Patch’s parents, Frederick and Fiona Flood, were at Arno’s for dinner, along with a completely nondescript pair of Arno’s dad’s business friends. Arno sat and drank wine with them in the living room. Everyone was on two couches, facing each other, except for Arno’s dad, who remained standing. Arno knew his father liked it when people had to look up at him.
It was Tuesday night and Arno was enjoying himself, getting a little buzzed on the wine and vaguely following the gossip his parents so enjoyed exchanging. He didn’t tell a lot of people about it, but he kind of got a kick out of hanging out with his parents. This was never true when they were alone, because then their relationship showed too much wear, but with other people, they put on a good show. Right then they were talking about their escapades in Florida.
“And when the maid caught us in the pool, in our birthday suits no less, she sang us a song! Isn’t that fun?” Alec asked.
“Lord, Alec. She was praying,” his wife shook her head and finished her wine. The front doorbell rang. “Someone go get it,” she murmured, half to herself. Arno stared at his mom. She was unbelievably pale in a black sheath dress that accented her thin wrists. Her black hair swayed around her head like a mini motorcycle helmet. If he hadn’t seen her naked by the pool with his very own eyes just a few weeks ago, when he’d been obsessed with Jonathan’s cousin Kelli, he’d never have believed she was capable of that sort of thing.
Jonathan passed by the huge living room. Arno saw him stumble. He must not have realized there was a big dinner party happening, and he just kept going.
“Hey,” Arno said. Jonathan peeked into the room and motioned that he couldn’t deal with the scene just then, but that he’d be back in a second.
“Alec, would you recommend we buy another Pardo sculpture for our land in Connecticut, something for our north lawn?” Frederick Flood asked.
Arno watched his father stiffen. And he was pretty stiff already in his blue corduroy suit, a silky pink shirt, and black velvet loafers with fox heads embroidered on them. His mom, who had been looking pretty relaxed, begin to fidget with her big sparkly diamond wedding band. In a faraway room, a phone rang.
“I think Ricardo Pardo’s work may be…no longer so fashionable,” Alec Wildenburger said, looking at his wife and frowning. “In fact, I’d sell my Pardos, if I were you.”
“That’s disgusting of you to say,” Allie snapped at him.
“Come now, Allie,” Frederick Flood said. He stood up and put a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged off. “If Alec Wildenburger says Ricardo Pardo is done, believe me, he is done.” He laughed.
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Allie muttered, and left the room.
Arno finished his glass of wine just as Jonathan walked back into the room. His face was roughed up from having been quickly washed and he seemed, not high exactly, but glistening. Arno smiled. It looked like Jonathan was in love.
“What’s up, man?” Arno said. The group glanced over at the two teenagers.
“Everyone,” Alec Wildenburger announced, “you know my son’s friend Jonathan.”
Jonathan blanched slightly when Alec spoke, and gave only an awkward wave. Weird, weird, Arno thought. Of course everyone is flipped out by everybody else’s parents, but Jonathan, up to then, had always gotten along really well with the Wildenburgers. He had a gift for pretending that he was a little adult and Allie and Alec Wildenburger were the kind of parents who enjoyed that. But now … wasn’t Alec going to see Jonathan’s father in London in like a week? Hadn’t someone mentioned that to him? And didn’t it have something to do with that PISS woman that was taking him and Jonathan on the sailing trip? Arno had never been a stickler for details, but at the moment he wished he’d been paying more attention over the last few days.
“Hullo,” Jonathan whispered. Frederick Flood nodded once curtly and looked away. The other nondescript couple were quiet. Then one said:
“Jonathan…haven’t we heard something about your father?”
“Something not so savory,” whispered the other.
“That’s the one,” Fiona Flood said, and there was an edge to her voice. She sounded extremely pointed and gossipy.
The bankers looked away. Arno watched. Even his own dad seemed to glare slightly at Jonathan before helping himself to more Camembert and crackers. The huge living room was quiet except for the weird harp music that was playing in the background. A log crackled in the fireplace and a spark flew out, past the grate, and onto the Aubusson rug. Jonathan jumped over and stamped it out. Arno watched in utter confusion as no one thanked him.
“What are you two doing for dinner?” Allie asked. She’d come back into the room with a full glass of wine.
“I guess we’re not eating with you all,” Arno said, suddenly totally annoyed at his parents and everybody else for being such assholes. So what if Jonathan was staying over for a few days because his mom was a loon and had split town while she was having their apartment painted? And whatever about his dad—what were they even talking about? Fuck them. He’d been totally mellow only five minutes ago, enjoying the relative warmth and safety of his own living room, and now his mom and dad had messed it up all over again. He really wondered what he was going to do with the two of them.
“We’re going to smoke up some heroin in my room and watch sadomasochistic porn,” Arno said. “You know, chase the dragon and then wag its tail?”
“Very funny, darling,” Allie said. “Now get along, you two. On to your mischief.”
No one had even offered Jonathan a glass of wine. Arno scratched his head. He didn’t get it.
“Okay,” Arno shrugged. “See you.”
Arno walked out of the room without looking back at his parents or their guests, and Jonathan followed.
They went down to Arno’s wing, padding quietly down the hall.
“Your dad had on velvet shoes with foxes on them.”
“I know. My dad is so gay.”
“You know—” Jonathan pulled up short and stared at Arno. Arno stared back.
“What?” Arno asked.
“He really is,” Jonathan said.
Arno said nothing. They reached his room and he grabbed some fifty-dollar bills from a silver bowl on his desk.
“I was kidding.”
“What?” Arno asked.
“About your dad—I didn’t mean it.”
“Oh. Right—anyway, I don’t care. They’re being assholes for some reason I don’t get. It’s like, lately I hate my house. Let’s get the hell out of here.”