The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks (24 page)

SOME MORE E-MAIL

In some ways, we can see Frankie Landau-Banks as a neglected positive. A buried word.

A word inside another word that’s getting all the attention.

A mind inside a body that’s getting all the attention.

Frankie’s mind is a word overlooked, but when uncovered—through invention, imagination, or recollection—it wields a power that is comical, surprising, and memorable.

Now, not only is it true that a student with significant family wealth is less likely to be kicked out of a fancy boarding school than is a scholarship student, it is also true that a sweet-looking girl with no prior record of misbehavior gets a more lenient sentence (even with a full, written confession) than would a senior boy with a history of visits to the headmaster’s office.

Headmaster Richmond and the committee on discipline agreed to keep both Alpha and Frankie at Alabaster on probation. They let her know two days before the end of winter exams.

And Frankie found that she wanted to stay.

Or rather, she chose to stay, even though she also found it terrifying. In the long run, staying was more likely to get her where she wanted to go. Wherever that was. Wherever that is. Because the education, and the connections, and the Alabaster reputation were worth the trouble—even though Matthew and his friends were forever lost to her.

Winter break. Hannukah. Ruth, the vile pack of boys, Zada home with a suitcase full of hippie clothes and feminist literature. I will not tire you with details except to say that Frankie’s position at family gatherings was slightly different.

She had surprised everyone.

They were not sure quite where she fit in anymore. If she was not Bunny Rabbit, as it was finally clear she was not—who was she? Senior, down for a visit, could not look her in the eye. Ruth squeezed her shoulders frequently but rarely engaged in conversation. Uncle Paul and Uncle Ben refrained from their usual questions about boys and school, settling instead for offering to play a game of Monopoly when they came over for a holiday meal.

Frankie beat them both easily.

December 22nd, after a big family dinner of latkes and applesauce, complete with Paulie Junior throwing a potted plant out a second-floor window and paying the smallest of the vile cousins to run all the way around the block with no shirt on, Frankie closed herself in her room and opened her laptop. At the top of the screen was her Gmail icon. Messages: 1.

She hadn’t had mail at thealphadog since Matthew had turned her in.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
A compliment, believe it or not

I’ve thought about writing you, a lot—but then I didn’t. I don’t think you deserve it, seriously.

But then I keep remembering the work.

The plotting, and the access to the buildings, and the letters and the e-mails.

Even the shopping.

Getting all those dogs to do your bidding.

I remember that you made Matthew and everyone—the whole school, even—think I was a genius.

That I was the guy I’d like to be. The guy I’m not, really. The guy who has the cockfights and the drag races.

The amount of time it must have taken you to do all that is phenomenal.

Psychopathic, probably.

I took credit for everything, yes. Because it was all freaking brilliant, and I’m a brilliant guy sometimes, but I don’t always act on it.

I don’t really act on it.

I’m gonna be sorry I sent this. It’s late at night and I’ve been drinking. My mom is freaking crazy. She wants to move us to California so she can try and be on television. The woman is 43.

It’s not like I want to be friends with you now, Frankie. Don’t even talk to me, I seriously can’t deal with you.

I’m just writing to say I underestimated you. I significantly underestimated you. I don’t actually think it is possible to
over
estimate you. Although you are not a nice person.

Alpha

Frankie’s heart jumped at the letter. Victorious and hopeful.

She had impressed Alpha.

Won his admiration.

Was this what she’d really been trying to do all along?

For a brief moment she thought about writing back. Despite what he’d said, despite everything that had happened, maybe they could be friends. Maybe even something more. They were alike, he and she, in so many ways. And now he had finally recognized himself in her, or herself in him.

Had he not?

But she wanted something more than Alpha. She did. Something much more.

So she did not reply, but played the strategist. She retained more power by withholding an answer.

AFTER THE FALL, SPRING

When Frankie returned to Alabaster

at the start of the winter term, she was something of a celebrity. Star and Claudia shunned her for getting Alpha and his pack in trouble, as did Elizabeth and numerous other seniors, while Trish stood by her staunchly. The people in the Debate Club and the rest of the Geek Club Conglomerate elevated her to legendary status and asked her to sit at their tables in the caf. Members of student government were surprisingly interested in discussing strategies for social change, and the AVT guys got inspired and began regularly sneaking into the new theater at midnight (since they had keys) and screening films for their friends.

Frankie appreciated both the accolades and the rejections equally, because both meant she’d had an impact. She wasn’t a person who needed to be liked so much as she was a person who liked to be notorious.

As a condition of her return to Alabaster, Ruth and Zada insisted Frankie begin counseling. She sat through weekly sessions with the school mental health professional in order to explore her “aggression” and to work on channeling her impulses into more socially appropriate activities. The counselor suggested competitive team sports as a positive outlet, and pushed Frankie to join the girls’ field hockey team.

That was not a productive solution.

It was the girls’ team.

Boys didn’t even play field hockey.

Boys thought nothing of field hockey.

Frankie was not interested in playing a sport that was rated as nothing by the more powerful half of the population.

The counselor also suggested meditation. Finding a bit of time each day to focus on deep breathing and the acceptance of life as it was presently occurring.

That was not a productive solution either.

Frankie did not accept life as it was presently occurring. It was a fundamental element of her character. Life as it was presently occurring was not acceptable to her. Were she to mellow out—would she not become obedient? Would she not stay on the path that stretched ahead of her, nicely bricked?

She did not get much out of therapy.

Frankie Landau-Banks is an off-roader.

