Break Every Rule (12 page)

As I walked down 79th Street toward the subway, I called Flan. I think partly because I wanted to know that she wasn't with David, planning out what they would wear to the party that Saturday.

She picked up after three rings and sounded irritated. Apparently she was in history. I told her it was an emergency and that I needed to meet up with her, and she must have known things weren't right, because she said okay. She said she'd meet me at her house just as soon as she got out of class.

By the time Flan got to the Perry Street town house, I was sitting cross-legged on her bed upstairs, sort of meditation-like, and trying my best not to think the words “Hottest,” “Private School,” or “Arno.”

When she walked through the door she kind of gasped in mock horror and said, “Baby, are you all right?”

“Yes. No…. Hey, you look good, Flannie,” I said. And she did, too. Her hair was down and a little bit messy, and she was wearing these old faded Levi's that fit her perfectly, with a girly cardigan that was really stretched around the chest area. Flan's breasts were still growing all the time, and it seemed like she needed a whole new wardrobe almost weekly.

She smiled and came over and put her arms around me. “What's wrong?” she asked again, and I started telling her about how unbelievable and irritating it was that Arno had been named HPSB instead of me. We had had this conversation, of course, but I was finding it strangely satisfying to have it over and over again. Flan didn't really say anything, she just started making out with me. That felt really good, and for a while it took my mind off shit. Flan was being aggressive almost, in this way she'd never been before, which was nice. She kept running her fingers through my hair, and kind of pulling at the edges of my clothes.

But I couldn't totally stop thinking about the HPSB party, and eventually that led me to think of Rob, and that led to David.

And then I stupidly said: “How far did you go with David last winter?”

“
What
?” Flan jumped up and gave me this look. There it was: that look was the low point of a really, really low day. She started re-buttoning her cardigan. “Jonathan, what is wrong with you lately?”

I sat up and put my face in my hands. “I'm sorry, Flan,” I said. “I'm really not
me
lately. This whole thing with Arno being named Hottest Private School Boy… and how my clique is sort of falling out… and, there's a party. It's so irritating and pathetic, but Arno's throwing a party to celebrate his own HPSB-ness, and…”

“This Saturday? Yeah, I know,” Flan said.

“How do you know?”

“Cuz Rob invited me,” she said with a shrug. Then she walked out of the room, and downstairs. She called back something about whether I was staying for dinner or not.

But all I could think about was the fact that Rob had invited Flan. Had he invited her at David's request? Was this all part of David's big scheme to get Flan back? Did he have some big thing planned to win her back at the “hottest” party of the year?

It was so heart-crushingly obvious. He totally did.

“
Wildenburger, talk to me.” BEEP
.

“Arno, it is Rob, Thursday afternoon. I have papered the walls of your school with flyers announcing the party in your honor. There is such… how you say… buzz. I cannot wait for the big night. Oh, and one other thing. Do you know this girl, Sandra Anderson? She is maybe a head shorter than I, but she says she has many friends. Is it true? Let me know. Ciao baby.”

“
Hello, it is Rob. Bueno, es Rob. Allo, c'est Rob. Digame.” BEEP
.

“Hey, Rob, it's Arno. That's all great news, great news. Listen, I've got another intern task for you to do. I'm arranging for a very special evening for me and all the girls. Hope this isn't a blow to you—I know you were kind of with Lizzie for a minute. But see, there's only one Hottest Private School Boy, if you know what I mean, so no hard feelings, right? Anyway, what I want you to do is, have invitations printed up at Tiffany's, one
for each of the girls. Get a pen, and write this down:
You are invited to the Hottest Private Party of 2005, at the W Hotel, this Monday at midnight. Ask for the Wildenburgers' usual suite at the front desk.
Okay? And have them hand delivered Saturday afternoon with a dozen roses. Got that? Thanks.”

“
Hello, it is Rob. Bueno, es Rob. Allo, c'est Rob. Digame.” BEEP
.

