The Insiders (7 page)

“Let's call it love,” David had said, on their third afternoon together. “I know I feel it, I'm in love with you.”

Amanda had been lying on her side, faced away from him, flipping channels on the little flat-screen TV that was on her bedside table.

“Okay?” David asked. She turned over and glanced at him. She had the same placid look on her face that she
had when waiters came to the table and announced the evening specials. Amanda's family were forever going out to dinner. It was the only thing they all really liked to do.

“Sure,” she said. “I love you, too.”

And David's world, which was already really good, got about a thousand times better.

“You want popcorn?” Sam asked, and prodded David in the ribs. David shook his head and let out a yelp. His dad's fingers were like gun muzzles.

“Come on, come on,” Sam said as they got into the Garden. The Grobarts had used the Floods' Rangers tickets a few times before, so they knew their way to the face-on-the-glass seats, just a bit up and to the left of the visitor's bench. Tonight it was the Rangers against their archenemy, the Flyers.

They settled into their seats, with David on one side, then his dad, then his mom.

“Why is offsides called icing, and when does it occur?” David's mother asked. Sam leaned in to explain it.

David immediately began to text-message Amanda on his Blackberry. He wrote in long bursts, soliloquies, sonnets, great chunks of prose. He told her he'd do anything if she would just call, or send him back a note, or meet him later, or just somehow let him know that she still loved him.

“Jonathan, what the hell are those?” Mickey asked. He'd drifted into Man Ray on a dense cloud of painkillers. He looked down at Jonathan, who was slumped on the dark leather bench across from the bar, his feet up on a chair. Mickey grabbed Jonathan's ankle and pulled his foot up so he could better see what Jonathan was wearing in the dim light of the bar.

“They're from the new Saint Laurent line—something new that Tom Ford's trying out, imitation crocodile.”

“They're orange loafers.”

“Burnt sienna, actually,” Jonathan said. “You're alone.”

“And feeling no pain,” Mickey said. He sat down and showed Jonathan his bottle of prescription Vicodin. “Want one?”

“No,” Jonathan said. “You remember what happened last time.”

Mickey nodded. Last time he'd let Jonathan use
drugs, they had been at a party on the Floods' old sailboat out in Greenwich. Jonathan had taken the same thing as everyone else, but then instead of lying back and listening to music, he'd spent the next six hours running around counting the life preservers, and then counting the people on the boat, and then checking in with the coast guard to make sure no storms were coming even though the sky was the color of a baby boy's blanket … So, Mickey slowly withdrew the offer.

“Where's everyone else?” Mickey asked. He looked around the bar, as if Arno, David, and Patch might be hiding and were going to leap out and surprise him.

“They all said they'd be here,” Jonathan said. Mickey grabbed the drink Jonathan was sipping and gulped it.

“Ah—what the hell is this?”

“Club soda with a splash of cranberry,” Jonathan said.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said. “I'm getting a beer.”

He went up to the bar. Although it was Saturday night and just past eight, the place was quiet, even tomblike. The bartender was an extremely tall young woman in a black T-shirt and jeans.

“Could I get a Stella?” Mickey asked. He knew that even if he didn't know a staff member, they probably knew him. This was largely because he'd been coming to the restaurant for brunch with his parents since he
was a little kid. The bar he was leaning against had been designed by his father before he'd gotten really famous.

The bartender looked in his eyes, which were as cloudy as his thoughts, and lined with red. She cocked her head to one side, then the other. Then she said, “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“You keep nodding, but I'm not asking you a question. It's scary. So, no.”

“Are you saying no because I'm sixteen, or because I'm on enough painkillers to knock out an elephant?”

“Yes,” the bartender said. She pulled out a glass and the soda gun, poured Mickey a Coke, and handed it across to him. While this was going on, Mickey's attention drifted to the groups of people who were beginning to come through the door, all waiting for their parties to arrive so they could get seated in the back. He looked back at Jonathan, who was on the phone.

