Frankie (5 page)

When Vinnie gives the silent treatment it's hard to ignore. It leaves a hole, which is kind of what silence is. A gap where something used to be. Laughter, chatter, noise. Love.

A Vinnie-sized hole takes up the entire flat.

It fills the Emporium.

The drinks fridge hums extra loud to try and cover the silence. Not even the electric knife can cut through it.

Two days I have to wait until she speaks to me again.

‘Pass the milk, Francesca,' she says.

It'll do.

Later that night she comes into my room and sits on the end of my bed. ‘Princess?
Mia principessa
?'

I didn't speak Italian when I first moved in with Vinnie and Nonna but I soon learnt. I worked out what ‘
questa maledetta ragazza'
meant. It meant that my nonna apparently didn't think much of me.

I don't like Italian.

‘
Mia principessa
? Why won't you tell me what that boy did?'

I pretend to be asleep, in my own little black hole.

‘Did he say something nasty to you?'

A cocoon. I bet caterpillars don't hear anything wrapped up like that.

‘Did he try to hurt you?'

Vinnie's psycho cat, Buttons, starts meowing from the corridor.

Two days of nothing and now it's noise, noise, noise.

‘Talking about it will help,' she says. ‘Doesn't Daniel tell you that?'

Daniel, my shrink, tells me lots of things. Sometimes he just watches me, and waits for me to talk. ‘How does that make you feel, Frankie? Did that hurt your feelings? You can't bottle everything up, Frankie. How much room do you think you have in there?'

Vinnie stands. ‘We'll talk about this tomorrow,' she says. ‘A serious talk.'

I roll over, twisting in the sheets.

I'm an astronaut in deep space, where no one can hear anything.

It's late when I hear the first knock. I ignore it because I'm lying under my doona with Joy Division blaring and my nose stuck in one of Vinnie's romance novels. There're plenty of bulging man parts and sighing ladies. If I'd stolen the vodka from under Vinnie's bed and played the euphemism drinking game I'd be dead by now.

Actually, even if I wasn't living vicariously through trashy romance fiction I'd still ignore the knocking. It can't be Cara because I'm grounded. I'm not even allowed to call Cara because she's grounded too and, according to her mum, it's my fault. What Cara chooses to do with a compass and Steve Sparrow's penis is totally on her. Besides she only
threatened
to do it. And how can that be my fault if I wasn't even there?

There's another quick succession of taps. I'm ready to shout at Vinnie to go away when it dawns on me that what I'm hearing is tapping at my
window
. My window on the second storey of Terry's Kebab Emporium.

I lay the book flat on the top of my bed and silence Ian Curtis.

There's a long pause, a very long pause, and then –
tap
.

I edge off the bed and scurry across the floor like a proper spy. When I reach the wall, I slowly peek my head over the windowsill until I can see outside. A soft spray of light spills from the Emporium's back window, illuminating the alley beside the shop.

I recognise him by his bright-blue high-tops.

I straighten and open the window, cursing as it creaks. I stick my head out and hiss. ‘What the hell, Xavier? You could have broken my window.'

He's wearing a peaked cap under his grey hoodie and skinny jeans so tight they have to be for girls. His arm is raised, poised to throw another rock. ‘Throw down your hair?'

I try not to grin. I do not want to get sucked into this. Vinnie's told me, in no uncertain terms, to keep away from God Knows Who. And I'm so far out of Vinnie's good books as it is. What's he doing here, anyway? How come he knows this is my window?
I
didn't tell him I lived here. Dimples or no dimples, I'm still watching this kid for signs of demonic possession.

He juggles the rock. ‘So what's up?'

‘Grounded, bored, pissed off and hungry. The usual. How about you? Just passing through the neighbourhood?'

He shrugs. ‘You coming down or what?' He drops the rock. I can tell he's grinning. He clasps his hands together in a prayer-pose. ‘Aw c'mon, you're not going to make me beg, are you?'

Sigh. ‘Five minutes,' I tell him. ‘I'm already in the shit.'

