But what if this is it for me? What if I get stuck sweating it up at Terry’s Kebab Emporium for the rest of my life? If I make kebabs for long enough will I start smelling of garlic sauce?
The woman walks away from the stall shaking her head. The guy gives her the finger and swears in whatever language he speaks.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out but I don’t know the number flashing on the screen. Maybe Xavier calling from home?
Vinnie shoots me a look.
‘What? It’s Cara,’ I say.
‘Thought she wasn’t supposed to talk to you.’
‘I’ll tell her.’ I move away, holding the phone to my ear.
‘Are you Frankie?’ It’s a guy’s voice. Gruff like Marzoli’s but deeper.
‘Who are you?’
He laughs. ‘So you inherited your mother’s charm. Real polite.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Where’s Xavier?’
I push past a hugging couple. She’s standing on tippy-toes to kiss him and the stallholder is waving them aside, trying to let paying customers in.
‘Tell me who you are or I hang up.’
‘Bill. Bill Green.’
Ah.
I don’t know much about Xavier’s dad – only what Xavier’s told me, which is that he’s an arsehole. If Juliet hooked up with him, that’s a given.
‘Why are you asking me where he is? You’re his dad.’
Bill laughs like a smoker coughs. ‘Guess you don’t know Xavier very well.’
Down hackles, down.
‘I’ve only met him twice, Bill. Pity you’re not my dad. Then I could have inherited my charm from Juliet and my intelligence from you.’
‘Well, if I know your mother then I’ve got as much a chance of being your father as the rest of Collingwood.’
I stand in the centre of the walkway with my teeth clenched and my hand balled into a fist by my side. People push past; I push back.
‘Just tell that shithead brother of yours to get his worthless arse home,’ says Bill. ‘The prick owes me money.’
The line goes dead before I can tell him to fuck the fuck off.
It takes me a minute to get my breathing under control. I grip the phone tight, staring at the cracked screen. I wait for the red blots to clear.
I remember the first time I felt like this. Not long after I moved into Vinnie’s she was taking me somewhere. The doctor’s, probably. I was pretty sick for the first little while.
Vinnie led me out the front door and the neighbour leaned over the fence. ‘That her?’ she asked. All I remember of the woman is the pink floral blouse she wore with a big frill around the neck. Like a posh frilled-neck lizard. Vinnie turned. ‘This is my niece, yes.’ The neighbour sized me up. ‘Looks like trouble,’ she said. ‘She’s got her mother’s mouth.’
The red blots descended. Later, I cut the heads off the flowers in her front garden. It was the only thing that helped draw the red away.
Since Xavier materialised, it’s been shitting down memories. Things I haven’t thought about in years. Things I didn’t think I remembered.
I pull out my phone and dial his number. But what am I even going to say?
The call goes to message bank: ‘I’m not around so leave a message. Probs won’t call you back, but, yeah. Beep.’
I hang up and slide the phone into my back pocket.
When I calm down, there’s only one thing left in my head: ‘The prick owes me money’. That’s what Bill said.
I try to think rationally. Xavier owes his dad money. No big deal because a) Bill is a prick who deserves to be swindled and b) I owe Vinnie heaps – well, I will after she pays Steve’s medical bills. It’s a child’s duty to owe their parents money. So it’s no big deal.
When I finally get back to Vinnie, she shoves a box of lettuces into my arms. ‘Put these – You look pale. Are you sick?’ She grabs my chin.
I shake her off.
I hate that little crinkle between her brows; I hate when it’s there because of me.
I grab the lettuce and stuff it into the trolley. ‘I saw an Ian Curtis look alike. I’m still swooning.’
She laughs, shaking her head. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
‘I take her off your hands. I have son,’ says Sergei. ‘Short but clean. Good match.’
Vinnie laughs. ‘For her, maybe. Not such a good deal for him.’
As punishment for The Steve Sparrow Incident, Vinnie has given me a list of crappy jobs. First on the list: bin duty.
I drag the garbage across the tiled floor of the Emporium, ignoring the trail of bin juice. I push open the shop’s back door with my butt and lift the bag into the alley. The gate swings shut behind me.
