by J. Minter
There was silence for a moment, and Patch moved as quietly as he could away from the stall door. He gave his little sister a what’s going on? look, and she mouthed “makeup” back at him.
“Lizzie, can I use your mascara?”
“That’s disgusting. You know you aren’t supposed to share mascara.”
“Come the fuck on.”
“Fine.”
More silence. Then:
“So, you think she’s shitting him, or is he really going to be Hottest Private School Boy?”
“I can see it.”
“Yeah, I can totally see it.”
“This is so cool that we’re hanging with the next Hottest Private School Boy.”
“Totally. We should do something. Like, get ‘Mrs. Wildenburger’ T-shirts printed up or something.”
“Yeah!”
“No, something bigger.”
“Bigger?”
“Yeah, like… let’s have a little competition to see who can hook up with him the most while he’s still on the newsstands. Whoever hooks up with Arno the most, wins.”
There was some embarrassed giggling on the other side of the women’s room.
“Could we do that? Mimi, that’s hot.”
“Wait, like really hook up with him?”
“Sadie, you are such a goddamn sissy. Are you my friend or not?”
“Fine, I’m in. Whatever.”
“This is major. Okay, ground rules. We all keep our own score on the honor system. None of us can act like we know he’s hooked up with another one of us. Anyone who tries to get him to go out exclusively loses automatically. And no action till he’s actually on the newsstand.”
“Pinkie swear,” all three voices said at once.
Patch looked at Flan. She was miming “gag me.”
“All right, ladies,” the loudest, bitchiest voice said. “You look killer. Let’s rock.”
Patch listened to them file out, and then he stood up.
“Skanks,” Flan said disgustedly, standing up, too.
“Hey, you feeling any better?”
“Yes, big brother. Thank you for talking.”
“Are you going to go find Jonathan?” Patch asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, good. But first, swear to me you will not tell anybody what we just heard.”
“Um, sure,” Flan said.
“Especially Jonathan.”
“Okay.”
“Do you swear?”
Flan looked up at him with her big round eyes. “I swear.”
i skip a great party for a good cause
“Jonathan, what are you doing?”
I turned and saw Arno leaning against the wall next to me. David was coming up behind him, and Justine, the New York reporter, was right there, too. It seemed like Justine was shadowing my guys, which was probably a good idea—I mean, you can’t be HPSB-hot without a great crew behind you, right?
I hadn’t been doing anything but waiting for Flan to not be mad at me anymore, so I just said, “What’s up.”
“Nothing, man,” Arno said. “Did you meet Justine?”
“Yeah, hi again.”
“Sorry we got interrupted earlier,” she said effusively. “Nothing could have torn me away from that conversation. But it was the office, and they own me.”
I shrugged. “No biggie,” I said.
That actually didn’t sound like the kind of phrase an HPSB would use, but Justine was staring at me so enthusiastically that I figured I could probably fall on my face and she would still want me on the cover of her magazine. I was so sure of my title right then that I started mentally planning a party for Monday night to celebrate the release of my HPSB issue.
Then she took out a digital camera and started taking pictures of me. I posed nonchalantly, and when she was done, she said, “Who did your suit? For the credits page, of course.”
This was way too exciting. Before I could reply, the three blond Florence girls reinvaded my group. The leader of their pack, who wore her hair long and straight a la Blake Lively, draped herself over Arno and said, “Can we go now?” It took me a minute to recognize her as Mimi Rathbone, this girl I’d just read about in Page Six. Something about how she’d been making out with an actor who is practically her dad’s age at Coral Room.
“Word,” Arno said. Then he looked at me and said, “Hey, man, we’re all going to that Lotus thing, right?”
“Totally,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, on Monday I’m having a little party at my house to celebrate—” I looked at Justine, and paused, because I realized just in time that I shouldn’t seem so sure in front of my profiler. I caught myself, and said, “You know, stuff,” instead.
“Uh, cool,” Arno said.
