Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [12]
“I gotta go,” I say, breaking away.
“Andi, wait.”
But I don’t wait. I can’t. Standing here on Henry Street with him brings it all back. He doesn’t remember much. At least, that’s what he says. But I think he remembers everything and that’s why he gets high all the time.
He lets me get ten steps down the sidewalk, then says, “I’ll take out my godfather’s guitar.”
Wow. The big guns. His godfather happens to be Keith Richards.
I turn around. “What do you want from me, Nick?” I ask him. There’s an edge to my voice.
“It’s gorgeous,” he says. “He used it when he wrote ‘Angie.’ ”
“What do you want? Can’t be sex. You get plenty. Can’t be drugs. You’ve got more pills than CVS. You need help with your French homework? Is that it?”
“He gave it to me last month. When I was in England,” he says. His voice is soft now. Pleading.
I almost say it out loud. I almost spit it at him, the word for the thing he wants—forgiveness. But then the pot haze lifts and his eyes meet mine and I can see the pain there. So I don’t say it. I let him be nice to me. It’s not what he wants, but it’s the best I can do.
“You’re blagging,” I tell him. “It’s not Uncle Keith’s. You bought it on eBay.”
He smiles. “I’m not. It’s his,” he says.
“Yeah? What kind is it?” I say, testing him.
“It’s a … um … it’s a Fender Bender. No, it’s a Paul Gibson sort of thing … some kind of stratoblaster. Bugger me, I don’t know what it is. But it’s his; I swear it. We’ll call him up and he’ll tell you. He gave it to me. If you come, I’ll let you play it.”
“Okay. I’m there.”
I pick up my bags, tell him goodbye, then walk past Arden. If looks could kill, I’d be vapor. “Hey, thanks for the invite,” I tell her. She doesn’t deign to reply to me. She’s saving all her lovin’ for Nick.
“Why didn’t you just hook up with her right there on the sidewalk, Nicky? You wanted to. The whole world could see that!”
“Piss off, Arden, will you? You’re giving me a headache.”
Ah, young love.
I smile as I turn onto my street. Winter break’s looking up. I decide to give Vijay a call, see if he’ll go with me. Apart from that guitar, which I very much want to play, this party has possibilities: bored rich boys, jealous rich girls, plenty of illegal substances, maybe even a loaded gun.
If I’m lucky.
7
Turns out I’m not. Lucky, that is. Not remotely.
The party’s crap. Literally. I’m not in Nick’s house for ten seconds before a drippy white pile of it lands on my shoulder.
I look up. Above me, a huge green parrot sits preening in a chandelier.
Rupert Goode, Nick’s dad, hobbles up behind me with a dishrag in one hand. “Iago, you scoundrel!” he shouts, shaking his cane at the bird. “I shall wring your neck! I shall pluck you and gut you and stuff you into the oven!”
“Why, thou silly gentleman!” Iago squawks, flying off to strafe someone else.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Rupert says. “He’s a blackguard, that bird. Allow me.…”
Rupert’s an actor. He played every male lead Shakespeare wrote, made a ton of indie films, then cashed out with four or five Harry Potters. He can’t work much anymore. He shakes. His voice is still beautiful, though. The Parkinson’s hasn’t ruined it yet.
I look around as he wipes the poop off me, eyeing the water-stained wallpaper in the hallway and the crumbling ceiling above it. A faded painting in a battered frame. A reeky terrier asleep on a coat. Teetering piles of scripts. If it belonged to anyone else, this house would be on the city’s condemned list, but since it’s Rupert Goode’s, it’s in Vogue.
“I don’t see you anymore,” Rupert says. “I used to see you at Cranberry’s with Marianne, getting coffee in the morning.”
He’s friends with my mom. Or used to be. Back when she had friends.
“I’ve been really busy. Senior thesis. College applications. You know.”
What he knows is that I’m lying.
“How are you, Andi? Really?” he asks, giving me a searching look.
“I’m fine,” I say, looking away. He cares. I know that. Which is why I don’t tell him how I really am.
“No, I don’t think so.