Hold On Tight (13 page)

“No way, no way, no way!” Lily squealed.

“No, I did,” I said slowly, wondering why Lily sounded so excited. Was it that unbelievable that I would go up there to visit Ted? “I mean, I went up there to have fun, too, but also to see my brother.”

“Yes … go on. Please.”

“Anyway, I just started feeling kind of bad about my relatively low level of social engagedness. And I wanted to start doing stuff. That shows the world I care.”

“Oh,” Lily said, and then paused like she was sorting something out about me. “I see. That's … that's great, Jonathan.”

“Are you mad at me?” I blurted out without thinking. She sounded kind of mad.

“No,” Lily said slowly. “No, not
mad
at all. Can I ask you something? Did you know your brother used to be the president of Homeless Outreach in New York private schools?”

“Man, I guess I didn't.”

“Yeah, well, he was. Can I tell you something? I mean, we're friends right?”

“Um, yeah. And yeah,” I added quickly, “we're friends.”

“I've always had the
biggest
crush on your brother.”

“Oh.”

“The only reason I could imagine you were calling was to tell me you had a message from him…. That's why I got all excited.”

“No. No, I wasn't. He, uh, has a girlfriend at Vassar.”

“Can you hold on one second?” I heard Lily moving around in the background, blowing her nose. I was pretty sure she wasn't crying though—Lily was always blowing her nose. When she came back she said, “Forget I said that, okay?”

“You got it. Maybe we can make a deal, and you won't tell anybody what I said?”

“Oh, no no no. Jonathan, I'm sorry I derailed all of your good intentions with my selfish feelings.”

“It's really okay.”

“No, it's not. And I'm going to make it up to you. Can you get out of school on Friday?”

“That's never really been a problem for me.”

“Great, my friend Ava just got involved with this urban gardening program that's creating a community garden on an empty lot on the West Side. Every Friday they're having ‘work parties' to get it set up and running. It will be a great opportunity for you to volunteer, and show that you care about neighborhoods and the environment. Ava says they're really fun, and …” Lily paused self-consciously, and I could tell that she was still embarrassed about the whole Ted thing. “Well, let's just say that Ava knows a lot more about fun than I do.”

I told her I was sure that wasn't true, and asked her to give me the address. As she did I wrote it down. This program did sound really cool, although something about the whole idea left me feeling unsettled.

“Hey, Jonathan? If Ted ever mentions me …”

“You'll be the first to know,” I said, waving at the doorman and heading for the elevator. “And thanks, Lily.”

Mickey commandeered a plate of canapés from a passing waiter and surveyed his third art opening of the evening. The two models he started hanging out with at Deitch Projects the night before, and who had been with him since then, were being interviewed by a Page Six reporter and were posing for pictures with any quasi-celebrity who walked by. Mickey—who was wearing a wife beater and red-and-black striped drawstring pants—was trying to hang back.

The art opening was for an old painter friend of Ricardo, and Mickey knew that if someone asked for his opinion he was going to have to admit that he thought the show sucked. He might also tell them that he thought this party was too freaking stuffy.

His opinion had been asked several times the night before, and every unflattering thing he'd said had been recorded by one or more of the tabloids.
(Newsday:
“Famous Sculptor's Son Bites Hand that Feeds Him.”) Mickey might have missed this fact, except that his dad
had clipped them all and taped them to his door along with a two-page letter in Spanish explaining his failures as a son.

Mickey had decided that getting lots of un-Ricardo-related coverage would be the sweetest revenge. So he watched happily as the models told the Page Six person all kinds of outrageous Mickey anecdotes. And now he had his own plate of canapés to boot.

“What are you doing here?” said a sweet and familiar voice close by.

“Phil!” Mickey managed, as he sucked the last of a canapé into his mouth and down his throat. He tried to keep from choking as he took in the sight of his ex-girlfriend in a fitted camo jacket and black miniskirt. “What are
you
doing here?”

“My new girlfriend's an art critic for the Barnard paper,” Philippa said. She smiled and squeezed Mickey's hand. “That's her over there. God I'm glad to see you here.”

