Is that okay? I don’t know. Should I have said Thanks or Thank you? I tried it, but it looked weird. Like, cold and formal. Like I was writing a Thank You Note. Which, duh, was exactly what I was doing, but I didn’t want to sound cold and formal.
Normally, I’d consult with Frankie about something like this. Normally, I’d have texted her about twenty seconds after I opened my porcupine and she would have come over and we would have freaked out together.
But I don’t. I don’t text her partly because I don’t want to hear about what a pussy I am and how I have to fight the fight, but partly because if Frankie’s about to break up with me, I have to have something that’s just mine, a secret, a thing that won’t be changed by her not being my friend anymore. So even if she’s hanging with, like, Merle and that girl Chloe, I’ll still have something. I’m getting ready, just in case. So shoot me.
Frankie got her fabulous black dress for Christmas—thank you, Charlotte, for being such an outstanding friend. You’re welcome. But fuck me if that dress didn’t turn into the next act in the Frankie Goes Psycho show.
Right after I got my present from Sid, while I am still sort of breathtaken, Frankie calls on our landline, of all things. “Let’s have a soiree!” she yells.
And because I have taken four years of French and know that soiree means fancy party (actually, it means evening-ie), I say, “Sure, Frankie, I’ll be right over.”
“No! Not now!” she says. “On New Year’s! Let’s have a really elegant dinner party and get all dressed up so I can wear my new dress. We can have Noony and Gaby and Alex and maybe Reed if we can stand him. We’ll all look really smooth and we’ll take a bunch of pictures and it’ll be fun!”
And it does sound pretty fun. Maybe a little dorky, but fun, because New Year’s Eve is usually a drag, with lots of calling around to see if anyone’s having a party, which nobody ever is, and then rumors about all the really cool parties we’re not invited to, followed by sulking in front of the TV at someone’s house and splitting, like, nine beers between seven people. We are bored out of our minds. A fancy dinner party at least sounds different.
Frankie says, “But we should do it at your house.”
“Why?” I say, thinking of cooking and dishes and cleaning.
“Because Max and Grant are here.”
That’s a pretty good reason. So I say, “Okay, let me ask my mom.” We hang up and I go running around the house to find my mom. Finally she turns up in her closet, trying on black T-shirts, and I tell her all about Frankie’s good idea, but I make it sound like my idea. I don’t want her to think Frankie’s passing the buck.
“It’ll be a soiree,” I say. “So people will be on their best behavior and we’ll clean everything up afterward. You won’t have to do a thing.”
She pops her head out of a T-shirt. “It would be okay, except for one problem—Daddy and I are going away that night. Don’t you remember this whole thing? We’re going up to Robin and Jim’s beach cabin until the second, and you and Ollie are going to Granddad’s. Remember?” She squints at me. “I told you about this two weeks ago.”
Now, the honest answer would be: I have no recollection of it because I don’t pay any attention when you tell me things. But that would be tactless. So I say, “I guess I forgot.” Then I heave a long, bummed sigh. “Can’t I just stay here? Pleeeeease? We’ll just have a couple of people over, and I swear Frankie and I will clean up everything. We were going to get all dressed up and be elegant, that’s all. Pleeease?”
She pops her head out of another T-shirt. “Do I look like a moron?”
“No,” I say, eyeing her shirt critically. “That one’s good.”
“No,” she says. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was only a moron would leave two gorgeous fifteen-year-old girls alone in the house on New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
Major artillery is deployed: “Mom! Frankie and I are good kids! We never do anything sus. We’re upstanding citizens. We’re, like, the most boring people in the universe. All we want to do is dress up and have a dinner party, like old ladies—it’s not like we’re going to have a rager or anything. We would never. Have we ever gotten in trouble for anything? No. Come on, pleeeease. I’m too old to go to Granddad’s.” This is what my dad calls building the Mercedes to settle for the Chevy—ask for everything you want and allow yourself to be whittled back. Because that last part is true. Come on. Not that I don’t love my granddad, but only eight-year-olds spend New Year’s Eve with their grandparents.
