Hold On Tight by J. Minter Page B

guess, really woodsy. I think I’m going to like that about college.”
    â€œMmm …” Greta said, like she was listening more to the sound of his voice than to what he was saying.
    â€œMickey showed the restaurant pictures to a crowd of hundreds—big success. So it looks like you’re going to be a star now, too.”
    â€œOh yeah? That’s funny,” Greta said, but she sounded kind of distant. The night Mickey took those pictures had been so loose and fun, and everyone had wondered who Patch’s beautiful, affectionate, redheaded date was. To Patch, that night seemed far away now. And weirdly, that made him think about how she was a lot closer to, like, a lot of other people … guys … maybe even that one other guy.
    â€œGreta?” Patch asked, leaning his lean frame against the wall and closing his eyes. “You love where you come from, huh?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIf we’re really going to go to school together, I have to check out some schools out West, huh?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOkay, then.”

mickey v. dad
    â€œSure, it’s funny, but I just really like Gatorade…” Mickey said to Lena, Professor Soto’s assistant, who was calling from the Sarah Lawrence Art Department. He was in the middle of enumerating his standard on-site lecture demands, and trying hard not to forget anything cool. “So, yeah, I’m going to need like four twenty-ounce bottles wherever I’m staying. Preferably Cool Blue or Glacier Freeze. Also—the last lecture I gave they put me up in the President’s Guest Cottage. Do you have one of those?”
    â€œUm, no but …,” Lena said haltingly. Mickey listened as she made a counteroffer, and extended his legs so they rested on the large wrought-iron desk in his room.
    â€œOkay, that’s fine. Have the limo pick me up on Friday afternoon. I need to keep the departure time loose, though, so have them get here early and they can wait …” Suddenly the line went dead. “What the …,” Mickey muttered as he put the receiver down and swung his legs off his desk.
    He made it to the hall just in time to see his father’s fearsome back turning the corner out of view. Ricardo Pardo was built more or less like him—broad shoulders and short, powerful legs that were made for running. And escaping.
    Down by his feet, Mickey saw the end of the phone cord. It had been ripped out of the wall. There wasn’t much point in wondering who had done the ripping anymore, so Mickey sat down to carefully fuse the brightly colored wires back together. He was crouched over, trying hard not to bash his head into the wall or otherwise physically vent his frustrations, when a gentle voice said: “We used to make life-size sculptures of people out of that type of wire for your dad.”
    Mickey looked up. It was Caselli, the dude who ran his dad’s studio. “Too bad you didn’t hang him with it.”
    Caselli tried to smile, even though smiling made him look kind of silly. He was a big guy with a shaved head, and he was wearing white overalls, which was the same thing that the guys in Ricardo’s studio always wore. Mickey was familiar with the warmer, fuzzier side of Caselli, but that didn’t make it any less silly. “Ricardo just wants what any father wants: He doesn’t want his only son to grow old too quickly.”
    â€œMan, we’re bros, so I wouldn’t want to say you werewrong,” Mickey gave a little tug on the wire, “but you’re so wrong.”
    â€œMove over,” Caselli said. He pulled a pair of pliers out of his pants pocket and began to carefully twist the telephone wires back together. “So what do you think the matter is?”
    â€œI think Dad’s just totally jelly about my whole new art thing. I mean, that thing the
Times
ran this morning about how I was an artist of rustling feathers?