I sink lower in my chair.
Vinnie nudges me. ‘Get,’ she says.
Mr Tran waits, hands on hips, while I drag my feet over to him.
‘Just grab those couple,’ he says.
I crouch and gather books. There’s a drawing of Romeo and Juliet on the covers. It’s mostly black and white but there’s red where Juliet stabbed herself. I don’t remember reading this copy when we studied it – ours had a photo from the movie. Stupidly attractive teenagers giving gooey eyes to each other. Maybe they kept this version out of my class because they were afraid it would give me ideas.
‘So are we getting you back anytime soon?’ asks Mr Tran.
I blow the fringe out of my eyes and shrug.
‘I hear you inflicted quite a bit of damage. Of course, not the way I intended for you to use Shakespeare. Did Steve bite his thumb at you?’ Mr Tran laughs as he straightens up.
Shakespeare humour. Awesome.
I hold out the last book, one hand wrapped around my wrist to control the trembling.
‘Shove that on top there, please. And if you could . . .’ He motions to the door with his chin.
I push it open. He steps into the drizzle, eyes to the heavens.
Does writing out a new menu for the Kebab Emporium count as English homework? I should have asked Mr Tran. I could totally drop that into The Meeting.
‘Keep the door closed, Fran-chess-caaaaar.’ Square-Tits waves the white-out brush under her nose before daubing it onto the page in front of her. ‘We want the heat to stay in.’
I drag my feet back to Vinnie and slump in my seat. ‘It’s already quarter past eleven. Vukovic’s on a power trip.’
‘Ms Vukovic,’ says Vinnie out the side of her mouth. ‘And I swear, if you act up in that room I’ll make you clean out the meat tray for the rest of your life.’
Shudder.
Two giggling Year Sevens hurry past, delivering a note to the office. Square-Tits takes it from them and smiles. ‘Hurry back to class, now,’ she says.
When the girls pass, one of them goes wide-eyed and leans in to whisper to her friend. They both look over their shoulder at me and laugh, collapsing into each other.
‘Let’s just go home.’ I pull the neck of my jumper over my chin and mouth.
Vinnie’s bracelets tinkle as she checks her watch. ‘Not a chance. We’re fighting this.’
She gives me an encouraging smile. The kind you give the scrawny nerd with two left feet as he’s running onto the footy field.
I sink lower in my chair. I’m practically in nap position.
‘Ms Vukovic is ready for you now,’ says Square-Tits. She points down the corridor. Like I don’t know where the principal’s office is.
‘Thank you, Doreen.’ Vinnie stands, smoothing out the creases in her skirt.
I stay where I am. ‘Do we have to, Vinnie? Let’s have a girls’ day in. Let’s prank call Marzoli. I’ll clean my room.’
She answers with a look. It’s not Shakespeare but it’s effective.
With a grunt of effort I push myself to standing, untucking my shirt on one side, making sure it’s hanging below my jumper line.
Vinnie grabs my underarm and drags me along. ‘Check your attitude at the door, Francesca Madalina Vega,’ she whispers. ‘Or I’ll check it for you.’
__________
A clipped voice summons us.
Vinnie boofs out her curls and fixes a smile to her lips (Red Bloody Murder is her colour of choice today). ‘Ms Vukovic. Thank you so much for seeing us.’
Well, she gets the first four words out.
My jaw drops as I take in the room and its occupants. Breakfast thinks real hard about making its escape. This was not what I was expecting.
First things first. Vukovic is all angles – wiry hair, pointy nose, thin lines. She’s thin on humour too. She’s dressed in greys and browns. Judging by the photos on the wall behind her, she’s had the same haircut since the 70s. That, and she really likes horses. But none of that’s new.
‘Take a seat. Please.’ Vukovic points to two available seats. I say ‘available’ because there are actually five seats in the room. ‘Do you know Fred Sparrow?’ she adds, waving a hand at a man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting in one of the unavailable seats.
With a quickly reapplied smile, Vinnie steps forward and offers Fred Sparrow her hand.
Unlike my crappy winter skirt, the sheep that gave its wool for Fred Sparrow’s suit did a lot of rolling around in candy floss and cotton wool. It ate caviar and went to the opera. His suit looks so soft and luxurious I have a weird compulsion to nestle my cheek against it. I don’t (obviously).
