The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks Read online

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  When they walked out together, Matthew betrayed no reaction to Frankie having sat alone at a senior table. And no reaction either to the debate with Elizabeth or Alpha’s sea horse comment. Except—he didn’t mention them. Now that Frankie thought of it, Matthew had pretty much stayed out of the conversation when it happened—quite unusual for a guy whose idea of a friendly mealtime chat was to argue abortion politics or Middle East policy.

  He had never asked about her lunch date with Porter, either.

  As they strolled toward the dorms, Matthew babbled about his college applications (Yale, Princeton, Harvard, Brown, etc.), questioned Frankie about her ultimate game on Saturday, told a funny story about having been a fried egg for Halloween and getting chased by a big kid who was a fork.

  “What did you mean when you said to Alpha that you’d go over something later?” Frankie asked, gently interrupting him.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “’Cause it sounded like it was about me. Like Alpha has some problem with me.”

  “Are you kidding?” Matthew said, his smile spreading tightly across his face. “Alpha thinks you’re great. He’s just spouting off. Don’t be so sensitive, okay?” Then he announced he had a calculus study session, kissed her in front of her dorm, and headed off into the evening. Something was wrong. Frankie could feel it. Maybe she was going to be punished for sitting at that table, after all.

  STAR

  The next morning, Star grabbed Frankie’s shoulder, coming out of history. “Can I talk to you?” “Um, sure.” Frankie waved good-bye to Trish and walked with Star to a bench, where they sat down. “Dean and I broke up,” Star blurted, her face contorting. “I mean, it happened last night after dinner. I thought everything was going great, we were going out, la-la-la, it was all fine, and then he breaks up with me.” Frankie said the only thing one can say in such situations: “Shocker. You seemed so happy together.” But she wondered, Why is Star telling me? Why doesn’t she cry to Claudia, or Ash, or Catherine, one of her real friends who actually likes her?

  “It’s like he changed his mind all of a sudden, and I don’t know why. And I thought I was okay last night, I did, but then there I was at breakfast this morning, and none of them talked to me, Frankie. I mean, not even Elizabeth. She didn’t even say one thing to me and I was right next to her, you know at the table where you can toast your English muffins?”

  “What did she do?”

  “I said hello and she didn’t answer. Then I said I guess she heard about me and Dean, but not to worry, it was a mutual decision. She just nodded like she already knew that wasn’t true, and walked away.” Star sniffed. “Then Claudia picked this table—she acts so smart but inside she’s so dumb sometimes, you know?—Claudia picked this table that meant I had to walk by them all to get to her, and so I thought, Okay Star, you have to have dignity, you’ve gotta do it. And I went by—after sitting at that table every morning since the start of school—I went by and nobody spoke. Dean wasn’t even there, but nobody said a word, not even hello, good morning. Nothing.”

  “Wow.”

  “It was like I’d never been their friend, like they didn’t even see me.”

  “So cold.”

  “I mean, how can you hang out with people every day for like two months and then one morning they don’t know you exist? I mean, really don’t know you, Frankie. It’s not like they had decided to ignore me. You know how it feels when someone is ignoring you. You can feel they know you’re there. This was like they didn’t register me as a person they had ever known.”

  “Do you want me to talk to them?”

  Star shook her head. “I just thought maybe Dean or someone had spoken to you about why he broke up with me? Or did he ever complain about me when I wasn’t there?”

  “No.”

  “You seem much more in with them than me. Matthew respects you. And Alpha does, too.”

  No, they don’t, Frankie thought. But instead she said: “I didn’t see Dean or any of those guys this morning. I ate breakfast with Trish.”

  “Matthew didn’t say anything to you last night?”

  “I don’t think guys talk to each other about stuff like that. Not right after it happens. Not in detail. Dean probably didn’t even tell him.”

  Star wiped her eyes. “Maybe not. But will you let me know if you hear anything?”

  Frankie nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about Star.