Mom gives me this sarcastic look. “Not a chance, shorty.”
Then there’s a lot of moaning and complaining that’s too long to repeat and I’m sure you can imagine anyway.
[Not to mention that writing conversations is a major pain in the ass. Comma, quote, capital letter, period, quote, help! Whoever thought the rules up was a dick.]
When it finally ends, I’ve got the Chevy. Mom doesn’t budge on me staying here with Frankie. But she does admit that I am kind of old to have to go to Granddad’s, and she says she’ll call Sharon to ask if I can spend the night over at Frankie’s on New Year’s Eve. I race to the phone to get Frankie on board, which she is. Maybe Max and Grant will go out to a club, she says. And we start planning what we’ll eat, which is a little bit hard, because we don’t really know how to make anything except for shortbread (me) and blondies (Frankie). But any deeker can make pasta, and besides, Sharon is always trying to teach Frankie to cook, so maybe she’ll help us.
Cool! We’re pumped.
For about twenty minutes.
Because after Mom talks to Sharon, and then Sharon talks to Tom, and then Sharon talks to Frankie, and then Sharon talks to Mom again, and then Mom talks to me, here’s what Frankie and I have:
I can sleep over at Frankie’s house on New Year’s Eve instead of going to Granddad’s, and we can have a “lovely” dinner party for two. No one else can come over because Sharon and Tom are going out to a party and won’t be there to “supervise.”
But—oh joy—Max says he’ll keep an eye on us.
Yippee.
I’d call that a 1993 Chevy with two flat tires.
Why do I even bother being good?
Frankie and I have one of our many our-lives-suck phone conversations. “I still want to wear my dress,” she says. “We can still have it be fancy, okay? And put on makeup and stuff.” She sounds kind of desperate.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of having no life!” she yells.
“Jeez. Calm down.” I very kindly don’t say Get real.
“No!!” she yells again
“Okay,” I say, super-soothing. “We’ll get all dressed up and eat fancy food. I’m into it.”
“Good,” she says, and hangs up.
Max Bosses Frankie and then Frankie Bosses Max
Just as the rain began, Frankie came to a four-way intersection.
“Wipers,” said Max.
She turned on the wipers. “I’m on the right, right?”
“Right.”
Smoothly she accelerated through the intersection. “Very good,” she said to herself.
“Make a left here,” said Max.
“Left,” she agreed, peering carefully in all directions for oncoming traffic. “Very good,” she said under her breath as she completed the turn.
“How about some freeway driving?” suggested Max.
Frankie flicked on her signal, pulled the car slowly to the curb, and cut the motor.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m trying to prepare myself,” she said. “You know, for the freeway.” She took a deep breath.
“Exhale.”
She exhaled. “I don’t think I can deal with the freeway.”
“Okay. We don’t have to,” Max said.
She gave him an annoyed look. “You’re supposed to tell me I’ll be fine. You’re supposed to say I’m an amazing driver and I can absolutely h
andle the freeway.”
“You’re an amazing driver and you can absolutely handle the freeway,” said Max.
“Now I don’t believe you.”
He sighed. “Girls are insane.”
“Fuck you,” she snapped.
“Oh, nice,” he said. “Way to overreact.”
“Sorry,” she said grudgingly. “It’s just that minute you disagree with a guy, they call you insane.”
He squinted at her. “I was just kidding.”
“Okay, but I hate that. It’s sexist and controlling.”
“Jesus.” Suddenly Max leaned back in his seat, frowning. “Huh.”
Frankie eyed him. “Did you call your girlfriend crazy?” she guessed.
He rubbed his face. “I can’t remember the exact words. Maybe something like that.”
“What about?” she asked cautiously. She didn’t want to mess up. She’d never had this kind of a conversation with Max before.
