Frankie (24 page)

There's a hole in the flat again. A Vinnie-sized hole on top of a Cara-sized hole on top of a Xavier-sized hole. There's even a small fissure that's a little bit Nate-sized.

Vinnie and I choreograph our movements to avoid each other.

We dance outside the bathroom, eyes down, both going left, both going right, then giving up and scurrying back the way we came. We work side by side but don't talk; the customers order extra loud, trying to cover the silence.

Cara won't return my calls.

I don't even have a number for Nate.

I'm tired of leaving messages on Xavier's phone.

There comes a point where you've done all the self-flagellation you can, sent as many grovelling text messages as you can and said ‘sorry' so many times it becomes meaningless – a word-fart of little consequence. There comes a point where you realise there's actually nothing you can do: you've fucked up. Capital F. Capital UCKED.

I wait for Marzoli to come and arrest me.

He doesn't.

The only call I get is from the school. ‘You've got a meeting with Ms Vukovic, Friday at four pm sharp. Don't miss it.'

This time it's going to take more than two days.

This time it may never be fixed.

Page fifteen.

There's nothing about Harrison Finnik-Hyde until page fifteen. I guess even rich white kids have an expiry date.

I flip to the crossword, the paper rustling as I struggle to find the edges. It's a tsunami of noise compared to the silence of an empty Emporium. Compared to every second of the past two days.

I don't even know where Vinnie is right now. She left an hour ago without saying a word. Maybe another date. She must be thinking real hard about joining that desert cult right about now.

I don't look up when the door jingle jangles. It always takes people a couple of minutes to decide what they want. I don't want to stand there staring at them while their faces contort with indecision, like I've got nothing better to do than wait until I'm needed, like I don't exist before these people wander in.

Besides, I'm trying to work out what ‘unusual dance permit creates big mess' means. Eleven letters, last letter is a ‘t'.

‘This some new kind of customer service trick?' says a familiar gruff voice.

Okay. So there's any number of reasons why Marzoli and his snot-nosed sidekick have wandered into the Emporium. Not all of them end with me being hauled off to jail.

Quite a few do, though.

Marzoli drops a twenty on the counter between us, right over the top of the crossword. ‘I'll have the usual. Peters will have the same.'

‘Does that include the usual side of contempt?'

‘That's very humorous.' Marzoli tries to smile. Nine out of ten for effort but a mere point zero, zero five for the frankly shocking execution.

I grip the electric knife and start carving strips from the lamb spit. My hand shakes.

‘You doing the crossword?' Peters peers at the paper upside down and screws up his nose. ‘Man, I hate those things. How's anybody supposed to know what . . .' He swings the paper round right side up. ‘“Unusual dance permit creates big mess” means. Total gibberish.'

‘Miss Vega is a crossword whizz,' says Marzoli. He says it like an accusation. ‘So I guess you're home sick from school again?'

‘I'm taking a break. Got to wait for the other kids to catch up.'

The meat's a little pink. Most times I'd fry it on the hot plate but today I dump it straight onto the flatbread. I carry it over to the counter and start piling on the salad – two scoops of jalapeños and extra chilli sauce.

Marzoli
hrumphs
, nudging Peters with his elbow. The guy's still leaning over the newspaper, mouth hanging open for extra concentration. ‘Huh?'

‘I think Miss Vega might want to hear the news about her brother.' Marzoli leans against the bain marie and watches. The pit-bull is out in force.

I fold up their kebabs and slide them over with trembling hands.

‘Xavier Green's sister, eh?' says Peters. He whistles. The I-wouldn't-want-to-be-in-your-shoes whistle. He's got a chalky stain on his tie. Toothpaste. Or actual chalk, like they use to draw round dead bodies.

I grip the counter. ‘You got news?'

Peters rips into his kebab. Guess he wasn't watching me make it. Marzoli lays a hand on top of his but doesn't pick it up. ‘Your brother's house got broken into two days ago. His father's place: Bill Green. You know him?'

I shake my head. Small, jerky movements. I always feared Vinnie's wrath above everything else – now I'm not so sure.

I yank the crossword out from under Peters' elbows and grab my pen. Unusual dance permit creates big mess . . .

