by Sarah Ockler
“We started hanging out all the time — even more than before. Every night. Only we didn’t know how to tell Frankie, because we didn’t want her to freak or feel left out or whatever.”
“Makes sense,” Sam says.
“He thought it would be better if he told her himself, so I promised him that I wouldn’t say anything. But before he could talk to her about it, he —” I almost choke on the word, holding my hand against Sam’s arm to stop our forward motion along the shore.
“What did he do?” Sam asks.
“He just — he — I’m sorry. Wait.” The words of this story have passed a thousand times from my hand to the pages of my journal, but never from my lips to the ears of another living soul. I take a few deep breaths before I’m able to meet Sam’s eyes and say it. “He died, Sam. He died from a heart defect that no one knew about.”
I tell him about the car accident and wait for the automatic apology, the awkward bumbling, the silence, the farewell-I-can’t-deal-with-this. But Sam just wipes my cheeks with his thumbs and hugs me.
“I kept my promise to him. I never told Frankie about us. But when we were at the Vista last night, she read my journal and found out.”
Sam pulls away from me. “Wait, she’s mad at you about that? But what about —”
“There’s more, Sam.” I shake my head. “Frankie was in the car, too. That’s how she got the scar on her eyebrow. The three of us were totally inseparable. Matt is — Matt was — he’s Frankie’s brother.”
Sam stares at me, eyes and mouth wide open. “Holy sh — I mean, whoa.”
“He was going to tell her on their vacation here, when they’d have some time alone. He was so worried about how she’d feel — he wanted to make sure she was okay with it. They were supposed to leave, like, a month after we got together. I hated sneaking around behind her back, but I promised. A month didn’t seem like that long to keep a secret.
“When he died, that was it. Anything I felt stopped mattering — Frankie lost her brother, and I was their best friend. It was simple. I would keep that secret forever.” I take a deep breath, focusing on Sam’s soft eyes.
“Anna, I can’t believe this,” he says gently. “I don’t know what to say. I had no idea.”
“Frankie and I didn’t want to tell you guys. It was gonna be — I don’t know, different here.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain. I guess people get freaked out about the whole death thing, and once they know about it, it’s, like, the only thing they associate with you, and all they can do is feel sorry for you. Your whole existence is reduced to that one event.”
A new wave of sadness plows into me when I think about all those nights in Frankie’s room, not talking or doing anything. Sometimes after school we’d literally just sit on the floor with our backpacks still on, staring at the wall and crying.
The first few months at school were the worst — people whispering and making compassionate faces as we passed through the halls. Teachers and girls leaving flowers and notes in front of Matt’s locker and looking the other way when we skipped class. Most people in our grade — including our so-called friends — avoided us as though death and sadness were contagious. Most of them didn’t know about his heart, and no one could decide what was worse — losing a brother and friend, or surviving the car crash that supposedly killed him. No one knew the rules — what to say, whether it was okay to laugh or complain about things like parents and grades and new shoes when Frankie and I had “serious” problems. But by the middle of the year, Frankie was in full boy-lust mode, things got back to normal for everyone else, and the memory of Matt’s death faded like the dried flowers stuck in the vents of his locker.
“God, Anna,” Sam says, eyes still wide.
I nod. “We lost a lot of friends after it happened. For the past year it’s basically been just me and her. And now, who knows?”
“She’s probably just shocked. Maybe you should try to talk it out.”
“Sam, she stole and read my journal. Then she chucked it into the water. And then, I found out she lied to me about — well, a bunch of stuff she shouldn’t have lied about. I don’t think we can work it out. I think we’re — breaking up.” My voice shakes, wavering between the dueling realms of anger and sadness.
“Come here.” Sam puts his arms around me, wrapping me up in the smell of him. We stand in front of the ocean for a long time, his hand making circles on my back as I listen to his heart beat — strong and whole, like the waves.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling away to wipe my eyes and let out about fourteen months of held-in breaths. “You’re the only person I’ve actually told about Matt. Ironic, huh?”
