Now everyone’s looking at me cause I’m laughing
No laughing allowed
I hate this place
Good I’m still mad though
I love u, Char
So I stop being mad because—well, because it’s Christmastime, and I am filled with peace and love and goodwill toward men, including Frankie. But I am watching, too, because I’m not an idiot, and I know what it means that Frankie’s gone batshit, that she’s obsessing about stupid Grant and touring St. Albans School for Assholes. It means she wants something to change—she wants to jump off the ledge—and that means that I’m probably going to be out of a best friend pretty soon. Because Frankie’s not getting change on the earthshaking life-or-death level, and not on the love-n-sex level either. The school level was a bust. That leaves the friend level. So I’m trying to get ready. Does that sound cynical and heartless? Too bad. I’m being realistic here. You know, practical. Protected is another way to say it, I guess.
Christmas. I hope I never get over Christmas. I remember when I was a little kid, and Christmas Eve was the most exciting thing in the world. Ollie and I would sleep in the same room, and we’d promise to wake each other up at three a.m. to catch Santa Claus coming down the chimney. I don’t know why we thought three a.m. was the right time, but we did. Or I did, and Ollie believed me. He was so cute back then; he frowned all the time. Everything you said to him, he frowned and nodded, like a doctor. We never woke up at three a.m., but it was fun planning it. And then, oh my god, the total died-and-went-to-heaven of Christmas morning, coming downstairs and seeing a field of presents under the tree. Even if a lot of them were for cousins and shit, it was beautiful.
It’s not like that anymore. I mean, it’s not really exciting the way it used to be, since I know that most of my presents are going to be gift cards, plus Mom’s annual experiment in teen fashion (every year, she wings it on one gift, because she thinks gift cards are lame. She does okay. Not perfect, but okay, as in, I usually don’t have to return it). But Christmas is still good—I mean, I like gift cards, and I still get a little flash of the old died-and-went-to-heaven feeling on Christmas morning. I hope I keep it forever, and even if I can’t, I hope I don’t turn into one of those grown-ups who mutters bitterly about how much trouble Christmas is.
We did our traditional Christmas things—my aunt Louise and her new husband (I think I should be calling him my uncle) came for a few days; we went to my granddad’s for Christmas Eve and had cioppino (and Granddad let me have a glass of wine!); we opened presents on Christmas morning with the cousin assortment pack; and we went to my dad’s younger brother Sam’s house for Christmas dinner, which was goose, yuck, but my aunt Vaughn (who’s a girl, even though her name is Vaughn) made the most delicious mocha torte you ever tasted in your life. She’s a pastry chef for a caterer, and boy, are we glad Sam married her.
Impressive semicolon use in that paragraph.
I got a bunch of good stuff, too—cards for iTunes, H&M, and PacSun. Mom’s present was a sweater from Brandy, which isn’t what I’d normally wear but might be okay, plus it was nice of her because she hates Brandy. Ollie and I got each other the same thing: iTunes cards (but the one I gave him was for more than the one he gave me. Which is fine). Dad did what he always does, which is wait until the twenty-third and then freak out, so he got me watercolor paints and paper, which is kind of goofy, but fun. And Louise, who must really be happy about that new husband (Uncle Marshall) gave me seventy-five dollars!
So Christmas was nice, just like it always is, and afterward, on Christmas night, I got kind of blue, just like I always do. When I was little, Christmas night was a full-on spiral into despair, but now, I just get a little blue. So I wandered around my room for a while and I tried on my new sweater and—see how incredibly honest I’m being in this book?—I played with these little wooden mice I’ve had since I was tiny. Then my phone buzzes. Frankie!
Frankie Radiates Positive Energy and Nobody Dies as a Result
“Hey,” said Frankie. She wedged the phone between her pillow and her ear. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“You mean the dress?” asked Charlotte. “Merry Christmas, by the way. You didn’t even guess, did you?”
“No! No idea. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the box.”
