery. He waved at a few of the kids who were hanging around on the steps of Adele Biggs, but no one really noticed. It was a school full of rich kids who had blown it at other schools, and while they were all very “nurtured,” none of them were with it, exactly.

At French Roast, the hostess called him by name and led him to a private table. There were two bowls of hot chocolate on the table, and Philippa was sitting behind one of them.

“I hope this isn't your way of apologizing for the MoMA party, because it really isn't going to cut it,” she said. She was holding up a pink card in her small hand. It was identical to the one Mickey had found on his locker.

“When have I ever bought anything pink?” Mickey asked, sitting down and drinking up the hot chocolate. “Or a card, come to think of it. And why didn't you call
me back this weekend? I've been going crazy.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Thanks for freaking my parents out. So why are we here, if you didn't arrange it?” she asked, adding, “Those hot chocolates were here when I got here, you know.”

“Maybe someone's trying to kill us,” Mickey said. He thought that would be pretty romantic.

Philippa rolled her eyes. “Well, I've got homework,” she said, signaling for the waitress, who came over and dropped a silver tray on their table. Instead of a bill, there was another pink card. It instructed them to go to the Excelsior Hotel on West 81st street.

Philippa kept her arms crossed over her chest as they walked down Broadway.

“This had better not be some sort of romantic surprise,” Philippa said. “I am
not
getting in trouble for staying in a hotel room with you at this point in my life.”

“Phil, how many times do I have to tell you. I didn't arrange this, okay? Would you chill, please?”

She glared at him, but Mickey raised his shades over his eyes, pumped his eyebrows, and gave her the wild-eyed smile that always melted her, at least a little bit. And it did. She almost smiled.

“C'
mon
,” Mickey continued. “Just think of this as a treasure hunt or something.”

When they walked through the brass revolving doors
of the Excelsior, the concierge approached them and addressed them by name. “You'll want to hurry on up to the tenth floor,” he said, before ushering them into the old fashioned elevator. “Room ten E!” he called as the door closed.

Mickey loved surprises, and he was almost having fun. He thought Philippa might feel that way, too. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but it had been a long time since Philippa and he had had an adventure, and it felt good. When they got to 10E, they saw that the door was open. They stepped into a waiting room, which had a few chairs and lots of magazines. There were two doors, both of them closed, one with a pink note on the door. Mickey peeked into the other one.

“Bathroom,” he hissed. Philippa giggled.

Mickey went to the other door, and plucked the pink note.

“It says we should come in,” he whispered.

“Should we?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mickey. “But whatever happens, I just want you to know that I love you.”

“Aw!” said Philippa. She kissed Mickey, and for a moment he re-remembered how warm and sweet she was.

Then she opened the door, and they saw that most frightening of things:

Their parents. Both sets. Together.

They were sitting in big, comfy-looking chairs on either side of a ginormous white desk. Behind the desk was a small man with glasses.

There was a long, awkward moment, and then the man behind the desk said, “I am Dr. Chivers, and this is a relationship intervention.”

“A
what
?!” asked Mickey.

“Your parents,” said Dr. Chivers, forming a triangle with his fingers, “think that your relationship has perhaps … gone too far. We are here to stop it in its tracks and make it right, or say good-bye to it forever. We call it… an intervention.”

Above the little man with the glasses were large framed posters of hearts. In fact, the whole office was in the color scheme of the Valentine's-esque cards that he and Philippa had received.

“You got that,
mijo
?” Mickey's mother said. She was tapping her long fingernails against the white desk and arching a dramatic black eyebrow.

Mrs. Frady, who was the biggest pushover of the group, tried to smile reassuringly at the couple. “We've all been seeing Dr. Chivers, and it's just done wonders for our marriages,” she said. “Not all four of us at once, of course,” she added hastily.

“Gross,” Mickey said aloud. As usual, he had been unable to stop himself.

“You see, you are going to listen to us tell you about how this relationship has wounded yourselves and the people who love you…,” Dr. Chivers said. “And when the intervention portion of your treatment is over, we will begin twice-weekly and—when I deem you ready—weekly sessions to see what we can do to fix the union.”

“And if you aren't up to it,” said Mr. Frady, who had pretty much always had it in for Mickey and was most definitely not a pushover, “it's real simple: You can stop seeing each other
right now.”

Mickey's usual feeling that the world and the people that filled it sucked and had to be stopped had just been confirmed about two thousand times over. He looked over at Philippa so they could share this hugely lame moment.

Her face was contorted with disgust. And when she met Mickey's gaze, it looked like she maybe didn't think this relationship was worth the humiliation.

Eight hours later, I was still more or less in a state of shock.

For those of you who have inexplicably forgotten, my crew of guys was falling apart, Arno was named Hottest Private School Boy by
New York
magazine, and I had to make a party that was
supposed
to be for me look like a party for Arno.

Around four, when I had read every word of the Hottest Private School Boy issue about four times over, I decided it was time to get into host mode. I left H&R and went back to my apartment.

Along the way, I called Mickey. I wanted to see if he was coming to the party tonight—in fact, I wanted to be sure of it. The phone rang three times, and then Mickey picked up and said some loud garbled word that sounded like a combination of “Hello” and “What the fuck.”

“Hi, Mickey,” I said.

“Jonathan?” he said my name sort of desperately,
like we hadn't seen each other in twenty years.