Sam smiles. “Definitely not the ‘What I Did on Summer Vacation’ stuff I’m used to.”
We stand silently, watching the waves for a while, holding hands. His thumb traces my palm gently, lulling me like the rocking of the water before us.
On the walk back, Sam tells me that I should give Frankie another chance.
“I’m not making excuses for her, but think about it. You’re best friends, Anna.”
“I don’t know if I can. She lied to me about pretty major stuff. And she totally violated and destroyed my private thoughts.”
“All I’m saying is that you both hurt each other. And you both lost someone you loved. Don’t lose each other, too.”
“Sure. I think I saw that After-School Special.”
He smiles. “Just think about it, okay?”
We make plans to meet up tomorrow night for our final goodbye. Up on the street near the house, Sam kisses me and waits until I’m safely at the door before waving and turning back toward his end of the beach.
The door is still unlocked, and I assume Frankie isn’t back yet, though I’m surprised we didn’t run into her and Jake on our walk back. But when I get upstairs, Frankie’s asleep in her bed as though she’d been there all along, her body rising and falling under the thin white sheet. The moon from the skylight throws her silhouette against the wall and reminds me of when we were kids, how we’d lie on her bed and make shadow puppets on the ceiling with our hands and a flashlight, chattering and giggling until Matt knocked on the wall from his room next door and told us to go to sleep.
twenty-nine
“Wake up, my lovelies.” Red stands in our doorway, calling gently until our eyes open.
Frankie and I sit up slowly, untangling ourselves from twists of sheets and T-shirts. The first moments of being awake are neutral, as they always are, waiting for us to assign memory and meaning from the day before. In this blank zone I almost forget that I’m mad at Frankie. But it all comes back, and I stop the progression of the automatic smile across my cheeks just in time.
“Good morning, Twinkies,” Red says. “Mom’s making a big breakfast, so I hope you’re hungry.” He closes the door, silence blowing in around the space he leaves behind.
Frankie and I get out of our beds and pull on our sweatshirts. There’s none of last night’s unpleasantness — we simply don’t speak. I want to ask her where she was last night, whether she slept with Jake, and what is going on with him. But I’m not about to break the cardinal rule of not speaking to each other just to gloat in the glory of my superior knowledge of and experience with the big It, which, thanks to my near nervous breakdown at the Shack last night, I completely forgot to do a second time.
Downstairs, we gorge ourselves on what is probably the best, most extravagant breakfast Aunt Jayne has ever made. The table is covered with fresh fruit, Jayne’s magic vanilla French toast, eggs, potatoes, bacon, toast, muffins — everything we can’t pack or leave behind. During the meal, we all laugh easily, fat and happy, talking about how much fun we’ve had on the trip. Everyone is tanned and relaxed, and entire minutes go by during which Frankie and I forget to be mad at each other. It starts with “Can you pass the butter?” and goes as far as laughing together about that first night on the beach, making sand angels with Aun
t Jayne.
There are tiny fractures of time in which I want to hug her, tell her I’m sorry, tell her about my promise, put the whole thing behind me. But then I see a flash — her reading my journal in that mocking voice, her chucking it into the ocean like a flat skipping stone — and the mad and hurt come right back again. For the sake of Red, Jayne, and our last day on the beach, I’m willing to put my feelings on hold.
But I can’t make them disappear.
After breakfast, we’re sucked into the swirling tides of torture otherwise known as Uncle Red’s Day of Fun.
First up: hard-core paddleball. Me and Red versus Frankie and Jayne.
“Come on, Dad,” Frankie whines as Red passes out the flat wooden paddles. “Isn’t this a little childish?”
“Sure,” he says, smiling. “But last time I checked, you’re still my child.”
“But Da-aad!” Frankie crinkles her eyebrows and tries to work some sympathy magic on Uncle Red, but he’s immune today.
“Humor your old dad, Francesca,” he says, lobbing the rubber ball in her direction.
