CLASS OF 2005
Chapter One
Arnold is a city boy. It's a fact he often takes for granted, like the color of the sky or the chemical composition of water. Rarely does he stop what he's doing in his day to say "I live in the greatest city in the world."
But one thing becomes clearer as he gets older, and that's he has Brooklyn in his blood. Maybe not much of that stereotypical accent and he hates the Yankees. But he's a Brooklyn boy in every other way that matters; Brooklyn means his first girlfriend, first date, first kiss, where he's haunted bookstores and playgrounds and hot dog stands after long school days. Where his grandmother died a year ago. Where his parents walked out the door and never came back. The latter two make Arnold resentful of Brooklyn. And this entire city. Though, he hardly stops to acknowledge this fact either. Apparently, only when he's facing himself in the mirror, tying his tie underneath his robe and playing with the tassel of his graduation cap does he stop to think about it. People like Mr. Hyun and Mr. Kokoschka came to this city for a reason because it is one of the best in the world. So Arnold finds it in him, somewhere, to smile.
He looks back at himself, grinning from ear to ear in a way that grandma would have been proud of.
"Welcome to the rest of your life," he tells his reflection. "Enjoy your stay." This, and other hippie-mantra bullshit Arnold spews to himself on the mornings. Especially on the particularly crappy ones where someone put his head on backwards and all the blood in his body feels like it's draining out, slowly, torturously. Such as today.
His parents would have been in their 50s now, watching Arnold receive his diploma.
But instead, Arnold decides to focus on untying and retying his tie. It's a good task for now until he has to get Grandpa up and showered, dressed, and ready for his medicine. All of this awaits him at the ripe time of 3:30 in the morning. The boarders are tucked away in their rooms. The day hangs it potential over Arnold, ready for plucking. And Arnold, well, he unties and reties his tie. Again.
His grandfather taught him how to tie a tie. Chop wood. Fix a leaking sink. The difference between a flathead and a Phillips. The perks of being raised by a man who, in his day, lived in a time when "real" men were in no short supply. Still, in his old age, Grandpa says men are an endangered species, and Arnold may be last of the few.
The boarding room phone rings. The green rotary one placed just below the stairs where it's always been. Not much changes around here besides the faces.
"Sunset Arms." Arnold would ponder that someone is calling way too late. But he's a city boy. NYC raised. Nothing surprises him anymore.
He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder, resumes tying his tie.
"Yes, hello, I need a room." The voice is scared, a little broken. The woman adds, "Please."
One thing surprises Arnold. The accent isn't foreign. These days, his tenants are mostly immigrants whose green cards are about to run out. There hasn't been a tenant who spoke perfect English for a while now. Americans will cram themselves in a crappy studio in Manhattan with six other people before they live in a boarding house built before the Teddy Roosevelt administration.
"Of course. No problem, Mrs…" he trails, so she can tell him her name.
He switches into professional mode, ready to give her the rundown. There's no formal application process. No credit or background checks. You have the money, you have the room. That's how Grandpa's dad ran the place during the Great Depression when people were desperate for shelter. And that's how they run it now. Arnold wants to turn it into an actual apartment building with a swimming pool and the tenant's own private bathrooms and kitchens, but more on that later.
"Heyerdahl. It's me, Arnold. Phoebe."
Arnold stops tying his tie. "I never took you for much of a prankster, Phoebe."
"That's because I'm not. So, the room. Are there any available right now?"
Arnold looks himself in the mirror, loses the hat. Someone with a big, bright future ahead shouldn't be selling his fellow classmate—a valedictorian—real estate before sunrise. With the hat, he feels like a fraud.
"Do you have any preferences for upstairs or downstairs? We have a spectacular view of our tennis courts and swimming pool."
"This isn't a game."
"What are you doing now?" Arnold asks. If they make it quick, he'll have time to get Grandpa ready and make it to the auditorium.
He figures the class valedictorian would be busy celebrating her acceptances to Harvard and Princeton. Or packing at the very least. If he were in Phoebe's shoes, Arnold indulges, he'd definitely go Princeton. Something about it seems less stuffy.
"I can give you your keys and the grand tour right now. It'll only take about ten minutes," he says, more seriously. "Of course, I need a deposit and first month's rent."
"What about a lease?"
Arnold chuckles. "No. It's not that kinda party here." He looks around at his surroundings in desperate need of renovation. The stairs that squeak, the wood paneling, the pipes that make noise every time someone flushes, the one shower for ten or so boarders. Offering someone a lease would be unreasonable. This isn't a permanent home.
Susie and Oscar divorced when Arnold was in middle school. Mr. Potts moved when his construction business took off. This place is just for folks passing through. So if Phoebe needs a safe haven, for whatever reason, until she figures things out, he'll do what his grandfather and his father before him have always done. Hand her the keys. Don't ask questions.
