Then after dinner, I was involved in major group-chat drama about this girl named Lisette who is, well, let’s just say legend for getting wrecked and doing guys in weird places, for example under the bleachers during a soccer tournament. Go team. Anyway, everyone was piling on her for hooking up with this guy, Marin, who’s supposed to be dating Serena Fong. Everyone was all, what a bitch, what a slut, what a ho. And so on. So I say, Why is no one blaming Marin, why is the girl a ho and the guy fine? You sexists. And then—oh, yay—132 texts denying that they’re sexist, while still being sexist. I hate group chats.
Plus I still had reading to do.
Plus Sid usually texts me at around nine thirty.
Plus all the regular stuff like figuring out what to wear tomorrow and getting my backpack together and showering and zit control and my fucking teeth, which I’m not even going to talk about.
Here is Friday morning:
7:05: Hey can you bring my plant shirt?
7:06: Yag cu [Yag means yes. Inside joke.]
7:07–7:46: many boring things, including me walking to school
7:47–8:00: Frankie, red-faced from running, throws her backpack on the ground next to my feet. “Hi,” she pants. “Is it in here?” She’s rooting around in my backpack.
“Oh my GOD, don’t mess everything up!” I yell, slapping at her. She keeps on messing everything up, so I yank my backpack away from her.
Except she won’t let go, and she bonks me with her hip to knock me over.
“Here! Here!” I yell, holding out her shirt. “Jesus, you’re such a bitch!”
She grabs it. “Thanks, sistah” and runs off to the bathroom to change, yelling, “Watch my stuff,” over her shoulder. She almost runs into one of the Chrises, but doesn’t at the last second, turns around to make a face at me about that, and actually does run into a guy named Dagoberto—not kidding—and practically kills him because he’s like the size of a ten-year-old. And he gets all mad and starts screaming at her and she’s apologizing but she’s still running, too, because she’s only got eight minutes before the bell rings.
And then Noony comes and she’s having drama about her pants, which is like a daily occurrence because Noony’s mom won’t let her wear leggings to school. “She’s all, No daughter of mine is going to leave this house looking like a slut, and I’m all, Mom, please, I’m gay, and she’s all, I don’t care, and then I say, You don’t care ’cause you think it’s a phase but it’s not. I’m into girls, Mom. I want to make out with girls, Mom,” she says, and I start laughing. [I wonder what it would be like to make out with Noony. Can’t picture it. No, wait, I can. Bleee-yah. Besides, that would ruin my book.] Here comes Gaby. I give her a hug. And here’s Eden, who’s always a little bit out of it.
“Hey Eden, what’s happening?”
“What?” That’s how she answers everything. She’s pretty, with far-apart eyes like a kitten. There’s some weirdness about her family, but I don’t know exactly what it is. I don’t know that much about her at all, really. I always thought she was Gaby’s best friend, but one time when I was having a sleepover with Gaby, I said that, and Gaby said she didn’t know what I was talking about. She said she never hung out with Eden alone. I guess no one does.
And then Frankie came running back in her plant shirt. “Yeah?” she asked, modeling for me.
“Tuck it in.”
She tucked it in.
“No, untuck it.”
She untucked it.
“Cute.”
“Hair up or down?”
“Down, down, completely down.”
Then this girl I can’t stand named Cora came over. She’s so fake. I don’t know why she has any friends at all. She’s always doing this thing that drives me crazy, putting up super-posed pictures of herself standing at, like, the beach in a tiny bikini, with captions like, “Lil nature fairy—had to take a mental health day, had to see the sky. . . .” Shut the fuck up.
She’s all fake-smiling at me. “Your jacket is so cute, I love it!” Then she puts her arm around me and takes a selfie, with peace sign, of course. And I have to pretend I’m so happy that she likes my jacket. Like I care.
Then that asshole Kellen comes over and starts leaning all over Cora, right in front of Frankie. What the fuck? He doesn’t know Frankie likes him? He’s a dick. And Cora’s squealing, “Get away, get awaaaay.”