‘I'm just thinking it's a hell of a coincidence,' says Marzoli. He picks up the kebab. Sniffs it. ‘Your brother goes missing and then his dad's house gets broken into.'

I tap my pen against my lip. ‘I'm sure it had nothing to do with Xavier.'

‘Yeah?' Marzoli coughs as he tries to swallow his first bite of the Frankie Special. ‘Why's that?'

‘As far as I know, Xavier hasn't been living in that house. He's been squatting.'

Marzoli and Peters exchange looks. ‘Well, I think Centrelink will be interested to know Mr Green is claiming for a dependent he doesn't have,' says Marzoli.

I keep my gaze focused on the crossword, voice as even as I can make it. ‘Maybe whoever broke in was worried about him. Maybe they were looking to make sure Bill Green hadn't done anything bad to him.'

Marzoli nods slowly. He hasn't gone back for a second bite. ‘Bill Green thinks Xavier's run away. Says he owes lots of money and, like his mother, isn't real good at facing up to responsibility.'

Peters shrugs. ‘Sounds like a solid story.'

But Marzoli frowns. I'm pretty sure these guys rehearsed this before they came in. I'm also pretty sure we're getting to the heart of their little performance. The music is swelling and the camera is panning in for a close-up. It's Oscars clip time. ‘Then again,' says Marzoli, ‘Bill Green could have been confused. He'd recently been assaulted.'

Peters whips out a large, glossy photo from his coat pocket. Boo-ya! He pushes it across the counter at me. ‘Sure you don't know this man?'

Somehow I don't run screaming from the room. Even though my knees wobble and my heart sinks, I stay upright.

Just.

I shake my head. Marzoli tsks.

The photo has obviously been taken at an emergency room. Bill Green's got a black eye, a swollen cheek and a nasty cut on his brow – like someone introduced his face to a welding iron. He's staring murderously at whoever's taking the shot. It could have something to do with the fact that he's wearing a hospital gown and the chill air is probably freezing his puny yeti-balls off.

I'm in so much trouble.

I stare at the picture, waiting for Marzoli to whip out the handcuffs.

He leans over the counter. Garlic and jalapeño breath wafting my way. ‘Mr Green's not being real cooperative. Guess he doesn't want the police looking round his house. The doctor called it in, but when we tried chatting to Green about it he got all tight lipped. He reacted when we showed him a picture of Nate Wishaw, though. He looked real angry.'

I bite down hard on my lip. Really hard.

‘And he didn't look too happy to hear your name either.' He flashes me a mouthful of crooked teeth.

I lower my eyes to the crossword. Unusual dance permit creates big mess.

I will get this.

I will not be stumped.

Eleven letters, last letter is a ‘t'.

Marzoli sighs. ‘Between you and me, Frankie, Bill Green's not the best of characters and I'm not real worried what happened to him. In fact, I couldn't give a shit. I'm more interested in getting hold of Wishaw, a boy who seems to spend a lot of time in other people's houses, uninvited.'

I stay silent, afraid of opening my mouth and word-vomiting incriminating things.

Unusual dance permit creates big mess. Big mess? Try: ‘Frankie'. Try: ‘my life'.

‘Let me outline my position, Frankie.' Marzoli dumps the barely touched kebab on the counter. ‘I see kids like you all the time. Nobody to show them how to do things right. You're smart but you don't apply yourself. You get in fights. You get mixed up with the wrong crowd – kids just like you. Broken families. Tough lives. They're the ones who understand you, right?

‘But your aunt has done a good job with you. Don't let her hear me say that but it's true. With the start you got in life, it's a wonder you turned out as well as you did. Don't throw all that back in her face, Frankie. Don't protect a criminal – you think he can find your brother? He's stringing you along because he needs your alibi. He'll dump you in the shit the second it suits him. You think he won't squeal on you when we haul him in?'

He taps the photo of Bill Green. Fingers thick, stubby.

‘I figure I've got two choices,' he says. ‘I could spend my time looking real close at what happened at Bill Green's house or I could focus on Wishaw. Forget everything else.' He pulls out a mug shot of Nate and dumps it right over the top of Bill's photo. ‘What do you reckon, Miss Vega?'

