On Sunday, February Flood was nowhere to be found and everyone had to get back to the city. The five of them discussed this while sitting in the great room, where they’d carried their breakfasts on big white plates.
“At least we found you, Patch,” Arno said. “Mission accomplished. Your parents are going to be psyched.” He balanced his plate on one knee—they’d cooked everything they could find, so each of them had about five eggs and half a pound of bacon on their plates.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you guys more stuff,” Jonathan said, and to Mickey, he sounded like he meant it.
“Let’s lay off him,” Mickey said. “He’s our friend.”
“Still.” Arno went back to stuffing himself. “I don’t even get what he’s hiding. What could be so bad? Take my family for example. I bet my parents cheat on each other all the time.”
And then Mickey got up and ran over to Arno and put him in a headlock, and what was left of Arno’s food spilled onto the rug.
“It’s just like when we were in fifth grade,” David said quickly.
“If it were like back then,” Mickey gasped, as he held Arno down and gently banged his head against the floorboards, “I’d be kicking your ass too.”
“All that pot has ruined your memory,” David said, and laughed. And Mickey had to laugh too, because he knew as well as anyone that even though David was a mope, he was physically bigger and in much better shape because of basketball, and thus could kick everyone’s asses. Then and now.
A few hours later, when everyone was ready to go, they went looking for Patch. He was out in the back garden. He’d come across a dove that was cooing from the branches of an old spruce tree, and he ended up sitting at the foot of the tree and cooing up at it. Clearly the bird was psyched, because it was now on Patch’s shoulder and appeared to be pecking lightly at Patch’s lips. As usual, everyone stared in wonder at Patch.
“I’m sure they called,” Patch said, to no one in particular, when they found him.
“Are you talking about your parents?” Mickey asked.
“Well, yeah.”
“I talked to my parents and they said they ran into them at the airport,” Mickey said as he clambered up into the spruce tree. “They’re headed to Switzerland for the week.”
“Oh, okay,” Patch said. “Let’s take Big Bird and go home.”
“What’s he talking about?” Arno asked.
“The yellow car we came up in,” Mickey said. “He’s going to let me drive.”
“Who said?” Patch asked.
“Um.” Mickey frowned. No one had said. And everybody knew that.
The boys packed their stuff and got out of the house after Patch left a handwritten note for the staff, saying that they were going. Because it was Sunday, they weren’t around. And the house was in pretty bad shape.
“At least we didn’t burn anything down,” Jonathan said as they pulled out of the driveway, with Patch driving. They all looked back at the house. Once when they were eleven, they built a fort in the woods and Mickey pretended to be an American Indian. He lit the fort on fire and the fire department had to be called to put out the trees. After that, Mickey was banned from the Floods’ estate for six months, and his dad had to give the Floods a piece of sculpture. It still stood in the backyard and was now worth three quarters of a million dollars. The sculpture was supposed to have been an abstraction, but everyone could see that it kind of looked like an Indian setting a white man’s ass on fire.
Patch took the wheel and drove fast down the path of rolling hills that led them out of the Flood estate and out to the highway. In the backseat, David and Arno seemed to be asleep. Jonathan sat squished between them, on the hump. Jonathan leaned forward so his head was between Mickey’s and Patch’s.
“You know, you’re kind of the most capable of any of us even though you’re sort of the biggest blow-off,” Jonathan said, to Patch.
“Shhh,” Mickey said. “Don’t hurt his feelings while he driving.”
They shot down the Merritt in silence for a while, with Mickey mostly brooding in the front passenger seat. Patch drove faster and faster, a toothpick dangling from his mouth. He was in oversized corduroys and a black flannel shirt. His dirty blond hair was standing up and he had several days worth of stubble on his cheeks. Mickey shook his head. He pretended he didn’t care about such things, but Patch sure was a hell of a lot better looking than any of the rest of them, except maybe Arno.
“Wait!” Mickey yelled. “This is Thanksgiving week! This is a short week! Oh man!”
“What’s the difference?” Arno asked, with both eyes closed. “You only go to school when you want to anyway.”
“Still—this is a party week, and that’s fun.”
“Last week was a party week,” Arno said.
“Yeah… but we all know what this Wednesday is,” Patch said. Everyone stopped and looked at him. Even David, who had seemed pretty asleep, opened one eye.
“When did you start knowing stuff about days in the future?” Arno said. “And when’d you get your driver’s license anyway?”
There was quiet for a moment. This was true. Mickey eyed Patch.
“Yeah, Patch, who are you really?” Mickey asked.
But Patch ignored them all. He said, “Wednesday is Ginger Shulman’s annual pre-Thanksgiving bash.”
“Where’s she having it this year?” Arno asked. “Your house, again?”
“No, hers.” Patch expertly swung in and out of the fast lane, passing absolutely everyone.
Then it was quiet for a while. Mickey was sure they were all chewing on the idea of the new Patch who was driving them all home. And in the back of his mind, Mickey waited for the question he knew was coming.
“Hey, Mickey?” Jonathan asked.
“Sure,” Mickey nodded. “You’ve already stayed at everybody else’s house, now you should stay at mine.”
“Thanks for not making me ask.”
“We’re all best friends.” Mickey smiled. “You need to chill the fuck out.”
But even as Mickey spoke, Jonathan looked away. And they both knew the truth, that Jonathan kind of had asked. And Mickey had the weird, uncertain feeling that Jonathan had been avoiding his house because he knew things that Mickey didn’t.
The sky grew dark as they coasted into the city, and everyone seemed to sleep except Patch, who hummed along with the Flower Power Hour on WFMU.
They arrived at Fifth Avenue and, since everybody else lived west of there, Jonathan clambered out first.
“I’ll see you at your house later,” Jonathan said to Mickey.
“Cool. It’s Sunday, right? There’ll probably be some huge-ass dinner party. We can drink wine and pass out in front of the TV during prime time football.”
Everybody waved to Jonathan as the yellow Mercedes roared off down Eleventh Street.