Hold On Tight by J. Minter Page A

way to practice caring, even if it was just the nearest street corner where some kids were trying to find homes for a new litter of puppies.
    There was no platonic love note from Flan this time, although there was a forward from Beatrice, this girl from our Drama as Literature class. It was about a benefit that night for this small, experimental theater company called the Sweet Mercy Theater Company that she’d been ushering for. I skimmed the e-mail and immediately perked up. I knew it wasn’t really
that
do-gooderish. I mean it was a party—and I’m not really a theater person—but the party was on Ludlow Street, which usually signals it’s the kind of party I’d be down for. And even better, it was a start on the caring thing.
    â€œHey Arno.” I peeked over Arno’s shoulder and saw that he was examining the Sarah Lawrence Web site.
    â€œUh-huh?”
    â€œWhat are you doing tonight?”
    Arno made an indifferent grunting noise and continued scrolling through the pictures in the “campus life” section.
    â€œDo you want to go to a par— a
benefit
with me tonight? It’s on Ludlow Street.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    And just like that, we had Monday night plans that were very not us.

was that patch flood waiting on a call?
    The cell was going off, and this time it was not the usual annoying jingle. It was the tune of the Beach Boys’ “California Girls,” which meant that it was Greta calling. Patch knew the phone was in his room because he could hear it. He just didn’t know what part of the room. But he was determined to find it before the call went to voicemail.
    Patch reached into the pile of semi-dirty clothes on the left side of his bed and started throwing shirts and belts over his head. But the noise remained just as muffled as before and it was not until he was down on his hands and knees that he saw it, underneath the bed. He came up with the phone flipped open.
    â€œHello?” he heard Greta saying. “Are you there, hello?”
    â€œHey, Red,” Patch said, relieved, leaning back against the bed. He had just gotten back from school, and he was wearing his standard white T-shirt and khakis rolledat the ankle. “I’m here,” he added, kicking off the low-top converse he had been wearing without socks.
    â€œWhat
happened
to you?” she asked. “I kept calling you all weekend.”
    â€œI know, that sucked. I couldn’t get through to you, either. And the one message from you that I got was all garbled.”
    â€œYeah, I was worried that might happen.”
    â€œSo did you have a good time?”
    â€œOh my god, such a good time. I wish you had been there. All of these kids who I was friends with when I was a freshman and they were seniors were there—I think you would really like them—and we all went out on the party circuit. It was hella fun. I mean, I live pretty much without parental constraints, but those college kids—they’re something else.”
    â€œSo, was your … ex-boyfriend one of these people?” Patch said, letting his head fall back on the bed. He stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars that Flan had put on the ceiling years ago, as a surprise for his thirteenth birthday. They looked sort of lonely and old during the day.
    â€œYeah … it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, it was sort of. It’s just that … I was going out with him when I was a lot younger and easier to manipulate, you know? So seeing him again—it just made me feel all vulnerable allover again. But whatever. He was nice, and those people are all my friends, so it was never really uncomfortable.”
    â€œThat’s good, I guess.”
    â€œYeah,” Greta said, letting out an exaggerated breath of air. “So how was Vassar?”
    Patch pushed himself off the floor, and started walking around and gently kicking things on the floor. “The campus was cool I