Nothing by Annie Barrows
It’s the guy who wants to fuck something in thirty minutes.
He’s talking to her, and she’s laughing. Now he’s trying to pull her up off the couch, but she’s schmacked, so it ain’t easy.
But it’s not that hard, either. He’s got his hand under her butt and he’s sort of hoisting her and feeling her up at the same time.
Asshole.
I look quickly toward the stairs, to see if Frankie’s seeing what I’m seeing. But fuck me, she’s gone. Where the hell is she?
Eden’s up, she’s hanging on to the guy to keep from falling over.
He’s kissing her neck and kind of moving her along toward the back door—what’s he planning to do, fuck her in the yard in front of everyone?
Yes, I guess he is.
No way.
Goddammit, Frankie, why are you hooking up with a guy you don’t like when I need you?
I don’t have time to find her. Eden’s got both arms around the guy now.
I start threading the needle—“’scuse me, sorry, hey, how are you, sorry, whoops, ’scuse me”—and I manage to get over to that side of the room before he gets Eden out the door. Then I go for it. “Eden! Oh my god! I’ve been looking for you all over!” I glance at the guy, who luckily doesn’t recognize me, and say, “Hi! I’m a friend of Eden’s and—sorry, I just have to borrow her for like one tiny minute because she has my”—I giggle—“tampons.” Brilliant; he looks grossed out. “Can you just, like, come here a sec?” I say to Eden and put my hand on her arm. She looks really out of it, like she has no idea who I am.
“Hey, c’mon,” says Asshole, kind of pissed. “She’s with me.”
“Yeah—” Eden looks vaguely at the guy. “With him.”
“Okay, but I’m having kind of a blood issue,” I say, and pull her toward me. She almost falls on me.
Asshole doesn’t care that much—he’s already looking down at the couch for another candidate—so I drag Eden away.
“Come on, Eden, let’s get out of here,” I say.
“I think I might barf,” she says, extremely clearly. And then she does.
Poor Chloe.
I have been to Eden’s house before, which is fortunate, because Eden apparently hasn’t. “Where’re we going?” she keeps moaning while we’re walking there. “Where’re we going?”
“We’re going to your house.”
“But it’s dark,” she moans.
I think she’s talking about the fact that it’s night, but when we get to her house, I decide that she’s talking about her house. Because it is totally dark. Not a single light on.
“Do you have a key?” I ask.
“Flowerpot,” she moans.
So I have to look under a bunch of flowerpots until I find the key. I let us in and switch on a few lights. “Where are your mom and dad?” I ask.
“LA.”
“They left you by yourself?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“When are they coming back?”
She shakes her head. She doesn’t know? “Next week,” she says after a minute.
“Next week?” Some people have really crap parents. My parents won’t even leave me alone for a night, which is annoying, but, you know, that’s what parents are supposed to do.
Eden stretches out on the couch. I bring her some water. (In the kitchen, I check the refrigerator. At least there’s plenty of food in there). She drinks it. She falls asleep. I sit there and look at her.
Where’d you go?
I’m at Eden’s. I’ll tell you tomorrow. You still at Chloe’s?
No. Police came
I bet. When?
Deek. Half hour ago?
[I look at the time. 11:20. Another wild night in the big city.]
How was Chris?
Not as bad as I thought
Ho
FU
Where are you?
Home
Lucky
Wish you were here
Yeah right
What’s the matter with you?
Sorry. I’ll tell you tomorrow.
I am now faced with a moral dilemma. It is currently 11:38. My curfew is midnight (’cause it’s Christmas break). If I leave Eden’s at 11:45, I’ll be home by midnight. Should I leave Eden? I look over at her, sleeping on the couch.
I don’t think she’s going to drown on her own vomit. She already got rid of almost everything on Chloe’s rug. Poor Chloe.