Rain is falling steadily, the kind that covers you in a soft film of dampness the second you enter it.
Rain and bin juice; it’s like that sometimes.
As I drag the garbage along the cobblestones, a siren cuts through the rumble of traffic from Alexandra Parade. One of my earliest memories is of a siren. I can’t remember who Juliet was living with then, but I can picture his boots as the policeman marched him out the door. He’d wrapped the laces several times around the top before tying them. Juliet was crying, louder than the siren.
I lug the bag to the dumpster but a noise behind stops me short. My whole body tenses. I don’t know karate but I’ll damn well give it a go.
I drop the garbage and swing round, fists raised.
Black jeans, black hoodie, bright-blue high-tops.
I grab my chest and fall against the dumpster. ‘Holy crap, Xavier. You scared the shit out of me.’
He stares wide-eyed like I’m the last person he expected. Which is stupid because this is where I live and work – it’d be no fun playing Where’s Frankie? in this part of the world.
‘Wha–?’ He drags his fingers through his hair and laughs: a nervous splutter. No dimples. ‘What the fuck, hey?’
‘Who were you expecting?’ My heart is still trying to parachute out of my chest. ‘And don’t say fuck.’
He laughs again. A little less nerves, a lot more dimple. ‘You’ve been my sister for a week and already you’re telling me what to do?’
‘It’s in the DNA, bro. Wait till you meet Nonna Sofia.’
He flicks a cigarette onto the ground and grinds it under his boot. There’s a scattering of butts at his feet so he’s obviously been here for ages. Why is he standing around in the rain? It’s freezing.
‘Thought you were going to quit,’ I say.
‘I did. Just then.’
‘So you’re here because . . .’
‘Came to see you, didn’t I? What else?’
It’d be easy just to slip into the banter, keep it light and fluffy. But I frown at the graveyard of cigarette butts and blurt, ‘Your dad called me.’
He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah?’
‘Said you owed him money.’
He wets his lips with his tongue. ‘Who hasn’t swiped a twenty from their dad’s wallet? Told you the guy’s a prick.’
Exactly. Perfectly sound argument. What the hell were you worried about, Frankie?
He looks over his shoulder at the brick wall, at the purple-skinned girl hidden beneath Jackknife’s shitty tag.
‘So it’s nothing, right?’ I say.
He nods, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans and flicking his eyes between the wall and me. ‘Dad’s a tight-arse.’
Okay, so this isn’t exactly like the last meeting we had in this alley. No giggles, no dumplings, no playful punches. Am I going to have to give him a homicidally themed nickname after all?
‘Then I guess you’re here for that free kebab,’ I say. ‘Sorry, two free kebabs.’
His eyes grow big and he takes a step back. Maybe I oversold the ‘worst kebab joint in Collingwood’ line. Clearly the kid thinks he’ll get the salmonella special with a side of gastro.
‘Nah. It’s cool. I should probably get going
, hey.’ He looks at Jackknife’s tag again but doesn’t move.
‘Oh. Okay. Well I’m drenched. Plus, hanging out here makes us look like we’re up to no good. There’s this cop who already thinks I’m robbing the neighbourhood. I hate to break it to you, Xavier, but our family is no stranger to the wrong side of the law. Our uncle’s in prison for armed robbery. And then there’s Juliet.’
Xavier mutters something I can’t hear. So I lean forward hoping he’ll repeat himself but we end up just staring at each other.
He looks down at his high-tops, gnawing on his bottom lip. ‘Sorry, but I’m –’
He doesn’t get to finish because a black blur lands with a heavy thud just behind him, a guy jumping down from the brick wall.
Because that’s normal.
The first thing I notice about him is his jacket. If Ian Curtis and Lou Reed had a love child who grew up to run a vintage clothing shop on Sydney Road, that jacket would be somewhere in the back of that shop. It’s textured black velvet. If you brushed your hand along it the wrong way it would send a shiver down your spine.
The second thing I notice – and I really should have seen this first – is the balaclava the guy’s wearing.
Paging DI Marzoli, I have your burglary suspect on line one.
