by J. Minter
“If you know your guys that well, I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out.”
“What about the other thing?”
“His mom? Sounds like you’ve got bigger stuff to worry about.”
“Hmm,” I scratched my chin and watched him. Billy was whistling. Then, as if on some weird cue, the music switched to “Let It Be.”
“Where did you come from, really?” I asked.
“Everybody asks me that.” Billy climbed up a ladder and began to write the words to “Let It Be” on the ceiling in a pattern that seemed to lead into the hall closet. I wondered if this was some weird message: Let the mess in the hall closet be?
“If you do see Lucy Pardo, tell her I miss her,” he said.
“Dude, no way.”
And I wandered off to my room to try to save at least the jacket that went with those Paul Smith pants, since that suit did fit me really, really well.
in the valley of the pardos
no problem at all, mrs. pardo!
“I’m only going to be here three nights and they built me a bed?” Jonathan asked. They were in Mickey’s room in the Pardos’ massive house on West Street.
Suspended from the ceiling by lengths of inch-thick chain was a small bed that swayed gently in the breeze from Mickey’s oversized window. The bed was above their heads, and Mickey began to crank a little motor. After a moment, it began to descend slowly, and unevenly.
“Looks like something from the Spanish Inquisition,” Jonathan said.
“My dad designed it just for you.”
“I’m only going to be here till Wednesday night. This is like, so unnecessary.”
The bed was now only a few feet from the floor. They watched it as if it were going to jump. Mickey toyed with the iPod in his pocket and adjusted the music. He was currently into a set of RZA bootlegs from 1999.
“Try it.”
“I’m afraid.” Jonathan reached forward and tugged on the leather blanket, then pulled back as if it were going to bite him. Then he slowly got onto the bed, and sat in the middle of it. He smiled at Mickey.
“This is pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Let me on there.” So Mickey started to get on, and immediately the chains rattled and the bed upended itself, and both boys landed on the floor in a heap.
“Ow!” Mickey leaped up. “Caselli!”
“Yeah?” Caselli came in.
“The bed doesn’t work.”
“Sure it does.” Caselli climbed onto the now-still bed and lay there, with his arms folded over his stomach like a mummy in a casket. “See?”
“I get it,” Mickey nodded. “No sudden moves on the Inquisition-guest-bed.”
Caselli got off and worked the winch, and the bed slowly ascended toward the ceiling. He said, “If you were going to like, do something that involved pleasure, this would not be the bed to do it on.”
“That’s fine,” Jonathan said. “It’s not like I’d ever come back here and sleep on it drunk or anything.”
Jonathan and Mickey smiled at each other since it was a party week and that was obviously going to happen. Caselli gave them a look. Mickey wandered toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Jonathan leaped up, as if suddenly afraid to be alone in the house.
“Um, the kitchen? You want anything?”
“Oh, okay, sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Me and Philippa used to do tequila slammers in the kitchen after school…”
“Dude, I’m sorry those days are over.”
“Stay here,” Mickey said. “Try to figure out how you’re going to sleep in that bed.”
Mickey went to the kitchen and found a roast beef and some vegetables simmering on the stove. He put together a couple of plates and snagged some cans of Tecate from one of the refrigerators.
They were supposed to have Sunday dinner but when Mickey glanced up, it was already eight o’clock, so he guessed that maybe it wasn’t happening. He padded slowly back to his room with the food.
When he got to his door, he heard voices and he stopped. He didn’t have any kind of antenna for gossip, but something did feel off. Then he figured it out. It was his mom’s perfume—he had no idea what it was called, it was just mom-smell to him—coming from his room. She was in there with Jonathan. Mickey put his ear to the wall.
“You never saw me at your house. Do you understand that?” Lucy Pardo was saying.
“Okay,” Jonathan said.
“We are more than happy to provide for you here. We even built you this bed, but I need to be assured that the only place you know me from is this house, where I am Mickey’s mom. Right?”
“Okay,” Jonathan repeated. Mickey looked at the floorboards for a moment and tried to figure out what was going on. Just as he got ready to go into his room and ask both of them exactly that, his mom came out.
“Hi, darling.” She walked past him quickly, only pausing to run a hand over his great mass of spiky hair, which he realized, in that moment, he only kept up because she liked it that way. Mickey went into his room and put the food down.
“Dude, what is the deal with you and my mom?”
Jonathan just shook his head. He seemed to be staring at a point on the ceiling. And when Mickey looked he saw that he was looking up at the bed.
“Man,” Jonathan said. “I am really afraid to sleep in that thing.”
Above them, the black-leather-covered bed swayed back and forth and the lengths of thick chain clanked together in a way that could only be described as forbidding.
“Tell me the truth, Jonathan.”
“If I had a clue, I would.” Jonathan leaned against Mickey’s desk. “I’m ditching school in the morning and going to Tootsi Plohound. I need a new pair of boots and I want to see if the new Prada flip-flops are cool or not. You want to come?”
“I wouldn’t want to go shopping even if I did understand what you were talking about.” Mickey was chewing on the collar of his T-shirt, watching Jonathan.
