Frankie

by Shivaun Plozza

  Who am I going to be now?

  I’m nobody’s daughter.

  Nobody’s friend.

  Nobody’s sister.

  Vinnie pulls out her cigarettes. That new-pack rustle. She clears her throat. ‘Your pop singer fellow didn’t go to uni.’

  I lift my head, look at her. ‘Ian Curtis?’

  ‘Remember? You told me. Average at school, no uni. But he changed music. Changed lives.’

  ‘He killed himself, Vinnie. At twenty-three.’

  She lights a cigarette. ‘Shouldn’t have done that, should he? Because he’s still got my niece dancing like a maniac to his mopey bloody songs thirty-odd years later. Point is, the good stuff lasts. He should have lived a happy life till he was ninety-three – just think what he would have created if he’d lasted that long.’

  ‘Xavier was an artist too,’ I tell her. ‘The good stuff.’

  She looks long at me. ‘Well, there you go. Maybe thirty years from now there’ll be Xavier fan-girls running about the place.’

  I rest my head on her shoulder and imagine what people will think when they see Xavier’s creations. How many of them will stop and stare? Who will smile, who will tilt their head and gaze with wonder? They might be painted over by some dumb punk next week, but they could change someone’s life while they’re here, couldn’t they?

  ‘Some people just have it in them,’ she says. ‘Nothing can stop them. Not school, not lazy-arse parents, not broken hearts. Nothing.’ The ducks quack. They agree. ‘I’m sure your brother was looking forward to getting to know you and making something of himself. He had that taken from him but you, you’ve got it all ahead of you. And just think what a smart girl like you could do. Endless possibilities.’

  I close my eyes. ‘Did you know guinea pigs aren’t actually pigs?’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘They’re not from Guinea either.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. How’d you get to be so smart?’

  ‘One word. Six letters. Scrambled vein can be changed into first part.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ She squeezes me tighter. ‘My baby girl: the crossword goddess.’

  I am the crossword goddess.

  And I’m somebody’s niece.

  That’s a start. That’s a really good start.

  A sharp noise turns my head.

  Two guys in white jumpsuits are on either end of a stretcher, gumboots tearing through the tangled undergrowth as they pick their way downhill. A long black bag, matte plastic and smaller than you think it should be, is strapped to the stretcher.

  They head toward Marzoli, smoking, leaning against a pylon. Behind him is the unfinished painting of a boy, his arms raised, captured right in the middle of beating the large drum strapped to his chest. It’s almost the same as my album cover, except for the face. It’s Xavier. And he’s grinning, like he’s never felt so alive.

  We sprinkle his ashes in the river. Vinnie, Cara, Nate and me. The smiling drummer boy watches us. I guess he approves.

  It’s strange, doing this when we don’t have answers, when Dave is still missing and no one can tell me anything more than ‘We’ll keep looking’.

  Marzoli says helpful things like, ‘TV makes it seem like all crimes get solved when most of them don’t,’ and, ‘At least you get to farewell him. How many families never get that?’ In some ways I understand what he’s saying, in other ways I want to cut off his nuts and feed them to a Doberman.

  I know it was Dave – I’m certain of it – but I don’t know if he meant to do it. One punch, they say. Massive trauma to the back of Xavier’s skull from when he landed on the concrete.

  One punch. Anger does crazy things to people.

  Believe me, I’m kind of an expert.

  Which is why I’ve decided to bring a little more forgiveness into my life and let some of that anger go.

  The school can’t forgive me for breaking Steve’s nose but I forgive them for being a bunch of arsehats. Vinnie says good riddance to bad rubbish – I can finish my VCE at TAFE anyway. And I will. I told her I’m still going to be the person who makes up the crosswords in the paper and she told me, ‘Princess, you can be whatever the hell you want.’

  Except maybe a cop.

  Cara forgave me. Turns out it’s written in the BFF handbook: no matter how mad you get with your BFF, if they grovel and buy you more Spanish donuts than you can eat, you must forgive them. Besides, she needs me to hold the ladder while she paints an obscene statement about Truc on the art block later tonight.

  I’ve decided it’s time to forgive Mark, too. Sadly, I lost his number in a massive bonfire so I can’t call and tell him he’s forgiven. Shame about that.

  Then there’s Nate.

  He took me on a tour of the city last night, showing me all Xavier’s pieces so I could take photos. So Xavier can live forever.

  The last one we found was a sea of all-seeing eyes but my favourite is his final piece – Xavier the grinning drummer boy.

  Nate wrapped his arms around me as I gazed at the wall of eyes and I asked if he was sure he wanted to be with me. ‘I might not be very open,’ I said.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll try to stop breaking the law, but I can’t guarantee I won’t piss you off,’ he said.

