‘Eat and leave,’ I tell her. ‘I will not be pimped out for your benefit.’
‘Why? You got a racist fisherman you’d rather hang out with?’ She sticks out her tongue as she scoops up the kebabs, sashaying over to Truc and Mark. ‘Table service,’ she says. ‘How fancy is that?’ She hands them each a kebab and takes a seat. The one closest to Truc.
‘Kebabs are awesome,’ says Truc.
Kill me now.
I’m not being mean; Cara deserves to be in love but this is only going to end badly. Like Winston the violinist who couldn’t keep it in his pants. And Ollie the drummer who couldn’t keep it in his pants. And Axel the trainee tattoo artist who, surprise surprise, couldn’t keep it in his pants. If I can discourage her now, I’ll save both of us a night in the rain painting Truc is a lying scumbag with a small cock on the art block wall, and all the tears and repeat watching of The Notebook.
I file this moment away as a down payment on a future serving of revenge and trudge out from behind the counter. I guess it’s okay for me to leave my post when there’s no one else in the shop. And if Vinnie comes back now it won’t just be me she kills. Totally worth it.
I drag a chair close to Cara and sit. I do not care if I cock-block her; I will not sit within punching distance of Mark. For both our sakes.
I stare unsociably at the scuffed table, remembering the first time I met Mark. He was lanky, black fringe flopping across his eyes, with the cheekbones of my music idols. He walked right up to me with his hand thrust out. He asked me my name but I lost my voice. Not because he was so cute I couldn’t talk – I’m not that pathetic – but I couldn’t get over the balls it took to walk up to someone you didn’t know and just start talking. ‘You’re going to have to tell me your name,’ he said, grinning, ‘or I’m going to give you a nickname. And my best mate’s called Stinko.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ asks Truc through a mouthful of the magpie special. I do not understand how Cara is giving him gooey eyes while he’s massacring his food like that.
I reach for Mark’s swan napkin when he’s done making it. Even through all the meat and garlic and chip fat I can smell the chlorine wafting from his skin.
‘What plan?’
‘I know,’ says Cara, ‘when Vinnie gets here we’ll all go to the movies.’
‘Cool,’ says Truc. ‘It’s cheap night at Nova.’
This guy’s the best one yet.
‘I’m working till closing,’ I say. ‘Oh, and I’m grounded for all eternity.’
‘Then we’ll hang out here.’ Cara pinches my thigh under the table. I make the swan peck at her kebab. She slaps my hand.
‘We better not,’ says Mark. He finally tears open his kebab. ‘If Frankie’s working we should –’
‘Poo-y,’ say Cara, sinking into her chair. ‘I never get to see her anymore. She’s either working or running around with cute burglars.’
The entire inside of Mark’s kebab goes splat onto the floor.
Truc laughs so hard he spits lettuce across the table.
‘Sorry.’ Mark looks between his legs at the mess.
‘It’s fine.’ I stand and give Cara my best attempt at The Nonna Sofia. ‘Cara has that effect on people.’
She gnaws on her lip but not out of guilt – she’s trying to contain a smile.
I head behind the counter and pull out the cleaning tray from under the sink. Vinnie only specified I wasn’t to burn the place down while she was out, but I think she’d have fairly strong views on food spillage as well.
‘Did you say burglar?’ asks Mark, two red patches on his cheeks.
Cara wiggles her pinky at him. ‘Sorry, Marky Mark, but you missed the boat. There’s a new guy on the scene and he’s hot. Hot in appearance and hot for Frankie.’
I dump the cleaning tray on the table. ‘He is not interested in me. Friday night was just a –’
‘Friday night?’ Cara’s jaw drops – and she hasn’t even tasted my kiss-me-not kebab. ‘But you were with me on Friday! You never told me you saw him.’
I wring out the sponge, drips splattering all over the table. ‘It was after and, anyway, I’m kind of busy here, C. Someone has to clean this mess up.’
‘I’ll help,’ Mark says. He dumps the soggy pita into the tray. He starts to get up, but I hold out a hand.
