After awhile, the buzz of Joel’s meaningless chatter finally stops and I guess he takes the hint that my apparent disinterest stems from genuine disinterest. So he suggests we go and we head out.
“Call Robyn and tell her to come tonight,” he says, referring to our unofficial third best friend. I feel like telling him to call her himself, but instead I say I will, since it requires less energy.
I turn in the direction to my house, but not before I watch him head in the opposite direction toward his house.
As I watch him leave, I can’t help but feel deflated. And alone.
Chapter 2
“I feel like shit,” I tell Emily Dickinson.
She’s the best person to talk to when I feel this way and she’s a good listener. But maybe dead poets usually are.
It isn’t the Emily Dickinson. That one is buried at a family cemetery in Amherst, Massachusetts. But I discovered this grave here during my freshman year and always thought it was pretty incredible. And even though she’s not the famous poet, I pretend that she is. I imagine her right there, six feet under, in a white lace dress, eyes closed, and listening to me; the hermit dressed in white who didn’t come out of her house for years, whom the children were afraid of. I feel oddly connected to her. I think we would have been great pals if, you know, she weren’t dead and I had been born a couple of hundred years ago.
Em and I also shoot the shit sometimes. It’s easier than dealing with the kind of drama that comes from talking to live people. I call her Em for short and she calls me Frenchie, short for Francesca. I know you think she probably doesn’t like being called Em since she looks like one of those uptight Puritan types and all, but I don’t really buy into that. Em had some pretty wild thoughts.
I plop down in the shaded spot under the tree next to her grave.
Here’s what people don’t know about cemeteries: They’re a strangely comforting place. Sure it’s sad, but there’s also something else here—a kind of peace and refuge that you can’t find anywhere else. Here, you can hide from the world for a while. Here, nobody approaches you for anything. You can spend hours here and you’ll be left alone because people respect the fact that anyone in a cemetery, whether dead or alive, should be left alone. Not even time exists here, or it at least seems to stand still. It’s generous. It doesn’t urge you on. It lets you be.
“Joel’s back,” I tell Em. “And he’s still Lily-crazed. We just hung out, and I was hoping maybe it would help me feel better. But nothing feels the same anymore.” I sigh, disgusted with myself for actually missing school. At least then my days were filled with something.
Em keeps silent. She doesn’t talk much. But if I sit here long enough, one of her poems usually pops into my head and I figure it’s some kind of message.
I look over to the newer part of the cemetery. I always tell myself I’m not going to, but I do. This time I tell myself I’m just looking for the old man’s gravesite. But like always, my eyes focus on someone else’s.
Heart! We will forget him!
You and I—tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave—
I will forget the light!
“Stop. I don’t even care,” I tell Em. Both of us know this is a lie. Both of us pretend it’s not.
“Were you afraid of being buried alive?” I ask her, trying to change the subject. I don’t expect an answer, so I go on. “I was . . . am. I even told Joel to hold a mirror under my nose when I die, or stab me in the heart, anything, just to make sure I’m dead.”
Em nods. I suppose to her it doesn’t sound so far-fetched. Joel had laughed at me and said I was crazy. Maybe if I’d never watched that medical show about a woman who was declared dead and was stuck in some cooler with a tag around her toe, and then she suddenly started breathing again, I would have laughed at the idea also. But she’d actually been declared dead. For two hours. All I could think was, what if . . . what if when she woke up, she’d already been put in a coffin and couldn’t talk or open her eyes? Or what if she was already in the ground? What then?
Joel promised, but he was laughing when he did. So I made him promise again. And again. Until he wasn’t laughing. I wanted him to understand I meant it, because even though the embalming fluid they pump into you would probably kill you first, what if it didn’t? What if you end up down there, under all that dirt, clawing at the inside of a coffin and trying to get out?
I know I won’t be buried alive. Some part of me knows that. And I know Andy wasn’t buried alive. But sometimes, I can’t get that picture out of my mind.