“Ahh, I didn’t want to go over to her house, and she got mad at me. She thinks I’m not spontaneous enough. Because I actually do my work. Unlike her. But anyway, she was trying to get me to come over and telling me that I was using music as an excuse not to see her and I said something like You’re insane and then all of a sudden, she was raging. Whew. That was crazy.”
“You just did it again. Asshole.”
“Shit. Yeah. She almost broke up with me.”
“Did you go over.”
He nodded. “Eventually.”
“Good move.”
There was a pause. “She’s still kind of mad at me.”
He was almost asking her advice. Not quite, but almost. Carefully Frankie said, “About that? How long ago was it?”
“Not about that exact thing,” Max said. He took a breath. “She thinks I’m not really into her. ‘Uncommitted’ is the word she used. Also ‘uncaring.’”
“Really? But you do like her, right?”
“I really like her.” He put his hands on the dashboard and cracked his knuckles.
“How come?”
He gave Frankie a suspicious look. “I just do. She’s fun. She’s not boring. She doesn’t talk about stupid stuff.”
“Is she cute?”
“See? That’s exactly the kind of stupid shit she doesn’t talk about!” he yelled.
“Oh my god, you’re such a dick. I was just asking.” Was it stupid? Frankie wondered. Maybe. Maybe he really didn’t care what she looked like. “What does she talk about?”
“Lots of stuff. She has all these theories. She’s the queen of theories. Most of them have no basis at all, but they’re pretty funny.”
“Like what?”
He smiled. “Like she thinks that people with really nice sheets and bedspreads are more depressed than people with just normal sheets.”
Frankie giggled.
Max grinned at her. “I know. She’s nuts. She says she’s going to do a study and prove it. She’s a psych major.” He shook his head. “She has lots more. Theories.” His smile faded. “She’s going to break up with me.”
“But Max,” said Frankie, “if she’s mad because you’re uncaring, then she must like you.”
He nodded. “I guess. Maybe. But she’s sick of putting up with me.”
“’Cause you don’t hang out with her enough?”
He shrugged. “’Cause I can’t just drop everything and be with her all the time.”
“Are you really, uh, committed when you are with her?”
“Yeah, sure.” He didn’t sound sure.
“Have you told her how much you like her?”
“She knows.”
“Have you told her?” Frankie pressed.
“Well. Not in so many words, maybe,” he admitted.
“Oh. My. God. Are you kidding me?”
“Oh. My. God,” he mimicked her.
“You’re a moron.” Frankie turned on the engine. “We are driving home right now and you’re going to call her and tell her.”
“Bossy cow.”
“Loser.”
But Frankie noticed that he didn’t object to her plan. When they arrived at home, he went downstairs to his room and shut the door.
Displaying earth-shattering amounts of self-control, Frankie didn’t ask a single question about how the conversation had gone when she saw her brother the next morning. She didn’t even give him a meaningful raised-eyebrow So? But it didn’t take a genius to see that he was in a good mood—he kept making little happy robot sounds, like boop! as he pottered around the kitchen getting his breakfast. And when he said, “So, freeway today, kid?” she knew that (a) his phone call had gone well and (b) he was giving her credit for it.
But all she said was, “Sounds good.”
Her mom, who was trying find a recipe that Frankie could make for the New Year’s Eve soiree, looked up from her cookbooks. “You are a nice brother, Max,” she said. She turned to Frankie. “You are lucky to have such a nice brother, and I am lucky to have such a nice stepson who’s willing to give up his time so I don’t have a nervous breakdown.”
“No problem,” Max said with his mouth full.
“What about carbonara, honey?” asked Frankie’s mom, returning to the cookbooks. “That’s about as easy as it gets. You have to run around a lot at the last minute, but it’s not hard.”
“Yum,” said Frankie. “Char’ll love it. She loves unhealthy stuff.”
“You have to have salad, too,” said her mom sternly.
“Do they get any champagne?” asked Max.
“No, they do not, Max McCullough!” said Sharon. “And you had better promise you won’t give them any or I’m going to stay right here at home and ruin everyone’s fun.”
