“I’m just saying what I heard,” Philippa said to Mickey.
“Well, what you heard is bullshit.” Mickey covered a tumbler with a paper towel and slammed it down on his kitchen counter. The contents sizzled and he shot it back, his eyes watering.
“Nice one,” Philippa said. “Now do me.”
Monday afternoon, and they were over at Mickey’s house doing their Monday afternoon ritual, which was tequila slammers and TiVo’d gossip shows from the Style network that Philippa watched obsessively. She was very into gossip.
“I talked to Jonathan today. Yeah, his dad is getting remarried, but it doesn’t sound like he’s in any kind of financial trouble. He invited me to go on a trip with them on some gi-normous sailboat through the Caribbean.”
Even though it was November, Mickey was in blue canvas shorts, flip-flops, and a white leather jacket. He went over to the stereo and turned on the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs CD.
Philippa turned off the TV.
“Listen,” she said. “I don’t like my dad any more than you do yours. But that doesn’t make him a liar. He said he hopes Jonathan’s dad isn’t spending too much on the wedding, because everyone is about to sue the living daylights out of him for stealing lots of people’s money.”
“Yeah, bullshit.”
Philippa smiled at Mickey, who was crouched on the counter like a big monkey, messing around with the stereo. Mickey was ignoring Philippa, which was odd, since she was wearing only a white Marc Jacobs blouse and her underwear. They’d been fooling around in the living room, on the gigantic horseshoe-shaped couch Mickey’s dad had built there. The thing was twenty feet long and made of ultrathick purple velvet.
“Make me a slammer,” Philippa said. Mickey kissed the top of her forehead. Then, still crouched on the counter, he set her up with a slammer. But he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“You’re sensitive about Jonathan.”
“Come on, baby. All this rumor stuff is crazy—his dad is obviously still rich and even if he wasn’t, what the hell does it matter to us?”
“It’s not a rumor. It’s just what my dad said.” Philippa shrugged. “When are your parents getting home?”
“What you described is a rumor,” Mickey said. “They’re here, I think.”
“Your parents?!”
Mickey raised the mix of half-tequila-half-ginger-ale over his head.
“Mickey?”
“Hi, Mom.”
Philippa scooted around the kitchen island, but Lucy Pardo, Mickey’s mom, still caught an eyeful of Philippa’s barely covered behind.
“I thought we discussed that tequila slammers are for special occasions,” Lucy Pardo said.
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “It’s Monday and next week is Thanksgiving. That’s special.”
“Hi, Mrs. Pardo.”
“Go find your jeans, sweetie.”
“Okay,” Philippa said weakly. She skipped into the living room to find her jeans and her shoes.
“Your father will be in Montauk this week, but I’m staying here. Now deja de emborracharte en las tardes!” Stop drinking in the afternoons!
“Sorry, Mom.”
Mickey hopped down from the counter. The slammer he’d been holding bubbled over.
“But don’t let this go to waste. You have it.” Mickey handed the shot to his mother. She shot it. After wiping her mouth, she looked for Philippa, who was half hidden behind a Yoshi screen in the living room.
“You two behave yourselves. I’m serious. No more drinking and partying in this house on school days.” Then she walked out of the room.
“Wow,” Philippa said. “My dad’s right. Your mom really is from another planet.”
“Your dad should keep his nose out of other people’s business!”
“He also said you had a temper that I’m just not seeing and that you’re too wild for me and I should deal with that.”
“STOP IT!” Mickey yelled. Then he dropped to his knees in front of Philippa and clasped his hands together. “Please never listen to your dad again. Can you do that for me? And can you let all this gossip go? You’re getting way, way, too into it.”
“I don’t know.” Philippa shook her head and fished a piece of dark chocolate out of a bowl on the counter. She chewed and looked away from Mickey, who was still on his knees, and then she said, “I get grounded so much because of hanging out with you, I kind of have to depend on hearing everything second-hand from whoever was actually there. It’s either that, or I hear stuff from my parents.”
“Well, maybe you and me shouldn’t get into so much trouble anymore, then.”
“Do you think that’s even possible?” Philippa licked her fingers.
“I don’t know,” Mickey said. “Let’s try.”