“Hi, um, is this Rob Santana? Yeah, hi, this is Lily Maynard from Barton Day's chapter of Homeless Outreach? I got your number off the Hottest Private School Boy party flyer, and I was wondering if you had anything to do with putting them up. Because whoever did tore down all the flyers for our big fund-raising event this Saturday. It took us all morning to put them up, and printing all those flyers cost a quarter of our budget for this semester. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that whoever did this is going to pay—not for our flyers, although you'll pay for that, too, but
really
pay, you know what I'm saying?”

Even by Mickey Pardo standards, it was early to be at Max Fish. Or, the Fish, as he had been calling his favorite Ludlow Street bar since second semester freshman year.

But Mickey was currently a man with a mission, and it was a mission that had so far met with extremely limited success. All day at school, he had hyped his naked restaurant vision to classmates; it had earned him nothing more than vacant stares, quasi-promises to attend by a few burnout dudes, and one trip to the principal's office.

Even his guys weren't really with him on it. Arno, David, and Patch hadn't even returned his calls, and Jonathan had said he'd love to do it, unconvincingly, but he felt kind of weird bringing Flan to an event with nudity—she was still in eighth grade, after all. That was
his
excuse.

Mickey was belly-up to the bar by five o'clock,
nursing a Tecate and tequila happy hour special and trying to figure out what he was doing wrong.

There was no one in the bar but the bartender, three girls in Interpol T-shirts who were talking about how to meet more guys in bands, and him. It was pretty well lit, and all the bright circuslike decorations looked a little sad in the almost daylight. Mickey looked at the dude behind the bar and said, “You would get naked in a restaurant, wouldn't you? I mean, for the sake of art. You'd do that, right?”

The bartender pulled at the sleeves of his faded black T-shirt, and tried to brush the greasy bangs out of his eyes. He appeared to be thinking. “Yeah, man,” he said at last. Then he added, a little sadly, “I used to go to art school.”

“So you'll be there? It's a week from today, at twilight, at that joint Fresh on Gansevoort.” That was the closest to a yes Mickey had gotten all day, and it made him feel like another tequila shot.

“Yeah,” the bartender said flatly, “I'll be there.”

“Well, that's kind of a relief. That means there'll be two of us.”

The bartender looked nervous all of a sudden. “You mean, just you and me?”

“Hey, man, don't trip, I'm not gay or anything. It just ain't easy getting people on board with this thing.”

Both Mickey and the bartender thought about that for a long minute. The bartender poured them each a shot, and after they'd downed them, he said, “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“You know how in skin flicks, lesbian chicks are always dying to get naked?”

“Really?” Mickey said. “I guess I never noticed that.”

“Yeah, like in orgy scenes or whatever, they're always, like, natural—what do you call them?—exhibitionists.”

“Oh.”

“So that's perfect,” the bartender enthused. “Go get some lesbians, dude!”

They did another shot, and Mickey thought about it. Lesbians
did
seem more open about sexuality and bodies and stuff, although he wasn't sure pornos were the best evidence of that, but still, by the time the tequila had burned a hot streak down his insides, he was completely psyched on the idea.

He stood up and slapped the bar. “I'm going to get some lesbians, man!”

“Awesome. I'm Jason, by the way.” He stuck out his hand at Mickey.

“Mickey. I'll see you next Thursday?”

“Sure, brah,” Jason said. He even seemed to mean it.

It was getting dark. Mickey was definitely feeling way
up now. He walked across Houston to Meow Mix, which he remembered February mentioning all the time during her brief lesbian period a few years ago.

When he got there, he saw that it looked more or less like any other bar: dark, a little dirty, with a full wall of liquor bottles all aglow. The only difference was that the girls way outnumbered the dudes.

Mickey was relieved to see this girl Petra, whom he went to school with, sitting on a couch close to the door. She had dreads wound into a big, neat bun on the top of her head. He went over and sat down next to her.

“Hey, Petra,” he said.

“Mickey!” she said. She looked nervous to see him, which struck Mickey as odd since she'd come out as bi their freshman year. “What's up?”

