Arno spent most of Saturday afternoon in his room, watching George Clooney movies. He knew he didn’t have quite that kind of style, not yet anyway. But he liked watching Ocean’s 11. He liked the attitudes and he loved the idea of being very smart in a criminal-minded sort of way.
He lay on the floor and did crunches, what felt like hundreds of them, and quoted Clooney’s lines. He thought of Kelli. If only she’d return his pages and calls. He lay on his side then and squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the tears that he simply couldn’t believe were coming.
His home phone rang. Jonathan.
“Mickey found Patch. We’re meeting over at his house in two hours.”
“What about Kelli?”
“What about her?”
“Is she coming?”
“Um, no? I have no idea where she is. Mickey found Patch, aren’t you psyched?”
“Yeah,” Arno said. He went to his closet and pulled out a candy-striped button-down that practically glowed. Happy shirt.
“I guess I’ll keep calling her.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Jonathan said. “And we’ll see you before seven, got it?”
After Jonathan ended the call, Arno tried to reach Kelli again. Nothing. He knew she was leaving the next morning at eleven, with her mom. He could go to St. Louis. He’d have to rent a car and find a place to stay, and miss more school. Somewhere underneath his love for her, he felt as if she’d stolen his cool, and he was annoyed about that. He even wondered, if he hadn’t seen her, would he have fooled around with Amanda and Liza?
“Arno?” his mother called. The Wildenburgers were having a dinner party, as usual, and his mother was stopping by on her way to the kitchen, where she had to supervise the staff. She stood in the doorway in black silk pants and a black cashmere sweater, not yet in her eveningwear. “Come and taste the soup, won’t you, dear? It’s lobster bisque.”
So Arno went with her, because he couldn’t think of a reason to say no, or start a fight. They walked down the long hallway and halfway there his mother was called away by a maid—Arno’s dad was on the phone. But Arno kept going toward the kitchen. He figured he’d eat some of whatever they had—if he could get in there before they wrapped the prosciutto around the figs, maybe he could make a ham sandwich.
The kitchen was as massive as everything else, all white enamel and buffed steel and butcher block, and there were three cooks busily preparing dinner for twelve. Arno saw some medallions of veal and edged toward them.
“Those are for the guests, sir,” a woman said. Arno looked up, with a twinge of annoyance, thinking, my kitchen.
The girl who stared back at him was clearly a server and looked not much older than a college sophomore, probably at NYU.
“I live here,” Arno said.
“Oh?” she said. She stood in front of him, and she was in tight blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. She held her uniform, a white button-down shirt and black tuxedo pants, on a hanger. A Latina girl with sharp features and big black eyes. To Arno, she looked awfully precise. She was staring at him. He couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or what. Meanwhile, the three male cooks were busily moving around, cooking. The girl kept staring at Arno.
“Yeah,” Arno said. “In fact, my bedroom’s back down that hallway.”
“Oh, it is?”
“Yeah, in case you need to get dressed and you want to get away from all these guys. I’ve got a bathroom back there and everything. I’ve got a big shower with this tiled chair thing in it.”
“That sounds nice,” she said. Her voice was low. He realized that maybe she was older. Twenty-four? Wow, maybe she didn’t even go to college.
“You should see it,” Arno said. “Even if you don’t want to change back there.”
The woman glanced back at the cooks, who were busily stirring the bisque.
“Coming!” Arno’s mother yelled. She’d gone around the back way toward the kitchen. The cooks immediately looked up. One made bug eyes at the other, as if to say, the crazy lady’s on her way. Immediately, all the cooks got to looking even busier. They started chattering in French.
“Let’s go,” Arno said. “Before you have to deal with my mom.”
Arno grabbed the girl and a chunk of beef tenderloin with his other hand and they ran back down the corridor to his room. The girl was laughing. They got back to his room and Arno closed the door behind him.
“This is great of you to give me this place to change,” the girl said. “I’m Mariela.”
“I’m Arno.”
They held out their hands to each other. Both Arno’s home phone and cell phone were ringing. He ignored them. Dead Prez was blaring out of the stereo. Arno turned the music off.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Mariela asked. Arno pointed and they were kissing on his bed before he’d had time to put his hand down.
“It’ll be easier to change,” Arno said, “if you’ve got your clothes off.”
“Mmm.”
“I’ve got to change clothes, too, actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You might want to take a shower,” Arno said, “before you have to work. I was going to take one myself.”
“That sounds good.”
There was silence for a few minutes. Arno felt his room transformed, floating away on a cloud.
“I’m back,” Arno said, mostly to himself.
“Yes, you are,” Mariela said.
“Arno!” His mom called out from somewhere down the hall. “One of the servers is lost! Is she in your room?”
“Yeah, Mom. She spilled something on her white shirt, so I’m giving her one of mine.”
“That’s nice, dear.”