But I also think that if I were a really good person, I’d call my mom and ask if Eden could spend the night at my house. Unfortunately, this would entail revealing that Eden is and/or was drunk. At the party I was attending. And this would lead to questions about consumption of alcohol and drugs at parties. And this in turn would lead to questions about my consumption of alcohol and drugs. Now. Ahem. I do not tell my parents the entire truth. The entire truth is: I’m pretty good. I’m not one hundred percent good, but I am pretty good. I smoke a little weed. I drink a beer or two sometimes, which I don’t even like very much. But my parents wouldn’t buy it. They’d think that if Eden did it, that means I do it, too. Then they’d start thinking that when I go to parties, I do the kind of things extreme kids do, yanking down lean and snorting coke, etcetera. And then they’d never let me out again. Parents have a hard time believing in moderation.
So I watch Eden breathe in and out for about ten minutes. Then I prop her up on some pillows, so that she won’t choke on her own vomit in case I’m wrong. Then I put pillows down on the floor next to the couch, so if she falls off, she won’t die.
And then I leave.
I should be feeling good because I saved Eden from being raped. But I don’t feel good. I feel shitty.
Frankie Has Her Own Pre-Party
“So? Are you guys going to be a thing now?” asked Charlotte, busily stirring a mountain of sugar into her latte.
Frankie coughed foam. “What?”
“You and Chris,” said Charlotte, still not looking at her.
“No!” Frankie said loudly. She put her cup down. “Why would you say that?”
Charlotte looked up. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re like, fiending for him and you forgot to tell me.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you pissed at me? For hooking up with Chris? Which, by the way, I wasn’t.”
“I’m not pissed,” Charlotte said crisply. “You told me he was a dick, but I guess you don’t think that anymore.”
Frankie turned a little red. “Excuse me? What the hell, Char? I mean, okay, I made out with Chris, but we were mostly just talking, and I don’t see why you’re tripping about it anyway.”
“Talking, yeah, right,” Charlotte said sarcastically.
“Fuck you, we were. We were actually talking about something that happened in English.” Frankie folded her arms across her chest and glared at Charlotte. “I repeat, what’s your problem?”
“I was just asking if you’re going to be a thing now.”
“And I said no. We’re not. Were you a thing with Aidan after Gaby’s party?”
Now Charlotte flushed. “That was a long time ago.”
“August.”
Charlotte didn’t reply. She slid her latte back and forth over the tiny, dirty table. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I guess I feel like there’s stuff you’re not telling me and it makes me feel bad.”
Frankie frowned. “There’s nothing I’m not telling you.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “St. Albans?”
“Oh. Yeah. That. I knew you’d get upset, that’s all.”
“But that’s what I mean,” said Charlotte. “I got more upset when I found out, because you hadn’t told me.”
Frankie nodded. “I can’t think of anything else I haven’t told you. Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happening. It’s not like I have a thrilling secret life, Char.” She sighed. “I wish.”
Charlotte looked down at the table. “I know you want me to be more exciting.”
“Hello?” said Fra
Charlotte laughed and relaxed against the back of her chair. “Good to know, dawg. So. No Chris?”
Frankie laughed, too. “Nah. He’s better than I thought, though. I mean, he does have some good opinions about things. But I don’t think he’s into me anyway.”
“He looked pretty into you.”
“Well, maybe a little. But not long-term.” Frankie snickered. “When he was, like, hugging me, he said, ‘Dang, you’re boney, girl.’”
“He did not!” Charlotte yelped.
“No, it was okay. It was funny. I mean, I laughed and so did he. But he’s not that into me. It’s okay. I’m not that into him, either.”
For a few minutes, they drank their lattes and looked at their phones in companionable silence. “Eden’s okay,” said Charlotte, reading.
“Does she remember what happened?” asked Frankie.
“Not much. Think I should tell her?” asked Charlotte.
Frankie nibbled the edge of her cup, thinking. “I don’t know. You think she’d stop drinking that shit if she knew?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Got me. Who knows what Eden would do about anything?” She paused. “Maybe Chloe will tell her. Because of the rug.”