‘We haven’t met,’ says Fred Sparrow, flashing a chemically whitened smile as he stands, ‘but since your niece rearranged my son’s face we were bound to run into each other.’ His hand’s in Vinnie’s for a billionth of a second before he whips it away and takes his seat again. ‘I have another meeting at twelve so I’d really like to –’
‘And Steve, of course,’ says Vukovic, still smiling at Vinnie.
I don’t know what Vinnie does, whether she shakes Steve’s hand or not, because I’m not looking at Steve Sparrow. I untuck the other side of my shirt and sit.
‘I didn’t know this was a group meeting,’ says Vinnie.
Vukovic takes a seat behind her enormous eighteenth-century hand-crafted mahogany desk and it’s like the desk eats half of her.
‘This is an informal meeting, Ms Vega,’ she says, smoothing her palms in circles across the desk’s surface. ‘I’m hoping we can work this all out.’
Fred Sparrow clears his throat. Loudly. ‘You mean sweep it under the carpet.’
He has the same eyes as his son but other than that they look completely different. If it wasn’t for the eyes, Fred Sparrow would need to be asking his wife some uncomfortable questions – where Steve’s bright-orange hair comes from would be top of that list.
‘You agreed to this meeting, Fred,’ says Vukovic.
‘Did I have a choice?’
Vukovic turns to Vinnie. ‘I want today to be an open conversation. I honestly feel that –’
We don’t get to hear what Vukovic honestly feels because Fred Sparrow goes off on a tirade, lecturing Vukovic for letting a ‘psychologically disturbed girl’ into his son’s school. Then he spends five minutes banging on about the ‘irreparable damage’ I caused. He even brings out X-rays and a doctor’s report. Mostly what we learn is that Steve’s dad is the Chief Executive Officer of one of those businesses that are all names: Proctor, Lloyd and Hanson. Parker, Chan and Davis. Larry, Curly and Moe. How do I know this? Because he finds a way to wedge it into every sentence.
Well, Vinnie’s the CEO of Terry’s Kebab Emporium so we’re all on the same level here, dude.
‘Can I remind you,’ says Sparrow – he’s talking to Vinnie but he’s looking at Vukovic’s desk – ‘that your niece assaulted my son? Give me one reason why this shouldn’t be a criminal matter.’
Before I can say anything, Vinnie grips my knee, her nails digging in.
All right, so I won’t answer the nice man’s question.
‘Putting aside the fact that your son provoked my niece,’ says Vinnie. Sparrow opens his mouth but Vinnie shuts him up with a Nonna Sofia. ‘Putting that aside, there are considerations to be taken into account here. Frankie has been through a lot in her young life. She’s just found out she has a brother and that has really brought up a lot of –’
Oh hell no. She did not just say that. ‘Don’t bring Xavier into this.’
Vinnie turns her Nonna Sofia on me. ‘I’m just saying –’
‘I know exactly what you’re saying.’
She snorts. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but this kid calls you up out of the blue and the next day you’re getting suspended for fighting? I don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?’
‘Do you hear this, Leona?’ Sparrow leans back in his chair, shirt buttons straining. ‘You bring trash into the sc
hool and then wonder why it stinks.’
This time I have to grab Vinnie’s knee.
‘Frankie,’ says Vukovic. She’s looking at me; her expression says ‘I care’ but it’s like someone conducted market research into what a caring expression should look like and came up with ‘constipated’.
‘We haven’t heard your side of the story yet. I’m not going to lie; we’ve had our issues with you, but I’ve never known you to act without provocation.’ Steve snorts, but a look from Vukovic silences him. ‘It’s time for you to explain your actions.’
Vinnie is watching me side-on. There’s nothing forced or market-researched about her expression. She’s willing me to open my mouth and defend myself.
Of course she is. She’s Vinnie.
Fred Sparrow throws up his hands. ‘Look at my son, Leona. What more do you need to know?’
Vukovic shifts in her chair, her hands palm down on the desk. She doesn’t say anything because even though Fred Sparrow is a tool, there’s no denying he’s right.
All you have to do is look at Steve Sparrow.