Meanwhile Eden is staring into space. Gaby’s texting Alex, who’s late. Noony’s doing math problems. Frankie’s standing to one side, and then she gives me this little smile and mutters, “In one of those teen books, that would be a plot twist.” She sort of nods at Cora and Kellen.
I look at them—Kellen leaning and Cora fake-squealing at him—and say, “In a teen book, some up-till-now-unnoticed guy would spill coffee on you right this second, and it would be the beginning of a huge thing.”
And damn us, we can’t help it. We look around for a guy with a coffee cup. Nothing. Nada. Bupkis. Real life doesn’t have plot twists.
“Did anyone figure out the answer to number sixteen?” asks Noony.
8:01: The bell rings.
It’s Friday. Let the Excitement Begin
Frankie was trying, sincerely trying, not to look at the clock. 3:04. Come on, baby, she begged it. Shake your ass.
“I don’t really get it,” Davindra was saying to Miss Mathers. Which was all he ever said.
“Don’t be la-aame, Daveeeendra,” one of the Chrises yelled across the room.
Miss Mathers whirled around, her face pink. “I will not have anyone making fun of names in my class!”
“What? Whose name?” said the Chris, holding up his hands like he didn’t understand what she was talking about. “What?”
“Who would like to explain to Chris what I mean?” she said. Oh god help us all, thought Frankie wearily. No one’s going to say anything.
No one said anything.
“Well, then, you’ll just stay right in your seats until someone can give Chris an explanation,” said Miss Mathers in a satisfied voice.
“But the bell’s about to ring,” complained Marco.
“I have to go!” yelled Chloe. “I have a doctor’s appointment!”
The other Chris said softly, “Aw, who’s the father?”
Uproar.
“What? What?” “Nobody leaves until both of you apologize!” “I gotta go!” “Sorry, Miss Mathers, coach said!” “What? I don’t get it!” “Shut up.” “Shut up.” “Shut up.”
And then they were all getting up, shoving books in their backpacks, putting jackets on, taking out phones. Frankie, Josh, Luis, and Tara kept sitting, to make Miss Mathers feel better. Tara even said, “What’s the homework again, Miss Mathers?” like nothing was happening. Miss Mathers jumped at the chance, too, and started gabbing about the homework, so that some of the leavers stopped leaving and listened, even though most didn’t. Miss Mathers pretended like she hadn’t told them to stay, and they pretended like she hadn’t been disobeyed, and Frankie was only a couple minutes late to meet Charlotte.
“Thank GOD,” Frankie said, leaping on her.
“Lester!” Charlotte caught her, and they whirled around, hugging. “It’s Friday! It’s Friday!” she sang.
“Shut up, shut up,” Frankie sang back.
“Ow,” Charlotte dropped her. “My back. Noony had to go help her grandma with something, but she said we should text her what we’re doing and maybe she can meet up.”
“What are we doing?” asked Frankie. Because it was December and therefore between cross-country and track seasons and therefore winter conditioning and therefore they didn’t have practice on Friday, they could do whatever they wanted. Which was what?
A backpack came flying over Charlotte’s head. “So—what are we doing?” It was Gaby.
They counted their money and waited around for Alex and then smoked Alex’s weed and then waited around some more for Reed and then tried to decide between bubble tea and pizza and coffee and yogurt and
burritos. Alex and Reed wanted burritos, so they walked to the burrito place, which was close to the bubble tea place, but Gaby wanted a chai, so they went to get that and then Noony texted, where u?, so they went up to Canyon, which was not a canyon but a rock, a big one, and sat around until Noony showed up.
Even though it was cold—California cold, not really cold—they stayed there until the sun set. Frankie leaned back against the granite, shivering a little in her hoodie. She envied Gaby, wrapped in Alex’s arms. Though she herself would never in a million years date Alex. He was kind of dumb. She knew for a fact he’d thought Africa was a country until last year. She glanced over at Reed, who was pretending he was about to pour his Arizona on Charlotte. They had hooked up once at the beginning of the year, and he knew she liked him, so he was sort of flirting, and Charlotte was sort of halfheartedly squealing. Maybe she was over it. Frankie hoped so; they were never going to be a thing. And neither were she and Kellen—she admitted it. Her be-the-change-you-want-to-see resolution looked pretty worthless now. Kellen could get girls like Cora, and Frankie wasn’t that. She took a quick look at herself in her camera and wished her boobs were bigger or the rest of her was smaller. Sometimes she thought she was pretty and sometimes she thought she was gross and sometimes—a lot of times—she just didn’t know. Today she didn’t know.
