Pass It On (7 page)

“Do you do this a lot?”

“No way,” David said. “Only when I feel really into someone, like the way I feel about you.”

“That's sweet. Because I know you have one of those over-the-top relationships with Amanda Harrison Deutschmann …” Risa's voice had a bit of bass to it, a thrumming noise that reverberated in the elevator. They were up against one wall, fooling around, like they'd been doing in the cab.

“… and I wouldn't want to ruin what you and her—”

“No more words,” David said, and put a fingertip over Risa's lips. She closed her eyes and kissed it. They were both wearing gigantic basketball sneakers that squeaked on the elevator floor. When the doors opened they lurched out to the hallway. David carefully took out his keys. He thought of Amanda, how much he loved her, the tiny cuteness of her, the amazing fall they'd had together. He'd been flirting with Risa after games for only a couple weeks and he had no idea why he was so compelled to cheat—except that now this crazy getting-engaged thing had combined with the fact that they were always breaking up, and that Amanda said he didn't have enough class for her, and that she was always analyzing him like his parents did, and…He eased the door open.

“We're in,” he said. Risa giggled. Her thick black hair brushed his face as they went into the hallway. David had her around the waist. He thought,
I hardly know this girl
.

“Which way to your bedroom?” she whispered.

“Hold my hand.”

“David?”

A light went on in the living room to David's right, and there was his father, wearing an ancient red wool bathrobe and cracked leather slippers.

“Dad?” David's voice was strangled.

“I had something important …” Sam Grobart's voice trailed off. He'd been fast asleep. “I had to see you as soon as possible. Who is this?”

“Just a girl from, um, a party. She came over to borrow something.”

Sam Grobart looked at the grandfather clock. It was two-thirty in the morning.

“You have something she can't get through the night without? Where's Amanda?” David's father asked.

“I think I better go,” Risa said.

“
He's talking in his sleep
,” David whispered quickly. “
He'll go away in a minute
.”

His father opened his mouth, and then glared suddenly. “Take this girl down to the lobby and get her a cab.”

“I'll do it myself.” Risa turned around and went back down the corridor and out the front door.

“Risa, wait.”

“Don't follow her,” Mr. Grobart said as the door of the apartment slammed shut. “If she likes you, she'll call you tomorrow and you can both blame your old man. And in the meantime, you can break up with your girlfriend. Hmm? Anyway, come sit down with me.”

“Now?” David asked.

“You were planning on staying up late and talking meaningfully with her, weren't you? Why not with me?”

Sam Grobart raised the thick eyebrow that ran in a straight line over both his eyes and stared at his son. They went into the living room, where books covered every surface. In the few spots not covered with books, there were magazines and stacks of papers. Sam Grobart eased himself back into his black leather chair. He pointed to a spot on the couch across from him, and David sat down. David couldn't believe it. Within minutes he'd gone from potentially having something really intense happen in his bedroom with a girl he didn't know very well to the all-consuming familiarity of his living room and a forced conversation with his dad. He tried a yawn, but his dad wasn't biting.

“What I have to say is about your friend Jonathan.”

“What about him? I was just with him.”

“Starting now, he's going to go through a very tough time.”

“Yeah, he told me that his dad is getting remarried. That's rough, I get it.”

“Yes, that's part of it. But there's more. I should start from the beginning.”

“Dad, it's kind of late…”

“Your mother and I went to Brown with Jonathan's father, along with a number of our other friends. He was a very sweet man whom none of us expected to amount to much, and when we moved back to the city after college—”

Sam Grobart stopped. David's eyes had drooped.

“Long story short?” Sam asked.

“Please.”

“His father was doing accounting for all our families. This was back in the eighties, when monkeys and children were making fortunes. So he began to invest for us, and for the Wildenburgers, and the Pardos, and the Floods, among others. But things went bad with his marriage, as you know. He fled to London. No one saw him after that. And now he's getting married again.”

“Right, I already know this.”

“You know I feel that if something concerns you, you should know about it, so I'm going to tell you some things I learned from Jonathan's mother. But I do think
that what I'm about to tell you shouldn't be shared just yet. Okay?”

“I don't get it. What are you trying to tell me?”

“Howard—Jonathan's father—he's a thief. Ah, it feels good to say that. He stole a few hundred thousand dollars from us. Lord knows what he took from our richer friends. Anyway, the reason this concerns you is that I want you to be there for Jonathan for the next few weeks. Clearly his mother can't be counted on to take care of him.”

“Why not?”

“Because she left town.”

“Oh, right.”

There was quiet in the living room for a moment, only punctuated with the ticking of a variety of clocks, all set incorrectly.

“There's more to the story, but—who was that girl?”

“I'm beat, Dad,” David said. “I better hit the sack.”

“Oh, me too. I've got to stop falling asleep when I'm with patients. They're starting to resent me for it.”

“At least you're not leaving them bankrupt.”

“Some would disagree.” Sam Grobart cackled to himself as he got up and shuffled down the dark corridor to the bedroom he shared with his wife. David stood in the living room, looking at the peeling paint and stacks and stacks of books. He couldn't believe it.
Jonathan was the son of a swindler. Then again, everyone said Arno's dad was a bit of a con man. And Mickey's dad charged outrageous amounts for the cars he destroyed and sold as art. And everybody said Patch's dad had never put in an honest day's work in his life. And then David remembered: Risa.
Damn!