Simple.
Just look.
Look.
I start with the floor. It’s parquet – diamonds, scuffed from years of school shoes and high heels.
Up.
Steve Sparrow is wearing plimsolls. They might have been white once but now they’re puddle grey.
Halfway up his trouser leg there’s a grass stain.
Higher.
He taps a beat against his thigh – fingers stained a pale red. Texta, maybe? From the lame tags he scrawls around the school?
Higher.
His phone is half out of his pocket and white earphones snake up and around the back of his neck, hanging over his shoulder down the opposite side.
All the way.
Oh shit.
Steve Sparrow has bruises under each eye, deep purple and mottled – it’s been a couple of days and they’re already a little yellow round the edges. There are scabs of dried blood, both his cheeks are swollen, his jaw’s bruised and apparently cracked. There’s a splint on his nose so I guess I broke that too.
All I can do is look away. Like a coward. Like the kind of psycho freak who goes around hitting guys in the face with massive hardback books.
Vinnie squeezes my leg. ‘Go on, honey.’
Vukovic’s thin lips are pressed tight and she’s leaning forward, ready to leap over the desk and drag the words out of my throat. I guess she’d really like a reason to stick it to Fred Sparrow.
I would too, but I can’t stop thinking about whether Steve’s nose will be crooked forever. Because of what I did. You see people with their noses bent to one side or maybe with a bulge in the middle or a flat section. Juliet had a guy with a nose like that – I don’t remember his name but he was a boxer. Not professional, just in the kitchen with Juliet.
Is that what Steve’s going to look like now? Did I do that? I look down and my hands are balled into fists. I have to work hard to unlock them.
Boxer-guy used to say he was sorry. Used to feed Juliet excuses mixed with blame.
So what’s my excuse?
Vinnie’s leg brushes against mine. ‘Frankie?’
‘Told you she’s a psycho,’ says Steve. ‘She just went mental. I didn’t do nothing.’
Vinnie grips my knee a little tighter. ‘Frankie?’ Her voice breaks. Just a little.
Just enough.
I swallow. But I don’t open my mouth because I haven’t got anything to say. For once.
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Vinnie, shifting back to face Vukovic. ‘She’s been seeing that psychologist like you wanted. She’s really trying, I swear –’
Fred Sparrow stands, his chair screeching along the floor. ‘This has been a complete waste of time.’ He grabs Steve by the arm and hauls him up. ‘You’ll be hearing from our lawyers.’
Steve shuffles behind my chair, dragging his plimsolls, screamo buzzing from his earphones. I wait for the door to close, seconds that seem to drag on and on and . . .
Slam.
The whole room breathes again.
Vukovic leans back in her chair, shaking her head. ‘That was pretty stupid. Even for you, Frankie.’
‘Stupid and selfish, downright idiotic,’ says Vinnie. I rub the red marks on my thigh as soon as she removes her hand. ‘Why can’t you just tell us what happened?’ She turns to Vukovic. ‘She won’t even tell Cara.’
‘Listen.’ Vukovic brushes non-existent dust from the surface of her desk. ‘I’ll speak to Fred. When he’s calm I should be able to talk him out of legal action. You’ll need to pay for the medical bills, but maybe I can keep the police out of it.’
‘What about finishing school?’ Vinnie glances at me. ‘She was supposed to go to uni.’
‘I wonder if you could wait outside for a minute, Frankie,’ says Vukovic. ‘Your aunt and I have a few things to discuss.’
My chair screeches but not as loudly as Fred Sparrow’s. It teeters and then bumps against the back of my knees. Vinnie clicks her tongue. Who knows what at – there’s a pretty long list.
I open my mouth but Vukovic beats me to it.
‘You had your chance to speak, Frankie. That moment has passed.’
All I see of Vinnie is the dark roots of her hair and the nibs of her shoulder blades jutting out as she hunches forward.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ I say.
Vukovic nods. ‘And tuck your shirt in.’
I’m waiting outside the office. Two magpies are clashing over bin scraps. They’ve pulled out chip packets and mandarin peels and are squawking like a couple having an argument out the front of Centrelink.
