When everyone was settled, Raina turned around. “How was it?” she asked Charlotte.
Charlotte looked up. “It was—interesting.” Only Frankie knew she was making an effort. “Thanks, you guys, for doing it. Really.”
“Long drive ahead,” said Max, yawning.
“Everyone sleep,” said Raina. She patted Max on the head. “I’ve got this.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” he said. “I’m going to keep you company.”
“You know what I think?” she said. “I think guys find it emasculating to sleep in a car while a woman drives.”
“Theory alert,” he said.
Raina laughed. “Go to sleep.”
But Frankie didn’t, not for a long time. And neither did Charlotte. Her eyes were closed, but Frankie could tell she wasn’t sleeping.
It was 4:15 in the morning when they finally dropped into the beds in Frankie’s room. “Any later, and we would have run into Mom and Dad getting up,” said Frankie, mashing her pillow into the perfect shape.
“Uh,” mumbled Charlotte. “I should wash my face.”
“Tomorrow. We’ll do all that stuff tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is today,” sighed Charlotte.
“No more Happy New Year,” said Frankie.
“Mm,” said Charlotte. “Same to you.”
When they woke up the next morning, it was hardly morning anymore, and when they stumbled out to the kitchen, Frankie’s mom did a lot of clucking about how late they’d slept and how they needed protein immediately, while Charlotte just sat quietly at the breakfast table. Maybe she’s sleepy, Frankie thought. We’ll talk later. But after breakfast/lunch, Charlotte’s mom came clumping across the porch and Frankie could tell Charlotte was glad—although maybe she was just glad because she liked her mom—and even when she was hugging Frankie and telling her how fun it had been, Frankie knew she was feeling weird. We’ll talk later, thought Frankie. But then Frankie’s dad came into the kitchen and stared mournfully at Frankie for a long time until he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to point out that school started again in two days—as if Frankie didn’t know that—and then ask in an aggravatingly neutral way how much homework she still had to do. Frankie decided that her best bet was to act like a sullen teenager and huff off to her room, but once she was there, she looked in her backpack and noticed that she really did have a lot of social studies reading and a whole set of problems for chem, not to mention un peu de français pour Monsieur Vargas, who could be très sarcastic if you didn’t faire your devoirs. So Frankie nobly got down to it and also nobly did chem first and discovered that she was totally fucked, which meant she had to call Gaby, who was really good at math, which in turn meant she had to hear all about New Year’s and Alex, who was acting weird and didn’t even really talk to Gaby on New Year’s, not that Gaby cared that much, because hot neighbor Jason was in town, and Gaby had always had a thing for him, and he asked her over on New Year’s, which Gaby couldn’t do because she was with Alex, but now she regretted it. Finally they got around to chem and Gaby explained the whole thing twice, and Frankie was pretty sure she had it, which it turned out she did, even though it took her the whole rest of the afternoon to finish it, not that that was saying much. Right when Frankie was about to text Charlotte, her mom called, “Dinner!” at which point Max and Raina appeared—for the first time that day—and had dinner with them, which was much more fun than usual, because Raina was a big talker and asked Frankie’s dad a lot of personal questions, which you could tell he loved and which revealed some pretty surprising stuff about him. Frankie and Max exchanged secret smiles, and she could see that he was proud that his girlfriend was so cool and fun, and Frankie was glad for him. By the time they were done it was almost nine, and when Frankie texted Charlotte, she didn’t text back, at least not for the next half hour and that was when, weirdly, Frankie fell asleep.
So it wasn’t until the next day, the last day of break, that Frankie texted Want to meet up at Canyon?
KK. Noony’s here but she’s got to slide. Half hour?
Yag cu
“I can’t believe no one stole it,” Frankie said, looking at the little Christmas tree.
“I can. It’s pretty ugly,” said Charlotte. She sat down next to it and flicked a branch. Needles fell. “The ugly little Christmas tree that outlived all the pretty Christmas trees.” She narrowed her eyes into slits and looked suspiciously at Frankie. “Outlived—or murdered?”
