The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks

by E. Lockhart

  The nights were still warm—it was only early September—so Frankie wore black cotton chinos and a long-sleeved navy T-shirt. She put extra leave-in conditioner on her frizzy hair, and a pearly shine of pink across her cheekbones. Matthew was waiting for her in the woods behind the Heaton dorm, just as he said he’d be.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “You made it.”

  She nodded.

  “You got my note okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you burn it?”

  “Look.” Frankie held her hand up close to his face.

  “Band-Aid.”

  “I had no idea it was going to burn so fast. What did you write on, tissue paper?”

  Matthew laughed. They were walking in the woods that surrounded the Alabaster campus, out of the glare of the streetlamps that lined the quad. Frankie could see other black-clad figures traipsing through the dark, though she couldn’t tell who anyone was.

  They traveled in silence for a minute, then Matthew took her hand—the one with the Band-Aid. “I’m concerned about you reinjuring your hand,” he said. “For your own protection, I think I have to hold it, to keep it safe from thorns and vicious woodland animals.”

  “All right,” said Frankie. “But if it feels greasy, that’s from the Neosporin I put on like half an hour ago. It’s not like I’m naturally covered with grease.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’m not oozing pus or anything.”

  “Braggart.”

  Matthew’s hand was large and comforting. Frankie felt a tingle of joy run up her arm.

  “That’s what I look for in a girl,” Matthew went on. “I look for a someone who is not oozing pus.”

  She laughed.

  “Seriously,” he said, stroking the inside of her wrist with his other hand as they walked, “I’m glad you came out tonight. I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

  Was he loony? He was a senior, athletic, universally considered attractive; he had a car; he would own a slew of nationally renowned newspapers one day; he had driven cross-country with his friends, eating pie and making videos. And she, Frankie—well, she didn’t think badly of herself. She knew she was unusually smart in certain subjects and could regularly make her friends laugh, and she was pleased that she was now at least reasonably good-looking most days—but she was a heterosexual sophomore with no boyfriend and no social power (especially now that Zada had graduated). On what planet would a girl in her position refuse to go to a golf course party with Matthew Livingston?

  Frankie’s mind was starting to turn over.

  She had never wanted anything so badly as she wanted Matthew to be her boyfriend. But he’d just made this statement—that he had been worried she wouldn’t come—that was nearly impossible to answer with any dignity. What could she say that was most likely to get her where she wanted to be? Her synapses went into a series of calculations and evaluations that can be listed as follows:

  Could say: “Here I am.”

  Veto. Sounds coy.

  Could say: “Of course I came.”

  Veto. Sounds like I idolize him.

  Could say: “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Veto. He’ll feel awkward answering that question.

  Could change the subject.

  Veto. People like to be listened to.

  Could say: “I’ve never been to a party on the golf course.”

  Veto. Too juvenile.

  Could say instead: “I’m always up for a party.”

  Veto. Too irksome. Plus, sounds like I went to lots of parties last year, which he’ll soon find out I didn’t.

  I need to make him laugh. And I need to unsettle him enough so that’s he’s not entirely certain I like him.

  Golf. The golf course.

  “I’m a halfway decent golfer,” said Frankie after only a 2.8 second pause. “I never turn down the chance to play a few holes.”

  There. Matthew laughed!

  Frankie glowed in satisfaction. This was better than winning a debate.

  “You’ll need infrared goggles,” he said.

  “What, you don’t have?”

  “Um. No.”

  “You expect me to play nighttime golf without serious military-level equipment?” Frankie faked a pout. “I don’t think that’s fair. I want this lack of tech support figured into my handicap.”

  Relieved that reasonably intelligible and even entertaining things were coming out of her mouth, Frankie snuck a look at Matthew. His profile was Bostonian, and his white skin glowed under his late-summer freckles. “If I’d known you were so demanding, I would have made better preparations,” he said.

  “Aha. So you are throwing this party.”

  Matthew nodded. “Me and Alpha. We matched everyone up, and Alpha got the she-wolf to paste the invitations.”

  “The she-wolf?”

  “Alpha’s girlfriend.”

  Alpha had a girlfriend. Since when did Alpha have a girlfriend? Hadn’t he just been flirting with Frankie three weeks ago? “I didn’t know he had one,” she said as coolly as she could.

  “Oh, he’s always got one. And she’s always the she-wolf,” said Matthew. “The girl may change; in fact, the girl will always change. But the name remains the same.”

  Hm. Frankie wondered if she had underestimated Alpha. When she’d met him at the rock wall, she had thought he either didn’t remember her or was backing off because Matthew had claimed her. But now it seemed Alpha had already hooked up with the she-wolf, and if he always had someone, he was at least as popular with girls as Matthew. “Isn’t he supposed to be an alpha dog?” Frankie asked. “Not a wolf?”

  “Of course. But we’re gentlemen. We’d never call a girl a—”

  “I see. And Alpha got this she-wolf to make invitations?”

  “They just started going out. She’s still trying to impress him.” Matthew laughed. “She hasn’t realized yet that it’s impossible.”

