The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks

by E. Lockhart

  And so, another possibility—the possibility I hold out for—is that Frankie Landau-Banks will open the doors she is trying to get through.

  And she will grow up to change the world.

  As we leave her, Frankie is finishing her sophomore year. From the outside, it appears she’s doing well. Behaving as everyone wants her to behave. But the burn on her arm left a wicked scar from elbow to wrist, and she wears long sleeves even in hot weather to keep the mangled skin away from prying eyes.

  She’s still taking modern dance, still debating, still rooming with Trish, who has settled on viewing all Frankie’s behavior during the ignominious fall as “stress from a bad relationship.”

  Frankie is grateful to have such a loyal friend, but it does not escape her notice that Trish’s lack of understanding is a condition of that loyalty. Were Trish to fully comprehend the way Frankie thinks, the subjects she ponders all the time when she appears to be quietly doing her homework—Frankie’s anger and hunger—she would pull away. To Trish, Frankie is still the ordinary girl with gerbils at home in a Habitrail, only now more melancholy and in need of cheering up, due to the second bad boyfriend in a row.

  There’s Frankie now, sitting with laptop on a bench in front of the library in the warm spring air. It’s a Saturday. Most of the students have taken one of the Alabaster shuttles to town, and the campus is largely empty. Trish is playing golf with Artie.

  Matthew, Dean, and Callum burst out of Hazelton and hurtle down the steps, then stand around talking about ten feet from Frankie, before heading in their separate directions.

  They don’t say hello.

  They don’t even appear to see her.

  “I could care less about crew this year,” Callum is saying.

  “Couldn’t care less!” Matthew says, poking him. “If you could care less, that means you care a fairly decent amount. It’s couldn’t care less.”

  “Dog, I know that. You told me before. I just don’t care.”

  Matthew laughs. “But you know it’s like nails on the chalkboard of my brain. Can’t you say it right, just for me?”

  “Dog,” jokes Callum. “I’m going to sneak into that brain of yours in the middle of the night and massacre your inner copy editor. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “You did it again!” cries Matthew, giggling and banging his shoulder against Callum’s.

  “What?’

  “You can’t massacre it! Massacre refers to the slaughter of many people,” explains Matthew. “You’d have to murder it. Or assassinate it. Because it’s only one.”

  Callum smiles. “Dog, it is obvious to everyone that you have many, many copy editors in there.”

  “Touché.”

  Dean interjects. “You guys want to play golf tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” Matthew says. “I’ll get the word out.” A pause. “Me and my copy editors.”

  Frankie almost laughs out loud, but she knows she is not supposed to be listening.

  And of course no one plays golf at night, not without infrared goggles.

  They are having a party.

  Suddenly, Frankie’s protective armor is gone and she is not angry at anyone about anything anymore. Looking at Matthew, she sees nothing but a beautiful boy who used to think she was adorable. A boy who loves words, who makes her laugh. She sees his knowing smile, big shoulders, and the sun-kissed freckles across his nose. His Superman T-shirt still lives in the bottom of Frankie’s drawer, and all she sees is a boy whose world is lit up with adventure and confidence and humor and friendship. It was a world she used to be—almost was—welcome in.

  Frankie wants to go to the party on the golf course. She is sorry for everything. She wishes she had never infiltrated the Bassets. She wishes she were a different kind of girl. Someone simple, sweet, and unambitious.

  Maybe she could be that girl. Maybe there is a chance.

  “Matthew,” Frankie calls as he heads down the stairs away from her.

  She can tell from the way his back stiffens that he has heard. But he doesn’t answer.

  “Matthew!” she calls again. “Hey, listen!”

  He turns.

  Does he still think she is pretty?

  Does he remember how it felt when they kissed in his narrow dorm-room bed? When they held hands in the dark?

  Matthew is gallant. He has been brought up well. Noblesse oblige. Although he has not looked Frankie in the eye since he left the infirmary that day, he does so now that she’s spoken to him. A spasm of disgust crosses his face for just a moment before he forces it away. “Yes?”

  “I have this T-shirt I should give back to you,” Frankie tells him.