“Hey, man I just…,” I started to say. Then I think I heard someone in the background going, “No cell phones allowed during intervention.” That sounded pretty weird, so I stopped saying what I was saying. Then Mickey told me he had to go.

If I wasn't feeling so sorry for myself, I would have been worried about Mickey. But I was feeling sorry for myself, and worrying about Mickey is a losing game. So I figured I could count Mickey out for tonight.

I stopped in at the market and got the makings for caipirinhas. Maybe I could pull that off as a nod to Arno's Brazilian heritage. Plus, caipirinhas were, or at least had been until recently, one of those hot drinks, so it made sense.

My mom was going to be out for the evening, so I turned down the lights in the living room and put the new Doves album on. I made a practice run of drinks, which required a lot of crushing of lime and sugar. Then I took my practice drink and went and sat in the living room to read
New York
and wonder if anyone would even come, and if they did, how I was going to cover up the fact that all this time I'd been imagining a party for me.

I was almost surprised when I heard Flan “Yoo-hoo” as she opened the door. Then she came in looking—and I know this sounds cheesy—like an angel. She was wearing boxy chino shorts that made her legs look even more long and girlish, and a red-and-white-striped Petit Bateau shirt that showed off her long neck, and high-heeled jellies.

“How was school?” I asked.

She shrugged and sat down next to me. “I have a lot of homework this week. It kinda sucks, I guess,” she said. She seemed a little glum. “And I had a fight with Daria today. She was mad that I was ditching the sleepover.”

“That's too bad. Did you see this?” I asked, handing her the
New York,
which had come out of the bookstore with me, in my back pocket. Who would pay good money for lies like that? Although I did feel a little bad because I'd never shoplifted before.

Flan made a noise like
mmm-hmmm.
She didn't seem appropriately shocked to me, but I was probably being sensitive.

“But can you believe that Arno was the one they wanted?”

“Yeah, that's weird,” Flan said unconvincingly.

“Weird is one way of putting it. Perverse might be another.”

“So, who's coming tonight?” she asked.

“I dunno, probably nobody,” I said.

“No, I'm sure people will come,” Flan said sweetly.

“I'd actually rather be alone at this particular moment in time. But if people do come, can we just pretend that the party was for Arno being named HPSB all along? It's all kind of … you know … embarrassing.”

To my relief, people did come. And they all seemed to be under the impression that they'd been coming to Arno's party all along, so it wasn't too hard to fake it. Pretty soon my relief mutated into irritation, though—I mean, why would they just assume that? The first thing out of everyone's mouth was, “This is
so
exciting. How long have you known about Arno being HPSB?”

I also realized that being a host isn't always fun. I had to keep running back and forth to the kitchen to make people more drinks. Apparently, the caipirinha is still very popular.

When Arno arrived, there were about twenty-five kids hanging out in my living room talking
about him. David and Rob were close behind, with those three Florence girls they had been partying with at the MoMA party. They all looked very cool, and like they'd been having maximum fun.

I went over to greet them.

“Thanks for throwing me a party,” Arno said, even though I'd never told him that the party was for him. He looked more tanned and well taken care of already, and he surveyed the room as if to say “Not half bad.” He was wearing a motorcycle jacket that I'd never seen him wear before, too. Then he leaned over and whispered, “And thanks for getting us on the list at Lotus; I think that really impressed the
New York
girl. I talked us into the VIP room later, too. It was pretty sweet.”

“Sounds like good times,” I said.

“Totally. And then later I started DJ-ing. I mean, that was hot.”

“How did you pull that one off?” I asked, going more for incredulous than jealous.

“Oh, you know, my friend Billy DJs there,” Arno continued. “I just told him I was trying to make a good impression. He was all about it.”

“You let me know next time you throw party,” Rob interrupted, throwing his arm around my neck. “I could have helped! I love to party.”

“I know,” I said. Then I looked at their girls, who were a little overdressed, like they were going to a nightclub or something. “Can I get you ladies caipirinhas?”

“I
love
caipirinhas,” one of the girls said. It was Mimi Rathbone.

I walked them into the living room, and everyone gasped when they saw Arno. I said, “Boys and girls, this guy just wandered in off the street. Apparently, he's a teeny-weeny bit hot. Will you entertain him while I make another round of drinks?”

Everyone laughed and then started loudly admiring Arno. Let it be noted that the best way to hide your jealousy is to be fake mean. Everyone assumes you're being cute and self-effacing, when in fact you mean every word. I slipped back into the kitchen, relieved that I had six caipirinhas to muddle.

I kept a forced smile on my face, and did a good job pretending like I thought it was awesome that Arno had been named Hottest Private School Boy the whole time he was there, but it was probably a good thing that, after only forty-five minutes, he said he would have to be leaving pretty soon. I really couldn't have kept it up much longer.

“At least have another round of drinks, man,” I said. Mimi Rathbone and her friend Lizzie were dancing in the middle of the living room now. It was almost like they'd brought the nightclub with them.

“Okay,” Arno said. Then he lowered his voice, and added, “You should get rid of these people and go to Ginger with us.”

I was about to say that, yeah, I'd been wanting to go to Ginger for a while now, when I remembered about Flan. I hadn't had a chance to talk to her all night, what with all my schmoozing, and now I didn't even know where she was. I was definitely going to be in trouble if I ditched the party. She had, after all, canceled her girls' night for me. It took everything I had to say, “Nah, I've heard that place is a little much.”

“Suit yourself.”