“I’ll see you later,” I tell Em and head back home. When I get there, I crawl into bed and try to sleep some hours away.
Chapter 3
“Where the hell have you been?” Robyn yells at me as she gets in my car. Her long blond hair, usually worn loose and wild, is secured in two elaborate braids on either side of her head. Being so petite, this makes her look slightly like an alien, but in a cool way. “I was getting ready to hitch a ride. You said ten thirty!”
The reason Robyn is Joel’s and my unofficial third best friend is because she’s a bit of a free spirit and usually off doing her own thing. Luckily, tonight she decided to do our thing and I won’t have to hang out by myself all night while Joel is once again preoccupied with Lily and likely to forget me.
“Sorry, I fell asleep,” I tell her. Which is true. But I don’t tell her that I woke up hours ago, that I’ve been in bed trying to figure out a believable way to bail out of this. Or that it took great effort to convince myself to get ready and drive to her house.
She looks me up and down. “Well, I see you at least put in a little effort,” she says as she opens the visor and applies more of her signature berry-berry lipstick.
“Uh, thanks?” I say.
“No, seriously. I love when you do that smoky eye makeup. It looks so good with your dark eyes. And I mean, no offense, but you’ve kind of been looking like a scab lately.”
“And you mean no offense by that, right?”
Robyn puts away her lipstick, then turns back and studies me thoughtfully. “You know what I think you need, Frenchie? You need a guy.”
“What?” I ask.
“A guy. You seriously need one.”
“God, Robyn.” I shake my head. “I cannot even believe you said that! Don’t tell me you think that a guy is like, the solution to a girl’s problems. That’s so . . . I don’t even know . . . man, Robyn.” If I didn’t know her better, if I’d just met her tonight and she said something like that, I would seriously push her out of my car.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Relax, French. Of course I don’t think that! Give me some credit. It’s just that in your particular case, I think maybe some . . . how do I put this?” she says while focusing in on me. “I think you need someone to thaw out that cold little heart that’s barely beating inside your chest. You need someone who warms you up, French, that gets you hot.”
“You’re disgusting, you know that? Seriously, please stop,” I say and start wondering if I could reach over and open the passenger door.
“I know you’ve always been a bit rough around the edges. And I suppose you could say that’s part of your charm. But lately you’re even more . . . ,” she says and makes a face. “I don’t know. . . .”
“What?” I say. She shakes her head like she’s not going there. “Come on, go ahead. Just say it,” I tell her.
She taps her lips and searches for the right word. “You seem even more . . . dreary, warped, tragic. . . .”
“Tragic?”
“Cold . . . prudish . . . uninviting . . .”
For someone who couldn’t find the right words, Robyn is suddenly spouting them out quite easily.
“Bitchy . . . snarky . . . evil . . .”
“Okay, enough!” I yell.
Robyn laughs. “Oh fine. Lighten up. But you see what I mean? You need to have fun. And guys? Guys can be lots of fun, French.” She grins, because if anybody knows how to
have fun with guys, it’s Robyn.
“I am not tragic. Or evil,” I tell her.
“Come on, French, when was the last time you actually fell for someone?”
When Robyn says this, I realize how people can forget. Because if Robyn really thought about it, she would remember that the last time I absolutely fell for someone was in ninth grade. That I fell and kind of stayed fallen all through ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grade for the same guy. That at the start of every year, I would search each one of my classes for a glimpse of what would make that class worth going to.
Not that Robyn is some kind of horrible, insensitive person. Despite her seemingly brash personality, she actually has a good heart. And in all honesty, I had only mentioned Andy Cooper a handful of times to her, and that was probably three and a half years ago. And it was more of a “Oh yeah, he’s a cool guy” than a “this guy makes me forget to breathe” kind of mention. I didn’t tell Robyn because I didn’t want to admit I had unwillingly become the girl who was so hung up on a guy that she would never have the chance of getting. Or that the kind of day I had usually depended on whether or not I fulfilled my quota of Andy sightings. Because, you know, that would be kind of . . . tragic.
