Mickey, his parents, Philippa, and her parents were in La Palme D’Or, an old restaurant in a house on Charles Street. The place was made up to look like the late 1800s, so everything was lit with candles, all the surfaces were mahogany, and the wallpaper was painted with a thicket of pink flowers. A waiter in a nineteenth-century livery costume delivered their appetizers while everyone watched in silence.
“Now before we get into the trouble we’re having with you at home, what about this little trouble at school?” Mr. Frady began as he dug into a steaming plate of snails.
“I’ll do whatever you say to make things better, Mr. Frady,” Mickey said. He eyed Philippa, who sat next to him.
“Of course a written apology and community service would be only a beginning,” Mr. Frady said. He was a very tall man with bushy eyebrows, a lot of nose and ear hair, and his own investment banking company. He always stared Mickey right in the eyes, and Mickey hated him for it. But Mickey knew that without Mr. Frady, he’d be kicked out of school for good. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but he didn’t pick it up. He sighed.
“I agree,” he said. He felt Philippa’s hand on his thigh and squeezed it. A waiter came to the table and poured wine for the parents and Philippa. He stopped at Mickey’s glass, but all four parents waved the waiter away.
Mickey picked at a salad of shredded bits of duck and cabbage that he didn’t recall ordering. His silver fork was heavy in his hand and he felt himself sinking into his heavily embroidered chair. A fire burned merrily in a fireplace behind him and Mickey considered chucking himself into it. That or ease a log out onto the rug, wait for it to smolder, scream fire, and run the hell out of the place.
Jackson Frady nodded at Mickey and began to speak to Ricardo Pardo, who was on his right. Mickey’s father was pushed back so there was room for his belly to breathe, and he was stroking his beard and glaring at everyone. Mickey’s mother sat next to him, looking shockingly beautiful in a black dress and plenty of gold jewelry. They were both watching Mickey. Things were bad. Mickey sighed.
“Hijo de la chingada,” Mickey whispered. Son of a bitch.
“Haz el favor de comportarte!” Lucy Pardo said. Try to behave!
“Lo siento, Mamá,” Mickey said. I’m sorry, Mom.
The waiter came back and poured Mickey some water.
“Could I get a Jack Daniels on the rocks?” Mickey asked the waiter.
“Are you kidding?” Ricardo Pardo asked. He was halfway through his second double Absolut Limon, one ice cube.
“Um, yes,” Mickey said. “I totally was.” He sank lower in his chair. He had to rest his cast on the table, where it lay, messy and brown, a cold reminder of why he was in trouble and how, come Monday, he was probably going to get kicked out of school for good, unless Jackson Frady decided to help him out.
“About that problem Mickey’s having at school,” Mr. Frady said to Ricardo.
“Can you fix it?” Ricardo asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Mr. Frady said. “After all, I’m on the board. There’s just one thing.”
“What?” Ricardo asked. “About these two—they can never see each other again!”
“I agree with you on that. But I was thinking about our garden in Amagansett. It seems so spare lately.”
Mickey shook his head. He’d seen their garden. It was the size of a couple of football fields and it was right on the water. Normal people would’ve called it a park next to a beach.
“You want a sculpture?” Ricardo asked. “Is that what you’re asking for?”
“Well, now that you mention it,” Mr. Frady said. And the two men put their heads together, and began to strike a deal. Ricardo glared at his son the whole time.
Meanwhile, the two women went back to gossiping about Arno’s parents, about how they were seeing a therapist in order to put the spice back in their marriage and the therapist was making them do outrageous stuff, like get caught having sex in front of their maids down in Florida. It was disgusting!
“But maybe it could be fun,” Mrs. Frady said, and giggled. Mrs. Pardo rolled her eyes.
Of course, the therapist was Sam Grobart, David’s dad. But nobody said that aloud, not in front of Mickey and Philippa, who knew it perfectly well and didn’t care.
“I think I need to go to a party now,” Mickey said.
“Tienes que esperar a tu papá,” Lucy Pardo said. You have to wait for your dad. “Then you can go have your party.”
“Of course,” Jackson Frady said, “after we resolve this problem at school, we need to discuss just what to do with this boy and our home. He keeps breaking in. We don’t like that.”
“He breaks in?” Ricardo Pardo asked. He turned to his son. “Mira que te va a salir caro!” You’re going to pay for this!
“But, Papa!” Mickey argued.
“Cálmate, loco,” Ricardo said. Cool it, crazy.
“Looks like we’ll be here for a while,” Jackson Frady said. He smiled and took a sip of his wine.