Frankie

by Shivaun Plozza

  ‘Call me when you’ve had a personality transplant,’ Cara shouts. The front door slams shut behind her.

  I hurry up the street, holding myself together for half a block.

  That did not go according to plan.

  That just took a shit on top of my best-laid plans.

  I crouch in the middle of the footpath and cry. I’ve just made things about a thousand times worse, haven’t I? I can’t even really wrap my head around how bad I’ve just screwed up. Bigger than any number of Spanish donuts can fix.

  __________

  I go to the river without her. Which is stupid because it’s getting late and even stupider because I’m on the world’s strictest curfew.

  Why am I still looking? Because I’m worried? Because I care? Or maybe I just need to find him so this will all make sense, so I can show Cara, Vinnie, Nate: See? It was worth it. I’ve found him. The scary part is I know exactly why I’m still looking: the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach won’t let me forget it.

  The concrete wall runs for a good chunk of the path along the river. All the way along the right-hand side, leading up to an overpass. Steve was right – it’s perfect for graffiti and about fifty million graffiti artist have worked that out already. The path cuts under the bridge and that’s where I’m headed until I stop dead in my tracks.

  I almost don’t see him at first.

  I was walking with my head turned, trying to spot Xavier’s piece. X marks the spot.

  But Dave’s impossible to miss, his long puffer jacket and his shock of white hair.

  ‘Don’t cheat me,’ he says.

  The sound of his voice brings the bile up from my stomach.

  He’s under the bridge, pacing back and forth. I step off the path, behind the hanging branches of a tree.

  Some twitchy looking guy is standing in front of him. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Nah, I wouldn’t. Not you, Dave. I’ve got the money.’

  ‘So go and get it.’

  Twitchy kid runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Can’t you just spot me a gram?’

  Dave hisses and then there’s a flash of something silver, something metal, and the twitchy kid is backing away, hands out front.

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll get it.’

  My hand goes to my neck. I back away too. Slowly.

  ‘Get me my money, shithead,’ says Dave.

  The twitchy kid runs. As soon as he’s out of sight, Dave lets out a roar. He turns, beating his hands against the concrete wall. He’s muttering; nothing intelligible, nothing I want to hear.

  When the knife-wielding psycho is having an episode, that’s your cue to run, Frankie.

  For once, I listen to my brain.

  When I walk through the front door of the Emporium, Vinnie’s serving a couple who are all over each other.

  ‘Out,’ she says.

  The couple give me freaked-out possum eyes. They probably think I’m some kind of crazy person, banned from every kebab joint in Melbourne.

  I start backing up. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Not you. Them.’ She jabs a nail at the couple, one at a time. ‘You two,’ says Vinnie. ‘Out. Now.’

  My bum bumps into the edge of a table as I back up.

  The couple don’t stop to argue, bushy possum-tails between their legs as they scurry out. That’s another shit review for Terry’s Kebab Emporium.

  Vinnie marches over to the front door and flips the sign. Closed.

  Hey, at least she’s talking to me again.

  Vinnie’s got one hand pressed to the closed sign, the other on her hip. ‘Take one guess where I had to go this afternoon.’

  ‘Another “appointment”?’

  That’s right, Frankie. Poke the bear.

  She thumps the heel of her palm against the door. The glass rattles. ‘You better think twice before giving me some smart-arse response,’ she says. ‘I’ve been down at your school being made a fool of again.’

  She turns round.

  ‘I can –’

  ‘You wander in late and act like a spoilt brat when you get there? You’re given yet another chance to defend yourself and you throw it away?’

  She leans against the counter, like staying upright is a challenge. This is Vinnie – Vinnie who could run a marathon in stilettos and pick up a date at the end of it. I swallow the great lump of bitterness in my mouth.

  ‘They don’t trust me to speak in front of the board so I have to write an essay on why I’m such a screw-up. You think that’s a genuine chance?’

  ‘Someone in your position, Francesca, takes every chance thrown her way. What are you waiting for? A golden bloody ticket?’