  Frankie absorbed the information. Who was the she-wolf? How had she managed to be already so in with this pack of boys that they’d had her make the invitations to their secret party?

  And why was it impossible to impress Alpha?

  Of course she couldn’t ask Matthew any of these questions, so she said something else. “You matched everyone up?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “So I’m guessing you wanted to take me to this party.”

  “Well,” said Matthew, pushing her gently with his shoulder while keeping hold of her hand. “I wanted to take you somewhere. And I was geeking out and couldn’t ask you to go get food or see a movie with me like a normal human.”

  “Right.” Frankie was sarcastic.

  “For real. So we got this idea to have a party, and I didn’t have to ask you, but yet I still get to take you.”

  “Very slick.”

  “I manage incredible things while avoiding other things,” said Matthew.

  “Like what?”

  “I organized a party so I wouldn’t have to ask you out. I did two extra-credit response papers in English last year ’cause I was avoiding Italian vocabulary for the final. I built a boat this summer to keep from hanging around with a girl who—I don’t know—thought she was my girlfriend. Or wanted to be, or something.”

  “You built a boat?”

  “Just a putt-putt. At my family’s place on the Vineyard. It’s in a fishing village. Menemsha.”

  “I thought you—” Frankie thought Matthew had driven cross-country with Dean and Alpha, but she cut herself short because she didn’t want him to realize he’d been so important to her that she remembered his summer plans. And besides, he could have done both. “I thought you meant a sailboat.”

  “My uncle builds those, but no. This was for putting around, maybe fishing, maybe going over to the Aquinnah side with my bike. Do you know the Vineyard?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I should show you around. There’s this great biking area that you take a tiny ferry to—or
a leaky putt-putt, if you’re me. And guys are pulling lobsters right out of the sea and throwing them into a pot. You like lobster, don’t you?”

  Frankie thought: He’ll show me around the Vineyard? What?

  And then she thought: He likes me! He wants to see me in the summer. Which is months away.

  And then she thought: How do I answer him?

  Matthew let go of Frankie’s hand and reached his arm around her shoulders, while her brain turned over his offer to show her around the Vineyard (it was several hours and a ferry ride away), his apparent ignorance that she was Jewish (and didn’t eat shellfish), and his assumption that they would be hanging around together longer than just for tonight. Within 3.27 seconds she decided there was no direct response that wouldn’t make her sound overeager, naive, self-conscious, or confused—although she was all four.

  “Did you do any other matchups tonight?” she asked instead, thinking of Gidget and Callum.

  “A few. Nothing too nefarious, though.”

  “Like what?”

  “A buddy of mine we hooked up with a girl he likes. We put some friends together who don’t know each other well. You know, seeing what would happen. We invited a few lowerclassmen, but not that many.”

  “So you didn’t mastermind any conflicts, put people together with their archenemies, nothing like that?”

  Matthew looked at her. “I’m not one for schadenfreude.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Happiness at the misfortunes of others.”

  Frankie liked that word. Schadenfreude. “I’m not either,” she said. “But I might have been tempted anyway. To see what would happen to the social order if I made some unusual pairs.”

  “You have an evil little mind, do you know that?”

  Frankie laughed.

  “I’m serious. I bet you’re trouble wrapped in a pretty package.”

  “Who says it’s little?”

  “What?”

  “My evil mind. “

  “Okay, a sizable evil mind. Wrapped in a pretty package. That was the point.”

  Frankie felt herself flush. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Matthew. “I like a girl who knows how to take a compliment. You know how so many girls are all, ‘Oh, me? I’m not pretty. I’m a hag.’”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s so much nicer when someone just says thank you. So don’t become that girl, okay?”

  “That haggy girl? Okay.”

  They stepped out of the woods and headed up the path to the near edge of the golf course. “Frankie?”

  “What?’

  “That thing about me and Alpha organizing the party. You won’t go telling your friends, or anything, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Promise? Your lips are sealed?”

  Frankie didn’t see why it was such a big deal, but she nodded. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I am exceptionally good at keeping secrets.”

  THE GOLF COURSE

  They reached the small clubhouse, with a garage for golf carts and storage lockers for students’ clubs. The lights were off and the building was locked. For a moment, the night landscape seemed deserted. Frankie and Matthew skirted the side of the clubhouse and looked down the hill to the course.

  Nearly forty people were walking down. All dressed in dark colors, many lugging beer and a few carrying blankets to spread out on the grass. Most were seniors, though Frankie could make out Star holding hands with Dean, who was easy to spot because he was wearing an orange hunting jacket.

  Matthew grabbed her arm and they ran down the hill together.

  * * *

  An hour later, Frankie was cold, and so was everyone else. They had all underestimated what they’d needed to wear. The blankets people had brought to lie on ended up wrapped around the girls, and without blankets, there was nowhere to sit—so nearly everyone was standing.

  People were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, but there hadn’t been that much beer (everyone was underage), and most of it was gone. Ash and cigarette butts littered the golf course, and Frankie felt irritated that no one was thinking to shove them into their beer bottles or even their pockets.

  Matthew was flitting around. Playing host even though no one was supposed to know it was his party.