I stare at Nate's photo. The angry glare, the scowl, the couldn't-give-a-fuck tilt of the chin. But so lost. Let down. Acting out.

I hate him.

I hate that I don't hate him.

I hate that I can't ignore what he did for me.

I shove the mug shot toward Marzoli. ‘Fine,' I tell him. ‘The truth is it was Reverend Green in the library with the candlestick.'

The kindly old man routine fades as Marzoli presses his cracked lips into a firm line. We have a brief staring contest before he stuffs the photo back in his coat. Peters chews his kebab. Loudly.

‘If you happen to run into Wishaw,' says Marzoli, ‘tell him I'm looking for him.'

He picks his kebab off the counter, garlic sauce dripping out the open end. He looks just about to leave but then he pauses.

‘Ten across, Frankie,' he says. He jabs the paper. ‘Unusual dance permit causes big mess? Predicament.'

He smirks as he walks out the door.

Vinnie's still not talking to me but when I wake up Friday morning, there's a note pinned to the fridge.

DON'T FORGET SCHOOL CALLED – MEETING WITH VUKOVIC TODAY. FOUR PM. DO NOT BE LATE. DO NOT TAKE YOUR ATTITUDE. WEAR UNIFORM. PRACTISE GROVELLING.

Subtle.

__________

It's too loud to concentrate in the office because a couple of the homework club kids are cleaning out the stationery cupboard, making paperclip chains to whip each other with. Square-Tits doesn't say or do anything about it.

My fault for getting here late I guess.

I hit Steve because I was temporarily insane.

I was possessed (but I'm okay now).

I slipped and accidentally broke that kid's nose.

It was a political statement. You can't expel me for expressing myself.

I scribble out everything I've written, accidentally ripping the paper.

I didn't plan on being late. But I walked the long way here, trying to clear my head of the rotting chipmunk carcass stuffed in there, and got distracted by my own pity party. I mean, what's the point? I'm past forgiveness with Vinnie. What else matters?

So when I rocked up half an hour late, Vukovic was waiting for me, sitting with her palms facedown on her antique desk, a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. Not the only thing steaming.

‘I've been waiting,' she said.

‘That's bonus free time for you,' I said. ‘To do whatever it is that you do outside of school. Actually, what do you do? I'm betting it's got something to do with horses.'

‘I take my job very seriously,' she snapped. ‘You should take your future seriously.'

‘I said I was sorry.'

‘Sorry only works the first few times, Frankie. But you keep making the same mistakes.'

I thought hard about climbing across Vukovic's desk, grabbing one of her stupid horse pictures and throwing it across the room. It would have smashed through the window and sailed into the quad. It might have landed on someone's head. Ava Devar's, if I was lucky.

I didn't do it. But I thought about it. In graphic detail.

‘I called you in today because I'm not sure I can trust that you'll say the right thing at the meeting on Monday,' she said. ‘When the board calls on you to explain your actions.'

I didn't say anything. In my head I was busy doing the conga around Ava Devar's lifeless body.

‘So I'm asking you to write a statement. I suggest you take this seriously. I don't think you understand how close you are to losing your place at this school.' She waved me toward the door. Dismissed. ‘Doreen on reception will set you up with a pen and paper.'

So for the second time this week I'm being made to write something and I've got an audience while I'm doing it. If Square-Tits looks down her nose at me one more time I'll insert my pencil up it.

She clears her throat loudly and reaches for the white-out.

I check my phone but Cara hasn't responded to my latest text.

I raise my hand. ‘Miss? Reception lady? Can I go to the toilet, please?'

‘Have you finished your statement?'

I look down at the page full of scribbles and crossing out. ‘Yes.'

She laughs. ‘You can't leave until your done. Really done. Ms Vukovic's rules.'

The glass doors open and in walks Steve Sparrow. He's got a bucket and sponge in one hand, his school bag in the other. His white shirt is soaked through. He dumps the bucket in front of reception and shoves in his earphones.

‘Done,' he says. ‘It's child labour. Wait till my dad hears about this.'

Square-Tits' nails clicketty clack against the keyboard. ‘Sit,' she says.