“Yeah.”
More texting.
“Franklin?”
Frankie looked up. “Yag?”
Charlotte was busily stirring her latte again. “Just so you know, Sid sent me a drawing for Christmas. It’s a porcupine and it’s really cute. That’s all. It’s no big deal.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows. “When did this happen?”
“Couple days ago.”
“Why you didn’t tell me?”
Charlotte sighed. “I didn’t want you to tell me to fight the fight, okay? I wanted you to know, but I didn’t want you to make a big deal about it.”
“Okay.” Frankie looked hurt.
Charlotte sighed again. “It’s just—there’s nothing I can do about Sid, Frankie. Okay?”
Frankie nodded. “Okay.” She waited. “I feel like you don’t trust me.”
Charlotte drew her finger across the dirty table. “I feel like you wish I was different.”
Frankie opened her mouth and then closed it. “Not for me,” she said finally. “For you, I wish you were different, but for me, you’re perfect.”
Charlotte smiled. “Okay. But then again, you’re psycho.”
“Even at Starbucks, you’re not supposed to take a table for hours,” huffed a nearby voice.
Charlotte and Frankie looked up from their phones, startled, to find a lady in a rumpled business suit glaring at them. Charlotte glanced at the table beside them, where a middle-aged man wearing a headset was having a conversation while typing on his computer. He’d been there when they’d arrived.
The lady raised her eyebrows and sighed loudly.
They looked at each other and shrugged. “I kind of have to cat anyway,” said Charlotte. “My mom says if we want chocolate cake for tonight, we have to make the cake part this morning so it’ll be cool enough to frost by the middle of the afternoon.”
“Okay. What time are you coming over?” asked Frankie, rising.
“People are supposed to bus their own cups!” snapped the lady.
“Jesus,” said Charlotte under her breath. She picked up her cup. “I think five or five thirty.”
“Okay,” said Frankie. “You want me to put your hair up? I’m going to put my hair up.”
“People are waiting!” said the lady so loudly that the man with the headset jumped.
Frankie and Charlotte rolled their eyes at each other and moved away from the table.
“About time,” puffed the lady. “Act like they own the place.”
“Have a great day!” called Charlotte over her shoulder. “Happy New Year!”
“Pff!” said the lady, slapping a stack of folders down on the dirty table.
Frankie’s house was on a hill. The downside: a pretty steep walk to get there, followed by forty-four stairs up to the front door. The upside: the view. From her living room window, you could see out over the entire bay, across to the city and to the Zayante Ridge, rising above the water on the other side of the bridge. Frankie decided that she and Charlotte would have their fancy dinner in the living room, so they could see all of it. Her mother helped her put up a little table, and Frankie went to town setting it with a white tablecloth and napkins, candles, and her mom’s first-marriage silverware.
“Good thing I didn’t go for the monogram,” Sharon said unsentimentally, looking at Frankie’s work. “It looks elegant, sweetie, but now let’s go to the kitchen so I can make sure you know what you’re supposed to do.”
Pasta, check. Water, check, Eggs, check. Cheese, check; cream, check; bacon, check. Salad, check. Dressing, check. Check, check, check. Frankie stopped listening until she heard her mother say, “Okay, I think that’s it, then. I’m going to go get dressed.”
“This early? It’s only four thirty.”
Her mom looked at her in irritation. “I just said your daddy wants to leave at five. I just said it. Were you listening to me?”
“Oh! Right!” said Frankie hastily. “I think I’ll go get dressed, too!”
She was still in process a half an hour later when her mom knocked on her door.
“Yeah!” called Frankie
Her mom poked her head in. “Wow!” she said. “You look—old.”
Frankie grinned. “Don’t I?”
Her mother shook her head. “If you’re old, I’m older.”
“You look incredible, Mom,” said Frankie.
“So do you. Give me a kiss, sweetie. We’re leaving.”
“Are you going to be out late?” asked Frankie hopefully.