“So did you wear it?” Charlotte asked. “Like for dinner or something? You guys do a fancy Christmas dinner, don’t you?”
Frankie made a bitter noise. “Fancy, right. Max and Grant were rocking sweatpants, and Cate was wearing six tank tops—I have no idea why she does that. I want to say, Put on a fucking sweater, you gler. But then she’d stab me.”
“Put the steak knife down, Cate.”
Frankie giggled. “And my poor dad—this is so completely sad—my mom’s mom gave him one of those aprons with the picture of a super-ripped guy’s body on it, you know, naked except for bulging undies.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah, she said she thought he’d like it because he’s so into exercise. A little bit passive-aggressive, maybe?”
“Just a little. Jesus.”
“And since Grandma was right there, he had to wear it while he cooked. Every time he looked down, he turned red.”
“Poor Tom. But Cate must’ve been happy, watching him get embarrassed.”
“Oh so happy. Best Christmas she ever had. She was so happy she even helped clean up, which made my mom feel good. So that was okay, but I’m kind of glad it’s over.”
“It’s not over.” Charlotte yawned. “We have thirteen more days off. That’s almost two weeks.”
“That’s almost half a month,” said Frankie. “Anything could happen.”
“Want to bet?” Charlotte yawned again. “Hey, should we go shopping tomorrow afternoon? I got gift cards.”
“Maybe. I might be doing something else then,” said Frankie evasively. “I’ll text you.”
The next morning, Frankie paused outside the kitchen to take a deep breath. Nothing was going to happen if she didn’t make it happen. Right? Right. A person had to ask for what she wanted. Right? Right. Frankie channeled positive energy and marched briskly into the kitchen, where Max was hunched over his computer, eating Rice Krispies.
“Hi!” she said, radiating positive energy.
Max lifted his eyes from his computer to Frankie.
She pulled out imaginary earbuds. He pulled out his earbuds. “What?”
“Hi,” she repeated enthusiastically.
He raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “I used to be watching Fullmetal Alchemist.”
He wasn’t really irritated, Frankie knew. It took a lot to irritate him. “I meant, what are you doing today,” she said. “Like, later.”
“Frankie,” he said. “What do you want?”
“You know how you gave me a gift certificate for driving lessons for Christmas?” she said in a rush.
He nodded reluctantly.
“So? Could we go out today? Just for, like, an hour—or maybe more?” She nodded hopefully at him.
Max smiled at her. He had gotten a lot better-looking in the last year, Frankie noticed. He had been a scrawny twig guy in high school, but now he was bigger. He didn’t look like a kid anymore. His hair had gotten better, too. He’d let it grow, and it had turned out to be curly.
“Okay,” he said simply.
“Really?” Frankie’s voice pitched upward. She hadn’t expected him to say yes—knowing as she did that he’d only given her the certificate because it didn’t cost anything.
“Yeah. Later. Like—” He looked at the clock. “Like, maybe, two?”
“Yess!” Frankie boinged up and down on her toes. “Two’s great! Two’s fantastic!”
He frowned. “You’ve got the permit, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got the permit, I know all the rules,” she assured him. “I went out with Dad a couple times, but you know
, he’s kind of a freak about it, and Mom won’t go. She says teaching Cate traumatized her.”
Max snorted. “I can see that.”
Frankie giggled. “Me too. You’d crash the car just to end it.”
He laughed, and Frankie felt a little rush of happiness that he thought she was funny. “Okay!” She slapped her hands together. “Two!”
He nodded and returned to his screen, reaching for his earbuds. As he wedged one into his ear, he noticed that Frankie was still looking at him. “What?” He sighed.
“Max?”
“Yes, Frankie?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
He hesitated ever so slightly. “Yes.”
“You do?” Frankie leaned forward, fascinated. “Really? Since when?”
“Since about two months ago.” He blushed a little.
“Wow! Does she live around here?”
“No.”