‘What?'

‘Sit.' She points a narrow, silver nail over his shoulder at the chairs behind him.
My
chairs.

I sink lower and let a curtain of black hair hide my face.

Steve coughs ‘bitch' and turns around. He takes about two steps before he sees me.

‘Shit no,' he says. ‘You can't make me sit near her. She's psycho.'

Square-Tits points again. ‘You're in enough trouble as it is, young man. Take a seat and wait for your father to get here.'

Steve does a massive loop around the room, shuffling with his back against the wall, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. He lowers himself into the chair furthest from me; there are only three chairs to pick from and I'm in one of them. He presses his white earphones in deeper.

‘Keep your hands to yourself,' he says. He dumps his bag on the chair between us.

I start my statement again:
Steve Sparrow is a prick. I did the world a favour. The end.

Steve beats his palms against his thighs. He can't sit still. He keeps shifting in the chair – every time he shifts, the whole bank of chairs wobbles. ‘What are you even doing here? Didn't you get expelled?' he says.

I scribble out ‘the end':
If you let me back into this school I promise I will make it my life's mission to hurt, annoy, piss off and maim Steve Sparrow. The end.

‘You're such a freak,' he says.

Square-Tits shushes him. The homework club kids giggle from inside the stationery cupboard.

Steve loops his finger in circles beside his head. ‘Freakie.'

I grip my pencil tight in my fist. This is so going to end badly.

‘I'm not even supposed to be here,' says Steve. ‘Your stupid lesbo mate dobbed on me, but I didn't do it. My dad is going to sue these bastards.'

He says ‘bastards' loud enough to earn a tsk from Square-Tits.

Don't get sucked in, don't get sucked in, don't get –

‘Dobbed you in for what?'

He scowls at me – the bruising on his face has turned all sorts of crazy colours and shapes. It looks like one of those ink blot tests, the kind that reveal how crazy you are. ‘Why are you talking to me, freak?'

‘Because you won't shut up.'

‘You shut up.'

I scribble out ‘maim' and write ‘kill'.

Steve unzips his bag and gets out his pencil case. He rummages through it loudly before pulling out an oversized texta. He zips up the bag and plonks it on his lap. He's got a half-finished drawing on the side.

We sit in silence.

The homework club kids are pretending the rulers are lightsabers and they're Jedis. There's a loud slap as one of the Jedis gets whacked. There's giggling and sucking in air, trying to breathe but laughing instead.

The texta zips and hums as Steve slides it across the rough school bag fabric, blacking out a letter. E, I think.

I scratch out everything I just wrote. Half a page of scribbled-out bullshit. Vukovic is not going to like it.

I hold my pen against the paper but nothing comes: I have nothing to say. I could tell them about Ava and that first day of school. I could tell them about every one of Steve's insults. It gets boring after a while, though – slut, whore, freak, whore, diseased whore, freak, weirdo, whore, blah, blah, blah. They wouldn't like all the swearing so maybe I shouldn't tell them. I could tell them about Mark and Ava behind the science block. Bill Green, Xavier, Juliet. . .

I don't write a thing.

How messed up is that?

Even Steve's got something to say. Something he's prepared to display on the side of his school bag. He's got his tongue sticking out and he's totally focused. The E is almost completely blacked-in now. It's the last letter in a single word. In the middle of the word, two Ks stand back to back, the top of each of them is a bloodied knife, dripping.

‘Holy shit!'

‘Shhhh.' Square-Tits frowns at me.

I cover my mouth and swear again. ‘You're Jackknife?'

Steve's eyes go wide and he looks as though he'd like to jump across the chair between us and shove his texta down my throat. ‘Are you high? What the hell are you on about?'

I point at his bag.

He dumps it at his feet. ‘You're full of shit.'

‘I've seen your stuff.'

‘Stop talking to me.'

‘I live in the flat above the Emporium. The alley beside the shop?'

He clicks the pen lid on and off as he stares at his feet. ‘I told you, shut up.'

I throw my head back and laugh. ‘Man, I could get you arrested.'

‘You don't have any evidence. No one would believe you.'