In all the darkness, Mickey realized he couldn't see the floor. There were just swirling mists down there. Part of him was grateful to the bartender for not letting him drink. The TV behind the bar was tuned to New York One, which was showing an interview with a woman who designed handbags shaped like dogs.

“Can we watch the Rangers game?” Mickey asked.

“If I say yes will you stay here so I can keep an
eye on you?”

“Yes,” Mickey said back. “I want to keep my eyes on you, too.” He was slurring. Then he frowned, and it was a clown's frown, big and sad and helpless. In about three seconds, the bartender melted for him.

“Gimme a kiss on the cheek and go sit with your friend with the funny shoes,” she said. So Mickey reached over and kissed her and she smelled like whiskey and daisies. She reached out and tousled his thicket of matchstick hair.

“Do you think my girlfriend will be angry at me for being such a mess?” Mickey asked.

“Only if she finds out you kissed me,” the bartender said. “Now get back to your friend. He looks upset.”

“Can you believe it? I don't think anybody's coming but Liza,” Jonathan said when Mickey sat down next to him. “And I don't even remember inviting her.”

“Whatever,” Mickey said. His arm felt like it weighed as much as one of his Dad's Cadillac sculptures.

“Where's my drink?” Jonathan asked.

By then Mickey was so zoned out that all he could focus on was the whizzing puck on the TV screen.

David smiled when he realized that he'd totally forgotten about dinner with everybody at Man Ray. That was cool. He felt his cheeks glow. He never, never forgot things, and always envied Patch Flood for being so mellow that he could never be counted on to show up for anything. And now here David was, casually at a Rangers game with his parents, which was pretty cool if you looked at it from a certain laid-back perspective that David knew he didn't have himself but that some of his friends did.

“They scored!” Sam Grobart yelled. He grabbed David and they stood up and threw their hands in the air.

“What led up to that?” David's mom asked. Sam sat down to explain.

So now the Rangers were one goal ahead and David felt happy. It was the beginning of the third period and all they needed to do was hold on. The smell of sweat and beer hung heavy in the cold Madison Square Garden air. And always, always he had Amanda in his
head. And he thought,
maybe she's just busy with her parents, at one of those five-hour, seven-course dinners
.

Then his phone rang and he grabbed it so hard that for a moment he flashed on a fear that it would squeeze out of his hand and fly onto the ice and be sliced in neat halves by one of the player's skates. But he got ahold of it. Saw it was Amanda.

“Hey, where've you been?” David asked.

“David, where are you?”

“That doesn't matter, at the Rangers game. What's going on? I've been trying—”

“I know you have,” Amanda said. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“What?” David asked. He scooted his head down between his legs so he could concentrate. The concrete steps were close to his face, and the air was dank.

“I don't know if we should be together anymore.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't want to tell you. It'll make things terrible for everyone.”

“What will? What are you talking about?”

“Don't push me, David.”

“Push you?” David looked around—something was going wrong on the ice, too.

“You're forcing me to say it—I fooled around with someone else. You sort of know who the person is and
I'm not sure I even wanted to, and now I'm sick about it.”

“What? Who was it? No!”

David dropped the phone. A cry escaped from his lips. Since he'd been in fifth grade and Arno French-kissed Molly, the girl David had been passing notes to, he'd been afraid a girl would cheat on him. And because of it, he'd been unable to have a girlfriend for all of middle school and high school all the way up to now. The shock of betrayal shot through him and he felt a slackening, as if he'd lost control of his body. He couldn't even begin to wonder who she'd fooled around with.

Then he was yanked to his feet. A massive, collective
no
erupted from the crowd. And David's dad wanted his son standing with him. Meanwhile, David was crying in pain. A moment earlier, a defenseman had checked a Flyer into the glass in front of the Grobarts. The guy pawed at the glass for a second before sinking to the floor.

Penalty! A power play!