Frankie rubbed her fingers on the counter, filled with questions that wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know. “Do you really like her?” she said, cutting to the chase.
“No. I really hate her. Shut up.”
Frankie retreated to the conventional. “What’s her name?”
“Raina.”
Frankie couldn’t think of anything to say about that. “Huh.” Pause. “Does Grant know her?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I see a picture of her?”
He shook his head. “No. Could you please go away now?”
Oops. He was getting irritated. Better retreat. Frankie said, “Okay! Bye! Don’t forget! Two!”
Max grunted and stuffed the other earbud in.
Back in the safety of the dining room, Frankie leaned against the wall and took out her phone to text Charlotte:
Max is taking me driving!
Yay Max! When?
Today! 2
Wait—thought it had to be someone over 25
Shutup
I’m calling the cops
FU
Look Twice Save a Life
I will!
Come over later
K. 4?
K
Frankie collapsed against the back of the driver’s seat, exhausted. “When does it stop taking all your concentration?”
“It always takes concentration,” said Max in a grown-uppy voice. He looked over at her and added, in a more friendly way, “But it gets a lot easier after the first six months.”
“Good.” Frankie closed her eyes. After five minutes in the car with Max, Frankie had realized that her dad didn’t really want her to learn how to drive. When her dad took her out driving, they went to an empty business park and drove around an empty parking lot for about ten minutes. Max, on the other hand, had taken her down to Shellmound, which was a wide, gravelly park by the bay. There was no actual traffic, but there were other cars, as well as lanes and fences and dogs and even some people on the bicycle path, which was of course far far away from where Frankie was driving but which she could conceivably lose her mind, hit the accelerator, and careen into, killing everyone, if she didn’t pay close attention. And Max, unlike her dad, kept making her try new things, like reversing, which was terrifying because you had to look in the mirror while at the same time not forgetting to look out the front window, too.
Frankie was drenched in sweat.
“You done?” asked Max.
She nodded.
“Okay, put it into Park and turn off the engine.”
Frankie looked down at the gears.
“Foot on brake. Move into Park.”
She put her foot on the brake and shifted into Park.
“Key.”
Hesitantly, she turned the key. The car didn’t leap violently forward and kill two pedestrians walking their dogs at the edge of the park. It just went off. Frankie exhaled with relief.
“You did great,” said Max.
“Thanks.”
There was a pause.
“So,” he said. “You can get out now.”
“Nuh-uh,” Frankie said. “I can’t unwrap my fingers from the steering wheel yet.”
He laughed. “Okay. We can just sit here for a minute.”
She nodded. There was a silence, and then she said, “Am I reminding you of Dad?”
“What? ’Cause you’re so tense? A little.”
“Fuck.”
“It’s okay,” said Max. “Dad’s okay.”
There was another silence. “I always thought I was a really easygoing, chill kind of person, but I don’t think I am,” she said.
Max shrugged. “You’re okay.”
“You’re chill,” she said accusingly.
“Yeah, that’s what everyone says.” He grimaced. “But you know what? I hate that word. Chill. It makes me sound like those guys who think the whole point of life is playing beer pong and kicking back.”
“I just meant you’re calm.”
“I know, I know, but it still bugs me, because whenever you want to do stuff, people act like it’s some kind of personality disorder.”
“I take it back. You’re not chill!” Frankie thought a minute. “But I think it’s good, wanting to get stuff done. You’ve got to, right?”
He gave her a questioning look.
“Char and I are always talking—arguing, really—about this. She thinks it’s ridiculous to try to make things happen at our age. But I think you’ve got to at least want something. If you don’t, you’re letting yourself be crushed by other people’s rules, you know?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “it depends on what you want. I mean, if you want something deranged, like to be a serial killer, then yeah, you should be crushed by other people’s rules.”
Frankie giggled. “Well, duh. But let’s say you’re just, like, regular. Then I think it’s okay to want your life to change, and to try to get what you want. Char thinks we should just accept that we have no power to do anything.”