‘Aren't we all?' he says with a laugh. ‘And hurry up. My balls are freezing off.'

Nice.

__________

The gate clicks shut behind me. Xavier leans against the brick wall, tapping his foot.

‘Most people call first,' I say.

‘Do most people bring dumplings?'

He stoops to pick up a plastic bag and grins. ‘Might be cold now, hey.'

That is definitely the way to my heart.

I grab the bag out of his hands and slide down the brick wall. We sit there, freezing our arses off in the alley, eating cold dumplings. I could get used to this.

I last four and a half minutes of small talk before I ask, ‘Are you going to tell me how you know where I live?'

He picks at a loose thread on his jeans. ‘What do you want me to say? I followed you?'

I stop chewing, mouth full of pork dumpling. ‘Wow.'

He grins. ‘Kidding. You told me you worked at the shop with the worst kebabs in Collingwood and, according to the net, this is it. So I hung out front for a bit, but Vinnie was inside and I didn't want to talk to her because she looks scary. I came round here for a smoke and saw you through the window.'

‘You smoke?'

‘I'm quitting.' He yanks the thread clean off. ‘Why are you grounded?'

‘There might have been an incident. I might have lost my temper.'

He laughs. ‘Like that, is it?'

‘Almost always.'

He shoves a dumpling in his mouth. ‘Last year I got suspended for punching some dickhead on the footy field. Teachers have got zero sense of humour, hey.'

‘Exactly. They shove a violent book like
Macbeth
down our throats but then get all antsy when you break a dickhead's nose with it.'

He almost chokes. ‘You did what?'

‘The details aren't important. The point is, I can categorically say that the pen really is mightier than the sword.'

He laughs. It starts me off too. Pretty soon we're snorting dumplings and trying not to choke with laughter.

And I have to admit it feels pretty good. Not the choking part. That's kind of uncomfortable. But the part where I get to trade stories with someone who gets where I've been and why I am the way I am. Because he's that way too. That's the really cool part.

Actually, the
really
cool part is that Xavier's head hasn't spun 360 degrees this whole time so I doubt he's possessed. Yay.

Behind his un-possessed head is a high brick wall separating the alley from our neighbours. It used to be a Victorian terrace. Now it's four storeys of yuppies living in dog boxes. Someone called ‘Jackknife' has staked his claim on the wall, writing his name in bright-red paint. There used to be graffiti of a woman there: purple skin, large brown eyes, hair fanning around her in wild Medusa snakes of green, blue, orange and pink. I see glimpses of her beneath the red.

‘That's a shame,' I say.

He follows my gaze.

‘Used to be a really cool painting there. They should make it so you have to get a licence to do graf.'

‘It's illegal, Frankie. They can't give out a licence to commit a crime.'

Aw, bless his moral little heart.

‘So I got something else for you,' he says.

‘Dessert?'

He pulls a white plastic bag out of his satchel and hands it to me. ‘It made me think of you.'

Whatever's in the bag is thin but square. Like a big square of cardboard. I slide the plastic bag down and pull out something worth more than gold.

The picture on the front is black and white, maybe a print, maybe a drawing. A chisel-featured young man in shorts and a shirt has got his arms raised, captured right in the middle of beating the large drum he's got strapped to his chest. The name of the band is written in gothic lettering along the top. The name of the record,
An Ideal for Living
, runs vertically down the right-hand side, like it's dripping from the ‘n' in the band's name. I'm holding in my hands the debut EP from Joy Division. Released all the way back in 1978, not long after they changed their name from Warsaw. Twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds of pure fuzzy punk beauty.

It's gorgeous. Perfect. I'm certain it's ridiculously expensive.

‘No way.' I stare at the black-and-white drummer boy with my mouth open. I've been drooling over this exact record in The Vinyl Underground for ages. Phil, the guy who runs the shop, kicks me out for wasting his time on a regular basis. One time I worked up the courage to ask him how much it cost. He said, ‘More than you can afford, kid.'