  Will he come get the shirt? Will he come now, to her room, and they will be alone together, and everything bad will just wash away?

  “I don’t remember,” he says, sounding nonchalant.

  But of course he remembers. Frankie knows this game.

  “Superman,” she says. “The Superman T-shirt.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” He is laughing slightly. Fake. “Keep it,” he says. “I never take back my gifts.”

  Matthew would rather let her keep the shirt than interact with Frankie for another second. He hates her that much.

  He turns away, and the dogs follow.

  Frankie chokes back tears. She doesn’t want the shirt anyway.

  As the Bassets head across the lawn, Frankie reminds herself why she doesn’t want Matthew. Doesn’t want him anyway.

  It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can’t see who you are. It is better to lead than to follow. It is better to speak up than stay silent. It is better to open doors than to shut them on people.

  She will not be simple and sweet. She will not be what people tell her she should be. That Bunny Rabbit is dead.

  She watches the boys as they peel off in different directions and disappear around corners and into the buildings of Alabaster.

  She doesn’t feel like crying anymore.

  A few notes on the text,

  plus grateful acknowledgments

  I am indebted to a number of books for my ideas about boarding school, boys clubs, pranks, interventionist art, urban exploration, and so on. In particular, I made use of: Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon by Chuck Palahnuik; The Interventionists: Users’ Manual for the Creative Disruption of Everyday Life edited by Nato Thompson and Gregory Sholette; Preparing for Power: America’s Elite Boarding Schools by Peter W. Cookson Jr. and Caroline Hodges Persell;

  If at All Possible, Involve a Cow: The Book of College Pranks by Neil Steinberg; Prank University: The Ultimate Guide to College’s Greatest Tradition by John Austin; The Code of the Woosters and the Drones Club stories by P. G. Wodehouse; Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh; and The Suicide Club, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

  I did research at Web sites such as santarchy.com, museumofhoaxes.com, actionsquad.org, la.cacophony.org, bridesofmarch.org, and numerous others devoted to urban exploration or college pranks.

  The material in Frankie’s Suicide Club/Cacophony Society paper is factual, as is the material on the panopticon, the theoretical interpretation of which comes very loosely from Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison by Michel Foucault. The theft of the Guppy is based on the 1933 theft of the Sacred Cod of Massachusetts, which was stolen by students from Harvard. It is one of the most famous college pranks of all time. All errors regarding these crazy subjects are my own.

  The information about secret societies is completely imaginary—and probably false.

  The basset hound of vegetables was inspired by my friend Paul Zelinsky, who once made a Rapunzel out of cheese.

  Thank you to Donna Bray for her great leniency and editorial acumen. And for her faith that I would write something decent from a proposal that was nothing more than two paragraphs of silliness. Everyone at Hyperion has been wonderfully supportive and creative, in particular Emily Schultz, Elizabeth Clark, Jennifer Zatorski, Scottie Bow
ditch, and Angus Killick. My agent, Elizabeth Kaplan, is indispensable. I am so grateful for her help.

  Thank you to Ben Fine for his boarding school stories, and to my friends from college who threw late-night parties on the Vassar golf course. My husband let me steal some of his jokes and read an early draft.

  Justine Larbalestier, Maryrose Wood, Lauren Myracle, and Sarah Mlynowski kibbitzed on my author picture so much it felt like we were having a pajama party, and then they made me go back and have a new one taken wearing makeup—thank you, all. Heather Weston (heatherweston.com) took endless photos and charged me only an eighth of what they are worth.

  Sarah Mlynowski read a draft when this book was in terrible, half-finished form and helped me immensely. Much appreciation also to the members of my YA Novelists newsgroup for weighing in on the title and in general for their support. Thank you to my writing companions, Scott Westerfeld, Maureen Johnson, and John Green, for keeping me from being lonely during revisions and for answering tedious questions such as “What is the little show in Ms. Pac-Man called, you know, the thing that happens after you’ve completed two thingees?” (intermission between levels) or “What is that band you listen to when you’re really depressed?” (The Smiths)— whenever I asked.