The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks Read online

  Copyright © 2008 by E. Lockhart

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion Books for Children, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Hyperion Books for Children,

  114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  Designed by Elizabeth H. Clark

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  This book is set in Granjon.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7868-3818-9

  ISBN-10: 0-7868-3818-3

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Table of Contents

  1. A Piece Of Evidence

  2. Swan

  3. A Chance Encounter That Would Prove Seminal

  4. Old Boy

  5. Alabaster

  6. The Geek Club Conglomerate

  7. Matthew

  8. Alpha

  9. The Ladies

  10. The Panopticon

  11. The Invitations

  12. The Woods

  13. The Golf Course

  14. A Garlic Knot

  15. A Triangle

  16. The Neglected Positive

  17. Cheese Fries

  18. The T-shirt

  19. The Suicide Club

  20. Monster

  21. The Loyal Order

  22. A Sea Horse

  23. Star

  24. A Broken Date

  25. The Old Theater

  26. The Oath

  27. The Crown Of Alabaster

  28. Look To The West, Boys

  29. Bind It Tight With Sticking Plaster

  30. History

  31. English Muffins

  32. How To Get Through A Closed Door

  33. Halloween

  34. A Vamp

  35. The Subsequent E-mails

  36. How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?

  37. An Ignominious Fall

  38. The Canned Beet Rebellion

  39. The Return Of Bunny Rabbit

  40. The Fish Liberation Society

  41. Twine

  42. Burn

  43. A Perpetrator

  44. The Letter, Again

  45. Some More E-mail

  46. After The Fall, Spring

  Acknowledgments

  For my college friends Kate, Polly, Cliff,

  Aaron, and Catherine, who know all about

  golf course parties and midnight adventures

  A PIECE OF EVIDENCE

  December 14, 2007

  To: Headmaster Richmond and the Board of Directors, Alabaster Preparatory Academy

  I, Frankie Landau-Banks, hereby confess that I was the sole mastermind behind the mal-doings of the Loyal Order of the Basset Hounds. I take full responsibility for the disruptions caused by the Order—including the Library Lady, the Doggies in the Window, the Night of a Thousand Dogs, the Canned Beet Rebellion, and the abduction of the Guppy.

  That is, I wrote the directives telling everyone what to do.

  I, and I alone.

  No matter what Porter Welsch told you in his statement.

  Of course, the dogs of the Order are human beings with free will. They contributed their labor under no explicit compunction. I did not threaten them or coerce them in any way, and if they chose to follow my instructions, it was not because they feared retribution.

  You have requested that I provide you with their names. I respectfully decline to do so. It’s not for me to pugn or impugn their characters.

  I would like to point out that many of the Order’s escapades were intended as social criticism. And that many of the Order’s members were probably diverted from more self-destructive behaviors by the activities prescribed them by me. So maybe my actions contributed to a larger good, despite the inconveniences you, no doubt, suffered.

  I do understand the administration’s disgruntlement over the incidents. I see that my behavior disrupted the smooth running of your patriarchal establishment. And yet I would like to suggest that you view each of the Loyal Order’s projects with the gruntlement that should attend the creative civil disobedience of students who are politically aware and artistically expressive.

  I am not asking that you indulge my behavior; merely that you do not dulge it without considering its context.

  Yours sincerely,

  Frances Rose Landau-Banks, class of 2010

  SWAN

  Though not, in hindsight, so startling as the misdeeds she would perpetrate when she returned to boarding school as a sophomore, what happened to Frankie Landau-Banks the summer after her freshman year was a shock. Certainly upsetting enough to disturb Frankie’s conservative mother, Ruth, and to rile several boys in Frankie’s New Jersey neighborhood to thoughts (and even actions) they’d never before contemplated.

  Frankie herself was unsettled as well.

  Between May and September, she gained four inches and twenty pounds, all in the right places. Went from being a scrawny, awkward child with hands too big for her arms, a frizz of unruly brown fluff on her head, and a jaw so sharp it made Grandma Evelyn cluck about how “When it comes to plastic surgery, it never hurts to do these things before college,” to being a curvaceous young woman with an offbeat look that boys found distinctly appealing. She grew into her angular face, filled out her figure, and transformed from a homely child into a loaded potato—all while sitting quietly in a suburban hammock, reading the short stories of Dorothy Parker and drinking lemonade.

  The only thing Frankie herself had done to facilitate the change was to invest in some leave-in conditioner to tame the frizz. She wasn’t the kind of girl to attempt a makeover. She had been getting along okay at Alabaster Prep without one, despite the fact that their boarding school was (as her older sister Zada pointed out) an institution where the WASPs outnumbered the other Protestants ten to one, the Catholics were pretty much in the closet, and the members of “the tribe” had largely changed their names from things like Bernstein to things like Burns.