A camera zoomed in on the fallen player, the screaming fans, the probability that now the Rangers would blow the win. Then the cameraman panned up a foot to David, who looked just like the sort of fan who equated a loss for his beloved team with something like getting a call from your beloved girlfriend, who says that she fooled around with someone you know. David had the face that said it all.
No!

“Oh my God,” I said. “Look at the TV.” I stood up fast and part of my drink spilled down my pant leg.

On TV, a Flyer had been checked hard and the Rangers had basically blown the game. We'd watched this passively. I couldn't care less about hockey and Mickey seemed to have left the planet. But then there was a full screen shot of one very unhappy fan, who had gone from a shocked look of anger to a bout of tears. The camera lingered for a solid one, two, three seconds. The boy was bawling.

“That's David,” Mickey said. He looked as if he were trying to slap away the cotton balls that were swirling in the air around him.

“Yeah, that's David, and he's crying. On TV,” I said.

“I guess he's not coming to meet us,” Mickey said.

“I wonder what the hell happened.”

“He must've forgot.”

“No, idiot—to make him cry like that, on TV.” But of course I knew. And I snarled inwardly at Arno and wondered how I was going to fix what he'd done. And Patch? Where was he? But there wasn't time to worry about him then, not with David crying on ESPN.

I sat there next to my doped-out friend, my arms folded over my chest, and I puffed out my cheeks and blew hot air. I glanced at Mickey. He was making a kiss-me face and the bartender, incredibly, was responding with a kiss-me face of her own. Or she was making fun of him. It was difficult to tell. Mickey unzipped his jumpsuit and he had nothing on underneath. Some girls who'd just come in with dates stared and Mickey stood up and tried to dance for them, but he was too messed up, so he sat back down, more on me than on the bench. I pushed him off.

Sometimes I forgot just how much girls could get into Mickey. They liked him because he was shocking and exciting. Because he was crazy. I wondered why girls might like me. Because I know the difference between cordovan leather and calfskin? Probably not.

“This night is thrashed,” I said. Mickey's head was doing a first-rate imitation of a bobblehead doll.

“You should go home,” I said.

“Why?”

“Look at you, you need rest. Otherwise you're going to miss school all week. Where's your Vespa?”

“I don't know … at Patch's?” Mickey smiled at me.

“I'll call you a cab.”

“No,” he said. “I can walk. I had no idea David was so into the Rangers.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

I glanced around and saw Liza come in the door, alone. She was in her usual all-black outfit, and her hair was pulled back. The older guys in the bar gawked at her. When Mickey saw her, he rose unsteadily to his feet and used the hug he gave her to keep himself up. She grabbed his face in her hands and looked in his eyes.

“Look, it's your girlfriend,” Mickey said.

“No she's not,” I said, too fast. Just because Liza and I hadn't gone out with anyone else last year, and had made out sometimes and talked on the phone most nights, people assumed we were
going out.

“Go home,” Liza said. “Please.”

Liza took Mickey out to put him in a cab, and I used the time to call Flan Flood.

“Jonathan?” Flan asked.

“Are you doing anything?” I asked.

“Watching
My So-Called Life
DVDs with Laura and Rebecca. We know all the lines by heart. But we actually flipped by the Rangers game for a second and saw your friend David bawling like a little baby.”

“Listen, I'm sorry about today.”

“Oh, that's okay. Whatever.” And I could hear her quickened breathing, and I knew she was just saying that because she had two friends over.

“Do you want to come and meet me?” I asked. But I saw the door open, and Liza was headed my way. And what was I asking Flan to meet me for anyway?

“I don't know if I can,” she said, in her mature voice.

“You're right. You shouldn't. That was crazy of me. Look, I'm being really crazy. I'm sorry. You should ignore me.”

“Call me tomorrow,” she whispered, and ended the call. I looked up at Liza, who was
standing over me.

“Where's the rest of your crowd?” she asked.