Twenty Boy Summer (19 page)

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 Aunt 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 some 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.

Matt's the one who introduced us to HP a few years ago. They weren't even popular yet, but he'd been a fan in the early years before they were a group, back when Joe did mostly solo stuff out of local bars in Buffalo. He'd call us into his room and play these random tracks he found online, blasting notes and beats from his speakers. If it was late at night, he'd pass around his headphones, bobbing his head until we caught on and followed suit. Frankie and I liked them immediately, though I no longer remember whether it was because we really
got
their music or because we just
believed
Matt, pulled into his contagious sunshine enthusiasm without question. Either way, it didn't take long for HP to become our favorite group. By the time they released their first mainstream album, we were old fans, thanks to Matt.

By the time they released their second album, Matt and I had already kissed.

He surprised me with a copy of it the next day, all the lyrics printed out and stapled together.
Read them, Anna. Really read them.

By the time they released their third album, Matt was gone. He never got to see them in concert.

"All right, y'all," Plazma's lead singer comes back onstage, nearly hoarse after their intense set. "Put your hands together for those badass East Coast rockers we're all here to see -- Joe, Brandon, Jay, and Scotty-O! Helicopter Pilot! Make some
noise
!"

Frankie and I are up from our seats with the rest of the auditorium, cheering and screaming and shouting our unrequited love. Even Red and Jayne are clapping along, bumping hips and laughing in that awkward dance that parents do when they're trying to be cool, but I'm happy to be here with them.

For three hours, Frankie and I sing and dance and laugh until our breath runs out, our hair falls, and our makeup fades. Nothing else matters -- not my drowned journal or Matt or Johan or Jake or any of the secrets and lies between us. It's just us and the music, the universal language of love and hope and loss and everything else.

After two standing ovations and two encores, Helicopter Pilot finishes with their classic first single, "Heart Shadow." When Matt died, Frankie and I listened to it over and over in her room, drowning out the din of murmuring sympathies downstairs. I haven't been able to listen to it since those long, dark days, and the first words yank me right back there, right back to her room, right back to us, two broken dolls falling on the floor against the bed.

Black heart shadow,

Set my mind on fire, suffocated by the ashes.

Black heart shadow,

Spin around laughing as the space you fill collapses,

Spinning in circles as the space you left collapses.

When I think back to last year, those times in Frankie's room when we just wanted the world to end, I can't believe how much she's changed. Maybe Dad was right to say that Red and Jayne aren't dealing with her. But maybe Frankie Perino doesn't
need
her parents to deal with her.

I watch as she closes her eyes and sways in time with the most painful song in our shared history, drifting to that faraway place where I can't follow.

I watch her waving arms and the borrowed earrings that dangle in her auburn hair.

I watch her and think, maybe Frankie Perino doesn't need
me,
either.

"Meet us out front as soon as you're done," Uncle Red says as he heads to the parking lot after the show. Frankie and I line up at the souvenir booths to get HP T-shirts, standing in silence as we inch forward, still buzzing and alive from the show. There's not much anger left between us, just a great divide -- like best friends in high school who go to different colleges, lose touch, and move on in parallel lives that never cross until years later, in a random bar or grocery store, and after a brief hug and five minutes of small talk, they both realize that the threads that connected them so long ago have frayed and blown away, leaving nothing to discuss.

So they nod and smile.

And bid one another farewell.

Wandering through my own thoughts, I lose Frankie when the line splits into several clusters down a long table of sweatshirts, T-shirts, CDs, and bumper stickers. I buy a black HP shirt and walk to the other end of the crowded table in search of Frankie. Beyond a group of middle-school girls trying on every single baby-doll shirt in the pile, I spot the back of Frankie's head tilted in the undeniable position of a kiss. A tattooed arm presses into her back, his other hand firmly on her butt.

I've seen this disappearing before -- the night of the Spring Send-off when she ditched me for Johan for two hours. I feel like I should hide in the shadows of the punch bowl table until she's done. From the looks of it, she's getting farther with Tattoo Boy near the T-shirt table than she did with Johan on the soccer field.

I give her two more minutes before issuing a warning shot in the form of a cough. She unhooks her lips from her new friend long enough for a
"What?"

"Our ride is here," I say.

She turns back to the guy. "The limo driver doesn't like to wait," she tells him.

He shrugs and lets her go, one hand still hovering near her ass. "This is Rat," she tells me. "He's the Plazma bass player. You know, the
openers
? He's, like, totally close with Jay Garra in HP. He
was
going to introduce us, before you interrupted."

"Um, okay. Cool." I don't bother telling her that the Plazma bass player doesn't have tattoos -- something I noticed easily from our fifth-row vantage point.

"Garra's got a way with the ladies," the Plazma wannabe announces with a wink. "So do I -- it's a bass player thing. What's
your
name?"

"My name is Leaving. Leaving Now." I grab Frankie's hand and pull her toward a row of cars lined up in front of the exit as she blows a kiss to Rat.

"That makes, what, seven for me and --
how
many for you? Just one, right?" She yanks her hand away and throws a satisfied smirk in my direction.

"That's right, Frank. One for me. Just one." I smile and head to the car with my HP shirt tucked securely under my arm, the beats from Scotty-O's intense drum solos still pounding inside my chest.