If she was being honest, Kellen was kind of dumb, too. He got good grades, but he had no idea what was going on. He was like, Syria? What about Syria? Jesus. And he had really bad taste in music. He liked Five Seconds of Summer. Charlotte had almost killed him when she found that out—she was all, “Only thirteen-year-old girls like 5-SOS, Kel. You can’t like them.” But he did anyway. At the time, Frankie had thought it was nice that he was so loyal, but now she thought maybe he just didn’t know the names of any other bands.
Charlotte plopped down next to her. “Jesus Christ,” she said under her breath, and Frankie knew she was talking about Reed.
“Not worth it,” said Frankie.
“No shit,” said Charlotte, burrowing close so that Frankie put her arm around her. “But look at Gaby and Alex. They’re ruining my life.”
“They hate each other. They told me,” Frankie said, and Charlotte snickered.
“What are you guys doing?” It was Noony, sitting down behind them. “Let me in.” They cuddled together, watching the sun set on the bay.
“Hey!” Reed turned on his little rock outcropping. “What the fuck? Everyone’s hooking up but me! Gimme some!”
“Dream on,” Noony muttered into Charlotte’s neck.
“Dream on!” screeched Frankie and Charlotte in unison. They had an Aerosmith thing. Noony groaned. “Dream on! Sing with me, sing for the years!”
“Shut up!” Gaby yelled. “Oh my god, it’s all your fault, Noony! Somebody stop them!”
“Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears!”
“Shut the fuck up!” yelled someone farther up the rock.
“Dream on!” screamed Frankie and Charlotte. But they were laughing too hard to sing more.
And then the sun set.
“Okay, sweetie, Daddy and I are going to bed,” said Frankie’s mom, brushing her hand through Frankie’s hair.
Frankie almost fell off her stool. “Jesus! Heart attack! Mom!” She took her earbuds out.
Her mom rolled her eyes. “I was just saying good night. Dad and I are going to bed.”
“Oh. Okay. G’night!” Frankie glanced at her phone. “It’s only nine thirty.”
“We’re tired,” her mom said. She yawned to prove it.
“Mom?”
“Frankie?”
“Can we practice driving during Christmas break?”
Her mother sighed deeply. “I don’t know. Ask Dad.”
Now it was Frankie’s turn to sigh. “Okay.” She paused. “He just gets so uptight about it.”
“I know,” her mom said. “I’ll see if I can stand it.” She glanced at Frankie’s phone. “You texting Charlotte?”
Frankie nodded.
“Why don’t you just hang out together?”
“If I could drive, I would. But right now, I don’t feel like walking home in the cold at eleven thirty at night.” Her mother smiled and turned to go. “Hey, Mom?” Her mother turned back. “When you were my age, did you have a boyfriend?”
Hesitation. “Yes.”
“I knew it!” said Frankie. “I’m a loser.”
“You are not!” Her mom leaped to her defense. “You’re absolutely not. If all you wanted was just any boyfriend, you’d have one. You want a boyfriend you like.”
Frankie shrugged. “The ones I like don’t like me.”
“Then they’re idiots and they don’t deserve you.”
“Said my mom.”
“Well, it’s true! You might just have to wait until the guys are older and smarter.”
“Great.” Frankie sighed. “How old was the boyfriend you had when you were my age?”
“Senior.”
“Oh my god! You went out with a senior?”
Her mom nodded.
“No senior would ever ask me out.”
“That’s crazy,” her mother said. “I don’t get that. When I was in high school, it was standard operating procedure for senior guys to go out with sophomore girls.”
“Not now,” said Frankie. “I guess it happens, but not a ton.”