‘S'posed to be rare or something,' says Xavier. ‘Just a piece of plastic as far as I can tell.'

‘Are you kidding? They only pressed like a thousand of these so it's ultra rare. Still bleeding it's so rare. How the hell did you afford it?'

He looks down at his knees, hugged to his chest. ‘Nah,' he says. ‘A mate had it. He picked it up at some garage sale. Don't reckon he knows how much it's worth cos he traded it for four Eminem CDs. What a dickhead.'

I flip the vinyl over. It's not like I don't already have these songs but this is different. It's a seriously awesome musical moment forever cast in vinyl goodness.

‘Your friend's going to be pissed if he ever finds out how much this is worth. I mean, it must be hundreds.'

‘We could listen to it,' says Xavier.

‘I don't have a player.'

‘Then I guess I know what I'm getting for your birthday, hey.' He's watching me, shyness in the tilt of his head.

My birthday's in December, months away. I try to picture what Xavier and I will be like by then. Once the newness has worn off and we start acting like real siblings – fighting, swearing at each other, dobbing each other in, arguing over trivial shit. I might actually enjoy it.

‘What?' he says. Because I'm staring at him.

I pull out my phone and hold it at arm's length. ‘Just smile.'

‘Hate photos,' he says, but when I lean closer, our shoulders pressed against each other's, he doesn't flinch or move out of shot.

My phone makes a fake camera noise and flashes.

It's not a great photo – too dark and Xavier's eyes are kind of half closed – but then family photos are supposed to be crappy.

I show him.

‘Great,' he says. ‘I look like a serial killer.'

‘You look like Uncle Terry.'

‘Cool,' he says.

I laugh. He doesn't know that Uncle Terry's a low-life armed robber.

‘What?'

I shake my head. ‘Nothing. I mean, thanks. For the dumplings and . . .' I hold up the vinyl and wiggle it. ‘I mean it. Thanks.'

He grins. Dimples. ‘No problem. I mean, you do kind of owe me four Eminem CDs, but . . .'

I elbow him. ‘You seriously need a musical overhaul.'

He laughs. It brings a grin to my face.

Being grounded isn't so bad after all.

Daniel Awolowo watches me with his fist pressed into his neck, just below the ear. He taps his pen against a notepad on his knee. It's one of those four-coloured pens. As if anyone uses the green ink.

A burn scar runs the length of his forearm; I asked him about it at our first session but he said it was nothing I needed to hear about. I had to tell him how I got the cluster of five-cent-piece-sized scars on my forearm – how come there's a different rule for
him
?

He's been waiting for me to speak for five minutes now. I've forgotten what he even asked. I doubt it was important.

He's got a serene, sleepy look on his face, though. I almost want to break my vow of silence to ask how come he looks so happy when I'm being a total cow.

If I'd met Daniel in the real world I'd probably like him. I can actually picture him dropping by the Emporium, sitting at the front counter, a Scrabble board between us, him getting a triple word score with ‘xebec'. I think he'd order the falafel, extra garlic sauce and he'd have his chips with sweet chilli aioli. He'd drink coke; not diet, not zero. Coke. Vinnie would wear her blouse, the black one that's see-through, and she'd flirt with him. We'd talk about stuff. Stupid stuff that only he and I would get.

But I met him here, and there's no chance to laugh about stupid things. We're not going to take turns making up silly stories about passing strangers. We're not going to argue about the etiquette of double-dipping a chip. This sterile office in the university's Psychology Department is where an underpaid psychologist-in-the-making is trying to get me to open up about my
feelings
. The walls need painting, there's a dead plant in the corner, stained cups on the desk, an eggtimer in the shape of a chicken and dusty venetian blinds. One of the cups says
You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps
, with a picture of a cross-eyed monkey eating bananas. Someone thought they were the life of the party giving that as a Kris Kringle.

‘I'm bored,' I tell him. ‘Can I go now?'