That was when I remembered about Flan, because that’s when she came walking back from the bathroom with Patch. She looked like she’d been crying, but also happier, too. Still, her appearance suggested she might not be so up for Lotus.
“Hi, Flan,” David said. I had forgotten he was there, he’d been so quiet. David’s a good-looking guy, but he’s not the smoothest. People forget about him more than they should. Patch man-braced Arno and David, whom I guess he hadn’t seen yet tonight.
“You coming?” Arno asked him.
“Where?” Patch said.
“Lotus,” Arno said. “Oh, by the way, this is Justine Gray from New York. She wants to see how the cool kids do it nowadays.”
“You should come,” Justine said.
“No, thanks,” Patch said quickly. “I’m actually going to go home now.”
“Ah, come on. It’s going to be hot,” Mimi said. She winked at Patch lasciviously, and that was when I knew Lotus was definitely not going to be a Flan-appropriate evening.
After leaving my guys behind to get into whatever trouble they were going to find at Lotus, Flan and I got in a taxi and headed downtown, toward home. I love the way New York looks at night, speeding down an avenue in a cab. All the lights from the delis and the bars and the big buildings blur by, like at a carnival, while you sit in this kind of peaceful, quiet place. Tonight was even better because I had my girl’s head resting on my shoulder.
Flan’s hair was down now, and a little tangled, and it spread out over my chest. It smelled like lavender shampoo. Her body felt all tired and relaxed against me.
I was almost over not getting to go to Lotus, too. I’d told my guys and Justine that, on second thought, Lotus seemed kind of over to me now, but that it was cool they were going since I’d gotten them on the list and they could go for free. Then Flan had asked if I wanted to go over to her house and watch old movies, and that did actually sound kind of perfect.
“Jonathan?” she said.
“What’s up, pretty?”
“Why do we fight so much?”
I brushed Flan’s hair back behind her ear and smiled. “Because we’re perfect for each other. That’s why.”
She smiled and snuggled more into me.
The fact that stuff with Flan was so good, and that I was going to be the next Hottest Private School Boy, had me pretty psyched. Also, I was consumed by the idea of my Monday night victory bash.
“You know,” I said, “Wilmer Hadley, HPSB 2003, is living in Paris right now. They just did this follow-up article about him in New York, about how he’s the central personality of the ‘Nouveau Lost Generation,’ or something like that.”
I felt Flan kind of stiffen against me. I guess it made sense that she would be nervous about what would happen once I was basically named the hottest guy in Manhattan.
“You love Paris,” I said. Then I realized that, if I wanted to be a good boyfriend, which I would like to be, I would address her concerns head on. “You know, when… I mean, if I’m named Hottest Private School Boy, it’s not going to change things.”
“Huh?” Flan said. I could tell she was uncomfortable.
“I mean, that whole thing with the reporter and all that. And I know that the HPSB issue can change
lives. I just want you to know that it won’t change us.”
“Oh,” Flan said. She stared out the window for a long, winsome moment. “Jonathan, the thing is…” She paused, like she was stopping herself from saying something. Then she blew on the window, and drew a heart in the foggy layer that she’d left there. “I just wish you didn’t care so much about that article, that’s all.”
Wait, what did that mean?
“I don’t. Whatever. It’s totally not a big deal,” I said defensively. “Oh, by the way, I’m having a party Monday night to celebrate, so cancel whatever you’ve got.”
“I can’t,” Flan said. “That’s the night Daria is having all the girls over for a sleepover.”
“Flan, it’s my HPSB party—you have to be there.”
There was something like sadness in Flan’s eyes when she nodded and said that of course she’d find a way to be there. I was worried there was going to be another fight, but then she kissed me, really softly at first. The cab was flying down Fifth, past my house and toward Perry Street. Everything felt really light and good, and the weekend had only just begun.
the boys leave messages all weekend long
“Wildenburger, talk to me.” BEEP.
“Oooooo, my head! Arno, c’est moi, Rob, and it’s Friday morning. Not going to school as I think I may still be drunk from last night. Tee hee! That was a party incredible last night, my friend, and we were, how you say, ruling. Cool that the reporter lady hung with us all night: don’t think she’d seen anything like that before! Ai ai ai! Call me when you get up. Ciao.”
