Hold On Tight by J. Minter Read Free Book Online Page B

items.”
    Lara, the girl sitting next to me, let out a long, snide, “Ha!”
    Now people outside of their little group were staring, not in an exactly understanding way, and none of them were saying anything. You could’ve heard a chestnut fall, and I probably would have if I wasn’t listening to the blood pumping to mycheeks. Just when this whole silence/staring thing was getting a little ridiculous, Margot tossed her head back and laughed. It was a long, lovely, ringing laugh. I looked around for a reaction, but everyone waited until Margot leaned forward and took me in her arms. Like, actually hugged me, filling my nose with this very pleasant gardenia smell.
    â€œOh,
Jonathan,”
she said, “those are so
obviously
not vinyl.”
    The group around us sighed and laughed, too. They had a good, long laugh at my expense.
    â€œYou can’t tell Jonathan what to wear,” Ted said with a chuckle. “He takes all of that really seriously.”
    My embarrassment must have been printed all over my face, because Margot continued, “It’s okay, buddy. Even I wear—horror of horrors— fur sometimes. But you should be careful who you buy from,
especially
if you’re buying new. There is a lot of cruelty in this world, and we should do our part not to support it, you know?”
    Then everyone went back to talking and laughing and loudly enjoying the summer night, but I couldn’t help but be flushed by a feeling of total, and very public, lameness.

patch (almost) loses his cool
    â€œHey man,” the guy with the angled bangs and the fitted red-and-white striped T-shirt was saying. Then he said it again, “Hey, uh, hey man.”
    Patch came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to ignore this guy much longer. He shook his phone a few more times, as though that might somehow get him service in the bathroom of the basement bar, and then considered throwing it against the wall, before realizing that would mean that he would
never
get to talk to Greta again. Or for the rest of the weekend, at least.
    â€œHey man,” the guy said again. “I know who you are.”
    Patch resignedly put the phone back in his pocket and looked up. “Hi,” he said.
    â€œYou’re that guy that
New York
magazine wanted to name Hottest Private School Boy,” the guy continued excitedly. “I just wanted to say I think that is just camptastic.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œLike, campy fantastic!” the guy continued. As he spoke, he nervously reformed his bangs so that they crossed his forehead and partially covered his right eye just so.
“And
fascinating. I’m writing my senior thesis on the phenomenon of celebrities who are famous for being famous, like Paris Hilton, you see what I mean? So I really know a lot about this. I actually think it was very savvy of you
not
to have accepted the initial offer to be HPSB. It’s sort of like you’re hiding your hand a little bit longer, it gives you a certain caché, and it only makes the eventual blowup
that
much more inevitable. I think you have a 95 percent chance of being internationally recognizable by early 2007.”
    â€œWow, could you excuse me?” Patch stepped to his side.
    â€œI understand—laidback and hard to reach is your thing,” the guy said. Then he put a hand on Patch’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Just keep doing what you do so well.”
    Patch climbed the stairs and pushed his way back through the crowd. He was still sort of pissed that Arno had abandoned him here, especially when Patch-enthusiasm was running so high among the Vassar kids, and when Arno knew he had a girlfriend. Patch decided he was done with this place, and moved—as much as he could, with all the girls reaching out to touch his skin fora brief moment—toward the door. As he slapped a particularly persistent hand away, he realized he felt pretty