Mickey looked, and saw a tall girl with her short hair parted at the side and slicked back so that it tucked behind her ears. She was wearing fitted black slacks and a white button-down shirt with a big, stiff collar, and she was talking animatedly with the artist. “Yuh,” said Mickey, “she looks like the girlfriend-stealing type.”

“No joking like that!” Philippa said. “I really like this one.”

“Okay. What's her name?”

“Stella. I met her at the Hungarian Pastry shop on Amsterdam Avenue. She was studying for this class called The Male Gaze in American Cinema, and I was having a croissant before school.”

Mickey looked back at the girlfriend. She had lit a cigarette, and one eye appeared to be twitching as she talked. “Man, it's good to see you.”

“Likewise. We should practice being friends more.”

“Totally.” Mickey thought to offer Philippa a canapé, but she waved it away. He discretely put the plate on the floor behind him. “So what's new?”

“Not much. Looking forward to summer. Hanging out with Stella. My parents are insisting I go to Maine with them for a
month
, though, which is going to be such a drag.”

“Mmm, yeah.” Mickey's eye wandered to the models, who were laughing loud and horselike now.

“So what's up with the models, Mickey?”

“I don't know, I think posing for pictures is, like, their job,” Mickey said defensively. Why was Philippa chastising him? It wasn't like he had sought the models out. “Your new girlfriend has a twitch, by the way.”

“She does not! That just happens sometimes, when
she's, like, having an idea.” There was an awkward silence, and then he saw Stella the Barnard art critic approaching them.

“What's up babe,” she said, putting both arms around Philippa from behind.

“Hey, I'm …,” Mickey started.

“The ex?” she cut him off sharply. “I guessed as much.”

“Well, it sucks to meet you, too.”

Stella laughed like that was the funniest thing in the world. She didn't seem to take it personally at all. “Good one. So, are you a one-hit wonder, Mr. Pardo, or have you got the stuff?”

“Well, I'm probably too biased to answer that question. But I believe my second lecture, this Saturday night at lovely Sarah Lawrence college, will answer that question.”

“Very impressive,” Stella smiled. “I look forward to hearing how it goes. Anyway, don't you think these paintings suck?”

“I find them a little dull, yes,” Mickey said cautiously.

“I mean, hasn't the time for large-scale self-portraits in shades of tropical rainforest come and gone?”

Mickey snickered.

“Oh, come on guys,” Philippa said. She paused, seeming to realize that a plea for niceness was not going to fly here. “Doesn't everyone come for free wine anyway?”

They all laughed loudly at that. Several people turned to look at them curiously, and then the two models did, too. They narrowed their eyes at Stella and Philippa, but they didn't come back—apparently they knew that they had been replaced.

“Oh, there's the Village Voice critic,” Stella said. “I'm going to go have a word. Nice to meet you, Pardo Dos.”

Mickey saluted her, and watched her saunter over to a balding man with a shoulder-length fringe of hair and wire-rim glasses.

“Stella's so smart it's intimidating sometimes,” Philippa said with a sigh.

“Oh, whatever,” Mickey said. “She's not
that
smart. I should know. I just lectured at Vassar.”

Philippa shook her head doubtfully. “Be careful with that absurd confidence. It could get you in big trouble,” she said, taking his hand affectionately. “I should go over there. She'll want to introduce me. But it's really good to see you. Let's get together soon, okay?”

Mickey nodded, and watched her approach Stella and the Village Voice guy shyly. She turned back and gave him a little wave with the tips of her fingers, and all of a sudden Mickey couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this whole lesbian thing was going to blow over … and soon.

Arno was sitting on the grand stone steps in front of Gissing, getting more and more irritated by the Sarah Lawrence directory assistance.

“Well, I don't know her last name. Can't you just do a search for Lara?” He was wearing white cords, a faded I-heart-New-York T-shirt, and flip-flops, which he realized was not an outfit that implied he was going to spend all day in class. “I mean, she's from Napa, does that help? How many Laras from Napa wineries do you have there?” He brushed his bangs away from his eyes and waved at Mrs. Lambers, his bio teacher, who was trudging up the steps with a great pile of graded tests. “Okay, fine. Fine. How about… hold on. I have a call waiting. Can you hold on?” he clicked over. “Wildenburger.”