  I grab the thing nearest to me – a serviette canister – and throw it to the ground. Just to hear something crashing. Just to make a noise. ‘What am I supposed to write?’

  For the first time in my life, Vinnie looks afraid of me.

  I hate myself for it.

  ‘What do I tell them, Vin? That I’m some psycho freak who doesn’t know how to control herself? That I rearrange some guy’s face just because I don’t like something he says? Who does that?’

  Vinnie stares at me, brow furrowed and mouth open. I hate it when people say ‘her lips formed a perfect “o”’ because they just don’t make that shape. Not perfect. It’s distorted, ragged, deflated.

  She shakes her head, voice quiet. Too quiet. ‘You’re going to lose everything you have if you keep acting like this. Everything.’

  Joke’s on you, Vin. Pretty sure I’ve already lost everything.

  ‘Well, that’s what we Vegas do, right?’ My whole body is shaking, rattling. ‘We rid ourselves of whatever doesn’t fit. Whatever isn’t fun, or exciting or useful anymore. We dump it at the Collingwood Children’s Farm and fuck off to Queensland.’

  ‘Don’t you –’

  ‘Or maybe that’s just me. Because she kept him. Did you know that?’ I grip the side of the table, hold myself upright. Just. ‘Thirteen years she kept him and could barely make it through four years with me. I’m the common denominator, aren’t I? It’s me people run away from. Juliet, Xavier, Cara, Mark, Nate, you.’

  I can’t take it anymore. Can’t stay here and look at her face, at her disappointment. I can’t hear her say the words that are surely coming: I’m sorry, Frankie. Sorry I ever gave you a chance in the first place.

  I turn, my foot kicking the canister along the ground. Crash. Clang. Bang.

  Everything’s a blur but somehow I make it out of that place. Somehow I run up the stairs and into my room. Somehow I make it behind the closed door before the tears start.

  __________

  It was grandparents day at school. I guess I was six. Maybe seven. Vinnie had found the note scrunched up in the bottom of my bag the night before.

  ‘What’s this?’

  I looked at Nonna chopping tomatoes in the kitchen.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  Vinnie flattened out the note against the coffee table. ‘Like hell it’s nothing. Ma,’ she shouted. ‘Ma, vieni qui!’

  Vinnie held out the note for Nonna. She wiped her hands carefully on her apron and squinted at the note.

  ‘Sono troppo occupata,’ said Nonna.

  ‘Too busy?’ said Vinnie. ‘Doing what?’

  I went to sleep to the sound of them arguing. But the house was silent when I woke up. I found Vinnie in the kitchen making my lunch.

  I gripped my stomach and groaned. ‘I’m too sick to go to school,’ I said.

  She walked round the end of the bench and placed the back of her hand against my forehead. ‘Get your uniform on. You feel fine.’

  I wasn’t feeling fine when I got to school. Grey hair, yellow smiles, look-at-me-Grandma shouts echoing through the playground.

  Vinnie grabbed my hand and walked me to where my class were lined up. I looked up at her as I stood in line, my little fingers squeezed in her grip.

  The girl in front of me stared at Vinnie. I wanted to kick her but I couldn’t reach
, and Vinnie wasn’t letting go of my hand.

  Mrs Ibrahim came over. ‘Mrs Vega,’ she said. ‘Are Francesca’s grandparents coming today?’

  Vinnie stared back at the girl in the line until she turned around with red cheeks.

  ‘I’m here,’ said Vinnie. ‘It’s aunt and niece day.’

  If I gathered all my memories like that and tried to bury them in a time capsule in the backyard, the Earth would bulge and the old willow tree would fall down.

  As I lie in bed, facing the wall, I listen for sounds of Vinnie returning to the flat. I wait for stomping through the apartment, the pantry door squeaking, kettle boiling, toilet flushing, tap running and lights clicking off one at a time.

  It never comes.

  I fall asleep to the sounds of silence.

  It’s blacker than Satan’s bile when I wake. I don’t know if it’s Sunday night or Monday morning. Maybe the world exploded while I was sleeping and there’s no such thing as Monday anymore.