“You’re not giving me any credit,” I say to Robyn. “What about Trey Sumpter? At the end of ninth grade, remember?” Not that Trey and I exactly dated. It was more like we exchanged notes for two weeks before summer. And then when we came back to school, I saw him kissing Trisha Clove.
“That was like three years ago,” Robyn says. “And did you guys even actually talk?” I pretend her question doesn’t register because she’s right. I’m not sure Trey and I actually did talk. Maybe we never went out. Or worse, maybe we’re still going out.
“What about Simon Kurts?” I say, but immediately regret bringing him up. Now that I think of it, nothing exactly happened there either.
“You hooked up with Simon Kurts?” Robyn asks. I think back to how Simon called me almost every night in the eleventh grade, only to ignore me at school the next day.
“I guess not. I mean, I don’t know,” I tell her. I’m confused and this conversation with Robyn has only made it painfully obvious that I’m hopeless when it comes to guys. I guess this is why I don’t know what the whole thing with Andy meant. And now I never will.
I look over at Robyn. “The guys at our school were jerks,” I say.
“The guys at our school were scared of you,” she says.
The car is filled with silence, except for the steady sound of my turn signal as we wait at a stop light.
“You freak guys the hell out, French. The only one you ever talk to is Joel, and I have no idea how he managed to get on your good side.”
It wasn’t that remarkable actually. Joel had been the new kid who walked into my eighth-grade math class wearing a Vinyls concert T-shirt back when nobody else knew who the Vinyls were. The shirt and his moody disposition (which I later learned was because it was the year his parents split) had been the beginning of our friendship. But we quickly became best friends and soon he was spending more time at my house than his own.
“But other than him,” Robyn continues “you think all other high school males are so intellectually challenged. You don’t even give them a chance. And you snarl. I’ve seen you snarl at guys.”
“That’s stupid,” I say as I make a right turn.
“It’s true. You need to lighten up a bit. You’re in serious need of some kind of intervention. Gloom intervention.” She nods like she’s confirming a diagnosis.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m good.”
She looks at me doubtfully.
“I’m good, okay?” I try to smile to make my point.
“Is that supposed to be a smile? You look like you’re in pain.”
“Just drop it,” I tell her.
Robyn rolls her eyes and sighs. I think I baffle her. Which is understandable. Seeing as I baffle myself.
Chapter 4
Zylos is located downtown, and it’s one of a handful of clubs that make up Orlando’s “nightlife.” Lots of local bands perform here, but we didn’t start coming here until a few months ago when Robyn met Colin, the official ID checker guy at the door.
She saunters over to Colin so he’ll let us in without having to wait in line. And while Robyn, with her gypsyesque appearance of a thousand jangling bangles and flowy skirts may weird out some people, she has a certain charm that makes guys fall all over themselves to give her what she wants.
“Hey, there,” she says to Colin. He’s sitting on a ripped up barstool at the entrance of Zylos and he flashes a warm smile at us.
“Nice to see you back here again,” he says and looks at me. I shrug and look away. He must think that checking IDs makes him irresistibly cool, probably because the girls who come here usually flirt back. I guess some girls buy into the whole dark-haired version of James Dean, right down to the slicked-back hair and cuffed jeans. But to me it just seems a bit assholish.
“So what’s the story?” Robyn says to Colin.
“Same old, same old,” he says, chewing on a piece of gum and checking the ID of some guy with a huge lip ring. Colin puts a pink wristband on Lip Guy’s arm, and turns back to Robyn.
She props her arm on Colin’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear. He laughs and leans in to murmur something back.
“Well, that’s interesting,” she says, looking over at me. She smiles and winks before turning and whispering back. I suddenly feel naked, especially when Colin looks at me and raises his eyebrows. His light brown eyes glimmer with amusement.
“Oh, really?” he asks Robyn.