“Hi
Wildenburger.'

“Gabby?” Arno said, flashbacking to two nights ago. He had been so busy trying to contact Lara to tell her
he'd already been in love that he had forgotten about the said object of his affection. “How did you get this number?”

“Um, well, there was a pen. And a piece of paper. And you used the pen to write on the paper, ‘Gabby, call me sometime, xx Arno.' But that's the abridged version. All of this was after you said you were in love with me. I still haven't figured out whether that was just the booze talking or what.”

“Hey, I'm about to be late for school. What's up?”

“School? Going back to school after lunch on Wednesdays is like so 2005.”

“Oh, really. What are you doing?”

“Well, I'm really very concerned about my tan. Also, my skeeball game is really suffering because of my late hours at the sewing machine. So what do
you
think I'm going to do?”

“Um … I don't know, I'm really not good at guessing games.”

Gabby made an exaggerated exasperation sound. “Well, going to Coney Island, of course.”

“Oh.”

“Well, aren't you a chatty Kathy today. Are you coming with me or not?”

Arno looked down at his feet. He
was
already wearing flip-flops. “Okay.”

Two hours later, he and Gabby were walking hand in hand down the boardwalk. She was wearing a turquoise halter bikini top and big espresso-colored sarong-style pants that sat low on her hips and showed off the jutting bones there. She was also wearing several heavy gold chains. They were the perfect picture of hipster-couple-does-rundown-resort town.

“Don't you just love it here?” Gabby said, throwing her arms up and breathing in the sea air.

“It's a little dirty, don't you think?”

“Oh, it's camp. All of it's delicious camp. Speaking of delicious, I think they have Smirnoff Ice there. Will you go get us some?”

Arno did what she asked, but he was feeling sort of silly. He was enjoying Gabby and everything, but did they really have to drink beer that tasted like juice? It didn't seem very meaningful. They continued down the beach, drinking their Smirnoff Ice from big Styrofoam cups.

Gabby took a reflective sip. “So, I can't figure it out.”

“What?”

“Whether I like you or not. I mean, you're good-looking.”

“Thanks.”

“Mostly in an actor way, but you do have sort of an
edge. But you never say much. So what I'm wondering is, are you mysterious … or stupid?”

“Huh.”

“Today I'm leaning toward mysterious. I think you have a secret, Arno Wildenburger.”

“Oh?” Arno felt a nice, warm feeling spreading through his chest. “You're pretty insightful. For your age.”

“That had better be a joke. Cuz if it's not, then I really will know that you're stupid.”

“It was a joke.”

She swung in front of him and gave him a wide, toothy smile. Arno pulled her up to him and kissed her. She did taste good. They kept kissing, until a bunch of guys started yelling at them to get a room. Gabby pulled away, and gave the guys a disgusted look. Then she was distracted by something else.

“Look! Skeeball! C'mon, let's play skeeball. Can we pretty please play skeeball?” Gabby was jumping up and down and pointing at a row of amusement park-style games.

“Okay,” Arno said. He took some quarters from his pocket and handed two of them over to Gabby. She stuffed her quarters in the machine and the balls plunked down.

“Come on, champ,” she said. She pulled her arm
back, paused for effect, and then let the ball go skidding up the plank and into the 300 bucket. She jumped up and down again, which annoyed Arno for reasons he wasn't entirely sure of.

“Nice shot,” he said, although he didn't really mean it. He tossed a ball up the ramp, and it hit the rim of the hundred bucket and fell away, pointless.

“Lordie, did you learn skeeball from a girl?” Gabby twisted her hair back, and let fly another 300 pointer. “Scooooooore!” she cried jumping up and down.

Arno managed 200 points on his next try, but with one ball left, it wasn't looking good for him. Gabby took her last ball, blew on it, did a little dance, and prepared for the throw. She stretched her arm back and then let it fly—a perfect shot up the center of the lane. The ball hit the divider between the 400 and 500 buckets, teetered, and then fell in for 500 points. As soon she started doing her dance, Arno leaned forward and tossed his last ball, softball style, into the 1,000 point bucket. The flashing lights on top of the machine went wild, and the tickets starting pouring out.