‘Forget it. You guys go to the movies without me.’ I get down on hands and knees, armed with my sponge and a resolute scowl. I’m way too close to Mark’s crotch for my liking.
‘Seriously. Get out of here,’ I say.
I scoop kebab innards into a handful of paper towel. If I ever need a metaphor for my life . . . I don’t look up but I know they’ve heard me when chairs start squeaking, bags start rustling and boots start clomping. I rub the floor in slow circles.
‘Thanks for the kebab,’ says Truc.
I salute him but I guess he can’t see me.
Mark’s feet hover in my periphery. Expensive-looking sneakers. Brand-new. I’ve missed an opportunity here, haven’t I? Could have tied his laces together under the table.
Turquoise hair falls across my shoulder as Cara leans over me, lips brushing my ear. ‘You will tell me about Friday night. Text me.’ She plants a kiss on my cheek and straightens. ‘C’mon, guys. We can probs catch the late showing if we hurry.’
‘I’m in,’ says Truc. He slings his arm around Cara.
‘Bye, Frankie babe,’ says Cara, but her eyes say ‘He’s got his arm around me! Squee!’
I sit back on my butt and watch them leave.
Mark’s the last to go, giving me the old laser light show with his eyes as the door wobbles shut behind him.
My shoulders slump. I reek of garlic and I’m sitting on a sticky floor with a spongeful of mushy kebab. I’m a seventeen-year-old orphan with a missing brother. Talk about a hard-knock life.
But Plan B is still a goer. I really need to orchestrate it so that I’m nose deep in a schoolbook when Vinnie gets back. That would be some seriously good PR. I need –
The door opens with a jingle jangle.
Shit. I need a Plan C.
I scrub the floor madly. ‘How was your “appointment”, Vin? Should we be getting ready for the apocalypse?’
Except it’s not Vinnie who walks in. It’s not even a random customer.
It’s a pair of ridiculously expensive sneakers. Brand-new.
‘Sorry,’ says Mark. He holds the door ajar and hovers there like he can’t decide if he wants to come in or not.
‘Mark?’
He nods. Okay. Good. We’ve established that he’s Mark and not some kind of pod person.
‘Did you forget something?’
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
I fidget with the sponge. Well, this is going swimmingly.
His mouth gets another couple of test runs before he finally blurts out: ‘I forgot to tell you how much I miss you.’
Plan C: Find a way to rewind time and play that back again. Because I mean really. What. The. Fuck.
He looks down. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to vomit that.’
I slowly scoop the last of the lettuce and garlic sauce into my palm, dumping it into the cleaning tray. I grip the edge of the table and pull myself to standing. I am so cool, calm and collected I may need to check my pulse to make sure I’m still alive.
‘I miss you,’ he says, a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘I wish I never . . . I wish none of that stuff happened and we could have just . . .’
I’ve never seen this Mark who doesn’t know what to say, what to do with his hands, how to look me in the eye without blushing.
I remind myself that this is the guy who cheated on me and broke my heart.
But he’s also the guy who sent me a note a few weeks into Year Nine: Do you want to be my girlfriend: circle yes or no. He’s the first time guy. The first love guy.
‘There’s nothing between me and Ava,’ he says, hovering by the door. ‘I’m done hooking up with her. She’s j
ust not into the same stuff as me, you know.’
‘Like you’re into origami and she’s more into baby sacrificing?’
A shy grin sweeps across his face. ‘That was supposed to be your gig, wasn’t it?’
I really want to smile, but then I remember what it was like – Year Eleven. I remember people whispering and laughing, catching the words: ‘Mark’, ‘Ava’, ‘science block’, ‘kissing’. I remember walking up to him and cracking my palm across his face. Him saying: ‘What did you expect, Frankie? I’ve tried. You won’t talk to me. And you’re so angry all the time.’
So I don’t smile.
I just stand there watching him, remembering.
‘Can I ask you out or are you going to break my nose for trying?’ he says. He hasn’t registered the change in my expression because he’s still smiling, cheeks flushed red.
I swallow a few times, trying to get some moisture back in my mouth.