"700 bucks and she's all yours. 100 for the deposit. 600 for the first month."
"Oh. How do you know if someone will pay their rent if there's no lease?"
"If they don't pay, they just have to move out. I know. It's not my favorite part of the job, but someone's gotta do it."
Phoebe agrees to meet him as soon as they hang up. Arnold goes up to an isolated room away from the boarders so she'll have privacy. He cleans it out as good as he can. The last person who lived in the room was a quiet man just released from prison after 30 years. The room suffered little damage, but he disinfects every surface. He opens the window and lets some fresh air in. He adds a housewarming gift on the desk, a pitcher with a spout attached. It's almost time for him to cook complimentary breakfast for the boarders, something his grandma used to do. When he's about to whip up a batch of pancakes, the doorbell rings.
Phoebe has a duffel bag on her shoulder, and her graduation gown wrapped in plastic on the other.
"I didn't know where else to go," Phoebe says.
"This is as good of a place as any. You hungry?" he offers.
She's not much of an eater, never was much of one. Arnold remembers the double-dates he and Helga went on with Phoebe and Gerald. She would barely touch her food while Gerald would be slightly annoyed. Arnold knew then that they had their problems just like any other teenaged high school power couple. Except something about them always bristled at the surface—the way Gerald would snidely comment on Rhonda's ass in her new pair of designer jeans whenever they got stoned. How Helga would regurgitate Phoebe's frustrations to him when they're just watching a movie, Arnold in the throes of feeling up Helga's shirt only to hear about his friends' relationship woes.
In the kitchen, she sits at the table, puts her bag on top. She looks out of place here. They haven't been talking much these days, the double dates with Gerald and Phoebe pretty much non-existent in their senior year. They eat a small batch of pancakes together in a painful silence.
"So how long are you staying for?" Arnold asks. He makes sure he doesn't across as judgmental, and it's not the easiest thing to do with Phoebe only hours away from giving her valedictorian speech, and off to an Ivy League school months later.
Though, Arnold's mother decided to live here when she could have raised him anywhere else in the world with her doctor's salary. Arnold stabs a pancake.
"Probably a few weeks or so. Making it up as I go."
"I hear that," Arnold says.
"I know you're wondering what I'm doing here right before graduation."
"Was that today? I didn't notice." That earns him a laugh from Phoebe as he gestures to him still dressed in his robe. "Whatever it is, I've heard worse from other boarders. Tax evasion, illegals, hookers. You name it."
"It's Gerald."
Gerald is the same guy Arnold grew up with since Pre-K. He knows the guy better than himself, a sentiment that carries more weight now that Arnold has no idea what to do with his days after high school. He always adopted Gerald as the brother he never had, but If Arnold hears anything about him hurting Phoebe, that'll be 15 plus years down the toilet. It's not that he takes the moral high ground much these days, growing more complacent with the sudden dawning that his family's getting smaller, his chances of leaving a legacy behind nearly insignificant. Bitterness is what he'd call it if he were to be more honest.
"What happened?" He doesn't trust his own voice to remain steady now. He questions the people in his life more. Even Gerald. Or Helga. People are impermanent.
"He thinks I'm moving for Harvard. But I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'm really going back to Kentucky."
Arnold thanks goodness that's all it is. Classic Gerald and Phoebe. It's almost as if they invent their problems to convince the school they're not so perfect. "I understand," he says, honestly, throat a little rusty. San Lorenzo, his own birthplace, is more and more tempting by the day.
She looks at him with a quirked eyebrow, as if she's tucking away the rest of the story in secret. Whatever it is, Arnold knows it's none of his business. Although he has that presence that let his friends know whatever they tell him won't end up as gossip the next day at school.
"Oh, and I'm pregnant."
Arnold was in the middle of cutting another pancake. Was. "Oh. Congratulations."
He usually reserves moments like this for giving his friends his undivided attention. Like when Gerald interrupted his sleep at four in the morning to inform Arnold he'd cheated on Phoebe. That was the first time. The second time Gerald screwed-up the fidelity thing, Arnold's patience had already been jeopardized.
Of course, the pieces to the puzzle don't quite fit. If Phoebe is in fact pregnant with Gerald's child, why go back to the middle of nowhere in Kentucky where there's nothing but coal mines and one general store? Why not tell Gerald?
"Look, it's none of my business. Whatever's going on between you guys, that's for you to deal with. I can show you your room and you can have some time to think before graduation or whatever, but I'm not in it. Not anymore."
Phoebe reaches out, covers a timid hand over Arnold's. "What happened to us?"
"We grew up," Arnold says, unsure if by 'us' she means herself and Gerald or their entire class of 2005.
He cleans up their dishes and takes Phoebe to her new room.