  She was thinking how easy it would be for the same thing to happen to her.

  A BROKEN DATE

  That Friday, after an early dinner, Frankie and Trish put mud packs on their faces and painted their nails. They put girlie pop music on the portable CD player and took turns fanning each other’s toes with a copy of Trish’s Horse Illustrated magazine. “You can still apologize to Porter if you feel bad about what happened,” Trish said, admiring her toenails. “But I don’t think he’s mad at you, anyhow.” “Oh, he’s mad at me, all right,” said Frankie. “I think he’s mad at Matthew for being better than he is. He doesn’t like how small he feels when he compares himself to your new boyfriend.” (In addition to Horse Illustrated, Trish subscribed to Psychology Today.)

  “Whatever. It’s not like Porter likes me anymore, anyway.”

  “Maybe he does.” Trish wrinkled her brow. “I mean, why wouldn’t he? He never stopped liking you. He just cheated on you.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, not the same thing at all. If Porter liked Bess, he would have started going out with her. But he didn’t. And now he’s sending you e-mails and XO-ing you and buying you cheese fries.”

  “So?”

  “So if that’s not flirting, I don’t know what is.”

  “I’m not apologizing to him,” said Frankie. “The guy is completely maculate.”

  “I’m not even going to ask you what that means.” Trish rolled her eyes.

  “A little flirting doesn’t make up for what he did.”

  “I’m not saying you should apologize,” Trish answered. “I’m just pointing out that more is going on here than meets the eye. There are layers and layers.”

  “Okay.” Frankie was sarcastic.

  “I think the question is not whether Porter is mad at you,” Trish continued. “The question is, what made you so mad at Porter? Was it the cheating thing from last year, or the Big Man Protector thing he did at lunch, or the fact that he was flirting with you when you have a boyfriend, and that made you all confused?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t stand his superior attitude.”

  “He was always that way.” Trish tucked the bottle of sparkly green polish into her bureau drawer and threw her cotton balls in the trash.

  “Was he? I don’t remember.”

  “I mean, Porter’s not a bad guy, except for the cheating,” said Trish, “but he does have that James Bond thing going with women.”

  “What do you mean, Bond?”

  Trish shook her head. “Give me a goofball like Artie any day. I don’t need all that macho-rescue stuff. I just like someone funny who treats me nice.”

  Artie was a sweetheart, but Frankie found him completely devoid of sexual appeal. “He’s a good boyfriend,” she told Trish. “You’re lucky.”

  “Did I tell you he wants to be a girl for Halloween?” said Trish, combing her hair in the mirror.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yeah, he and John and Charles Deckler are already borrowing people’s panty hose.”

  Frankie murmured something in response, but she was no longer paying attention. Talking about Porter had reminded her that she was nervous about her date.

  Matthew had been so atypically silent when Frankie had debated Elizabeth.

  Had she embarrassed him?

  Or turned him off?

  Or annoyed him by sitting at the senior table, though he was much too polite to ever say so?

  Alpha had been calling Matthew a sea horse. Implying he was whipped.

  Frankie put on perfume, which
she almost never wore.

  She changed her shirt.

  A pebble pinged at their window. “Matthew’s out there,” Trish said, looking down.

  “Geek it up tonight,” Frankie told Trish, grabbing her coat.

  “I will.”

  Matthew was standing at the foot of the steps with his hands behind his back. “I have to talk to you,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Come here. Walk with me.”

  “Okay.”

  They strolled across the quad, and he took her hand. “I can’t take you to the movie tonight, Frankie.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s not a big deal. I just can’t go; I’ve got something else I have to do.”

  “Something with Alpha?” she asked.

  Matthew nodded.

  “He’s making you change plans?”

  “Not making me, exactly. He reminded me of an obligation. There’s somewhere I gotta be.”

  And Alpha doesn’t want me there, Frankie thought. But I don’t want to let Alpha make the rules. “Can’t you take me with you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “How come? Is someone sick?” She knew no one was sick.