‘Mark, I –’
He bounds over to the counter. ‘We can check out a band.’ He grabs the order pad and a pen. ‘I’ve got a new number. It’s totally your decision. Call me. Or don’t.’
He rips off the corner with his number scrawled on it and holds it out for me. ‘I really want to see you again, Frankie,’ he says. The laser eyes switch on for an encore performance.
I can’t decide what I want to remember: the note in Year Nine or Year Eleven behind the science block.
He frowns when I don’t say anything, when I don’t reach out and take his number. But he forces a grin as he shoves the scrap of paper under the order spike and heads to the door.
‘I hope you call,’ he says. ‘I really do.’
The door closes behind him.
Do I have a Plan D?
Sometimes I think about Ian Curtis wandering into my room and it all gets a little x-rated from then on. What I don’t usually daydream about is spending the last of my Saturday night reading one of Vinnie’s crappy romance novels – Once Bitten – and stressing about a scrap of paper in my back pocket. But that’s what I end up doing once my shift ends.
I crank up New Order – if I’m going to freak out, it may as well be to a kickarse soundtrack.
It’s just a scrap of paper. It’s just a bit of mushed-up tree with some guy’s number scribbled on it.
Yeah. Some guy. You keep telling yourself that, Frankie.
You never go back. It’s a rule. Once bitten, twice shy (thank you, crappy romance). It doesn’t matter how uncomplicated the guy is or how appealing it is to find something familiar.
Ava and Mark have broken up about fifty times this year. And each time they do, Mark gives me moon eyes until he and Ava hook up again. So I’m not dumb, I know the chances of those two getting back together again are Snoop-Dog high. And I know Mark really regrets cheating on me. It’s just, I’m not sure he remembers what we were really like together.
Sigh. I start skipping pages, looking for a sex scene.
There’s some shuffling outside my door and then a knock. I look at the time – way past bedtime. Guess Vinnie’s ‘appointment’ went well.
I roll onto my side. ‘You can come in but I do not want to hear details about your date. No kissing, no tongues, no sweaty hands.’
The door creaks open. ‘How do you feel about third base?’ asks a male voice.
A Nate voice.
I bolt upright, knocking Once Bitten to the floor. My heart doesn’t just leap out my chest, it applies for a visa and goes to live in Siberia.
He leans against the doorframe – hair ruffled, ripped jeans, white shirt, The Jacket and, for some reason, a black skinny tie. He’s acting like materialising in my bedroom is all perfectly normal and natural and expected.
Oh my god, there’s underwear on the floor.
‘Cute socks,’ he says.
I look down at my furry bedsocks. My pink furry bedsocks. The kind with individual toes. ‘Nice jeans,’ I say. ‘Do they sell those at Punk Posers R Us?’
I throw my pillow at him. ‘Are you here to kill off the only witness to your burglary spree?’ The pillow lands at his feet. His black combat boots are caked in mud. ‘Wait a minute . . . you broke into my house? What the actual fuck?’
He laughs. ‘You need to replace the locks. That was way too easy.’
‘So this is some kind of public service?’
‘Sure.’ He holds out a blue wallet, dangling it between pinched fingers. ‘I come bearing gifts.’
‘Are you offering to pay for my silence?’
‘Just take the damn wallet.’
I crawl to the end of the bed. The springs sing out like I weigh a thousand tonnes.
He dangles the wallet just out of reach before dropping it into my waiting hand. I handle it like it’s a bomb. It’s one of those surfy-brand wallets, velcro fastening, patterned like a Hawaiian shirt. I flick through. Zero money, a gym membership, a bank card and a probationary licence: the guy grinning in the photo is of the ex-boyfriend variety.
‘You robbed Mark?’
‘Actually, that’s not the favour. I did that just for me.’ Nate’s got his lopsided smile going on. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mobile. You’d swear it was Christmas. ‘This is the favour.’
He holds the screen in front of my face, showing me a photo of two people. Two people I know all too well.
‘See the time stamp?’ he says. ‘Half an hour ago.’
First thing I think is: Hey, that’s a seriously nice phone for a guy who lives in a squat. The second thing I think is: Hey, my carpet needs a steam clean. I should tell Vinnie. And then I keep thinking about the carpet – keep my eyes on it too – because it’s way better for my mental health than looking at ‘Exhibit A’.