“She was amazing,” I said to Arno, who was not awake yet.

Okay, first things first: my physical shape was bad. I smelled like old spilled beer. But damn! She was so beautiful. And the smell of whatever that retro stuff she wore. Patchouli? Mmm. I lay there and I was
happy
. I'd smiled at a girl on the street, and then just weeks later she was kissing me on the cheek. This was a major, major crush.

I hadn't totally had one on Fernanda, the Barneys girl, 'cause that would have been too much like falling in love with your addiction (I am addicted to shoes—my mother has forced me to admit this). And the thing with Flan was more like sweetness and avoidance. But
this.
I rubbed my knees together, and then I felt that I was still wearing socks. And then I realized that in addition to the socks, I still had on pants and my shirt.

“Hey, dude,” Arno said. “It's Tuesday.”

And everything crashed together—like when I was sock-skating down the hall in my house when I was five and my mom swung open her bedroom door and the brass doorknob connected with my forehead and floored me. My house was being painted by a complete weirdo, my dad was some kind of thief, I'd invited three of my four best friends on a trip when only one was allowed to come, and I suddenly had no doubt that my guys were about to start figuring it all out.

“Oh man,” I groaned.

“She was a cutie. Most definitely,” Arno said. So I knew that he'd misunderstood my groan and thought I was happy, which was definitely how I'd been all last night. Arno's phone beeped; he picked it up, looked at it briefly, and then tossed the phone over to me.

“It's your girl's information, from Liesel.”

I forwarded the message to my phone.

“I can't wait to talk to her.”

“I'll bet,” Arno said. “You two were all over each other.”

I scrambled around and tried to sit up in the bed. Wait, there was no bed. I looked up. Arno was in a bed. I was lying on the floor under a
bright orange blanket that had been made by some Italian artist.

I remembered her face. She'd been so sweet.
Ruth.

“Let's go over to Florent and get some breakfast.” Arno stood up and stretched.

“You sure you don't want to hang around here? And then later, maybe go to school?”

“Nah,” Arno said. “Lately I get miserable being anywhere near my parents. But yeah, we could go to school. Let's just go to Florent for some eggs first.”

He found some loafers and put them on. And then I remembered what was going on with his parents.

“You're right, let's get out of here.” I struggled to stand.

Mickey and Philippa were hanging around Mickey's house on Tuesday night, trying not to get into trouble again. Mickey had a huge desire to go out and do something insane, but being totally in love with Philippa was kind of squelching that feeling.

“You have a way of making me want to sit home and drink milk,” he said.

“That's romantic,” Philippa said, and she sounded like she kind of meant it. “It's the new, clean us—and if we stay this way, maybe my parents will even start being nice to you.”

“Wow,” Mickey said. And then they locked eyes and started to fool around very intensely because that was the only relatively harmless thing they could think of to do—and since they'd been hanging out at home alone, they'd been doing it constantly.

They were in the Pardo living room, which was massive and blanketed in art, and which resembled the hall
of a medieval castle. They were sprawled out on the huge purple couch and took breaks from kissing to sip beer from shiny cans of Sapporo. Mickey was in billowy black shorts and an I
KAREN O T-shirt. Over the last couple of days he'd rediscovered shorts and remembered how much he liked them.

“Have you talked to anybody today?”

“Only at school.” Philippa rubbed her eyes. She had allergies and the rugs in the Pardo house all came from exotic animals.

“Did you hear anything about Liesel's party?” Mickey asked.

“Just that we missed a good time.”

To Mickey, it sounded a little like Philippa wished she'd been there. They were quiet. She handed him the beer. He sipped it, and smiled at her.

He could feel the need to go out and break stuff rumbling in his chest. He knew that this just wasn't his nature, that no matter how much he loved Philippa, he couldn't sit at home and study and fool around much longer. Then his cell rang and he fumbled around on the floor to get it. Unlike, say, Jonathan, who had the latest Motorola with all the extras, Mickey was content with an old phone of his dad's that was about the size of a softball, and that he had to punch a few times after it rang to get a connection. It was David.

“I heard that Ebershoff kid attacked you with a meat cleaver last night,” Mickey said.

“Close,” David said. “But we got out of there. Where were you?”

“Same place I am now. Behaving myself, with my girl.”

“Gawd,” David said. “Listen, something weird is happening with Jonathan.”

“Yeah, his dad's getting married, right?” Mickey was stroking Philippa's hair. So long and brown. He kissed her cheek. In the background, the Beatles'
Abbey Road
played softly.

“That's part of it. What else do you know?”

“Well, he called because he wanted to know what clothes to buy for hiking or hang gliding.” Mickey looked at Philippa, who was picking at her cuticle. “I'm going with him on some sailing trip to the jungle or something.”

“You are?” David asked. “But I am, too.”

Philippa went to change the music. She was wearing a long red dress, and it flowed behind her. The room was so big that it took time to get to the wall with the stereo controls, and she seemed to glide, like a ghost. Mickey watched her.

“Great. I'm sure we all are. What's the problem?” Mickey frowned. If David was about to confirm the
stuff Philippa had been saying the night before, then maybe the trip would be off after all.

“Well, Jonathan told me only one of us could come. And that it's me,” David said.

Mickey could hear David breathing heavily into the phone.

“Oh. Well, that's kind of lame of him to invite me, too, then,” Mickey said, and started picking at his cuticle, like Philippa.