Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [11]
6
“Hey, Ard! Where’s the night-mère?” Tillie Epstein, a senior from Slater, yells from across the street.
“ ’Toxing,” Arden yells back, tossing her blond hair.
Arden’s walking home on this fine Saturday afternoon, turning every head with her tanned legs, suede boots, and micromini. She’s got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure. She just came out of a deli carrying a Diet Coke, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of Evian. The first two are lunch, the Evian’s for her bong. Tap water is, like, soooo toxic.
“Bo or Dee?” Tillie shouts.
“Dee.”
Botoxing moms are hard to call. The injections don’t take long. Half an hour at the doc’s office, a bit of shopping, lunch, and then she’s back home and barging in on your afternoon X party. Most inconvenient.
Detoxing moms are safer bets. Detox usually involves a flight to California, as well as high colonics, yurts, burnt sage, and teary dealings with the inner child. Painful, yes, but vastly preferable to teary dealings with the outer child.
“Cool! Party at your house?”
“Can’t. The feng shui man’s there. Our karma’s, like, really blocked, you know?”
Roto Buddha. Only in the Heights.
“Nick’s having some people over tonight, though,” she says.
Tillie gives her a thumbs-up and disappears into a yoga studio.
Nick is Arden’s boyfriend. He goes to St. Anselm’s, too. As I continue to walk behind Arden, far enough behind so there’s no possible chance of having to talk to her, he comes out of Mabruk’s Falafel, grabs her, and gives her a big, sloppy kiss.
His full name is Nick Goode, aka Not Guilty, for all the time his dad’s lawyer spends saying those exact words in front of a judge. For DUI. Possession. For throwing up in Starbucks on three consecutive mornings. And for peeing off the top of the slide at the Pierrepont Street playground. He’s English. His dad and stepmom, Sir and Lady Goode, keep parrots.
Nick’s messy curls gleam gold in the winter sun. His chin is bristly with stubble.
He’s wearing boots, a kilt, and a long-sleeve tee. No coat, even though it’s December. Beautiful people don’t need coats. They’ve got their auras to keep them warm.
He spots me as he comes up for air. He lopes over, takes my hand, and sings “I know a girl who’s tough but sweet.… She’s so fine she can’t be beat.… I want Andi, I want Andi …” to the tune of “I Want Candy.”
His voice is beautiful, a knee-weakening sandpaper growl. He smells like smoke and wine. He stops singing suddenly and asks me if I’m coming to his party.
“Nicky!” Arden yelps from down the sidewalk, alarmed.
“Relax, Ard,” he yells over his shoulder. “Ard, short for arduous,” he whispers to me, grinning.
He takes the bags I’m carrying out of my hands and puts them on the sidewalk. One has sandwiches in it. The other has seventeen different tubes of blue oil paint in it. Mom’s still struggling with Truman’s eyes. She went nuclear about it this morning. The only way I could talk her down was to tell her she had the wrong paints, that’s why she couldn’t get the eyes right, and then promise to go to Pearl Paint to buy her the right ones.
He takes my hands in his, touches his forehead to mine. “Come to my party. I’m nobility, after all, and you’re only a serf so you have to do what I say. Play your guitar. Entertain me. My life’s so bloody dull I could weep,” he says.
“Wow, that’s some offer. Jester at the court of the bored-oisie.”
“Come on, you sexy beast. You acid-tongued, black-hearted little witch. You’re the only interesting girl in all of Brooklyn.”
I roll my eyes. “How much did you smoke today? A kilo?”
“Please come. I want you to,” he says. His lips brush mine. He tries for a kiss.
Bad idea. The very worst. I push him away. “Dude, hey. I’m not radicchio.”
“What?”
“Radicchio. You know? The nasty red lettuce? All those goddesses you sleep with, Nick, they’re cloying your palate. You’ve had too much sweet stuff and now you’re craving something bitter.”
Nick