Panic Attack by Jason Starr Page B

me.”
“It’s really not important.”
“Come on, just tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” Hillary said. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”
“You didn’t say anything yet. Come on, now you have to tell me.”
Hillary took another sip of her drink, breathed deeply, then said, “It’s just . . . It’s about your mother.”
“My mother?”
“See? I shouldn’t’ve opened my big mouth.”
“What about her?”
“I mean, with what you’re going through now and every—”
“Come on, just tell me already.”
Hillary waited several seconds, as if trying to or ganize her thoughts, then said, “I heard her and my mom talking the other night. They didn’t think I was home, but I heard them from upstairs.”
“What were they talking about?”
“I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t want to tell you, but—”
“Is it something bad?”
“No. I mean, not bad bad.”
“Is my mom sick?”
“No, God no, nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just she’s . . . well, she’s . . . cheating on your dad.”
Marissa couldn’t believe it. “My mother ?”
“Sorry, I didn’t want to tell you, especially not now when—”
“You sure you didn’t misunderstand something?”
“Positive. She was talking about how it’s been going on for months and she keeps wanting to break it off but she can’t.”
For months?
“With who?” Marissa asked.
“You know him,” Hillary said.
“Oh God, who?”
“Tony.”
“Who’s Tony?”
“You know— Tony, that trainer guy at New York Sports Club.”
It took a few moments to register then Marissa said, “You mean that big guy with the thick Bronx accent?”
Hillary nodded uncomfortably.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Marissa said.
“Swear to God,” Hillary said. “See? I shouldn’t’ve told you.”
Marissa saw a flash of her mom and Tony together— naked. It was kind of funny.
“Who would’ve thought?” Marissa said. “My mom and a bodybuilder. Good for her.”
“Wait, you’re not upset?”
“Upset? Why would I be upset? If I was my mom I would’ve cheated on my dad years ago. Maybe my parents’ll finally get divorced, put all of us out of our misery.” She finished her cosmo in one gulp, then added, “Honestly, this is by far the best news I’ve heard all day.”

seven
    Johnny Long was walking uptown on Eighth Avenue, on his way back from Slate, a pool hall in Chelsea where he’d hustled a hundred- something bucks off some drunken stockbroker, heading toward the touristy bars around Times Square, where he hoped to find a decent- looking woman to screw and rob, when the rain started. It was coming down hard, lightning and thundering, and didn’t seem to be letting up. He waited it out for a while under an awning, then dashed across the street to the Molly Wee Pub on Thirtieth and Eighth, figuring he’d wait out the storm there.
    When he entered the Irish bar, he noticed five women checking him out. This wasn’t unusual; women checked him out wherever he went. His looks had always been his biggest asset and his biggest liability. It was great to look hot when he wanted to pick up a woman, but during a stretch at Rikers being known as “Johnny Pretty,”“J. Lo” and— the worst—“Jenny from the Block” had caused him seven and a half months of total hell.
    Johnny often got mistaken for Johnny Depp, and not just because they had the same first name. He was bigger than Depp, more muscular, but their faces looked alike— both had that sleepy, washed- out look— especially when he let strands of his longish, greasy dark hair fall over his light blue eyes. He also got mistaken for Jared Leto every once in a while, or one of the other guys in 30 Seconds to Mars.
    He sat at the bar, ordered a club soda with a wedge of lime— he didn’t touch alcohol— and checked out his options. Two of the women were with guys— not impossible, but it made things a little harder, and he wasn’t in the mood for hard. So it was down to the thin girl with dark hair who was at the table with a group of friends, the girl with dark curly hair or her blond friend at the end of the bar,