Death, Dickinson, and the Demented Life of Frenchie Garcia

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  “Did you . . .” I can’t even say it. And I wonder if Colin has killed this little kid. If he already did his time at juvie and now I’m sitting here at the beach with him at night, alone.

  “No, no . . . Oh God. No, Frenchie,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, I let him go. And when I did, and he started gasping for air, all I’m thinking is I almost killed him, I almost killed him. So I ran inside and left him in my backyard. I peeked out my window and saw him just sitting there. Then he gets up and yells, ‘Thanks, Colin! See you tomorrow.’ Can you believe it? That’s what he said.”

  I sit there for a minute taking in the story.

  “Why do you think you did that?”

  He bites his lip and shakes his head. “I don’t know. It was just a stupid thing to do. I don’t think I’m a mean person, and I would never do anything like that again,” he says. “But something about that haunts me. I mean, it makes me wonder if there’s this inherently evil side of me. I was”—he stops and kind of laughs—“for a while I had this kind of weird anxiety that I was going to grow up and be a serial killer or something.” I can tell he feels embarrassed to admit this, and somehow it makes me feel better.

  “I can’t believe I just told you that,” he says. “I promise I’m not as fucked up as that makes me sound.”

  I smile. “I know,” I say. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “I think about that kid a lot. I wonder where he is, or if he’s still that nice. Or if he ended up getting bullied at school.” He shrugs his shoulders, like he doesn’t know what else to say. “Anyway,” he says. “Your turn.”

  I think about telling Colin how I almost drowned, but I already told Andy, so it doesn’t count. Or does it since Andy now took that secret to his grave? But I know that’s not the secret Colin wants me to tell him. I know he wants to hear about Andy.

  “It’s stupid,” I say.

  “Tell me anyway,” he says.

  I breathe in deeply before beginning with, “Andy was this guy. . . .” I hate that I’m starting out like this, how so many other girl stories do. “And I . . . I guess I liked him, and one day we spent this ‘one cool night’ together.” I look at Colin, but he shifts his gaze to the ground. “Not like that. We . . . it was like this. We did what you and I are doing right now. But now he’s dead. He killed himself. And it doesn’t matter because we weren’t even anything.”

  It’s the most I’ve said about Andy to anyone. Saying it out loud makes me feel even more weird and embarrassed about the night Andy and I spent together. I don’t even know what it means to me, and I’ll never know what it meant to him.

  “Frenchie . . .” Colin says my name with so much sympathy that I have to talk over him.

  “And now I think a part of me hates him and a part of me still . . .” I can’t say it.

  “A part of you still loves him?”

  I don’t know if I can admit this to Colin, but he’s already guessed it. “Maybe,” I say finally. “But how can you love someone you barely know? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t think things like that have to make sense,” he says.

  I nod. And because it’s the first time I feel like someone understands, I can’t control the tears. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, hiding my face in the little refuge this creates, and I cry as quietly as possible.

  “It’ll be okay, Frenchie,” Colin says gently, putting a hand on my back, now shaking with my stifled sobbing. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  I don’t know how long we stay like this. But finally I look up, wipe my face, and look at the dark water.

  “Is he . . . is he here? I mean, out there?” Colin asks motioning to the water.

  “No,” I say, but in a way Andy is here. In a way, he’s always here. He’s been hanging out with me for months, walking behind me, telling me that a book sucks when I pick it up at the bookstore, reading other headstones while I sit at Em’s. If I squint, I can almost see him swimming back to shore.

  “Frenchie?” Colin says. But I’m already up, walking toward the water. I hear Colin calling me, but I’m in to my knees, and then my waist before I know it. The water is cold, but not as cold as it was that night. And I’m terrified. There’s a part of me that feels he’s here. There’s a part of me that thinks he’s going to grab my ankles and drag me down into the ocean and never let go.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Colin yells, and he’s suddenly next to me, looking at me like I’ve just lost my mind.