“Dark worldview,” commented Max.
“Yeah. I think it’s the books she reads.”
Max smiled. “She should watch more cat videos.”
Frankie unsnapped her seat belt. “Did you ever do anything completely against the rules and crazy just because you wanted to?”
“Yeah,” said Max, opening his door, “I took you out driving.”
“Can we go again? Like maybe tomorrow? Please?”
He turned to look at her. “You’re not chill. But okay. Tomorrow.”
NOTHING
In order to talk about what happened next I have to go back and explain a little—I guess this is where second drafts come in if you’re a real writer, but fuck that, too boring. Okay: on Christmas Eve day, when my mom and I were making another batch of shortbread because Dad and Ollie are under the impression that if you leave one cookie in the tin, you haven’t eaten all the cookies, so all of our tins had one cookie in them, I got a text from Sid: what’s your snail mail?
I send it to him, plus: why?
You’ll see
All through Christmas, I was wondering what he was sending me. I mean, I wasn’t freaking or anything—I was in holiday mode, jingle bells, fa la la—but in the back of my mind, I was thinking about it, off and on. The next day, too. And then the day after that, when I checked the mailbox—casually!—there was an envelope. From Sid Havelka, 17167 Foothill View Rd, Sisters, OR 97759. His handwriting is typical boy writing, blocky and dorky, like a second-grader did it. Blue pen. I keep staring and staring at his writing on the envelope, trying to figure out what he’s like from his writing, which is, I guess, what you do when you have zero real facts about a person. I wish I knew what he looks like—I mean, what the fuck’s with the no-picture rule? It makes you think he probably has some major disfiguring thing on his face, like two noses or one eye. But that’s probably not the thing. Probably he just has acne. Well, fuck him, I have zits and I put my picture out there—why should he be so delicate?
Excuse me. Digression.
Except I really am hav
ing these thoughts while I’m staring at his envelope, being all fascinated by his blue, blocky handwriting and then getting mad at myself for being fascinated, because it’s such bullshit. I mean, how manipulative is that, refusing to reveal your image so that your friends sit around wondering if you have two noses? Really manipulative. Asshole.
So I’m kind of mad and distracted by being mad when I pull open the envelope and this tiny, heavy piece of paper slides into my hand. It’s a porcupine. A tiny, perfect drawing of a porcupine. I guess it’s colored pencil. It’s adorable. The porcupine has this annoyed look, like he was in the middle of important porcupine business and got interrupted. I turn it over and there’s a message in spindly black ink: “Charlotte MC —S.”
MC must be Merry Christmas.
He made me a porcupine.
I love it.
And the other thing is—he remembered. Back when we first started texting, like, last summer, he put a picture of this ugly-ass newt up on his Instagram, and I was teasing him about it, telling him there had to be better-looking animals than that, even in Sisters, Oregon. He said there weren’t. I said what about hedgehogs, and he said there aren’t any hedgehogs in Oregon, I must be thinking of porcupines. I said of course there are hedgehogs, and then I looked it up and he was right. There are no hedgehogs. There are porcupines.
So he made me a porcupine.
Oh my god, I am completely in love with this guy.
No I’m not. That’s stupid. I don’t even know him and he’s manipulative as fuck. Plus, he’s got acne. At best. At worst, two noses. Actually, I can think of lots of worse things than that. Like, he’s a forty-year-old child molester.
But he’s not. He’s in high school. I know this because the friend of a friend on Instagram, which is how I met him, actually goes to school with him. Sid’s got pictures of this friend, Sukey, and a bunch of other kids, on his Instagram. Sukey lives in Sisters. My cousin Campbell knows Sukey because they worked at the same movie theater before Sukey moved. So. Sid’s a child. He could still be a molester, though.
But he made me a porcupine.
I text him. It takes me a really long time.
Best present ever. I love him. 1000000 x cuter than a newt. You’re amazing.
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