Saving Francesca (22 page)

I sit next to Jimmy on the way home, and he teaches me how to play Nintendo with the precision of a surgeon.

“It’s hard, but you’ll get the hang of it,” he says, handing it over.

I beat him first go and I hand it back. He looks at me darkly.

“You’ve frightened me in the last two days, Francesca. I want you to go back to your pathetic self as soon as possible,” he says.

“Why?” I grin.

“Because you being pathetic makes me feel good about myself,” he jokes.

In front of me, Thomas and Justine are sharing a Discman, one earphone in each of their ears.

I put my face between them.

“Tuba Guy’s not going to be happy,” I say, doing the smooching sounds that Thomas always does when I’m speaking to Will. Behind me, Tara and Siobhan are asleep, heads against each other, mouths hanging open, a bit of saliva on the side.

I feel a wave of sadness come over me. I want the bus driver to turn the bus around and I want to spend the rest of my days in a whirlwind of the last few days. Of flirting. Of laughing. Of ridding the world of evil. Of folk songs. Of piggybacks. Of hip-hop dancing. Of foolishness.

And most of all, of forgetting.

I look past them to where Will and his friends are sitting, and he catches my eye for a moment and smiles. It’s a weird smile, but it reaches his eyes and I bottle it. And I put it in my ammo pack that’s kept right next to my soul. The one that holds Mia’s scent and Justine’s spirit and Siobhan’s hope and Tara’s passions. Because if I’m going to wake up one morning and not be able to get out of bed, I’m going to need everything I’ve got to fight this bastard of a disease that could be sleeping inside of me.

chapter 30

I TURN SEVENTEEN.
It’s on a really bad day for Mia. One of those days that make me think she’ll never get better. Some days aren’t just a step back, they are a mile. This morning she’s crying and it’s painful to hear and my ears ache from the sound of her sobbing. I can hear my father’s voice, comforting her, like it always does. But the heart-wrenching sound doesn’t stop. There’s just so much grief there, and I stick my pillow over my head and wish the day away.

No one remembers it’s my birthday, and I’m glad because I just couldn’t bear putting on a smile and pretending to be happy about being a year older. The Stella girls don’t ring. No one rings. Not my grandparents, not anyone, and the worst thing is that it’s Sunday and I’m not at school with my friends, and it’s the loneliest day of my life.

Birthdays in the past were spectacular. If it wasn’t a thousand presents, it was a dinner out, and the birthday person got to choose. Mia let us have wine and we’d make toasts. People would look at us and I could hear them say, “What a great family!” Were we too smug? Does God punish the smug? Does what we had automatically transfer to some other family who didn’t have it but now do, courtesy of our despair?

My father walks into the kitchen. “Go take Luca up to the Abouds.” No “please,” no softness toward me in his voice.

“And then where do you want me to hide?” I ask snidely.

He stares at me, but I don’t care because I don’t know who he is anymore. I used to see him smile every day, but I haven’t seen him smile for months. People used to always say he should grow up, but a grown-up Robert isn’t fun.
Bring on the immaturity,
I want to say. He’s still staring, and for a moment I don’t recognize the look in his eyes.

“You blame me for this, don’t you?” he says.

“Luca!” I call out, still looking at my father, straight in the eye. “The Abouds want you to come over.”

“Don’t you?” he persists.

“I don’t need to. You’re doing a better job.”

I walk up the road with Luca and Pinocchio.

You blame me for this, don’t you?

I can’t get the words out of my head, both his and mine. Deep down, when I analyze how I feel, I realize that there is resentment and it’s not toward Mia. It’s toward my father. It’s like this bubble that’s inside me that I keep thinking is going to burst on its own because it’s too weak to withstand. But it’s not. It just builds up and builds up, and every word that comes out of his mouth, every feel-good sentiment, every bit of optimism, makes me want to yell hysterically. And in this whole mess, this whole period of everything aching, it’s thinking this way about him that makes me feel as if I’m slowly bleeding inside.