  “Hold my hand,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “Just hold my hand,” I repeat. And he does.

  I close my eyes, hold my breath, and sink into the water. The salt water seeps under the plastic covering my tattoo. I reach up as the plastic floats away, leaving my skin exposed to the salt. It burns and stings but I ignore it and stay under water.

  Images of Andy jumping into the waves that night rush through my mind, followed by images of the man in the red trunks that saved my life so long ago. The brightness of the sun is still in my mind, even as I sense the darkness of the water around me. I let my body bend to the will of the waves, but they don’t thrash me around. I let go of Colin’s hand and wait, but still, the sea doesn’t swallow me. Finally I come up to the surface, gasping for air.

  “What are you doing?” Colin says.

  “I wanted to see something . . . .” The truth is, telling someone that you want to know if the sea will finally claim you and what Andy felt that night doesn’t make any sense.

  “Man, you’re really freaking me out,” he says.

  “Don’t worry.”

  He looks skeptical. “Come on,” he says holding on to my hand tightly again and tugging me back to the shore. “Can we just go now?” he asks.

  I look at the shore, certain that on some plane of time, in some nexus to the universe, Andy has walked out of the waves and is getting in my car.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 25

  THAT NIGHT

  “Will you stop here for a minute? Please?” Andy asks suddenly as we pass the Wal-Mart. “Let’s get some ice cream.”

  “There’s a 7-Eleven up a little farther. . . .”

  “No, no, here, please,” he begs.

  It means I have to make a U-turn in order to go back, which isn’t a big deal, but neither is just going to the 7-Eleven. I turn back at the next opportunity.

  “You’re high maintenance,” I say.

  “I know, I’m sorry.” And after a minute he says, “You know what, it’s stupid. Forget it. We don’t have to stop.” But I’ve already turned back and I’m heading into the parking lot.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say, although I am worried about how late it is and every minute that ticks by makes me more and more anxious. I’m only a little late right now, but each stop makes the potential of my parents’ fury grow exponentially.

  I park and then look over at him, still shivering in his wet clothes. “You look like you’re freezing,” I say.

  “I am,” he says.

  “I’ll go in,” I say.

  “No, I can go,” he says and gets out of the car before I can object. I turn off the ignition and follow him. As we’re walking in, I see Zeena Fuller, Andy’s ex-girlfriend, walk out dressed in her work uniform, which explains why Andy wanted to come here and not 7-Eleven.

  Zeena notices Andy and me as we walk across the parking lot toward her. I watch as Andy brushes by her and then notice the way she turns her head just slightly to look at him as he continues walking.

  He stops suddenly and looks back at Zeena, who continues walking to her car. He looks up at the sky like he’s looking for some kind of answer, then back at Zeena who is unlocking her car door.

  “I’ll just be a minute. Is that cool?” he says.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, although I wouldn’t really classify this as cool. More like awkward or weird.

  “Okay, thanks,” he says and takes off running after
her.

  I watch him as he calls out for her. The way she looks up at the sound of her name and waits for him.

  I turn and go inside. The year-round air-conditioning that is practically mandatory in Florida gives me goose bumps. I head to the ice cream aisle, which is even colder, and look over all the flavors.

  I pick coffee. I look at my watch. It’s 1:35. I’m officially in a shit load of trouble. I suddenly realize that Andy doesn’t have a car, and I’ll either have to take him back downtown or drop him off at his house, which I’m not even sure where that is. Then I’ll really be late and my parents will totally freak out. I sigh and do what I hate doing. I call them.

  My mom answers in a sleepy but loud voice. “Hello?” she says quickly.

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

  “Relax, Mom. I’m fine. I’m gonna be late is all.”

  She sighs. “Frenchie . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I flounder for an excuse, but a flat tire will only worry her more, and running out of gas will only prove to her that I’m irresponsible. “I just lost track of time. I’m really, really sorry.”