  Frankie had gotten by at Alabaster on the strength of being Zada’s little sister. Zada was a senior when Frankie started, and though she’d never been outlandishly popular, Zada had a solid crew of friends and a reputation for speaking her mind. She’d let Frankie tag along with her group of juniors and seniors for the first part of the school year, and made it clear to everyone that Frankie was not to be messed with. Zada had let her little sister sit with her at lunch on an as-needed basis, and introduced her to people from the crew team, the lacrosse team, student government, and the debate team. This last group Frankie joined—and proved to be a surprisingly sharp competitor.

  Frankie had held up her part of the bargain freshman year by not embarrassing Zada any more than she could help. She wore the clothes Zada told her to, did fine in her classes, and made friends with a group of mildly geeky fellow freshmen who were neither ostentatiously silly nor tragically lame.

  By summer’s end, when she saw Zada off to Berkeley, Frankie was curvy, lithe, and possessed of enough oomph to stop teenage boys in the street when they passed her. But if we are to accurately chronicle Frankie’s transformation and so-called misbehavior in these pages, it is important to note that her physical maturation was not, at first, accompanied by similar mental developments. Intellectually, Frankie was not at all the near-criminal mastermind who created the Fish Liberation Society, and who will, as an adult, probably go on to head th
e CIA, direct action movies, design rocket ships, or possibly (if she goes astray), preside over a unit of organized criminals. At the start of sophomore year, Frankie Landau-Banks was none of these things. She was a girl who liked to read, had only ever had one boyfriend, enjoyed the debate team, and still kept gerbils in a Habitrail. She was highly intelligent, but there was nothing unusually ambitious or odd about her mental functioning.

  Her favorite food was guacamole and her favorite color was white.

  She had never been in love.

  A CHANCE ENCOUNTER THAT WOULD PROVE SEMINAL

  The day after Zada departed for Berkeley,

  Frankie and her mother went to the Jersey Shore for a four-day weekend with Frankie’s two divorced uncles and three cousins. They rented a creaky five-bedroom house on a tiny plot of cement, two blocks from the beach and boardwalk.

  Frankie’s cousins were all between the ages of ten and thirteen. And they were all boys. A pack of vile creatures, in Frankie’s view, given to pummeling one another, throwing food, farting, and messing with Frankie’s stuff unless she locked the door of her bedroom.

  Every day, the whole group lugged beach chairs, blankets, pretzels, cans of beer (for the uncles), juice boxes, and sports equipment down to the shore, where they parked themselves for a solid six hours. Frankie couldn’t read a novel without having a sand crab placed on her knee, a bucket of saltwater dumped on her abdomen, or a box of grape juice spilled on her towel. She couldn’t swim without some cousin trying to grab her legs or splashing her. She couldn’t eat without one of the boys nipping a chip off her plate or kicking sand across her food.

  On the last day of the vacation, Frankie lay on a beach blanket listening to her balding, gently paunchy uncles discuss the Jackals’ minor-league season. Frankie’s mother dozed in a beach chair. For the moment, at least, the cousins were in the water, having breath-holding contests and occasionally trying to drown one another.

  “Can I go into town?” Frankie asked.

  Ruth lifted her sunglasses off her face and squinted at her daughter. “How come?”

  “To walk around. Get an ice cream. Maybe buy some postcards,” Frankie answered. She wanted to get away from all of them. The togetherness, the sports talk, the farting and pummeling.

  Ruth turned to one of her brothers. “Ben, isn’t it, like, fifteen blocks to the center of town? How far would you say it is?”

  “Yeah, fifteen blocks,” said Uncle Ben. “She shouldn’t go alone.”

  “I’m not going with her.” Ruth put her glasses back on her nose. “I came here to relax on the beach, not look at postcards in tourist shops.”

  “I can go on my own,” said Frankie. She didn’t want Ruth with her anyway. “Fifteen blocks is not that far.”

  “There are some shady characters around here,” Uncle Ben warned. “Atlantic City is only a few miles north.”

  “Bunny, you don’t know your way around,” said Ruth.

  “The house is 42 Sea Line Avenue,” replied Frankie. “I make a left on Oceanview and it’s a straight shot to where the shops are. I went to the supermarket with Uncle Paul, remember?”

  Ruth pursed her lips. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “What do you think is gonna happen? I’m not getting in a car with any strange men. I have a cell phone.”

  “It’s not a town we know,” said Ruth. “I don’t want to argue about this.”

  “But what do you think will happen?”

  “I don’t want to get into it.”

  “How do you think I cross the street when I’m at Alabaster, huh?”

  “Bunny Rabbit.”

  “Because I cross the street when you’re not there, Mom. News flash.”

  Uncle Paul spoke. “Let her go, Ruth. I let Paulie Junior go in last year when he was only twelve and he was fine.”

  “See?” Frankie turned to her mother.

  “Stay out of it, Paul,” snapped Ruth. “Don’t make my life difficult.”

  “You let Paulie Junior walk into town and not me? Paulie Junior still picks his nose. That is such a double standard.”