“Okay, okay, just asking, just trying to understand the rules,” said Max, holding his hands up. “No champagne. Got it!”
“That’s right,” snapped Frankie’s mom, glaring at him. “They’re fifteen.” Still glaring, she looked down at the cookbook, and Frankie and Max exchanged quick glances. He winked.
I drove on the freeway!
U r still alive?
Pretty much. Onramps freak me out
Probs gets easier each time
Hoping. Chloe’s having a kickback
When?
Tonight
You going?
Yag, you?
I’m invited?
Hello? Why wd I tell you if you weren’t?
She’s your friend
But you’re my ride or die
Cool. What time?
8:30?
KK. Meet here at 8:30
Cu then
NOTHING
Here’s what a kickback is supposed to be: ten or fifteen people sitting around listening to music, drinking, and eating chips. A few people hooking up. No big deal. Smooth.
Here’s what Chloe’s kickback is: eighty or ninety people jamming themselves into her house to get totally trashed and lose their minds, while about ninety more people lurk around in her yard, trying to get inside, even though they weren’t invited. Trying to get inside includes breaking her kitchen window and attempting to break down the front door and then getting mad and drawing a big penis on her porch in Sharpie.
This is why I will never have a party at my house.
This is why I don’t even want anyone to know where I live.
But god bless Chloe for not being me. She is putting on. I mean, parties are mostly like Bigfoot. Mythological. Everyone’s always saying there’s going to be one, and then you kill yourself to get there and it’s twelve seniors glaring at you and telling you to get the fuck out. Or, it’s lame. Or, it was last week. Or, in the one-in-ten event that it is a real party and you’re invited and you can get there, you have a crappy time anyway. But Chloe’s party is good. I am looking fabulous—I know I’m not supposed to say that, but I am—in my new scoop neck which I just got with one of my gift cards, plus Frankie and I engaged in some minor illicit activity while we were walking over, plus we feel really pro
ud that we’re allowed in while there are some juniors—wow, a lot of juniors—out there in the yard.
“Hey, Charlotte!” calls this kid I know named Mervin (poor guy). “Can you get me in? I’ll smoke you out.”
“Sorry, I’m a plus-one myself,” I call back as the door opens and Chloe—looking kind of freaked, which is not surprising—lets us in.
But just as she’s closing the door behind us, these two guys I don’t know push in right behind us, the way you do when you’re hopping a turnstile, and then drop down, so Chloe doesn’t see them. She’s talking to some other girl—hi, Lisette—and so Frankie and I are the only ones who know they’re there. We look down, just in time to hear one of them say to the other, “If I don’t fuck something in thirty minutes, I’m outta here.”
So I knee him as hard as I can in the shoulder and he falls over. And then Frankie starts laughing, and we sweep off, leaving him on the floor, where some drunk kid trips over him.
I feel good about myself.
The normal stuff happens—hi, Reed, hi, Johnny—and I go off to hang with a couple of friends of mine in the kitchen, where they are making this huge deal about smoking cigarettes (which is disgusting) and there’s this completely silent kid sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal, bowl after bowl. He’s probably high. He’s probably going to yak pretty soon. I don’t want to be there when it happens, so I leave. I do some dancing and then I look around for Frankie.
And there she is, on the stairs, having a deep and meaningful conversation with one of the Chrises from her English class. Who she’s told me numerous times is a complete dick. Huh. Now he’s touching her hair. Huh again. He’s going to kiss her. Yep, there he goes. Frankie appears to find this acceptable. You go, Franklin. I guess they’re only complete dicks until they tell you you’re hot. Or until you’re desperate for something to happen.
I feel cynical. I turn cynically away and look around the living room, which is a throbbing mass of bodies. There is a kid dancing on the dining room table. Poor Chloe. There are a bunch of people cacked out on the sofa. Poor Chloe’s parents. Eden is one of the cacked out—hi, Eden—oh, wait, she’s not completely cacked out. She’s laughing at some guy who’s leaning over her. Way over her.
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