  There was no one for Frankie to talk to. Most of the people there didn’t know who she was. She stood alone, thinking. She knew she shouldn’t be irritated that Matthew wasn’t standing next to her—it was a party, and there were so many people here he’d probably barely talked to since last June. But as she looked at him laughing with Callum, Dean, and Alpha, Frankie remembered how Matthew had called her a “pretty package,” how he’d called her mind little, how he’d told her not to change—as if he had some power over her. A tiny part of her wanted to go over to him and shout, “I can feel like a hag some days if I want! And I can tell everybody how insecure I am if I want! Or I can be pretty and pretend to think I’m a hag out of fake modesty—I can do that if I want, too. Because you, Livingston, are not the boss of me and what kind of girl I become.”

  But most of her simply felt happy that he had put his arm around her and told her he thought she was pretty.

  Frankie sat down for a moment, but the grass was cold and slightly damp, so she stood again. She saw Porter—her ex, one of the only other sophomores there—talking to Callum on one edge of the group. She didn’t want to see him, so she went the opposite direction and found Star. “You were right,” Frankie said, tapping her on the shoulder. “I got an invitation.”

  Star turned. “Did I ask you about it?”

  How could she not recall asking about the invitation? She must have known Matthew was interested in Frankie, because she had thought to ask Frankie about the party, rather than any of the more popular, more obvious underclassmen in their history class.

  Frankie was trying to like Star, a feat she’d never before bothered to attempt. What with recent developments on the Matthew front, there seemed like a reasonable possibility she and Star would both be sophomore girlfriends of senior boys who were friends, so it was worthwhile getting to know one another. But Star’s dismissal was annoying.

  Frankie was beginning to realize that the kind of selective memory exhibited by Dean, Star, and their ilk was neither stupidity nor poor recollection. It was a power play—possibly subconscious on the part of the player—but nevertheless intended to discomfit another person who was in some way perceived as a threat. Maybe Star was threatened because Frankie was smart and Star was not; maybe because Star wanted to be the only sophomore girl with the high status of having a boyfriend in Matthew’s set; or maybe because Star was generally insecure and suspicious of women and girls who weren’t similar to her. In any case, she was threatened by Frankie, so she feigned forgetfulness, just as Dean had done.

  “In history,” Frankie reminded Star.

  “That class is so boring.” Star grimaced. “I can’t stand it. Grigoryan starts talking and I go la-la-la up to my happy place in my head and wait for it to be over. You should see my notebook. It has some of the most complicated doodles in, like, the history of Alabaster.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Well, not compared to geometry,” Star said.

  “You didn’t like that Napoleon lecture with the slides?”

  “Um. No.”

  “With his short-man complex and his receding hairline and paunchy stomach? Didn’t you kind of like that painting we saw this morning? And the whole thing about him being the Little Corporal, the one who knew all his soldiers’ names?”

  Star’s friend Claudia came up. She was a tall redhead without a single freckle. A soccer player. Inclined to pepper her sentences with enormous words, the meanings of which were not entirely within her apprehension. “Hey-hey,” she said to Star, with a nod at Frankie. “Look at this.” She held up the envelope that had enclosed her blue invitation. “What kind of dog is that?” she said, pointing to the wax seal.
>
  “I don’t know,” said Star. “Maybe a beagle?”

  “Snoopy is a beagle,” said Claudia with a shake of her head.

  “But it looks kind of like Snoopy.”

  “Uh-uh. Snoopy’s epicanthic folds aren’t like that.”

  Star laughed. “Snoopy rules! He’s the cutest dog.”

  “It’s a basset hound,” said Frankie.

  “Snoopy’s not a basset hound,” said Claudia. “Snoopy’s a beagle. I already told you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ooh, there’s Dean,” Star said to Frankie, pointing. “He’s my boyfriend now, did you know that?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “I guess people talk. Anyway, I’ve gotta go remind him how he’s driving me off-campus to see a movie tomorrow. Come on, Claudia.”

  And they were off.

  Frankie watched them go, ponytails swinging, and realized she had bored Star and Claudia so much that Star had made an excuse to get away.

  But on the other hand, they had bored Frankie, too.

  The party was boring. It was people standing around in the cold.

  A little after one a.m., everyone started drifting into the woods, heading back to the dorms a few at a time so as not to make noise. Matthew walked Frankie home through the dark trees, holding her hand and whispering conspiratorially about wanting to be a newspaper editor and how last summer he, Dean, and Alpha had hitched a ride with the driver of a Mack truck when the Volvo had broken down, and had eaten pie at a truck stop for several hours before calling Triple-A.

  He walked her to the woods behind her dorm. “Can I kiss you?” he whispered as she was opening her phone to call Trish.

  How could he ask that?

  How could he ever think she wouldn’t?

  “No way,” she told him, and pulled him toward her.

  “You’re being mean to me,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Okay, I changed my mind,” she said.

  His lips were cold on the outside, and Frankie was shivering even with his arms around her.

  Matthew stopped kissing her and breathed his warm breath down the back of her shirt, laughing. Then he kissed her again.

  She didn’t call Trish for another half hour.