One magpie charges the other. Squawk, squawk. The other beats his wings and lifts off, settling on the ground a foot away, picking at a stolen apple core. I shove my earphones in and crank up The Horrors.
I’m pretty sure when Vukovic told me to wait outside she didn’t mean outside outside. But I don’t care.
I check the time but drop my phone as I’m wrapped in a hug from behind. Cara squeals into my ear, her turquoise-dyed hair falls across my arm and tickles my skin. I yank out my earphones.
‘Why didn’t you message me?’ she says. ‘I saw you from the library. Told Dunbar I’ve got period pain to get out of class.’
Cara gives the best hugs if you’re not into breathing.
I untangle myself but she won’t let go of my hands. She swings them, side to side. ‘So, what happened?’
I pull a hand free to pick up my phone. It’s hard to tell if I’ve done more damage. ‘Ouch,’ I say when Cara pokes me in the gut.
‘Open your mouth and speak to me, minion,’ she says.
I wipe the screen clear of grit. ‘Steve was there.’
‘Was he messed up? I heard he was back today but I haven’t seen him. Speak!’
‘I broke his nose. His dad reckons he’s got post-traumatic stress or whatever.’
‘You broke his ego. His nose, you probably improved.’
Cara’s got this way of jutting out her chin. It makes her look aggressive – like you’d want to keep the collected works of Shakespeare out of her reach too – but really it’s because she’s five foot nothing and has to look up at everyone.
She’s been my best friend since the start of high school. The first week of Year Seven she stapled this other kid’s hand when he tried to copy her answers. She got in shitloads of trouble, but no one ever copied off her again. We met in the office, both of us waiting to be told off by Vukovic. The name Sponge-Bum Square-Tits was born that day and so was our friendship – how could I not fall in love with a girl who thinks stapling is a martial art?
She’s got flowers and hearts drawn in blue ink all over the back of her hand. She does it when she’s bored. I used to come home with vines growing halfway up my arm.
‘Did you tell them that Steve asked for it? Cos he did, right?’
‘When’s the bell gonna go?’
‘About five mi
nutes. Are you allowed to stick around for lunch?’
‘Doubt it.’
My phone beeps and I pull it out. One new message from Xavier: I’m starved. Craving a kebab ;)
I grin. Longer than twelve hours, less than three days. We have a winner. I text back: No can do little bro. Stuck at school. Rain check.
Cara peers over my shoulder. ‘Updating your profile? Emo4life #yolo?’
‘I’m texting, nosy cow.’ She knows I shut down my entire online life after the whole #FrankieVegaIsAFuglySlut thing. And the rest.
She nudges me. ‘Then who’s your boyfriend?’
‘No one. Don’t make me hurt you. It’s Xavier.’
‘Yuck. Still can’t believe you went through with that. If I had a chance not to know my brothers I’d take it.’
Cara’s got four brothers – Will, Paul, Aaron and Lawrence. She calls them: ‘nine-mill’, ‘machete’, ‘gas leak’ and ‘dagger’. ‘Cos that’s how I’m going to kill them,’ she says.
My phone beeps again: Cool. But now you owe me two. And chips.
I wipe the grin from my face when I catch Cara watching me.
‘You know it’s not normal to like your brother, don’t you?’ she says.
I pocket my phone. ‘I just met him – I’m not sure if I like him or not.’
‘Let’s just hide on the oval.’ Cara spins me around. ‘I’ll split my bagel with you and by the time they find us lunch’ll be over.’
She gives me puppy-eyes, but I shake my head.
Then, from behind Cara’s head, I spot the Greek version of Ryan Gosling sauntering toward us. Three skinny boys are circling him like dogs waiting to be fed. ‘Shit,’ I say.
At the exact moment I tell Cara not to look she does.
She pinches my side. ‘Ex-boyfriend alert.’
‘That’s kind of what I meant when I said “shit”.’
I look around for somewhere to hide. Behind the bin? Pretend I’m a magpie? I grip hold of Cara, tugging her jumper. ‘Let’s –’
‘What’s up?’ calls Mark.
Hey, that’s cheating! He’s well out of the conversation zone. I totally had time to run. But once a cheater, always a cheater, right?
I pull Cara close. ‘Keep all sharp objects out of my reach.’
Frankie Page 3