  “It’s—it’s a guy thing, Frankie. You know I’d love to bring you, but Alpha—No, I shouldn’t blame him. I agreed to it being a guy thing myself.”

  Frankie’s heart felt cold. She thought, He’s angry at me and this is a repercussion. For sitting alone at the senior table, for disagreeing with the she-wolf, for demanding that Alpha be nice to me, or for liking the way sea horse daddies carried their babies—it doesn’t matter which, even. When I act the way I acted, Matthew doesn’t like me as much as he does when I fall off my bicycle.

  Is he breaking up with me?

  What can I do? Frankie thought. What can I say?

  Is there anything I can say that will make him change his mind?

  Don’t sound whiny. Don’t sound defensive. Don’t sound pitiful. Don’t sound angry.

  I can’t say any of the things I feel, because none of them are any good.

  Can’t say, “But you promised.”

  Can’t say, “I put on makeup. I did my nails, I looked forward to it all day.”

  Can’t say, “Are you breaking up with me?”

  I can’t lose him.

  I can’t lose them, either.

  What will get me what I want?

  If she were not a strategist, Frankie would have reacted like most girls do in the same situation: with tears, with anger, with pouting and sulking and petulant responses like “What is it that’s so much more important than hanging out with me, huh?” or “Fine, if that’s how you’re going to be about it, don’t talk to me again!” or “You’re acting like your time is more valuable than mine.” But she was—and is—a strategist, and therefore she considered her options.

  Quick analysis revealed she had two goals. First, keep her boyfriend. Second, stop him from putting her in her place, which is what she felt he was trying to do. He was prioritizing something else, and didn’t want her to ask, complain, or wonder about it.

  Frankie touched the soft skin underneath Matthew’s ear, then kissed him gently on the mouth, outlining his lower lip with her tongue. “S’okay. I can go to that Conglomerate party with Trish and Porter and those guys.”

  It was a mean move, mentioning Porter, and Frankie knew it. “What party?” asked Matthew.

  “It’s an annual thing,” she said, choosing not to explain the geek element. “I went last year. Porter arranged a DJ and Trish helped with the catering.”

  Matthew looked at her. Was he surprised she had something else to do? Was he jealous of Porter? Had she regained the power?

  Frankie leaned in and kissed him again, harder, running her hand up his sweater and across his warm stomach. “I wanted to kiss you in the cold air,” she said. “Doesn’t it smell like Halloween?”

  He nodded.

  “I was thinking about kissing you during English class today,” she whispered, bringing her lips against his ear. “I was thinking how you look with your shirt off.”

  Matthew pressed his body against hers and backed her against a tree, looking at her.

  He’s not breaking up with me, she suddenly knew. She’d gained some ground. She could tell by the way he put his arms around her that he wanted to hold her tight, keep her from the party and her ex-boyfriend.

  Frankie looked at Matthew’s beautiful face. “Have fun,” she told him. “I’ll go to that party with Trish.”

  She didn’t mention Porter again. She didn’t need to. She’d reversed the power dynamics of the situation to the best of her ability: Matthew now wanted to be with her instead of wherever he was going—and he was insecure about what she’d get up to when he was gone.

  Matthew kissed her, pressing his entire body hard against hers in a way he hadn’t done before, then ran off into the night.

  Frankie waited until Matthew was twenty yards away—and then she followed him.

  THE OLD THEATER

  Matthew made a left at the library and headed across campus. It was dark, a little before eight p.m., and the paths were fairly crowded. Kids were heading to Front Porch, the arts complex, the Geek Conglomerate party, and other school-sponsored events that kicked off the weekend. It was easy for Frankie to follow Matthew without his seeing her. She ditched her pink sweater on a tree branch, hoping to come back for it later, and proceeded in her dark T-shirt, black skirt, and brown boots.