  There’s another heavy sigh, followed by bits and pieces of a conversation with Dad. Frenchie, late, ssshhh, go back to sleep. “How long will you be?” she asks.

  “Well . . .” I cringe. “I’m still downtown and have to drop Robyn off . . . and Joel . . . and his girlfriend,” I say, thinking this will at least buy me as much time as possible.

  “Jesus, French!” another loud sigh, “Fine. Just get home, but don’t speed. Be careful. And don’t pull this shit again,” she says. My mom is very motherly and all, but she can curse like a sailor when she’s pissed.

  “Okay,” I say. “I am really sorry, Mom. At least I called, though, right?”

  “Goodnight, Frenchie,” she says and hangs up before I can say anything else.

  I decide I can’t stand around and wait for Andy, so I look at all the other flavors, trying to figure out what Andy would like, but I have no idea. For all I know, he could be allergic to peanuts. Vanilla is too plain. Strawberry is too girlie. Chocolate for a non-chocolate lover can be overwhelming. And everything else seems too personal. Maybe mint chocolate chip? I finally decide on vanilla fudge swirl.

  I pay and head back outside where Zeena and Andy are still talking by her car. I get in my car and start it up. Andy notices me and then turns his head back to Zeena. For an awful minute, I think I might watch them kiss, but no. It looks like Zeena is upset and Andy just shakes his head and starts walking back toward my car. I look away and pretend I haven’t been watching them. When Andy opens the door and gets in, I fling the pint of ice cream at him and say, “Hope you like this. I didn’t know what you’d want.”

  He looks at the label and nods. “This is great, thanks.”

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Fine,” he says, but he sighs like he’s just lost something. I put the car in drive and pull out. I look in my rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of Zeena, still standing where she was, looking at my car as we drive away. She gets smaller and smaller, and still she just stands there.

  Chapter 26

  TONIGHT

  I’m strolling down the ice cream aisle with Colin as he studies the pint-sized cartons.

  “What are you having?” Colin asks. “No, wait. Let me guess. I’ll pick a flavor for you and you pick one for me,” he says and smiles.

  Despite myself, I smile, too.

  “Okay,” I say, staring at the freezer. My eyes scan the rows and fall on the vanilla fudge swirl. I can’t help but think of Andy.

  Next to that is Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I figure I can’t go wrong with that because it has a little of everything, so I open the freezer and grab it. Colin does the same on the other side of me.

  “Okay, you first,” he says, holding the ice cream behind his back.

  “No, come on, it was your brilliant idea. You first.”

  “Fine,” he reveals his choice dramatically. It’s Cherries Jubilee.

  “Well?” he says.

  “I’ve never had Cherries Jubilee. It looks so . . . pink,” I say.

  “Don’t knock it. It’s really good. Anyway, I figured you’d probably get something like coffee, but you should try this.” I make a face, really wishing he’d chosen coffee instead. “All right, your turn,” he says.

  I reveal my choice and a look I can’t quite read flashes across his face.

  “Relax, it was just a guess. You can get something else,” I say.

  He smiles. “No, it’s just . . . my dad had a thing for the Grateful Dead. He always got Cherry Garcia, even though I know he didn’t really like it all that much. He liked chocolate, but always got this for some reason. He . . . uh . . .” Colin looks at me and shrugs his shoulders awkwardly. “He died when I was a kid.”

  “Oh,” I say. I wonder why Colin didn’t tell me this at the beach, but then, it’s pretty personal and I get why he wouldn’t. “Grateful Dead was a kickass band,” I say. It might be one of the worst responses ever to news of someone’s death, but it’s all I can come up with. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. I’m seriously a mental case.

  He shrugs off my stupid response before putting the Cherries Jubilee back on the freezer shelf.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Getting you coffee.”

  “No, keep that one,” I say gesturing to the carton he’s just put back.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I want to try it. It looks . . . fun.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “Just, come on,” I say.