“The shitty little Christmas tree,” said Frankie, settling in a curve of the rock. “So.”
“So,” said Charlotte, “I know what you’re about to ask.”
Frankie nodded. “So. Answer.”
“What was it like with Sid?”
Frankie nodded.
Charlotte shuddered. “It was incredibly awkward. Unbelievably awkward. Half the time, I wished one of us would just die.”
“No.”
“Yes. Then, probably another twenty-five percent of the time, I spent wanting to run out the door and jump in the car and leave.”
“Twenty-five percent?”
“Yeah, and then there was about another twenty percent where I was busy hating myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t figure out whether his hair was hot.”
Frankie blinked. “What?”
“Did you see his hair?”
Frankie shook her head.
“It was in a ponytail. Down to his waist.”
Frankie nodded. “Okay.”
“I didn’t know what—like, I don’t know any guys with hair like that—I didn’t know whether I liked it.”
Frankie frowned with concentration. “I’m not getting this. The problem is—?”
“I’m a sheep. I really, honestly didn’t know what I thought. It was disgusting.”
“His hair?”
“No! Me. I’m a loser.”
“Help me here, girl,” said Frankie, baffled. “You did or didn’t like his hair?”
“No!” yelled Charlotte. “I didn’t know whether I liked his hair. Because I’d never seen a guy with hair like that before. Get it? I’m, like, incapable of having an individual experience. I don’t have my own opinion! I just want what everyone else wants.” She put her hands over her eyes. “Ugh. That’s so fucked.” She pulled her hands away and glared accusingly at Frankie. “You’re not like this.”
“I’m not?”
“No. You know your dress? Your new one?”
“Yeah.”
“When I first saw it on you, it was just like, Does Not Compute, because nobody wears that kind of dress. I thought: That’s not a dress for a kid, so I didn’t even consider it. I didn’t even really see it. It was just Not Us. But you knew you looked great. You knew you wanted it. You’re not a sheep. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Frankie nodded slowly. She was sort of getting it. “So, what I’m hearing—”
“Ooh, baby!” Charlotte giggled. “You are rocking that nonviolent communication!”
“Shut up,” Frankie said. “What I’m hearing is that you’re disappointed in yourself because you didn’t know instantly if you liked Sid’s hair.”
“Not just instantly. I still don’t know,” said Charlotte. “Not that it really matters, because I probably won’t see him again.”
“Wait,” said Frankie. She was thinking. “Not to sound like a mom or anything, but if you’re noticing it, I think it means you’re changing.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Oh that’s so beautiful. Today I became a woman.”
“No, listen. You wouldn’t have noticed this if you weren’t starting to think something different. I mean, if you weren’t beginning to get more independent-minded, you would have looked at his hair and thought Does Not Compute, like you said about the dress. But you noticed it. You’re on the fence. Which means you’re probably changing.”
“Maybe,” said Charlotte grudgingly. “I—” she stopped.
“You what
?” urged Frankie.
“I hope I am. I don’t want to be a sheep. I want to have my own opinions.”
Frankie nodded. “About guys’ hair.”
Charlotte shook her head. “About other stuff, too. I mean, I thought it would be easier this way. You know, accept the things you cannot change. But I think I got too accepting. You end up being a sheep.”
Frankie leaned back against the rock. “Yeah, you’re for sure about to change or you wouldn’t see any of this.” She smiled loftily. “The thing is, maybe you’re just a little developmentally backward and immature. Probably a little bit slow. Whereas I am amazingly mature and”—she snapped—“legend for independent thinking.”
“That’s not what you’re legend for.”
They laughed and then watched the clouds in silence for a few moments.
“Wait,” said Frankie. “What about the other five percent?”
Charlotte snickered. “Frankie does math!”
“Shut up. What?”