“Good as done,” she says and slaps his back. He grins and holds out a couple of pink bands for us. “Here you go, then,” he says. At first I’m totally floored and stand there like an idiot since he’s never done this before, but Robyn holds out her wrist without missing a beat.
He turns to me and wraps a band around my wrist. “Don’t get into any trouble,” he whispers. His breath smells sweet and minty from the gum. “At least, not without me.” I give him a dirty look, but this just makes him laugh as Robyn grabs my arm and pulls me into the club.
“Gross,” I say to Robyn once we’re inside. “What did you tell him?”
“Just that you’d sleep with him,” she yells back. “And maybe a couple of other things. Man, this rocks!” she says, holding up her wrist.
“Damn it, Robyn! What is your problem?”
“What? He’s cute,” she says.
“I don’t care! Now he probably thinks he’s awesome or that I would actually . . .” But she’s not listening to me anymore so I just say, “Forget it. Just so we’re clear, pimping me out is pretty much unacceptable. And, I’m not interested.”
Robyn shrugs me off and takes in the place. It’s crowded and loud and the heart-jerking beat of the music is pulsing through my body I can feel it in my throat, in my teeth, and it’s exactly what I should love. But tonight it just seems loud, monotonous, and grating.
Robyn shouts in my ear, “Let’s get a drink!” We head to the bar and Robyn yells at the bartender, “Suprise me!” He smiles and grabs a few bottles that he flips and tosses around. He pours faster than I can keep up with and makes two blue drinks that he sets down in front of us. Robyn takes out some money.
“Ladies drink free!” he yells.
“And now I officially love you!” she yells to the bartender. He winks at her and I predict we’re in trouble because Robyn is . . . well, Robyn. I grab my drink and take a sip that burns my throat and makes me cough, but Robyn takes a huge gulp.
We head outside to where the stage is and I spot Joel right away.
“Hey!” he calls out to us. Lily is with him and smiles when she spots us. Robyn and I head in their direction carrying our drinks.
“So glad you guys came!” Lily says and hugs Robyn and then me. I cringe when she does. It’s just that some people, like me, don’t like to be squeezed
, touched, stood too close to, breathed on, etc. But Lily on the other hand, is a hugger and personal space invader.
“Hi, Lily,” I say.
“I can’t believe all these people came out for this show. It makes me nervous,” she confides and looks at the growing crowd spilling out onto the patio.
“Babe, don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” Joel says, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into him.
I restrain from looking away in disgust.
“You guys will be great,” I force myself to say.
She smiles. “Thanks, Frenchie. You’re sweet to say so.”
Sweet. Something that nobody has ever accused me of before.
“I just hope we don’t have an off night and totally suck,” she says. Lily has the slightest hint of a Southern accent. The kind that makes you think she’s this sweet hometown girl and you almost forget she’s standing there in a purple off-the-shoulder top, red patent-leather pants that look as if they’ve been painted on, and sleek platinum-blond hair.
Some guy with headphones and a black Zylos T-shirt comes up to her and says, “You ready?”
Lily nods and Joel gives her a kiss. Then she turns to Robyn and me and says, “Okay guys, see you after the show!” She leaves and jumps up onstage and starts talking to her bandmates.
When she’s gone, Joel turns to Robyn and me and says, “I don’t know why she gets like that before a show. I mean, she’s always great.”
“Yeah. Great,” I say.
“All right, everybody!” Lily yells into the microphone, showing no trace of the nervousness she displayed just moments ago. “You guys ready for some Sugar?”
The crowd responds with hoots and hollers. “I said, are you guys ready?” Even louder hoots and hollers fill the air, followed by a few people yelling her name. She looks over at the lead guitarist and gives a nod. He lets loose a wicked chord. The band breaks out into full-fledged hectic playing as Lily starts dancing and the crowd goes wild. Then she opens her mouth and starts singing.
Death, Dickinson, and the Demented Life of Frenchie Garcia Page 2