“Hello, it is Rob. Bueno, es Rob. Allo, c’est Rob. Digame.”
BEEP.
“I feel like shit man. It’s Arno. Were Mimi and Lizzie and Sadie there all night? I think I remember someone swinging from a chandelier… And were we hanging with the Backseat Rockstars’ bassist? God, it’s a blur. Any ideas, ring me. I’m having coffee with Justine for some last minute Qs, if you know what I mean. Oh, and have you talked to David yet? What’s on for tonight? And Rob, do me a favor and change that fucking message.”
Guitar solo in the background. Girl’s voice says: “This is Mickey’s phone. Go ahead and leave him a message, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t call you back.” BEEP.
“Hey, Mickey, it’s J. I barely even saw you last night, man. Anyway, I just wanted to remind you that I’m having a party Monday night for… well, just be there. Like, nine-ish. Oh, and did you end up at the Lotus party?”
“Hi, you’ve reached the cell phone of Justine Gray. Leave your name, number, and the best time to call you, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks a mil!” BEEP.
“Hey, Justine, it’s Jonathan, you know, from the MoMA party. It’s, like, one-thirty on Friday. I know our interview got cut short, and that you mentioned something about filing your story Friday afternoon. Anyway, just wanted to check in and see if there’s anything you need. You know my number. Cool, bye.”
“You’ve reached the Frady residence. Please leave your information after the beep, and we will return your call as promptly as possible.” BEEP.
“Yo, it’s Mickey. Is Philippa there? Philippa! I’ve left, like, a million messages on your cell. Why won’t you call me back? Are you still mad? Don’t be mad. And call me. I’m in love with you!”
Guitar solo in the background. Girl’s voice says: “This is Mickey’s phone. Go ahead and leave him a message, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t call you back.” BEEP.
“Hey, Mickey, J again. Um, just wondering—did some chick named Justine talk to you? I was just wondering because I think she needs to talk to me again, and I wanted to see if you maybe knew a land line I could reach her at. Don’t trip, call me when you get a chance.”
“Wildenburger, talk to me.” BEEP.
“You just called me. It’s David, it’s, like, eleven-thirty on Friday night, I’m right outside Marquee, and there’s like an enormous line. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“Hi, um, this is David. Leave a message, and I’ll get you back. Um, how do you? Mmph…” BEEP.
“Yo, Davey. Arno. It’s, like, twelve-fifteen. Why are you at Marquee? We left there, like, an hour ago. We’re at Milk and Honey now. Just get here, okay? Mimi and Lizzie are here, and they say Sadie’s about to show up, so not only should you be here, you should really want to be here. Out.”
“You’ve reached the Frady residence. Please leave your information after the beep, and we will return your call as promptly as possible.” BEEP.
“Philippa, please please call me back? It’s Mickey, obviously. Do you despise me? What is up?”
“Hi, this is Jonathan. Don’t forget to leave your number if I don’t have it.”
“Jonathan, it’s David and it’s, like, noon on Saturday. I am at basketball practice and I feel like I’m going to barf. Could you please remind me not to stay out till four when I have practice the next day? Thanks. Oh, and I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now, and maybe that’s what’s doing the talking, but it’s weird that we haven’t been hanging lately. Um, bye.”
“Hi! It’s Flan. I miss you already, so leave me a message.”
BEEP.
“Flan, it’s Jonathan. Sorry, I know I’m supposed to pick you up after riding class, but I’m running a little late because I was picking up stuff for Monday night. Wait for me, okay?”
Guitar solo in the background. Girl’s voice says: “This is Mickey’s phone. Go ahead and leave him a message, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t call you back.” BEEP.
“Hey, Mickey, it’s Jonathan. It’s Saturday, man. What’s going on tonight? I’m trying to see if I can get something going. Let me know what you’ve got. Oh, and remind everyone about Monday, okay? Bye.”