On Monday, the only thing that gets me out of bed is the fact that I hate this house so much that I’d rather die than stay here.

I spend the day on Ms. Quinn’s sofa. Once upon a time she’d work quietly, put off phone calls while I was in there and not allow anyone to disturb us. Now she’s become so used to it that life goes on around me. The normalcy of routine in that office, in itself, is a comfort.

At one stage I have no idea what time it is. I wake up and Will’s sitting on the floor, his back in front of me, leaning against my sofa.

“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning back so our faces are level.

I can hardly speak but I try. “I was born seventeen years ago,” I tell him. “Do you think people have noticed that I’m around?”

“I notice when you’re not. Does that count?”

I close my eyes again and go to sleep.

When the afternoon bell rings, Justine is standing outside Ms. Quinn’s office, holding my bag. I bet she’s carried it around all day.

Our group of four walk across the park in silence. At one stage, Siobhan bumps me with her hip. It’s one of those are-you-okay bumps. I bump her back. Already I’m feeling a bit better, even though I dread the idea of going home. As we walk through Grace Bros., Justine drags me to one of the cosmetic counters.

“Let’s get makeovers,” she suggests.

“Waste of money,” Tara says. “All we’ll be doing tonight is homework.”

“Francesca?”

I nod. “Why not.”

When it’s over, the four of us rave about how beautiful we look. Even Tara is fascinated with herself.

“I’ve got the best idea for tonight,” Siobhan says. “Thomas is going to watch some band down at Coogee. He said we could come along. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s a school night,” Justine argues, getting that pink stressed tinge in her cheeks.

“We’re celebrating.” Siobhan grabs my face. “It was her birthday. Look how sad she looks.”

I think for a moment. “What band?”

“Some punk band he’s into.”

I look at Tara and Justine hopefully.

“We won’t get in,” Tara says firmly.

“We will,” Siobhan says. “I’ll get us in.”

“The lying’s too complicated,” Tara argues.

“Only because you make it complicated,” Siobhan complains.

I can tell that Justine is having a stress attack at the idea of it.

“It’ll be fun,” I say, trying to convince her. “I can tell my dad I’m staying at your place, and you can tell yours that you’re staying at Tara’s, and so on and so forth,” I plead. “You can ask Tuba Guy as well. This is your opportunity to ask him out, Justine. It’s a music thing. It’ll make sense.”

“And how do we sneak back into my house without my parents hearing?” Tara asks.

“I’m the expert,” Siobhan says, clapping gleefully. “Leave it to me.”

Thomas and his friends and Jimmy meet us outside the hotel at 7:30. Tuba Guy has arrived before us and is already being terrorized by Jimmy, who I can tell has just asked him his hundredth question.

“You look great,” Tuba Guy says as we stand around. But he’s mostly looking at Justine.

“It’s just the makeup,” Tara says in her practical tone, because I can tell she’s embarrassed by the attention she’s getting from the guys.

“We know that, Tara,” Thomas says. “We’ve seen how ugly you look underneath it all.” But he is staring at her. Sometimes, I think he has a crush on all of us but it is Tara who makes his heart beat fast, although he’d rather die than admit it.

We walk inside. The place is semi-packed and we try hard to look discreet. The band is set to play in another room at 9:30, so we decide to make ourselves comfortable in the lounge. Jimmy shouts out to someone he knows, and we push him into a booth.

“We’re trying to be inconspicuous,” Justine says.

“Chill,” Thomas says as we make ourselves comfortable. “You chicks get hot and bothered about anything.”

“Why is it that you always sound like someone out of a bad seventies movie?” Tara asks him.

“Because I’m trying to compete with the I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar image you have, Helen.”

“It’s Ms. Reddy to you.”

We discuss who is going to get the drinks.

“Tara and I will go,” Siobhan says, having already eyed the young bartender.

Thomas puts two fingers together and does a smooching sound.

“Maturity, Thomas,” I warn.