  I can’t get back to sleep so at six I get up, shower and sift through the clothes on my floor – the sniff test isn’t a scientific approach but it’s effective.

  I struggle into jeans and scan the floordrobe for a top.

  It’s one of those nothing-to-wear days. Everything’s a fat top, a lumpy-arse jean, a wobbly-thigh skirt.

  I think about finding the dress Vinnie liked and putting it on. Maybe even the pink skirt Nonna Sofia bought me. My ‘keep’, ‘donate’ and ‘burn’ piles never really found their way off my floor so now they’re all part of one big pile and I have plenty to choose from.

  A black jumper will do. Forget the holes; it doesn’t matter.

  The apartment is cold. Feels empty. For about three seconds I freak out that my nuclear bomb/meteor/alien invasion theory was correct and I’m the last person on earth, but then I press my ear to Vinnie’s bedroom door and the sound of her snoring steadies my heartbeat.

  Kind of.

  Vinnie hates me. Cara hates me. Nate hates me. And it’s Meeting Day.

  I tiptoe to the front door. Buttons is perched on the sideboard in the corridor. He doesn’t run or hiss or flash me his arse. He just looks me over, eyes half closed, a steady purr. Great. I’m so pathetic even Spawn of Satan pities me.

  I let the front door click shut behind me.

  Outside it’s grey. Arthouse moody lighting. Like that shit film our media teacher tortured us with – three hours of black and white, some girl wandering round a mansion looking worried/upset/hungry. It was French – nuff said.

  I wrap my coat tighter around me and hurry to the back of the yard because I have something important to do.

  Willow branches slapping my face marks the spot.

  I left the trowel stuck in the ground beside the trunk so I grab it – the handle is freezing. Why couldn’t I have done this at three in the afternoon? Why couldn’t I have done it in summer? On a tropical beach?

  I crouch and drive the trowel in. I’m glad this time it’s kind of dark so I can’t see how many worms I kill.

  How many wriggly lives have you got to ruin before you take a good hard look in the mirror, Frankie?

  Dirt goes flying as I scoop the trowel in and out. This time I don’t have anything to add to my time capsule. I’m digging it up so I can throw it away. The necklace too. And the kitten statue. Every damn scrap of useless crap. The time capsule really was a dumb idea and I don’t even know why I did it. Stupid Daniel. Who wants to be reminded of stuff in twenty years time that they don’t even want to think about now?

  I’ve decided to get rid of all my shitty memories, less-than-perfect actions, regrets and epic failures. It’s a fire sale – get in quick for a bargain.

  As I’m digging I hear a creaking noise behind me.

  You’d think I wouldn’t be surprised by Nate just turning up anymore. But I freak out so much I overbalance and almost fall backwards.

  It’s not so dark that I can’t see him, leaning against the fence, arms behind his back. He’s not out of place in this French arthouse film of a morning.

  I’m pretty sure the back gate was locked. No such thing as a locked-room mystery when Nate’s around, though. Agatha Christie would have hated him.

  ‘What the hell? Why are you here?’

  ‘The Fitzroy pool,’ he says. ‘I know the guy on the morning shift. He sneaks me in. It’s where I shower.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘You asked,’ he says.

  I guess that explains the chlorine smell. Not why he’s in my backyard at 6:30 in the morning.

  ‘I took a walk,’ he says. ‘Ended up here. What’s your story?’

  I offer him a smile, just a small one. Because no one else I know wants to talk to me. I’m thin on friends and family.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I have this thing today. Kind of important.’ I drop the trowel. He’s watching me. Intently. ‘You know when a country invades another country and the UN have a meeting to decide if they’re going to bomb the shit out of everyone to stop the bad country from bombing the good country? Well, it’s kind of like that.’

  ‘So which are you?’

  ‘The bad country.’

  He laughs, just a small one. With his head down. ‘Well, I’d better tell you something before they bomb you,’ he says.

  I wait for him to go on, but we end up just standing there, staring at each other.

  Forgive me for assuming that was the kind of sentence that has a swift follow up. Never assume, Frankie.