  He arrived at the old theater, which had passed for an arts complex before the new one had been built. This part of Alabaster was dark after sundown—at least so long as no school plays were being rehearsed in the evenings—and there were no lights on. Matthew went around to the side of the building that was deep in shadow, climbed onto a folding chair that stood under a tree, pulled himself up into the tree, slid through a window, and was gone.

  Frankie ducked into a shadow beneath the stairs of a neighboring building and watched as Callum, Dean, Steve, and Tristan, one by one, entered the theater.

  When it seemed certain no more boys were coming, Frankie climbed the tree. She peeked into the second-floor window and climbed through into a storage room for lighting equipment. Piles of lights and gels and extension cords lined the walls on either side. Light came through the window, but the hall before her was nearly black.

  Frankie peeked around the corner and saw no one, caught no shadow of movement. At some distance, she could hear voices and the clink of bottles.

  She felt her way down the hall and found a staircase. Heading down, stepping as quietly as she could, she came out in the lobby of the theater—a small, somewhat shabby room with a marble floor. Two sets of double doors led to the auditorium. She pressed her ear against one of them—yes, the boys were in there.

  On the other side of the lobby was a second stairwell. Frankie eased up it, heart pounding, then felt her way in the darkness down that hall to the back of the building, past drama teacher offices and storage, down another set of steps, until she found herself where she wanted to be. In the wings.

  She could see here. Someone had turned a few red lights on, illuminating the stage, and from the dark curtains she could see out into the audience.

  Only there was no one there.

  Frankie shivered. She was sure Dean or someone would pop out from behind the velvet curtains and . . . she wasn’t sure what.

  Make her feel small. Make her feel like no one.

  A moment later, Alpha’s voice came from above. They were in the catwalks—a group of three narrow platforms high above the stage, used for dropping fake snow, arranging lights, hauling set-pieces up and down. The boys were sitting on two of the walkways, facing each other with their legs hanging down. They leaned their chests on the spindly railings.

  “I hereby call to order the Loyal Order of the Basset Hounds,” Alpha intoned.
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br />   “Sorry.” It was Matthew’s voice talking to the assembled group. “We gotta find something better to say than ‘call to order the loyal order.’”

  “We’ve been saying it this way for decades, dog,” retorted Alpha.

  “So?”

  “So, it’s the thing that is said. To convene a Basset meeting.”

  “It’s still bad.”

  “You have got to kill your inner copy editor.”

  Matthew ignored him. “Let’s proceed. Does everyone who wants a beer have a beer?”

  “Yes, oh Basset Kings.”

  “And does everyone who wants soda have soda?” he confirmed.

  “Yes, oh Basset Kings.”

  “And there are chips, let me see, um, ranch and barbeque,” Matthew announced. “Callum, toss ’em out.”

  Callum threw bags of chips from one catwalk platform to the other. The boys—there were eleven of them—caught them easily.

  “No dribbling your beer, no dropping chip crumbs, do you hear me, dogs?” said Alpha.

  “Yes, oh Basset Kings.”

  “Because if some early morning drama students find bits of barbeque chip on the floor of the stage tomorrow,” Alpha explained, “we’re gonna end up with increased security in this building. They’ve already alarmed the door to the roof of Talbot, thanks to you nimrods smoking up there.”

  “Yes, oh Basset Kings.”

  “All righty then. The oath,” said Alpha, and the boys began to chant:

  Atop the crown of Alabaster,

  Bind it tight with sticking plaster.

  Look to the west, boys;

  Look to the books, men!

  History is our guide!

  Keep the secrets, tunnel under,

  Climb the heights, our pack defend.

  The Basset is a hardy beast,

  We vow our loyalty to the end.

  Their voices rang out across the hollow space of the theater, and Frankie could feel the weight of their commitment as they chanted. She looked up through the red light, trying to see which boys were there (besides those she’d seen go in), but the angle was so strange and the light so dim that she couldn’t make out their faces well.