Her mom raised an eyebrow. “You know your father. He doesn’t like to stay up. I’ll be surprised if we make midnight.”
“Whoa, savage.”
“Now, I want you to know that I’ve made it entirely clear to Max that he is not to leave you and Charlotte on your own for any reason and that I expect all of you to follow the rules.”
“Yes, Mommy,” said Frankie mechanically. “Honest to god, nothing’s going to happen to us. Nothing ever happens to us.”
“And that’s the way we want it,” said her mother. She kissed Frankie. “Be a good girl.”
“Yes, Mommy,” said Frankie again. “Have fun.”
The house was quiet when Frankie emerged from her room. Max and Grant were downstairs somewhere—probably sleeping or listening to music, which was what they mostly did. Frankie drifted through the kitchen, the dining room, her father’s office, the hallway, and then to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror again. In the dimming light, her skin was pale, her eyes were huge, and her hair was a dark, graceful swirl. It was like catching a glimpse of herself in the future. She turned from one side to the other, wishing someone was there to see her. Who? Charlotte? Nah. Charlotte always told her she was beautiful, even when she was wearing sweats. She tried to work up a daydream about Chris appearing suddenly at the door, but it didn’t jell. Still, she thought, turning this way and that, I look gorgeous.
She left the mirror and went across the hall into the living room, to the window facing the bay, where the sky was ablaze with pink and gold and purple. Talk about gorgeous, she thought, watching the light change. She went out the front door to the wide open deck, where the sky seemed to be pulsing as if it had a heartbeat. Happy New Year to me, she thought dreamily as footsteps sounded on the stairs. Charlotte. “Come up here,” Frankie called softly. “You’ve got to see this.”
The footsteps stopped, but when Frankie turned, it wasn’t Charlotte. It was a man she’d never seen before. He was young, but a man, not a kid, and he was standing motionless at the edge of the deck, staring at her with his dark eyes wide.
Frankie said nothing. Not for any of the usual reasons she didn’t talk—shy, scared,
Without saying a word, he took a step toward her and held out his hand. Somehow, it seemed perfectly normal for Frankie to do the same, and their hands met.
“Hi,” he whispered. And then he put two fingers very lightly along her jawbone and bent to give her a lingering kiss. When, at last, he pulled away, he still held her cheek in his warm hand.
There was a thump. “What the hell are you doing, Dobranski?” yelled Max, on the other side of the window. He thumped the glass again.
Frankie and the man looked at one another and smiled. “Am I in trouble?” he murmured.
Max stormed out the front door with a beer in one hand. “Jesus Christ, Zack, that’s my sister! She’s fifteen!”
Zack’s eyes moved over her face, and he shook his head in amazement. “My bad,” he said to Frankie gently, releasing her hand. He glanced at Max. “You’ve got to admit, she doesn’t look fifteen.”
“Take my word for it, she’s fifteen. Aren’t you?” Max glared at Frankie.
She nodded. She couldn’t stop smiling.
“Stop smiling.” Max folded his arms across his chest over his beer bottle. “What the fuck, man?”
“Sorry. I was”—Zack turned to smile again at Frankie—“I don’t know what came over me.”
“Look, if you’re going to hit on my fifteen-year-old sister, I’m going to kick you out.”
Zack put his hands up. “I’m not going to hit on her. I’m going to look at her one more time”—he turned his head and did that—“and then I’m not going to look at her anymore. Or touch her, either.” He exhaled slowly. “I might think about her, though.”
“Cut it out,” said Max. “No thinking. You’ve got to leave her alone, Zack. Really, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Zack. “I will. I swear.” He looked at Frankie one more time and closed his eyes. “I’m here to play music.”
Max turned to Frankie. “Do I need to kick him out? I don’t want to, but I will if you can’t handle it.”
Could Frankie handle it? Of course she could! She had never felt more powerful in her life. She could handle anything. “You don’t need to kick him out. Char’s going to be here in a minute, and you won’t even see us unless you come upstairs.”