After half an hour of forced family fun, in which I score fifty points and take out at least seventy-five percent of my anger trying to blast Frankie with the ball, our game is cut short. Princess gets stung on the top of her foot by a teeny-tiny newborn baby of a jelly-fish and carries on like some shark just swam away with her torso. For one brief moment I wonder if it’s the ghost of my journal, reincarnated after its watery death to claim vengeance by stabbing her with its thin metal spiral. The thought makes me smile on the inside, just a little bit.
There’s so much whining and limping that even I start to feel bad for her. I help Red get her back up to the house where she can be appropriately fed and doted upon.
My reign of paddleball terror waylaid by the tragic jellyfish incident, we spend the rest of the afternoon playing Monopoly, far away from the dangerous denizens of the deep. Frankie doesn’t deal me an extra grand this time. She keeps her leg propped on pillows in a chair across from her, icing the dime-sized injury on her foot with much fanfare and taking full advantage of my temporary sympathy by asking me with a sugar-sweet smile to refill her lemonade, adjust her pillow, or find her ChapStick.
“You always take such good care of her, Anna.” Aunt Jayne pats me on the knee as she brings us bowls of chocolate ice cream. “Frankie, you’re lucky she puts up with you.”
“Yeah, lucky,” Frankie says. “Um, Anna?”
I look up from my ice-cream bowl, heart slightly thawed, considering whether to accept the overdue apology that’s certain to emanate from her mouth any minute.
“Anna?”
Any minute now.
“Yeah, Frank?”
Here it comes.
“I have hotels on Broadway and Park.” She holds out her hand and flutters her eyes. “You owe me twelve hundred bucks.”
“How’s the patient?” Uncle Red asks when we tire of Monopoly.
Frankie makes a show of readjusting her foot pillow and shaking the ice in her glass to signal a lemonade refill request.
“I’m okay, I guess,” she says. “It still really stings, though.”
“Do you think you can walk?” he asks.
“I don’t know, Dad. I probably shouldn’t risk it. I don’t want it to get worse.”
Must. Resist. Urge. To dump lemonade on her pretty little head.
“That’s a shame,” Red says with a shrug. “I guess we’ll have to cancel our plans tonight.”
“I guess so,” Frankie says, snatching her lemonade from my hand and sighing like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her tanned little shoulders.
“That’s too bad,” Aunt Jayne says. “What are we going to do with those fifth-row tickets, hon?”
“What tickets?” Frankie and I ask simultaneously.
“Oh, just some little show at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Airplane Pilots?” Red pulls four tickets from an envelope on the kitchen counter. “Oh, Helicopter Pilot, that’s it. Probably a local group. I’m sure you guys haven’t heard of them.”
“What?!” Frankie and I temporarily suspend our mutual hatred long enough to exchange a pair of beaming smiles.
“HP is only, like, our number one favorite band in the universe!” Frankie says. “They’re not even on tour now. How did you get tickets?”
“It’s a benefit concert,” he says. “Mom found out about it last month and thought you’d like to go. It’s just unfortunate you’re immobile. I’ll have to call the box office and see if we can get a refund.”
“No!” Frankie and I practically trip over each other to tackle Red before he gets to the phone.
“But, my darling daughter, you’re severely injured.” Red points to the tiny pink mound on her foot. “You certainly can’t go to a concert in your condition, let alone get all dressed up for dinner at Fleur de Lys. Everyone will see your nearly amputated limb.”
“Dad!” Frankie protests. “It’s not amputated! And I — wait —” She walks gingerly across the living room and back, her limp fading with each step until it’s totally gone. “Yes, I’m feeling much better now. It was probably the ice and everything. I’m completely convalexed.”
“Convalesced,” I say.
“Come on, Dad!” Frankie says, ignoring me.
“Please, Uncle Red?” Loyalty be damned — I’m fully prepared to leave Frankie home if that’s what it takes to get a fancy French meal and a concert in San Francisco with my number one favorite band in the universe. Seeing lead guitarist Brandon Barry’s crazy curly black hair from the fifth row takes priority over fake jelly-fish injuries.