She might, in fact, go crazy, as has happened to a lot of people who break rules. Not the people who play at rebellion but really only solidify their already dominant positions in society—as did Matthew and most of the other Bassets—but those who take some larger action that disrupts the social order. Who try to push through the doors that are usually closed to them. They do sometimes go crazy, these people, because the world is telling them not to want the things they want. It can seem saner to give up—but then one goes insane from giving up.

On the brighter side, Frankie has life easier than a lot of people with similar drives, similar minds, similar ambitions. She is nice-looking and will be well educated. Her family has a good amount of money, though not as much as some. Many doors will open to her easily, and it may be that she can open the ones she wants to without too much pain or strife.

And so, another possibility—the possibility I hold out for—is that Frankie Landau-Banks will open the doors she is trying to get through.

And she will grow up to change the world.

As we leave her, Frankie is finishing her sophomore year. From the outside, it appears she’s doing well. Behaving as everyone wants her to behave. But the burn on her arm left a wicked scar from elbow to wrist, and she wears long sleeves even in hot weather to keep the mangled skin away from prying eyes.

She’s still taking modern dance, still debating, still rooming with Trish, who has settled on viewing all Frankie’s behavior during the ignominious fall as “stress from a bad relationship.”

Frankie is grateful to have such a loyal friend, but it does not escape her notice that Trish’s lack of understanding is a condition of that loyalty. Were Trish to fully comprehend the way Frankie thinks, the subjects she ponders all the time when she appears to be quietly doing her homework—Frankie’s anger and hunger—she would pull away. To Trish, Frankie is still the ordinary girl with gerbils at home in a Habitrail, only now more melancholy and in need of cheering up, due to the second bad boyfriend in a row.

There’s Frankie now, sitting with laptop on a bench in front of the library in the warm spring air. It’s a Saturday. Most of the students have taken one of the Alabaster shuttles to town, and the campus is largely empty. Trish is playing golf with Artie.

Matthew, Dean, and Callum burst out of Hazelton and hurtle down the steps, then stand around talking about ten feet from Frankie, before heading in their separate directions.

They don’t say hello.

They don’t even appear to see her.

“I could care less about crew this year,” Callum is saying.

“Couldn’t care less!” Matthew says, poking him. “If you could care less, that means you care a fairly decent amount. It’s
couldn’t
care less.”

“Dog, I know that. You told me before. I just don’t care.”

Matthew laughs. “But you know it’s like nails on the chalkboard of my brain. Can’t you say it right, just for me?”

“Dog,” jokes Callum. “I’m going to sneak into that brain of yours in the middle of the night and massacre your inner copy editor. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“You did it again!” cries Matthew, giggling and banging his shoulder against Callum’s.

“What?’

“You can’t massacre it!
Massacre
refers to the slaughter of many people,” explains Matthew. “You’d have to murder it. Or assassinate it. Because it’s only one.”

Callum smiles. “Dog, it is obvious to everyone that you have many, many copy editors in there.”

“Touché.”

Dean interjects. “You guys want to play golf tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Matthew says. “I’ll get the word out.” A pause. “Me and my copy editors.”

Frankie almost laughs out loud, but she knows she is not supposed to be listening.

And of course no one plays golf at night, not without infrared goggles.

They are having a party.

Suddenly, Frankie’s protective armor is gone and she is not angry at anyone about anything anymore. Looking at Matthew, she sees nothing but a beautiful boy who used to think she was adorable. A boy who loves words, who makes her laugh. She sees his knowing smile, big shoulders, and the sun-kissed freckles across his nose. His Superman T-shirt still lives in the bottom of Frankie’s drawer, and all she sees is a boy whose world is lit up with adventure and confidence and humor and friendship. It was a world she used to be—almost was—welcome in.

Frankie wants to go to the party on the golf course. She is sorry for everything. She wishes she had never infiltrated the Bassets. She wishes she were a different kind of girl. Someone simple, sweet, and unambitious.

Maybe she could be that girl. Maybe there is a chance.

“Matthew,” Frankie calls as he heads down the stairs away from her.

She can tell from the way his back stiffens that he has heard. But he doesn’t answer.

“Matthew!” she calls again. “Hey, listen!”

He turns.

Does he still think she is pretty?

Does he remember how it felt when they kissed in his narrow dorm-room bed? When they held hands in the dark?

Matthew is gallant. He has been brought up well. Noblesse oblige. Although he has not looked Frankie in the eye since he left the infirmary that day, he does so now that she’s spoken to him. A spasm of disgust crosses his face for just a moment before he forces it away. “Yes?”

“I have this T-shirt I should give back to you,” Frankie tells him.

Will he come get the shirt? Will he come now, to her room, and they will be alone together, and everything bad will just wash away?

“I don’t remember,” he says, sounding nonchalant.

But of course he remembers. Frankie knows this game.

“Superman,” she says. “The Superman T-shirt.”

“Oh, I forgot.” He is laughing slightly. Fake. “Keep it,” he says. “I never take back my gifts.”

Matthew would rather let her keep the shirt than interact with Frankie for another second. He hates her that much.

He turns away, and the dogs follow.

Frankie chokes back tears. She doesn’t want the shirt anyway.

As the Bassets head across the lawn, Frankie reminds herself why she doesn’t want Matthew. Doesn’t want him anyway.

It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can’t see who you are. It is better to lead than to follow. It is better to speak up than stay silent. It is better to open doors than to shut them on people.

She will not be simple and sweet. She will not be what people tell her she should be. That Bunny Rabbit is dead.

She watches the boys as they peel off in different directions and disappear around corners and into the buildings of Alabaster.

She doesn’t feel like crying anymore.