He whips off his balaclava and I get an eyeful of the bluest damn eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s stupidly hot, if you’re into that indie boy punk look with the unkempt hair and I-live-on-cigarettes-and-coffee physique. But even though he looks rough round the edges, he still seems put together. He’s taken a lot of time and effort to look this just-rolled-out-of-bed cool. Like his tattered jeans are actually brand-new and his hair, a bramble of black, loose curls, is really a well-manicured, artfully arranged bramble.
In other words, he’s a poser. An art-school dropout, musician-wannabe, Kerouac-reading ponce. Fuck me, it’s Shia LaBeouf.
He stuffs the balaclava into his back pocket, blue eyes calmly assessing everything but me as he swings his oversized duffle bag on to his shoulder and faces Xavier.
‘You call this keeping a lookout?’ He flicks a hand in my direction.
Apparently I’m a ‘this’.
Xavier shrugs. ‘Told you it was a bad idea coming here, Nate.’
So poser-boy is called Nate. He points to the duffle and grins. ‘Yeah? Cos I reckon it was a brilliant idea.’
I’m five or more steps behind everyone else but as I’m looking between my brand-new baby brother and this black-clad skinny guy I’m joining the dots. Suddenly my brother’s incessant brick-wall staring is making a whole lot more sense.
My jaw drops. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
Xavier shoots me a sheepish grin. ‘Don’t say fuck.’
Nate’s duffle bag makes a loud clatter as he adjusts it higher on his shoulder. ‘If you’re done with your mothers’ club meeting maybe we can split?’
‘Are you serious?’ My voice is high-pitched and squeaky. But Xavier won’t look at me.
Nate rolls his stupidly blue eyes. ‘It’s not exactly the done thing to hang around for a chat after –’
‘Oh I can tell you’re an in and out kind of guy,’ I say. ‘Done in three seconds.’
The duffle bag slips off Nate’s shoulder as he steps toward me. He’s centimetres from my face and way taller than I first thought. Maybe not so scrawny either. I back up.
‘What are you inferring?’
‘I’m not inferring anything; I’m implying it.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Steal a dictionary and work it out for yourself.’
‘If I were going to steal a dictionary it would be to shove it up your –’
Xavier grabs Nate’s arm. ‘That’s enough. This is my sister.’
‘Like I give a shit who she is.’ Nate shrugs free. ‘Just make sure she keeps her mouth shut.’
He stands there, framed by Jackknife’s logo. It’s like some sort of crazy aura.
‘Well, I care who you are. Xavier’s just turned fourteen and you’re dragging him along on a felony. Who does that?’
Nate covers his mouth with a gloved hand, eyes wide. He looks like a puppy that took a dump on a brand-new carpet. For a second anyway. ‘You mean I missed his birthday? Now I feel awful.’
Give the man an Oscar.
‘Grow a brain,’ he says. ‘You think I had to twist your brother’s arm?’
I glare at Xavier. I wouldn’t exactly call his expression ‘innocent’. I’d go for ‘guilty as sin’. Or ‘Jesse James’s got nothing on me’.
‘We should split,’ Xavier says. He’s backing away, tugging on Nate’s arm. He couldn’t be in a bigger hurry to get out of here. It might have something to do with the whole being-in-the-middle-of-a-burglary thing or maybe he just doesn’t want to have ‘the conversation’ with me. The ‘oh, didn’t I mention I’m a criminal?’ conversation. The ‘well, you can’t fight genetics’ conversation. The –
The penny drops. It falls from the bloody Eureka tower and lands on my head. ‘Oh my god. The vinyl.’
‘Frankie . . .’
‘You didn’t swap it for four Eminem CDs, did you?’
‘I swear I bought it, Frankie. Legit.’
‘Swear? On our mother’s life?’
He winces. ‘Honest, Frankie. I bought it from that shop. The one on Smith Street. Paid heaps.’
‘Then why did you tell me your mate swapped it?’
‘Cos I didn’t want you to know how much I paid for it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because then you’d think I was desperate for you to like me!’ His voice echoes through the alley, the sound as cold and as sharp as the air. He rubs his face, both hands. ‘I mean, shit. How lame is that?’