Charlotte closed her eyes. “The other five percent was nice. Maybe even more than five percent. Like, possibly eight percent. I mean, he’s pretty cool, as a person. We went to his studio—I guess it’s really his dad’s, but his dad bailed on his mom last year—and it was amazing. Sid showed me some of his drawings and he painted a stick figure on one of his dad’s paintings and I could see—”
“Wait,” interrupted Frankie. “He painted on one of his dad’s paintings?”
Charlotte opened her eyes. “Yeah. I told him to. I mean, I suggested it. He wanted to burn all his dad’s paintings, but his mom wouldn’t go for it, so I suggested that he do something more subtle. So he painted a stick guy. But my point is that it was amazing, the way it was so easy for him. It was just—natural. You can just tell he’s been doing stuff like that his whole life. I was jealous.”
“Did you guys talk about, um”—Frankie tried to find the word—“what’s been going on with you?”
Charlotte grinned at her. “Did we talk about us, you mean? No. I said, right at the end, when I was feeling really bad—which, let me be clear, I was, most of the time—that I was sorry I’d come and I’d miss him if we stopped texting.”
Frankie nodded, impressed. “What’d he say?”
“He said he didn’t want to stop texting.”
Frankie nodded, impressed again. “So? That’s good.”
“Except we haven’t.”
Frankie’s face fell. “Why not?”
“I guess I was waiting for him,” Charlotte admitted. “I mean, I went up there! He should text me.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Look. You went up there, but he’s probably thinking, She hated me, she thinks I’m gross and stupid and ugly.”
“I don’t!” yelped Charlotte.
“Well, don’t be mean, then. Text the poor guy.”
“Why can’t he text me?” Charlotte said, taking out her phone.
“I just said why.”
Charlotte looked at her phone. “What should I say?”
Frankie rolled her eyes again. “I’m having a really hard time because I can’t decide if your hair is hot.”
“So helpful. Did you see him at all?”
“Just a little. Really big dark eyes.”
“Yeah. I like that,” said Charlotte, half to herself.
“Yeah. Me too,” said Frankie.
Charlotte shot her a sideways look. “Zack?”
“Oh yeah. Gorgeous.”
“I still can’t believe that happened to you.”
Frankie giggled. “Me neither. It was great.” She frowned at Charlotte. “Stop trying to distract me. Shut up and text.”
“Just trying to be a good friend here,” said Charlotte lightly. She looked down at her phone again. “I liked his wrists, too.”
“I didn’t see them. Text.”
Charlotte’s fingers skittered over the glass. She stopped. She backspaced. She paused. Skittering fingers. Backspace. Pause. “This is hard,” she muttered.
“Just tell him the truth,” said Frankie.
“What’s the truth? Who the hell knows?” Charlotte grumbled. She sighed heavily and began again, her fingers moving much more slowly.
Okay so there wasn’t any real reason why I needed to see you and I know it was super-tense but if I hadn’t come I wouldn’t have seen you do that painting and that was amazing.
Pause.
Pulsing dots.
The stick figure? Not amazing
Charlotte let out a gusting breath. “He hates me.”
Frankie read over her shoulder. “Well. Not exactly friendly, but keep going. He might just need help.”
Charlotte took a breath.
I don’t mean the stick figure. I mean watching you do it. I didn’t know that about you
What didn’t you know?
“See? Better,” said Frankie.
That you do art so easily
Oh. Yeah. I guess
“Kind of dry,” said Frankie, wincing.
“Kind of dry? Dry as hell. He’s a withholding asshole,” said Charlotte. “I’m not answering.” She looked at Frankie. “So I’ll be bummed for two-point-three percent of my life. I can deal.”
“There sure is a lot of math in these conversations,” said Frankie. “But okay. Two-point-three percent—that’s nothing!”
Charlotte nodded—and looked at her phone.
Frankie tried for some distraction. “Speaking of Raina, she and Max had dinner with us last night, and you want to know what I found out about my dad?” Charlotte nodded. “He ran away from home when he was fourteen!”
“Tom did?” Charlotte said, surprised. “He seems so law-abiding. How come?”