Uncle Red fans himself with the tickets and takes a deep breath. “You two better get moving. We leave in an hour and a half.”
“Yeah!” I jump up and down like a little girl. Frankie follows suit, but stops herself midway, suddenly remembering her painful injury.
“I mean, cool! Thanks, Dad.” She kisses Uncle Red on the cheek and follows me upstairs to begin the arduous beautification process a fancy dinner and favorite band concert require.
We manage to work around each other for showers, hair, and makeup, but even a mad Frankie can’t leave wardrobe to chance.
“Anna, I know things aren’t great right now,” she says. “But we need to confer on outfits. We have to coordinate in tone and style. And also, I need to borrow your silver dangle earrings.”
“Whatever you say.” I’m resigned to Frankie’s Fashion Hour. At least I can take comfort in the fact that she won’t risk making me look bad — that could make her look bad, just by association.
We decide on all black with pink and silver accessories. Actually, she decides on all black with pink and silver accessories. I just nod and smile. Nod. Smile. Soon we’ll be in the fifth row at the HP concert and none of this will matter.
Frankie puts on a slip dress with a lightly beaded neckline, a pink headband scarf, and my silver dangle earrings. Of course she looks stunning.
She dresses me in a black mini and camisole with a pink scarf tied around my hips, a silver necklace with a small heart dropping from the center, and matching heart earrings.
“You should wear your hair up,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “You have really nice shoulders. You gotta show them off.”
I twist my hair up with black hair sticks and pull a few tendrils down in front.
“Perfect,” she says, actually smiling at me. “What about me? Is this okay?” She smoothes her hands over her stomach in the mirror, and for a single second I see a flash of old-Frankie vulnerability. It hits me like a fist, and I have to look away to keep myself from hugging her in the gushing apology that she owes me.
“You look great, Frank,” I say, focusing on her shoes. “Really.”
“Thanks, Anna. You do, too. Hey, we can’t take the camera to the concert, but maybe we should get a few shots in here? I mean, we look really good.”
“Sure, Frank. Here.” I take the camera from her bag and get s
ome footage of her ensemble from a few different angles. She does the same to me, narrating the plan for the rest of the evening before shutting off the camera and stowing it back in the case.
“Okay, that should do it,” she says. “Ready?”
San Francisco looks totally different at night, especially when it’s not raining — all lit up and magic. Uncle Red and Aunt Jayne point out sites that Frankie and I saw on our bus trip, but I smile and ask enough questions to look like a novice.
“You two look beautiful,” Jayne says. “This is going to be a great night.”
* * *
Dinner at Fleur de Lys is a jumble of creamy, decadent foods that I can’t pronounce but have no trouble inhaling. I’ve never seen this type of food on menus back home — probably because people like our ketchup-n-mustard, festival-loving neighbors would stage a protest. Bring back our beef! Down with escargots!
Frankie and I manage to put all nastiness aside for the evening, solely for the sake of Red, Jayne, and the beautiful boys of HP. We aren’t exactly friendly, but we aren’t plotting ways to poison each other’s dinner, either.
“You girls are awful quiet,” Red says after the desserts arrive. “I thought you’d be more chatty on the way to see your favorite band in the universe.”
“Just eating,” Frankie covers, forcing a smile at me as she scoops up a spoonful of crème brulée.
The Fillmore is packed, and Uncle Red has to escort a few party-crashers from our prime fifth-row seats. We get settled in just in time to eye up the stage before the lights dim.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice booms from everywhere, “let’s hear it for tonight’s openers, Plazma!”
All around us the auditorium roars to life, pumping its collective fist at Plazma. They get the crowd rocking and primed for HP with lots of long guitar riffs and cool lighting effects. Frankie and I stay seated through most of the hour-long set, saving our energy for the main event. A few times I feel her looking at me, but when I turn to meet her eyes, she looks away.
After Plazma’s final set, the houselights come up while the crew sets up for HP. I think briefly about dragging Frankie to the bathroom and finally settling this thing but change my mind when I see her chatting happily with her parents, telling them everything they need to know about our favorite band.