Her mom gave her a sly look. “After we broke up, when I was sixteen, I went out with a twenty-two-year-old.”
“You did not!”
“I did. He was incredibly cute.”
“You wild thing! Didn’t Grandma freak?”
Her mom giggled. “She didn’t know.”
“You sneaked?” asked Frankie. “Mom!”
Her mom sat down on the next stool. “It wasn’t exactly sneaking. Grandma knew where I was. She just didn’t know he was there, too. It didn’t last long anyway.”
“Your life was way more exciting than mine is,” Frankie said glumly.
“Eh.” Her mom shrugged. “It wasn’t that exciting. He was cute, but not much else. I just went out with him to prove I could.”
“Prove to who?”
“To me. You know, to prove I could get him.”
“And you did.”
“But then we didn’t have anything to talk about. Anyway, it wasn’t much fun after the first part.”
“Still,” Frankie said. She waved a hand toward the empty kitchen. “Probably more fun than this.”
Her mother patted her cheek. “You know what? You’re going to have as many boyfriends as you want pretty soon, and trust me, you won’t want most of them.” She yawned and stood. “I’m going to bed.” She kissed Frankie. “G’night, sweetie.”
Alone again, Frankie looked down at her phone.
Lester? Charlotte had texted four minutes before. You still there?
still here, Frankie texted back. we should try older guys
what? why?
all the guys we know are assholes
and your point?
older ones are probs better
doubt it. how old?
seniors?
U r insane. seniors won’t look at us
older then
pervy old men? great
college guys
yeah right, you gler. Anyway college guys are probs assholes too plus your mom wouldn’t let you
U r so negative
so realistic u mean
Such a downer I mean
Low expectations = key to happiness
U r depressing. Gtg. Love you
Love you too
NOTHING
It’s Sunday morning at Frankie’s house. I slept over last night. One hundred percent honesty: I don’t like sleeping at other people’s houses, even Frankie’s. Other people have weird stuff for breakfast and no coffee and you can’t walk around in your underwear and I like my room and I hate that thing where you have to wait around for the other person to wake up because it’s
not your house. In a perfect world, I’d have stayed at Frankie’s until three in the morning and then gone home, which by the way is what I’m planning to do if I ever have a boyfriend—in the unlikely event—because no way can I be all pretty and nice in the morning, and besides, boys aren’t exactly fresh then, either.
Excuse me. Off topic.
Anyway. Even though I don’t like sleepovers, I slept over at Frankie’s because last night was Ollie’s birthday party, which consisted of eight seventh-grade boys coming over to play video games. I repeat, eight twelve-year-old boys. Ew. Definitely time to cat. My mom was jealous.
Frankie and I are in the kitchen having pancakes, which, yum, is probably a better breakfast than I’d have at home, even though Sharon (that’s Frankie’s mom) makes us eat a bunch of tangerines, too. It’s okay, though, because she actually peels the tangerines for us, which would never happen at my house. Frankie’s parents are much more into healthy food than my parents. My mom buys cookies and chips and root beer and shit like that; she says it’s because she doesn’t want us eating the good food. Sharon and Tom are super-fit. They exercise a lot. Tom runs marathons—or he has, anyway. I don’t know if he still does. They’re really skinny. Come to think of it, this is probably why Frankie’s thin and I’m not. I should start eating better.
So. The phone rings, landline, and Sharon calls from somewhere else, “Frankie, can you get that?”
Frankie sighs and gets up. “Hello?”
I hear a lot of crackling.
“Yeah. Uh-huh—ohh. Right.” Frankie is looking at me and rolling her eyes. What? “Sure. Hang on.” Frankie is not—sorry, Franklin, it’s the truth—super-great with grown-ups. She smiles a lot, but she doesn’t really talk to them. It’s like she’s embarrassed by their oldness.
“Da-aad!” she hollers. “It’s Bix!”
He’s in another room, too, but he comes, looking harried. He pretty much always looks that way. He’s a nervous guy, Tom.
He takes the phone and listens to a lot of crackling. Frankie comes back to the table and starts arguing with me about what I just wrote.
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