Daniel takes a sip from the monkey cup. ‘My mother always told me there was no such thing as boredom; just boring people.' He smiles. I wonder how he gets his teeth so white.

‘Did your precious mother say it was rude to call people boring?'

Sleepy smile and only a minor shoulder adjustment. ‘You're easy to anger today. Anything upsetting you?'

‘These questions.'

‘Aside from my questions.'

I glare at the chicken.

Whose idea was therapy? I don't mean for me specifically because I already know it was a hair-brained scheme cooked up by Vinnie and Vukovic. I mean, in general. Like, who invented it? What idiot thought it was a good idea to have someone sit in a crappy little room divulging all their deepest hurts and fears to a total stranger? How did they manage to keep a straight face selling that idea? Because everybody knows that talking about things only makes them worse. It's way better to push your worst experiences deep into your subconscious and then shovel a whole heap of shit on top of them to make sure they never surface again.

I'm going to invent anti-therapy. I'll make millions.

Daniel crosses his legs. ‘Did you at least do the time capsule like I recommended?'

‘No. I told you that was a dumb idea.'

‘I remember. You were vivid in your description of how dumb it was.'

‘My Grade Four teacher said I was verbally gifted.'

‘Did you like it when she said that? Did it make you feel good?'

‘I'm not sure. She also said I was a pain in the arse. Not in front of me. I was listening at the door of the teachers' lounge.'

‘And how did that make you feel?'

‘No big deal. It was easy being a pain in her arse because it was such a massive arse.'

Daniel doesn't say anything. He scribbles in his notepad and smiles when he catches me watching him. ‘Sorry. I know you hate me taking notes.'

Despite the apology, he keeps writing. He marks the full stop at the end of his sentence by twisting the pen into the page. He doesn't ask me another question.

Fine. I can ignore you too, Daniel. I pull out my phone and scroll through the news. There's been a bad car accident on Alexandra Parade. Gippsland is flooding. A meth-head has had a showdown with police, locking himself in his house and screaming about being allowed to see the Emperor. Some politician was accused of lying, a rapist got off on a technicality and a footballer got drunk and peed in a public fountain.

The usual, basically.

Except for the boy.

There's a big picture of him on every news site. He's probably my brother's age, even though he's one of those kids that puberty hasn't gotten around to yet. It's a school photo – you can see his lips are partway through ‘cheese'. It's the kind of photo that haunts twenty-first birthdays – zits, braces, bad haircut, hunched shoulders, half-closed eyes.

Missing
, reads the headline.

‘So let's talk about what happened between you and Steve. He made you angry, didn't he?'

Shush, Daniel. I'm reading.

I'm reading about . . . Harrison Finnik-Hyde?

Jeeze Louise.

His parents talk about him like they're recommending him for a job: accelerated learning program at school, soccer star, always does his chores, eighth-grade violin. ‘Harrison is a good kid,' his dad tells the reporter. ‘We want him home with us.'

There's a picture of the parents standing outside their leafy Malvern home. The dad's got cropped grey hair and eyes that are too close together. The mother is short; hair like a shampoo commercial. Her skin is soft, line-free, even though she's been crying. She's holding a bunch of tissues to her nose and mouth.

No one's seen him since Friday morning when a neighbour spotted him talking to a man – late 50s, fair, short.

And then he didn't show up at school.

‘Frankie? Are you listening to me?'

I sigh loudly and look up from my phone with a well-practised scowl. ‘What?'

‘I asked why you think Steve made you so mad.'

‘Do you find it hard not to judge people?' I ask. ‘Do you analyse your wife? Your kids? The checkout chick? The plumber? “Oh look, he picked up his coffee cup with his left hand even though he's right-handed – he's sexually repressed. Probably gay.” Is that what you do?'

He leans back, both hands behind his head. ‘You think I'm judging you?'

‘I'm just interested. I think I'd find it hard to switch off. If I knew stuff. If I knew what it meant when someone pulled on their earlobe or shifted in their seat or licked their lips when they spoke about their mother.'

‘Do you want to talk about your mother?'