“If my mom were doing something wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah.” But Jonathan looked away. He said, “I’m so tense lately I can’t even go to the bathroom for real.”
“Well, I’ll leave if you want to use mine.”
“No, it’s not the same as using mine at home.”
“I know what you mean,” Mickey said. “You do look a little heavy, like with secrets and stuff, huh?”
“Mmm,” Jonathan said.
“Look dude, I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what’s going on before your mom gets back, okay? Before you leave here.”
“And what’ll you do?”
“Well, I won’t kill you. And the Caribbean…well, it’s fine. I won’t go. And if there’s some other bullshit that’s going on with you, I promise I won’t get upset about whatever it is.”
“Actually, that sounds pretty fair,” Jonathan said. And they sat down to eat.
how little does homecoming matter to arno?
Arno came out of school and Mickey was standing there waiting for him. It was Wednesday, lunchtime, and everyone was being let out of school early for homecoming and the Thanksgiving holiday. Arno had been through a rough couple of days. His mom and dad didn’t appear to be speaking to each other, and Mickey’s dad kept calling his house. Arno had no idea why. He wanted to ask Mickey, but he doubted Mickey would know anything about what his father was up to since he avoided his father as much as he possibly could.
Arno turned up his collar and stuffed his hands into his blazer pockets. He didn’t have a schoolbag with him since he didn’t have any plans to do any work over the break.
“They let you all out earlier than us?” Arno asked Mickey.
“No, I’m still supposed to be there. But they were going to do all that homecoming bullshit, so I cut out.” Mickey shivered. He was in shorts, flip-flops and a white leather motorcycle jacket. The Gissing kids stared at him.
“Everything cool
with Jonathan at your house?” Arno asked.
“Yeah—I’ve barely seen him, actually. I know he went to school the last couple of days, and then he hung out at his house with that painter. We were supposed to meet up today, though.”
“What are we doing now?” Mickey asked.
“Don’t we usually go to the movies?” Arno suggested.
It was true. In the past they’d cut out of homecoming activities and everything else and gone to whatever joke movie was playing—Old School or Riddick or any of that other garbage—the stupider the better. They always erred in favor of those in the group who couldn’t possibly sit through a whole movie unless they were high.
“Yeah, I think Fog of War is playing. We can go as soon as Jonathan comes out,” Arno said, nodding at the main entrance to Gissing. “David’s playing Potterton’s student/alumni basketball game, right? What about Patch?”
“I heard that Patch went to school today.”
“Huh.”
“He went. He didn’t arrive.”
“Right.” Arno checked his watch. It was a seventies Rolex he’d snagged from his dad, and it was so big it made his wrist look feminine. With his blazer, he wore a turtleneck and jeans. “Aren’t you freezing?” Arno asked.
“Kind of. Why don’t we go watch David play ball. I bet there’ll be girls there.”
“Our exes?”
“Yeah, but more, besides.” The truth was Mickey wasn’t really up for seeing other girls yet, but he knew exactly how to get Arno’s attention.
“All right, cool. It’ll be like… like scouting for Ginger Shulman’s party later.” Arno smiled to himself at that thought.
“Hey man,” Mickey threw an arm around Jonathan as he came out of Gissing. “Let’s get you over to Potterton to see some good basketball and bad women.”
“Okay, why not.” Jonathan said.
Mickey hailed a cab.
“I talked to Ruth,” Jonathan said. “She’ll be at Ginger’s but she can’t see me till then. I can’t believe I’m the only one of us with a girlfriend.”
“Yeah, that is weird.” Arno twisted the dial on his Rolex but the click-click-click sound faded away when the cab took off across town.
Later, Arno called Patch, which felt particularly surreal since it happened so rarely. Neither of them were phone guys.
“It was cool. David got a triple double and stuffed on that kid Alex who’s playing for Yale this year. Remember Alex? We hated that kid. And now David stuffed his ass.”
“Sounds cool,” Patch said.
“I’m home,” Arno said. “I’m just going to change and shit, before we head to Ginger Shulman’s, which is at her parents’ new apartment this year. I bet everybody’ll be there. Definitely Liesel—I told you I blew her off, right?”
“What’s up?” Patch said. But Arno knew he wasn’t talking to him. Patch liked to buy presents for his family for Thanksgiving rather than Christmas, so he was out shopping.
“Are you in SoHo?”
“I gotta go,” Patch said. “I see Selina Trieff, or I think I’m supposed to meet her, and she’s here.”
“Dude, is she your girlfriend or isn’t she?”
But Patch was already gone. Arno let himself into his house, which was bustling with strangers. There were always workmen in there, hanging art from the gallery or taking it down, or there were cooks preparing food for a benefit or special event his parents were having in one of the common rooms.
“Hello there, boy,” his dad said. “Have you seen your mom?”
“No.”
Arno and his dad stared at each other. Where was Allie Wildenburger?
“Where have you been?”
“Um, me and the guys just saw a movie. And we’re meeting up again in a couple of hours.”
Mr. Wildenburger’s nose was twitching like a rabbit’s, and the foxes on his velvet loafers seemed to be baring their teeth at Arno.
“Ask around for your mother, would you? For me? I’m off.”