“He was mad at his dad.”
Charlotte’s phone twitched.
You there?
“I’m not answering,” said Charlotte. “What was he mad about?”
“He was pissed because his dad called him cautious.” Frankie laughed. “He wanted to prove him wrong.” Charlotte was looking at her phone. “Answer,” advised Frankie.
Yeah
Why didn’t you answer?
B/c you seemed like a withholding asshole
“Jesus,” breathed Frankie.
Okaaay
I was being nice
Pulsing dots.
Pulsing dots.
Pulsing dots.
Blank.
Blank.
Pulsing dots.
Pulsing dots.
Pulsing dots.
Blank.
Blank.
“See? Typical guy,” began Charlotte. “You call them on their shit and they freak out and won’t talk to you—”
Her phone rang. She raised an eyebrow at Frankie and accepted. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Sid,” he said unnecessarily.
“Yeah. Got that,” she said.
“I’m sorry I seemed like a withholding asshole,” he said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but I’m still sorry.”
“Fine,” Charlotte snapped. “Whatever.”
“Okay.” There was a silence. “Charlotte?”
“Yes, Sid?”
“I saw a video of a wolverine eating a moose.”
Charlotte began to smile. “An already-dead moose?”
“No. A live moose. He killed it and ate it.”
“Can they jump or something? I mean, a moose is a lot taller than a wolverine.”
Frankie held her head in a silent scream of exasperation.
“I’ll send you the link.”
“Okay.”
“I’m trying to help with your animal problem.”
“Thanks, but I’m an animal genius. Animals, animals, animals, twenty-four seven.”
He laughed. “Sorry I was a withholding asshole.”
“Good.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
“You should be in your seats, boys and girls,” said Miss Mathers the next afternoon.
“Boney girl!
How’s it hangin’?” Chris slid past Frankie and dropped into his desk.
“Great,” she muttered back. “Fifty-four minutes of English. What could possibly be bad?”
He snickered and fist-bumped the other Chris on the head. “My man Chris!”
“Bruh!”
“Lou-aye!”
“Hi, Chris,” said Luis nervously.
“Boys,” warned Miss Mathers.
Indulgently they quieted and trained their eyes on their teacher. “I hope you all had a restful holiday.” Miss Mathers looked around the classroom and received some depressed nodding. “Because we have a great deal to achieve in the coming weeks, including some rather intensive reading.” She bulged her eyes at them. “Now. What I mean by intensive reading is not a matter of page length. No. I’m talking about content. Our next book deals with subjects that are—that will—require your maturity and sensitivity, and I wish to make very clear”—furrowed brow—“that disrespect will not be accepted. We will be establishing—and of course, maintaining—an atmosphere of tolerance, respect, and maturity. Am I making myself understood, students?”
“Sure, Miss Mathers,” said Josh.
“I dunno, Miss M,” said Chris. “Sometimes I’m just intolerant and I can’t help it.”
“Chris,” said Miss Mathers sternly. “That’s enough. Now. We will not be passing out books today. Today we will be doing important pre-reading self-exploration.”
“Self-exploration?” whispered the other Chris. “That’s foul!”
Miss Mathers ignored the ensuing spasm of giggles. “Students, take out a piece of paper—yes, paper, not your computers—and a pen.”
Sighing, Frankie complied. After a long period of shuffling and complaining, a slight majority of students had paper in front of them, and Miss Mathers continued. “Now, do not write your name at the top of your paper. This is to be entirely personal and anonymous unless you choose to share it. Now. The assignment is to write down three things that no one in this class would know about you unless you told them.”
Blank faces.
“You mean like, secrets?” asked Tara.
“Not necessarily secrets, though secrets may be included. But simply things that are not apparent to your classmates. Three things about who you are. Each of your items must begin with the words, ‘What you don’t know about me is.’ Miss Mathers looked around the classroom, clearly persuaded that her students could not help but be thrilled by this opportunity to reveal their innermost selves.
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