I swallow. Don’t believe him, don’t believe him, don’t believe him . . .
‘It’s the truth, Frankie. Honest.’
The duffle bag clatters. ‘Can we go, X? This chick is boring me.’
Now I remember. The cafe. The phone call from some guy called Nate. The ‘favour’.
I face Nate; the guy is sneering. I mean genuine, silent-movie-bad-guy sneering. This pathetic excuse for a punk is Fagin to my brother’s Oliver Twist. This guy is going down.
‘Well, how about I grab Uncle Terry’s baseball bat? It’s perfect for playing Pin the Jackass with a Right Hook.’
Nate leans forward, challenge in his eyes. ‘Sure. Like to see you try.’
I feel the red descending. That’s it. I lunge forward, but Xavier grabs me and hauls me back. ‘Shit, Frankie,’ he says, breathless. ‘Calm down.’
‘I’ll calm down after Hamburglar takes his skinny arse back to whatever butt crack he crawled out of.’
Nate scowls. ‘If you were a guy you’d be flat on your back right now. I’d have hit you so hard . . .’
‘And if you were a guy I’d be impressed.’ I kick out, aiming squarely for Nate’s balls, but Xavier holds me back again and all I get is air.
Then Xavier shoves me. Not hard, but enough. I stumble, crashing into the dumpster. I’m too shocked to say anything.
Xavier runs his hands through his damp hair as he starts walking away. ‘I’m sorry, okay, but you don’t know shit about it. I didn’t have a choice. I’m in way over my head and I . . . Screw it.’ He turns his back on me, hunching his shoulders and digging his hands into his pockets. ‘It’s not my fault, okay?’
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Just a cloud of foggy air. My back stings; funny how bashing into a dumpster feels like taking a knife in the back.
Nate grips the duffle bag and hoists it over his shoulder. ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he says, and salutes. Then he gives me the finger as Xavier drags him round the corner.
When they’re gone, the alley is silent and I’m breathing hard. I think about punching the wall, right between the two Ks in Jackknife.
A pigeon picks at a rotting tomato that’s fallen out of the garbage bag.
‘Piss off,’ I tell it.
The
bird grips the tomato in its beak and flies away.
I perch on a stool in the front of the shop and lean my forehead against the glass. The crack in the Emporium’s front window might be giving Smith Street its cheesiest grin, but I’m giving it one hell of a scowl. My breath fogs up the glass.
‘Are you going to mope around this place all day? You’re scaring off customers.’ Vinnie’s on her knees, filling up the drinks fridge.
There’s only one couple in the shop, eating their Magpie Kebabs in silence (no actual magpies were harmed in the making of the kebabs – just don’t ask what happened to the chickens).
I draw a frownie face in the huffed-up glass. Maybe I will stay here. Maybe I’ll never leave. Ever.
‘Do your homework. Didn’t they give you a heap when you first got suspended?’
‘Done it.’
The fridge door slams shut. Vinnie grips the handle to pull herself up. ‘I’m not even going to act like I believe that.’
Outside, a tram rattles uphill, cutting through the rain shooting down at an angle. People walking past hold their umbrellas out in front and duck their heads.
Vinnie’s got nothing to worry about. I’ve been totally productive this morning. I made a list: Xavier’s pros and cons.
Pro: He brings me dumplings.
Con: He lied to me about the vinyl.
Pro: He’s the only other person who knows what it means to be the spawn of Juliet Vega.
Con: It looks like he might have inherited some of her less desirable traits.
Pro: He’s a stupidly talented artist.
Con: He might also be a stupidly talented con artist.
A dark-grey sedan parallel parks in front of the outlet across the road. The driver has to back in and out three times before he gets it right. I’d laugh but my one and only driving lesson ended five seconds after it started; apparently driving instructors don’t like it when you fail to indicate and then call them a ‘dog’s arse’ for ticking you off.
I press my nose against the window, squishing it up like a pig’s. A guy stops to peer at the menu pinned to the window and doesn’t see me right away. He jolts when he does, his eyes bulging and his hand gripping his chest.
Frankie Page 6