“To where?”
“Paris.”
“But Dad, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving!”
“It’s also the day your friend Jonathan’s father’s getting married, and that’s more important.”
“You’re his best man, yeah? Didn’t you say that earlier?”
“Now I’m his worst man. I’ve got to get there and serve him papers before his new wife can lay claim to his money. Oh wait—”
“What?”
“You’re not supposed to know any of this. You’re totally confused, aren’t you? Save me some turkey. I’ll see you on the weekend.” And with that, Mr. Wildenburger strode out of the living room.
Arno landed with a thump on the couch and wondered if this had something to do with why Jonathan had been so weird lately. But wasn’t the new wife rich? What about that huge yacht and the sailing trip?
“One other thing.” Arno’s dad poked his head back in. “Tell your mother that if I find out she’s been spending time with Ricardo Pardo, I’m going to murder them both.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arno spoke plaintively. He couldn’t figure out what Mickey’s dad had to do with anything.
“Right. You shouldn’t know any of this. Forget I said anything. Sorry.” And Arno’s dad was gone.
david brings someone special to ginger’s
David and Patch walked through Times Square. Patch preferred to walk everywhere if he could. Even though the wind was whipping their butts and it was dark and cold, Patch was in sandals, paper-thin khakis, and a torn white-linen blazer over an ancient pink oxford shirt. David, for what might have been the first time in his life, asked himself a fashion question: Was dressing with a screw-you attitude toward the weather the cool thing to do? And if so, why?
David wrapped himself tighter in the black North Face down coat his parents had bought him the weekend before.
“You know, we never hang out together alone,” Patch said. They were wandering slowly up to Ginger Shulman’s party at One Columbus Circle.
“Well, we’re …” But David trailed off. He wanted to say they were about as different as two people could be, but he couldn’t find the right words. Instead he said, “Do you think Selina will be there?”
Patch was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You know, I hadn’t really thought about it. I like her though, I think.”
“Well, have you called her?”
“No, but we saw each other yesterday. I think we might’ve talked about being in love.”
“You can’t remember?”
“Nah.” Patch looked away from David.
They kept going. David’s phone vibrated against his chest. Amanda. He took the call.
“Are you going to be at the party?” she asked.
“Well, yeah. I was planning on it. Why?”
“Because then I can’t go. I don’t want to see you.”
“Oh come on Amanda—don’t be like that.”
Right then, Patch tapped David on the arm. He gestured for the phone. David gave it to him.
“Hey Amanda, this is Patch…Yeah, I know—we’ve definitely never spoken on the phone before. Anyway, it’d be great if you came to the party tonight. I don’t feel like I’ve seen you in weeks. And I’d love to be with you and David, because the two of you together are so great. So you’ll come? Good. See you there.” Patch handed the phone back to David.
For a minute, David was too shocked to say anything. Then he said, “Wow. First you drive, now you fix things.”
“I know one problem we need to fix, and that’s whatever’s going on with Jonathan.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right about that.”
“My little sister—she cares about him and she said he’s all messed up. She said we’re his best friends, so we’ve got to be there for him.”
David smiled. He thought, if only Patch were just around more, we’d all be less screwed up. But of course the problem was just that, Patch was never around. Then they both gla
nced up at a forty-foot-tall photo of a lingerie model they knew from kindergarten, and David managed to grab Patch just before he stepped into traffic and disappeared for good.
mickey’s magic slammer
“Even if you totally screw it up it’s still tequila and ginger ale, and that’s pretty good,” Liesel yelled.
Mickey nodded at her. He’d only met her a couple of times, but Arno’s problem was obvious. She was really, really good-looking, but she brayed like a donkey and she said the most annoying shit.
They were in the Shulmans’ kitchen and a little line had formed in front of Mickey, who was showing everyone how to do tequila slammers. It turned out that the Shulmans had a whole cabinet full of high quality tequilas—Maduros, and Mezcals, and Marinahas—and Mickey was methodically finishing each bottle. He had plenty of ice and cold ginger ale by his side and he was getting really into pouring slammers down everyone’s throats. He’d arrived early for no particular reason, except of course that he’d known Ginger since a round-the-world trip they’d taken together with their parents when they were ten. Ginger’s parents owned a chain of bookstores, and her dad was really, really into buying art. So he loved Mickey’s dad. And of course, Mickey’s dad loved him right back.
“Could somebody tell my friends I’m in here, when they get here?” Mickey asked. He brought a paper-towel-covered crystal shot glass up in the air and slammed it down on the black granite counter, then uncovered it and threw the shot down Liesel’s throat. It was her fourth in a row, but nobody had the courage to push her out of line.
“Fuck me so hard!” Liesel yelled, after she caught her breath.
“I think David and Patch just got here,” Adam Rickenbacher said. He was next in line and getting really annoyed at Liesel.
“What about Arno?” Mickey asked.
“Don’t speak of him!” Liesel screamed. She grabbed the shot glass and flung it at Mickey, who ducked, so it sailed through the kitchen entranceway, through the formal dining room, and into the reception room, where it banged against the head of a girl named Simone, who was talking with Philippa, who’d just arrived.