  “It is not,” Ruth answered. “What Paul does with Paulie Junior is up to him, and what I do with you is up to me.”

  “You’re treating me like a baby.”

  “No, I’m not, Bunny,” Ruth said. “I am treating you like a very attractive, still very young, teenage girl.”

  “With no brain.”

  “With maybe not the best judgment,” said Ruth.

  “Since when do I have bad judgment?”

  “Since you want to go to town fifteen blocks away when we don’t know the area and you’re wearing a string bikini.” Ruth was cross now. “I wish I’d never let you go shopping for suits with Zada. Really, Frankie, you’re wearing hardly any clothes, you go into town, you get lost, what do you think is gonna happen?”

  “I’d call you on the cell.”

  “That’s not my point.”

  “So what—if I were unattractive, you would let me go?” Frankie asked.

  “Don’t start that.”

  “How ’bout I stop by the house and put on a dress?”

  “Frankie.”

  “If I were a boy, then would you let me?”

  “You want to spoil the last day of our vacation with a fight?” snapped Ruth. “Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “So stop talking back. Leave it alone and enjoy the beach.”

  “Fine. I’ll go down the boardwalk.” Frankie stood and shoved her feet into her flip-flops, grabbed the bag where her wallet was, and stalked across the sand.

  “Be back in an hour!” called Ruth. “Call me on my cell if you’re going to be late.”

  Frankie didn’t answer.

  It wasn’t that she wanted postcards—or even that she wanted to go to town so much. It wasn’t that Ruth had too many rules, either; or that Paulie Junior got to go on his own last year.

  The problem was that to them—to Uncle Ben and her mother, and maybe even to Uncle Paul—Frankie was Bunny Rabbit.

  Not a person with intelligence, a sense of direction, and the ability to use a cell phone. Not a person who could solve a problem.

  Not even a person who could walk fifteen blocks all by herself without getting run over by a car.

  To them, she was Bunny Rabbit.

  Innocent.

  In need of protection.

  Inconsequential.

  A half hour later and two hundred yards down the boardwalk, Frankie was shivering in that string bikini. She’d eaten half a chocolate frozen custard before the sky had clouded over. Now the cone was giving her chills, but it had cost nearly five dollars and she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.

  Her hands felt sticky and she wished she’d brought a sweatshirt.

  “You gonna eat that?”

  Frankie turned. Sitting on the edge of the boardwalk with his feet dangling was a husky, sandy-haired boy, about seventeen years old. His small, friendly eyes squinted against the wind, and his nose was dotted with freckles.

  “It’s too cold.”

  “Can I have it?”

  Frankie stared at him. “Didn’t your mama teach you not to beg?”

  The boy laughed. “She tried. But it appears I can’t be trained.”

  “You really want a frozen custard some stranger has licked? That’s disgusting.”

  “So it is,” said the boy, reaching out his hand for the cone. “But only a little.” Frankie let him have it. He stuck out his tongue and touched the custard. Then he squashed the top down into the cone, putting his whole mouth over it. “See? Now the worst is over and it’s just my own spit. And I have a frozen custard for free.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’d be surprised what people will do if you ask them.”

  “I didn’t want it anyhow.”

  “I know.” The boy grinned. “But you might have given it to me even if you did want it. Just because I asked. Don’t you think?”


  “That’s a lot of chutzpah you’ve got there. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

  “I hate to see food go to waste. I’m always hungry.” The boy raised his eyebrows, and suddenly Frankie felt that her mother was right about the string bikini. It was not enough clothing.

  She was standing in what was basically her underwear, talking to a strange boy.

  What was actually smaller than her underwear.

  To a cute boy.

  “What grade are you in?” she asked. To talk about something ordinary.

  “Going into twelfth. And you?”

  “Tenth.”

  “You’re an infant!”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “All right.” He shrugged. “But I thought you were older.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “What school do you go to?”

  “It’s in northern Massachusetts.” Frankie said what Alabaster students always say, to avoid the ostentation of admitting they go to one of the most expensive, most academically rigorous private schools in the nation. The way Yale students inevitably say they go to school in New Haven.

  “Where?” the boy asked.

  “Why, do you know northern Massachusetts?”

  “A little. I go to Landmark in New York City.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now you owe me. Where do you go?”

  “It’s called Alabaster.”

  “Shocker.” A smile crossed the boy’s face.

  “What?”

  “Come on. Everyone’s heard of Alabaster. Exeter, Andover, Alabaster. A triumvirate of preparatory academies.”

  “I guess so.” Frankie blushed.

  “I drove down here just for the afternoon. From the city,” said the boy.

  “By yourself?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. I had a fight with the menstrual unit.”

  “The what?”

  “My mom. The menstrual unit, the maternal unit, you know.”

  “You’re mad at your mom so you’re down here by yourself scrounging custard off girls?”

  “Something like that.”

  Frankie’s cell buzzed in her bag. “Speaking of. Mothers,” she said. She flipped the phone open. “Mine is on the rampage.”