  ‘I broke a guy’s nose once,’ he says before I can chime in with something stupid.

  ‘Only once?’

  ‘And two teeth.’

  ‘Not bad. It’s not exactly breaking a nose, cracking a jaw and causing PTS with the collected works of Shakespeare, but you can join the teenagers with violent tendencies club. I’m president so I can guarantee you membership.’

  ‘It wasn’t just some guy.’ Nate takes a step closer, his boots squelching in the mud. ‘It was my dad.’

  ‘Did he deserve it?’

  ‘He deserved worse.’ He smiles, lopsided. ‘It’s how I got my first black mark. A fine and community service but it’s on my record.’

  ‘Which was expunged.’

  ‘Big word.’

  ‘I know. I must have picked it up somewhere. From someone pretty smart. For a dickhead.’

  He brings both arms around from behind him. He’s holding something thin but square. Like a big piece of cardboard. With a drummer boy on the front. An Ideal for Living. The album is a bit damp around the edges from being shoved deep in a bin but I’m sure he’s still worth a few grand.

  ‘You stole it? I left it in with the rubbish. With the rotting tomatoes, spoiled meat and congealed fat. How did you –’

  ‘Saw you dump it.’

  ‘You were watching?’

  ‘No, I was hiding because the cops were sniffing around.’

  ‘And you took it because?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s worth a shitload.’

  Oh. Not what I was expecting, but hey.

  I drop the trowel and reach out for the vinyl. ‘Four and a half grand. Sure you just want to hand this over?’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s worth more to you than me.’

  There’s a second or two when we’re both holding on, one corner each, and then he lets go and it’s in my hands.

  Hey, drummer boy. You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, did you know?

  He takes another step closer. ‘I’m sorry about what I said to you.’

  ‘So you should be.’

  A wayward curl covers his left eye. It makes him blink.

  ‘I mean, me too,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So you should be.’

  I reach up and brush the curl aside. It’s almost a cool move, except my hand trembles and my uncut nail scratches his forehead. So not cool at all. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

  ‘You should go,’ I say. I wrap my arms around the vinyl to stop any further emba
rrassing compulsions. ‘I can’t get into any more trouble or Vinnie will kill me. That’s not hyperbole, you know. For real. Kill me. Do you even know what hyperbole means? It’s when –’

  Nate cuts me short by kissing me.

  Really kissing me.

  Vinnie’s-romance-novels kissing me.

  Me-running-through-a-field-of-daisies-on-planet-hot-guy-with-the-music-swelling-to-a-moving-crescendo kissing me.

  He pulls me close, both hands holding the sides of my face. His lips are soft – soft like Harold the polar bear’s fur and the guinea pigs and the silk blouse Vinnie wore when she collected me from the police station, me with the note in my pocket from my deadbeat mum. Soft like all the things that ever made life better.

  He kisses me, hands sliding down my shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh of my arms, his teeth grazing my lip, his breath mixed with mine.

  But I just stand there, clutching the vinyl, arms folded. I’m like a big, dead, wet fish.

  Because I mean . . . so . . . just . . . wow. How did this guy become the guy? I try to process this totally unexpected wowness.

  While he’s kissing me.

  Kissing.

  Me.

  Until he’s not kissing me because the whole dead-fish vibe overwhelms him and he steps back. He looks as confused as I feel.

  ‘I don’t know why I did that,’ he says after a whole lot of frowning and staring. ‘I’m sorry I did that.’

  I stare at him wide-eyed. I’ve lost my words – maybe they’re still prancing around planet hot guy while the rest of me is here on planet majorly embarrassing. I blink as my brain picks itself off the floor and my body unfreezes.

  Okay, so I have processed the wowness and I have reached a conclusion: it must happen again.

  ‘Actually,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure why you didn’t kick me in the balls for doing that.’

  I reach out, my fingers through his bramble of curls. ‘That makes two of us.’

  He smiles. It makes me smile.

  He steps in again, hands sliding up my arms, across my shoulders, fingers brushing up my neck.