“Hi, this is Patch’s new phone. You know the drill.” BEEP.
“Patch, it’s Jonathan, it’s, like, eight-thirty on Saturday night. I’m at your house, but you’re not here. Are you around? Maybe we could get a beer. Later.”
“You’ve reached the Frady residence. Please leave your information after the beep, and we will return your call as promptly as possible.” BEEP.
“Phiiiiiillllllllllllliiiiiiiipppppppppppaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!”
“Wildenburger. Talk to me.” BEEP.
“Arno, it’s David. Sunday night and I just left Don Hill’s. Sorry I didn’t say bye, but I couldn’t find you and I’ve got school tomorrow. But call me then, okay? Oh, and did Jonathan invite you to some party tomorrow night?”
my mood gets seriously killed
I’m assuming you all know what Monday morning feels like, so I won’t bore you with the bummer details. But I was feeling strangely good when I woke up on this particular Monday. I don’t know if it was the residual glow of the MoMA party (which, the more I thought about it, had been a really classy kind of night), or maybe it was the mellow weekend that Flan and I had shared, with lots of movie watching and walks in the village and window shopping, rather than my usual excess of drinking and lack of sleep. Although, I have to admit, the anticipation of the new issue of New York was probably key to my unusually sunny mood.
I put on a pair of gray Calvin Klein slacks and a yellow Kenneth Cole polo shirt, grabbed my school stuff, and headed out. My mom has been doing private Bikram yoga sessions from eight-thirty to ten, five days a week, so I never really see her in the mornings anymore. She swears it’s improving her mood, though.
I waved to the doorman and the guy selling fruit on the corner, and Mrs. Bancroft, who was coming in from walking her Pekingese. We’ve had the apartment for a long, long time.
When I got to the Universal News stand on 14th street near Fifth, I was trying to be very casual. I mean, that’s the way a Hottest Private School Boy should be—not too easily ruffled, you know what I mean? I looked at newspaper headlines and flipped absently through a few more news-oriented magazines. Then I saw it out of the corner of my eye, but what caught my attention wasn’t even the fact that it was New Yo
rk magazine, it was who was on the cover. I knew that face.
And it wasn’t mine.
I moved, as calmly as possible, to the stack of New Yorks, and picked one up. The clerk was discussing some sort of political event with one of his customers, and so I slunk into the corner and braced myself for a real look. I looked that cover photo right in the eye.
My friend Arno Wildenburger was staring back at me, positioned jauntily in front of a dark kind of club scene. His brow was arched, the way it always is when he wants to convey that he gets a lot of girls, or that he knows more about vintage tennis shoes than you do, or something else like that. Lest the significance be lost on me (which was not really even a possibility at this point), the headline Arno Wildenburger: The Hottest Private School Boy Manhattan Has Ever Seen? was scrawled across his midsection.
I must have been staring at it kind of gape-mouthed for longer than I thought—to me, it felt like time was standing still—because the clerk started yelling at me.
“Hey, are you going to buy that or what?” he was saying when I finally looked up.
I didn’t handle this gracefully, I’ll admit. I put down the New York, and ran out of the Universal without saying anything.
When I got back onto the street (where it was a totally unfairly beautiful day) the whole Arno-as-HPSB thing seemed like a bad dream. It was totally possible—it was entirely possible—that this was a printing error. I mean, it was a weekly, and their star reporter was out getting tanked with teenagers the night before she had to file her story. There were bound to be mix-ups, right?
I headed across Union Square toward the big Hay & Royals there. You had to figure that, in all their corporate four-story glory, not a single printing error could make it in there. But by the time I charged through their doors, and stepped onto the escalator, I was feeling distinctly less optimistic.
The magazine aisle was full of kids ditching class and aspiring writers reading the table of contents of various obscure literary journals. I grabbed ten copies of New York and went to sit in the coffee area. I ordered a venti Americano, black, and found a relatively private table near the window. That way, if things got really shitty, I could always throw myself out of it.