“Nothing much. Hey, how would you like to pose naked in a restaurant? Everyone else would be naked, too.”

Petra's eyes narrowed. “Is that your way of hitting on me, Mickey Pardo? Because you know I know your girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. Or whatever's going on with you two.”

“Is that a no?” Mickey said.

Petra nodded.

Unfazed, Mickey said, “Damn, well, catch ya later,” and went to find someone else to pitch his concept to.

He picked a girl with a lot of metal in her face, who was standing near the door. He approached her and said, “Hey, would you like to get naked in a restaurant?”

The girl gave him a long, cool stare. “Get lost,” she said.

Well, that wasn't going to work. Mickey wasn't really the kind of guy to give up, though, so he went to the end of the bar and warmed up for a different kind of sales pitch.

He ordered a Negro Modelo and a vodka cran from the bartender. She set them in front of him, and disappeared with his money.

Mickey turned to the girl on the stool next to him and tapped her shoulder. He had to do it twice, because she was making out with the girl sitting next to her. When she turned, he pushed the vodka cran in her direction. “Hey, I bought this for you.”

The girl gave him a look that might have been disgust. She looked weirdly familiar. Her hair was an almost white shade of blond, and it was cut in little bangs across her forehead, and her skin had a kind of orange tone to it. She was wearing a very short skirt. Mickey decided that he probably didn't recognize her, it was just that she looked really, really out of place in a bar like this. She took the drink and sniffed it.

“What, did you ruf me?” she said.

“No way, I need you alive and kickin'.” Mickey cackled to himself, not knowing how what he'd just said sounded out loud. He proceeded anyway: “But I would like you to come to my naked restaurant event. It's a Luc Vogel-inspired tableau of a naked crowd, dining at Fresh, and…”

“Oh, that place on Gansevoort where they only serve cold food?” The blonde's face became notably brighter. “I
adore
Fresh.”

“What the fuck?” The girl on the other side of the blonde stood up, knocking her stool back to the ground. She twisted around to get a look at Mickey. “You picking up on my date, ass—” but she didn't finish what she was saying, because that's when she saw that Mickey was Mickey, and Mickey saw that she was…

Philippa.

The blonde in the middle had a very big uh-oh look on her face. She got off her bar stool and said, “You guys probably have to talk. But it was nice to finally meet you, Mickey. My name's Sadie, and
definitely
let me know about the Fresh event.”

Mickey didn't wait until she was out of earshot to say, “Were you just making out with that girl?”

Philippa rolled her eyes and nodded.

“Because that's kind of hot. And if you want to experiment, that's cool. But maybe you shouldn't do it
in public. And it would have been nice if we'd talked about it beforehand, you know what I mean?”

Philippa put her hands on both of Mickey's shoulders.

“Don't you get it?” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I really
am
gay.”

Several hours later, Mickey was at the Fish again. There were lots of people now, and they all looked very thin and bored. And blurry. Mickey wasn't sure how he'd ended up here, but there was one thing he couldn't get out of his head.

His girlfriend wasn't into having boyfriends anymore.

After Jonathan left, Flan came up to Patch's giant room and lay down in the hammock. Neil Young was playing quietly in the background, and Patch was wearing those same khakis and one of the hundreds of skateboarding T-shirts that he'd been given for free when all the skateboarding companies were courting him to go pro. She didn't say anything, so after a while, Patch said, “What's wrong, little sis?”

He put down the
Lonely Planet Afghanistan
that he had been flipping through all evening, and watched her fidget for a minute. The Christmas lights that he'd strung up around his room cast a warm light on her face as she thought about how best to respond.

“It's just that… I always wanted to be Jonathan's girlfriend
so bad,
you know?” she sighed. “And now that I finally am, things just aren't going so well.”

“Every relationship has its rough spots,” Patch said. The phrase sounded hollow in his voice. He didn't really know what he was talking about—Patch had never stayed
in a relationship long enough to experience the rough spots. But he felt like he'd heard people say this before, probably David, and it seemed like better advice than telling his little sister to dump one of his best friends.