  ‘Then I might hit you. Repeatedly.’

  ‘I might laugh at your angry face.’

  I hit him. He laughed.

  ‘I might fall in love you,’ he said and kissed me.

  I guess I forgive him.

  Daniel reckons that more than anything I’m supposed to forgive myself. I told him, ‘Bullshit. It’s Juliet I blame for skipping out on me,’ but he just flashed me that knowing smile and started taking notes in his little book. In green ink.

  I don’t forgive Daniel.

  But I’m working on forgiving Juliet.

  Most important of all, Vinnie forgave me – for Steve, for The Meeting, for being a world-class brat. I had to promise to clean out the meat tray for the rest of my natural life but I don’t mind. I think I might be able to be a crossword goddess and stink of garlic. I’m starting to think I can have it all.

  The way I see it, my aunt is the Queen of Collingwood so the world is my oyster. Or maybe something less slimy. Churros. The world is my churros.

  When I’ve scattered Xavier’s ashes and cried and been hugged, and laughed and told them everything I know about my stupid, beautiful, talented, messed-up brother, Vinnie pulls out a small scrap of paper. It’s old, torn halfway through the centre, curled at the edges and yellowing.

  She holds it out for me. I take it, unfold and read.

  It’s a handwritten note – just Vinnie’s name and a telephone number.

  ‘I kept it,’ she says. ‘I don’t know why.’

  I nod. It’s kind of all I can do. I feel Cara’s arms around my waist and Nate’s chin on the top of my head as I hold out my hand and let the note go.

  The wind catches it and it flies away.

  Nothing gets buried anymore.

  Unlike Frankie, I grew up in a teeny tiny town in south-west Victoria surrounded by sheep and cheese. But the manuscript for Frankie was written all over the world: in a frosty bedroom in the UK, in a hostel in Hong Kong with some dude asleep on the floor outside my door, in a house in Footscray, Melbourne, with a failed guide dog for company and in a crumbling but beautiful St Kilda mansion.

  I spent days wandering Hampstead Heath in London, dreaming up a story about a girl searching for her missing brother when she should have been searching for herself. I wanted to write about a girl who was pissed off at the world and ready to throw punches. I wanted a smart-arsed, proactive, clever bundle of sass that made you laugh as much as she made you cry.

  Along the way I’ve studied Creative Arts and worked as an English and Philosophy teacher, and now I work as an editor, making books and writing manuscript assessments. I’ve also realised that I’m crazy for cats (in a future-cat-lady kind of way). And t
hat Nate’s got it right: Morrissey trumps Curtis.

  BFG-sized thanks go to the ever-helpful, ever-supportive Line Tamers – especially Rosey Chang, Marie Davies, Cathy Hainstock and Sarah Vincent. Without your advice and copious read-throughs Frankie wouldn’t exist. Mocktails all round.

  Massive thanks to the team at Penguin, especially Jane Godwin, publisher-extraordinaire, and Michelle Madden, Frankie’s honorary godmother and a damn fine editor. I can’t thank you enough for taking this project on with as much care and passion as you have.

  Thank you Sari Smith, Kirsty Murray, Toni Jordon and Penni Russon for your wisdom and inspiration, and for kicking me up the behind when I needed it most (I’m looking at you, Kirsty). To the gang at Writers Victoria – the supportive community and well-timed vegan cupcakes you provided gave me the strength to keep going. Thanks to Alexis Drevikovsky and Kate Larsen for being more awesome than any two people should be allowed. I am especially grateful for the support of the Grace Marion Wilson Trust for their 2014 Glenfern Fellowship. Thanks to Tomas Drevikovsky and Jaclyn Crupi for fixing my terrible Italian and to Alex Adsett for your superb contract-negotiating skills.

  And finally, big love to my wonderfully forgiving friends and family, especially Peta ‘Pooh Bear’ Dempsey and my too-amazing-for-words mum and dad. Sorry for all the last-minute cancellations and months of MIA. Love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Shivaun Plozza’s short fiction, flash fiction, essays and poetry have appeared in anthologies and journals including Where the Shoreline Used to Be, Above Water, Text, Vivid and The Victorian Writer. When she’s not writing, Shivaun works as an editor and manuscript assessor. Frankie is her first novel.

  shivaunplozza.com

  twitter.com/ShivaunPlozza

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  First published by Penguin Australia Pty Ltd, 2016

  Text copyright © Shivaun Plozza, 2016.

  Cover illustration copyright © Emma Leonard, 2016.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Design by Marina Messiha © Penguin Australia Pty Ltd

  Author photograph by Peta Twisk

  penguin.com.au

  ISBN: 978-1-76014-282-7

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