  “Say please.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, just get it.”

  “Say pretty please.”

  “No, just get the damn Cherries Jubilee!”

  “Say pretty please. With a cherry on top.” He laughs. “Say it or I’m going to start singing.”

  “No, that’s stupid.” I wait. “Come on!”

  “Say it!” he yells. I don’t say it. “Fine, you asked for it.” He takes a deep breath and starts singing.

  “Stop! Come on, shut up!” I tell him, completely embarrassed. A stock boy looks around from the end of the aisle, stares at us, but then decides we’re not worth his time.

  His eyes are closed, but he’s way into his performance and looks ridiculous. “Seriously, stop!” I urge, but he keeps going, getting louder. So I ditch him and walk to the next aisle. I can still hear him two aisles over and I don’t know what to think of the fact that he actually seems to know all the words to this song. I can’t help but laugh because he sounds pretty terrible. And I can’t believe there’s not a manager around to stop him. He comes to the end of the song and I decide it’s safe to head back. But as soon as he spots me, he starts over again.

  “Please!” I yell.

  He sings louder.

  “Pretty please!”

  He grins for a second, but goes for the high note anyway.

  “With a cherry on top!” I yell.

  He stops singing. “Good enough,” he says. “Let’s go,” and walks to the registers.

  We get in the checkout line, and that’s when I see Zeena. I really want to toss the ice cream aside and run out of the store before she spots me. Right now she’s busy ringing up this lady who apparently does all of her grocery shopping at one in the morning. Zeena looks miserable as she throws the woman’s frozen meals into the bags.

  “Seventy-four dollars and sixty-three cents,” Zeena says. The woman slides her card through the machine as Zeena picks at her nail polish and waits for the receipt to finish printing out. She gives it to the woman who grabs it and then leaves. Colin and I move up in line. After she scans the Cherry Garcia ice cream, she looks up and sees me. For a second, she looks scared.

  “Oh . . . hey,” she says. I wave. She scans the Cherries Jubilee.

  “Eight fifty-six,” she says.

  Colin pay
s her with a ten. She gives him back the change and we leave.

  We’re almost out the door when I exhale and realize I’d been holding my breath since we were at the register.

  “You know that girl?” Colin asks as he crumples the receipt.

  “Kind of,” I say. And then I hear “Frenchie?” I turn around. There’s Zeena looking at me, hands crossed over her chest as if she’s cold. “You’re Frenchie, right? Your name is Frenchie?”

  I nod as my stomach lurches. Is that Frenchie? Is that girl’s name Frenchie?

  She bites her lip. “Do you think . . . maybe we can talk for a second?” she asks.

  “Uh, sure . . . ,” I say. She looks over at Colin who stands there looking back and forth between us before he gets the hint.

  “Wait for you in the car?” he asks me.

  I nod and Colin goes out through the automatic doors, leaving Zeena and me alone.

  She stands awkwardly in her khaki pants and blue Wal-Mart shirt. She uncrosses her arms, smooths her hair back, and tucks it behind her ears. She looks from the Redbox movie kiosk to the missing person fliers on a bulletin board, to the dirty floor, before crossing her arms across her chest again and finally making eye contact with me.

  “I’m Zeena. I don’t think we’ve ever really met before. . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “No, I know who you are,” I offer.

  She winces slightly, but then nods.

  “Uh, right. Well . . . I know you were . . . hanging out with Andy that last night . . . ,” she says. When she says his name, she looks at me carefully. This time I’m the one who winces because Zeena Fuller is the only person in the world who knows that, and her saying it out loud scares me.

  I don’t know how to answer her. I suddenly worry I’m being set up. The thought that Zeena might be wearing a wire and the police are staking out the place crosses my mind even though I know it’s ridiculous. I didn’t do anything illegal by hanging out with Andy that night. Even if the cops come charging in and throw me to the ground, I’ll . . . but then I remember the pills in my pocket. Shit.