There’s something so exciting about doing something illegal. You feel as if the whole world is looking at you, but no one really gives a damn. When a waitress comes to clear the table next to us, Justine starts babbling about the university degree she’s doing.

“Huh?” Thomas asks. “What is she talking about?” he asks me.

I kick him under the table and Jimmy’s killing himself laughing, very loudly.

When Siobhan and Tara come back with our bourbons, we make a toast.

“To Francesca!”

They raise them up in the air as the waitress comes back.

“On her nineteenth birthday,” Justine blurts out.

“Did she repeat?” Tuba Guy asks, confused.

“So did Trombal give you anything?” Jimmy asks, nosy as usual.

“A compliment. That was enough,” I say, thinking of him in Ms. Quinn’s office.

“Trombal doesn’t know how to give compliments,” Thomas says. “The other day I’m trying to put some work in for you, Francesca, and I’m saying that you look like the chick in the toothpaste commercial, you know, the one with the short dress and the big tits?”

I’m ever so slightly horrified.

“Please don’t assist me in any way, Thomas,” I beg of him.

“Well, Trombal’s like, ‘No. She looks like Sophia Lauren’ or something like that, and I’m thinking, you loser! Here I am trying to pay her a compliment and you can’t even pretend that Francesca’s hot.”

“Did he just insult me?” I ask Justine.

“Yes, but the tragedy is that he thinks he’s paying you a compliment.”

Then something clicks into place. “Sophia Loren?” I say, remembering Will’s father calling me Sophia at the wedding.

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Sophia Loren is, like, the most beautiful woman in the world,” Tara tells him. “She’s an Italian actress.”

“Then why haven’t I heard of her?”

“Because you’re too busy watching toothpaste commercials. She’s, like, in her sixties. . . .”

“He’s comparing you with an old person? He has no idea.”

“How can we explain this to you, Thomas?”

“He’s not going to get it,” Siobhan says, already bored.

“Let me try.” Jimmy faces Thomas. “From what I can remember from this film,
The Boy and the Dolphin,
Sophia has big tits.”

“Ahhh,” Thomas says, nodding.

“Is that all you guys notice?” Tara asks, disgusted.

“No. I’m actually a great ass man myself,” Jimmy explains, just to rile her up. “What about you?” he says, turning to Tuba Guy, with that evil/innocent look on his face.

Tuba Guy looks stricken, and Justine looks like she wants to dig a hole.

“The piano accordion thing does it for me,” he mumbles quietly.

Tara, Siobhan, and I look at him proudly. Justine’s face is just about pink.

The band comes and the music is mindless, but I feel on track with everyone in the room. The whole space is a mosh pit and I sway, courtesy of five hundred other people around me and the alcohol. The world from this perspective is strange, and for a moment I stand in the middle of it and just absorb it. I can smell the dope and the body odors and the beer and the spirits and the puke. I can smell Justine’s perfume as she puts her arms around me and we move to the beat and everything is a strange blur of bodies. I think I imagine it, but this one time when I open my eyes I see Tara and Thomas and I’m sure something’s happening between them, some kind of touch, some kind of look, but it’s gone so quickly and the mirror ball spins and my hair is matted to my forehead. And the way I feel about everyone in my life is so clear. It’s almost like an epiphany.

Later, we pull Siobhan away from the bartender at the pub, who’s just walked off his shift.

“What??” she says, looking at us innocently.

“Can we not go anywhere without you picking up someone?” Tara asks, hailing a cab. We all crawl in.

“Am I hurting anyone?”

“Yourself.”

“How?”

“You’re the one who gets upset, Siobhan,” Justine says.

“Only with the name-calling. Not with anything else. That time at the party, it was the name-calling that made me cry.”

I lean against Justine.

“Did he kiss you?” I ask.

“No. I kissed him.”

We grin at each other.

The taxi driver pulls into Tara’s street.

“Oh God,” Tara says, quickly yanking off her seat belt. “There’s a police car outside my house.” She’s almost in tears. “Oh God. Something’s happened to my parents.”