Free Friend Is Not a Verb by Daniel Ehrenhaft Page B

don’t think they would mind. Your parents love you, Hen. So does Sarah. I know they do.”
    I swallowed. “I didn’t say they didn’t,” I said quietly.
    “But you think they’re insane,” he said. “Who isn’t, though? Look, Hen, it doesn’t matter what your parents are. You’re closer with them than I ever was with mine. So is Sarah. I know, because Sarah told me how your family works. And no matter how crazy they are, or how much they drive you crazy, it’s always better to be closer than to be distant. That goes for Emma, too. Believe me, I know from experience.”
    A small lump mysteriously began to well up in my throat. I blinked a few times, avoiding his eyes. Why was he telling me all this? I hadn’t asked to be lectured or psychoanalyzed—and I sure as hell didn’t want to hear his opinions about my family’s operating procedures. He was wrong, anyway: My parents were distant, at least when it came to talking about Sarah. “If Sarah is so close with us, then why did she run away with you?” I asked after a minute. “What made her do it?”
    Gabriel shrugged. “To tell you the truth, Hen, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
A Fist Bump from the Unseen Hand
    I never made it to Emma’s that day. Something happened after I left Gabriel’s apartment—something that made wonder if his freakish brand of mysticism wasn’t so far off the mark. Maybe there is an Unseen Hand that manipulates all the baffling coincidences in our lives, pushing us toward Enlightenment or smacking us if we try to figure out who recorded the backward Satanic messages on “Stairway to Heaven.”
    Petra called.
    I was about a block from the subway. For the first couple of rings, I stood there on the sidewalk and stared at the caller ID, debating whether or not to answer. I hadn’t spoken to her since the night she’d fired me. I wondered what would happen if I told her that Sarah had come home. I wondered if she wouldcare. Finally, curiosity got the best of me.
    “Hello?” I answered.
    “Hey, Hen? Guess what? Bartholomew Savage got us a show at the Bimbo Lounge!”
    Wow. I wondered what had compelled her to share this wonderful news with me, her ex-bassist/boyfriend. The sheer joy of it? That she’d really meant what she said, that we were still friends? None of this mattered, though, because it was impossible. For one thing, Bartholomew Savage couldn’t get anyone a show anywhere. He was fourteen. Besides, the Bimbo Lounge was one of those trendy Lower East Side bars where indie legends like Iggy Pop and A&R guys from major labels were rumored to hang out. You definitely needed a demo or a reputation to get on their bill, and PETRA had neither.
    “No kidding,” I said. “How’d he manage that?”
    “His older brother is a bartender there,” she said breathlessly.
    “Really? I had no idea.”
    “Yeah. He’s really a cool guy, too. Victor. I was hanging out at their apartment, and Bartholomew introduced me to him. He told me that they’re starting this new thing this summer: Underage Talent Night. The first one is June twenty-fourth. It’s a Wednesday. We’re gonna be the opening act.”
    I chewed my lip. Taking this call was a mistake. “Are you putting me on?” I asked.
    “No! Look, Hen, I’m calling because I want you to be in the band again.” Her voice was still bubbling with excitement.
    “You do?”
    “Well…yeah. I mean, I have to be honest with you, though. I asked George Monroe if he wanted to be in the band, and he said yes.”
    A smile curled on my lips. I deserved a gold star for being so smart, didn’t I? I wondered if they’d made out yet. “So what does that mean? We’re going to have two bassists?” I thought of the bass face-off I’d just had with Gabriel. I wished I hadn’t. The opening riff to “Jeremy” began to echo in my head in a continuous loop.
    “No, he’s on vacation with his family in Europe until July Fourth. But here’s the deal,