‘Well?’
I scoot back along the bed, far, far away from the offending mobile. ‘What are you even doing here?’
He frowns. ‘You don’t want to know the guy hitting on you likes to spread the love?’
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to: a picture says a thousand words. Especially a picture where the ‘completely single’ guy who gave you his number and told you how much he misses you is whispering seductively into the ear of Ava Devar, probably telling her he wants her back, he’ll do anything to make it up to her.
See? This is why I’m so angry. Because the second you consider opening yourself up to someone they tear your heart out.
It’s not like I didn’t know I was slotted to be Rebound Girl, something familiar to return to, something I’m sure Mark genuinely wanted – just not more than Ava. The second she wanted him back, he’d have been right behind that science block again, breaking my heart.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Nate watches me but, bless him, doesn’t say a word. I go back to looking at the carpet.
Why is Nate telling me this? Maybe he just wants to see me suffer.
I look up. No. His brow is majorly creased.
I didn’t realise Nate gave enough of a shit to worry about who’s hitting on me. It’s surprising and weird. Like running into your teacher at the supermarket buying tampons.
Wait.
‘How do you know Mark was hitting on me? Were you watching us?’
He shoves the phone in his pocket and flashes a half sneer, half smile. A snile. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I was waiting to talk to you but wasn’t game to interrupt you and your friends.’
‘Light-fingered and unsociable. You’ve got all the best qualities.’
He gives me the finger.
‘And a wordsmith. Hold me back, LaBeouf, I think I’m in love.’
‘My name,’ he says, taking a massive step forward. With his giraffe legs, one step means he’s pretty much on top of me. ‘Isn’t LaBeouf. Whatever the hell a LaBeouf is.’
Man those eyes are blue.
‘I know it isn’t.’ My voice – damn it – shakes. ‘But it suits you.’
He studies me a little longer with those broken-love-song eyes. He’s either going to punch me
or . . .
He frowns deeper. Then he steps back.
Breathe.
He starts pacing. It’s not a big room so it takes two steps before he’s reached one end and has to turn around. Two steps, turn. Two steps, turn.
He stops at the far end of my room, pointing at my Ian Curtis poster. ‘See? I was right.’
‘Yeah. And?’
‘If we’re talking desert island and I have to choose between Morrissey and Curtis, Morrissey every day of the week. But I guess they’re okay.’ He scratches his chin. ‘Where do you sit with Coldplay?’
That’s easy. ‘I sit on a throne made out of the blood and sweat of genuine artists watching those arsehats being fed to lions. Zombie lions.’
He smiles. Not a grin, not a snile – a smile. Actual teeth showing. And when he’s not scowling, he has a nice face. Lots of angles and everything in proportion. Ian Curtis meets Jeff Buckley meets Faris Badwan. Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe he’s just shy or awkward, or a little bit broken, like me.
‘Xavier told me about your mum,’ he says. ‘The whole Children’s Farm thing.’
‘Did he.’
It’s not a question. It’s a prelude to throwing up. Or kicking out. Or both.
I wait for the follow-up – the punchline to whatever joke he thinks he’s making – but he just frowns, pressing the tip of his finger against the poster, pushing down an air bubble. ‘How come parents are allowed to be shitty but we’re not?’
It’s his tone of voice that stops me from shooting off something cutting. I mean, I want this guy knowing about my past about as much as I want a punch in the face but I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about me anymore.
‘It’s the number one perk of being an adult, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Do as I say, not as I do?’
He smiles. Wryly. His finger runs the length of the poster. ‘But I’m nineteen,’ he says. ‘Where’s my free pass to be a jerk?’
We grin at each other. ‘You probably used it up already,’ I say. ‘You’re handing out IOU jerk passes like crazy.’
He tries looking cut but can’t stop the smile from spreading.
‘Your notebook,’ I say. ‘The one in your cosy nuclear bomb shelter of a room. Looked like poetry to me but now I’m thinking song lyrics.’
Frankie Page 17