‘Why, did I lick my lips?'

‘No. But you brought her up.'

‘I brought up a generic mother. A hypothetical mother. A fantasy.'

‘Is that how you see your mother? As a fantasy?'

‘You're pissing me off, Daniel.'

He laughs. It's a warm sound. Makes me hate him even more. ‘Then I am not earning my fee, am I? I'm supposed to make you feel better, not worse.'

There's a second desk in the room so maybe Daniel shares this office with someone. I bet the other person killed the plant. I tried growing flowers in the back garden once but they all died. It's so much easier to kill a plant than help it grow.

I slide my phone into my pocket and sink down in my seat. I wonder what Harrison Finnik-Hyde's mother is doing right now. I've seen the films. Men in suits with silver briefcases poking around the house dusting things while the parents sit by the phone and wait for the kidnapper to call in a ransom. She'd be crying into a wad of tissues just like in the photo. She's probably never left the house before without her hair and make-up done, but today she'd still be in her PJs and dressing gown. She'd have red, puffy eyes and her hands would be shaking.

Because she's so distraught.

Because she can't think of anything worse than something happening to her violin-star baby.

Because she cares.

I sit forward. ‘You want me to tell you about Juliet?'

Daniel doesn't say anything, just watches. I wonder how much talking goes on in his house. I bet they do nothing but talk – a big, messy, warm family and all they do is talk about their day, what they did, what they're going to do. And I bet they laugh a lot. He's got laughing eyes.

‘When I was four, Juliet took me to the Collingwood Children's Farm. There was this guy she'd been dating. I don't remember his name. He had really thin hair and it was fair too so you could see his scalp underneath; I remember that. He was tall. And about the same size wide. Juliet got big eyes around him and she was always hanging off him. We walked to the farm and she kept saying, “We're going on a family outing, just the three of us.” I liked it there. They had those fluffy rat things – they're not rats they're . . . I don't know. They're cute, and we all sat in this barn and they passed the rat things around and we petted them. There were lots of other kids. And I saw chickens and pigs and horses and goats. Guinea pigs, that's what they're called. I liked them best. They were soft and really fragile and the lady – the woman who worked at the farm – said I had soft hands, that I knew how to hold the guinea pig without hurting it. I was proud of myself for that. I turned around to tell Juliet but she wasn't there. I asked the lady where my mum was but she didn't know. I handed her the guinea pig and went outside. I looked. I called for my mother.

‘The lady sat me in the office. There was so much wood. I remember that: wood floor, wood walls, a wooden desk, wood chairs. The police came; they asked me what Juliet looked like. “Snow White,” I said. They took me to the station and I waited there for ages. I coloured in. I ate. I slept. I talked to the police officers. I couldn't remember my last name. I couldn't remember my mum's name. Then they found a note in my jacket pocket. It had a number to call: Vinnie's. She came and took me to her home and then that's where I lived. With Vinnie and Nonna Sofia. And no one talked about Juliet. For ages I thought she was dead, but then Vinnie told me she'd moved to Queensland and that's why I couldn't see her again.'

Daniel's sleepy smile is gone. He's just looking at me. Blank.

‘Are you going to ask me how I felt about that? How Juliet abandoning me made me feel? Maybe I should be grateful that she left me where there were cute animals to distract me. It was pretty considerate of her, you know. She did much worse things to me than that.'

Daniel's chair creaks as he shifts.

‘But I don't feel grateful. It makes me so damn angry I want to hit people over the head with the collected works of Shakespeare.'

The eggtimer goes off. Instead of ringing, the chicken clucks.

I stand. My chair wobbles but doesn't topple. ‘So we're done, right?'

Daniel shifts forward, like he's about to stand. He doesn't though. ‘You should –'

‘Do you know what a “xebec” is?'

A frown spoils his smooth forehead. ‘A kind of ship. I think. Why don't you –?'

‘No, Daniel. The chicken has spoken.'

I pick up my bag and walk out. He doesn't call after me. He can't because my time's up.