I wipe my eyes. ‘Yeah. I know. I'm not going to. I don't care what you do.' I pull the lid off the pen and write:
Because I felt like it.

‘Don't tell my dad,' says Steve and it's the first time I've heard him say anything without a sneer in his voice. He takes out one of the earphones. ‘What do you know about it anyway?'

I draw smiley faces over the top of both ‘i's. ‘I know you covered a much better piece with your stupid tag.'

‘You're full of shit. No way is that Skid-Mark guy better than me.'

‘X Marks.'

‘Whatever.'

He shoves the earphone back in and squeezes his hand into his pocket, turning his music up. A fuzzy, screamy, drummy drone.

The smiley faces get pigtails and a sombrero each.

‘He's been doing it longer than me is all,' says Steve. He sinks down in his chair. ‘What do you know anyway?'

I give one smiley face a cigar and the other angry brows.

‘He's my brother,' I say, drawing a distinctly middle-finger-shaped poof of smoke wafting from the cigar.

Steve yanks out an earphone. ‘What?'

He watches me drawing. Maybe he's wondering how I'm related to Xavier if I'm such a shit artist. It looks like poo, not smoke, wafting from the cigar (which also looks like poo).

‘You don't have a brother,' he says. The sneer is back.

‘Correction. I didn't have a brother until two weeks ago when I learnt I have a half-brother. My mum, as you've pointed out more than once, is far from a nun. So it's possible I have many half brothers but X Marks – Xavier – is definitely one of them.'

‘I don't understand half the shit you say,' Steve says. ‘But it's cool X Marks is your brother. His stuff is pretty awesome.'

Well, how about that. Steve saying something that doesn't make me want to maim him. Shame it's about Xavier.

‘Pity he's a lying, thieving prick.' I scrunch up the paper and shove it deep into my backpack, way down the bottom with all the pens, receipts, Maths homework sheets and muesli bar wrappers that live there.

The homework club kids hurry out of the stationery cupboard, rubbing the red marks on their arms and grinning at each other. ‘Done, Miss,' they say at the same time. Square-Tits waves them into the office where she gives them another mind-numbing bunch of busy-work. They'd be better off wandering the streets, joining gangs.

‘I saw him the other day,' says Steve. He's not grinning or sneering. He's serious. He shrugs. ‘Doing a piece along the river. There's this awesome wall, ripe for it.'

I gape at him; he doesn't look like he knows he's just dropped a life-altering piece of info.

‘When?' The armrest digs into my stomach as I lean over it.

‘Maybe a couple of Sundays ago? Some black-and-white thing. Not his usual but pretty good, I guess.'

‘What time?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Was anyone with him?'

He shrugs.

‘You don't know who was with him or you don't know if there was anyone there?'

‘Chill, Freakie,' says Steve. ‘I was just passing but I saw him with –'

A loud voice barks Steve's name from the front entrance. Both of us jump in our seats. Steve stands as his dad marches over to us.

‘I didn't do it,' says Steve. There's a clink as his dad boots the school bag at Steve's feet. Fred Sparrow grips his son by the shirt, lifting him and pushing him up against the wall.

‘Do you know who I had to cancel to come here?' says Sparrow.

Behind reception, Square-Tits holds a hand to her mouth. She doesn't say anything, though. She doesn't even get up.

Steve's blinking his eyes heaps. ‘But I didn't do it.'

Sparrow pushes Steve in the chest as he lets go of the shirt. ‘Defacing school property? The same damn thing every time. You're a waste of space.'

As Sparrow bends, grabbing Steve's school bag in the middle, he glances at me. I'm not sure he recognises me but he sneers anyway. Talk about resting bitch face. I open my mouth – there are twenty different smart-arsed things I could say but I don't say any of them. The bag strap catches on the armrest and Sparrow yanks it hard to free it, rocking my chair.

‘We're going.' He doesn't even look at Steve as he says it.

Steve watches his dad march out, the glass door rattling as he slams it shut behind him. Steve stands there, hands balled into fists by his side, breathing hard.

Nobody says anything.

Steve pushes his hair out of his eyes, sniffing loudly. Then he looks at me. ‘What the fuck you staring at, Freakie?' He sounds like a five-year-old.