Frankie (6 page)

When I first moved in with Vinnie she had her fruit and veg delivered. But when the handsome Greek guy who did the deliveries became ex-fiancé number two, Vinnie started dragging me to the market on Saturday mornings for a special kind of torture.

I hear the stallholders shouting the second we stumble from the tram, me wrestling with our old-lady trolley and Vinnie digging into her handbag for a cigarette.

I punch the button at the intersection and wait. I punch it again.

Then over and over.

The green man starts flashing at me. About time, dude.

I fight a gang of Vietnamese ladies as we cross the street, the wheels of their trolleys bashing into my ankles as we jostle for space. Old-lady-trolley-racing is a blood sport.

The second we're under the market's corrugated tin roof, I'm immersed in noise – kids screaming, old ladies haggling over the price of bananas, stallholders shouting over the top of one another, pigeons cooing from the beams and the off-key wailing of the busker who sings Korean love songs even though he's Croatian.

And it stinks.

Nothing beats the stench of rotting fruit, Spanish donuts, pigeon poo, baby vomit and hairy-guy body odour.

‘This way,' says Vinnie, tucking her handbag under her arm. She butts out her cigarette on a post before we enter the fruit and veg. ‘Remind me to grab some pet mince for my baby.'

Baby. Yeah. Baby dragon more like.

Buttons is a fussy eater. He'll eat my socks (and piss in my shoes) but won't go near tinned cat food.

I ram the trolley into the back of a slow guy's legs. When he turns I look the other way. This is a contact sport, mate. If you can't handle it, quit.

Saturday morning is the worst time to come to the market. Vinnie says coming on a Saturday is tradition. I say it's child abuse.

But not today I don't. Today I smile and pretend I'm loving it.

The only reason Vinnie is still talking to me is because I've got another chance to stay at school. In two weeks' time the board are meeting to decide whether or not to expel me and I have to front up and explain why I should be allowed to stay. She's got the date circled in the calendar, the one with cats dressed up in scenes from silent-era films. Every time I look at the dreaded date I see a Persian tied to a railway track.

Irony's a bitch.

So basically I have two weeks to catch up in all my classes, earn back Vinnie's trust and write a stirring speech to present to the board – I have a dream, ask not what Collingwood can do for you but what you can do for Collingwood, we shall fight them on the tram lines, blah, blah, blah.

Too easy.

I don't know how she does it, but Vinnie carves a path through the mass of heaving, sweating people, even in six-inch heels. Me and my combat boots have to elbow our way through, never once coming out the other side without a stomped-on foot, a bruised rib, a finger caught in a trolley or the slimy feeling of having been gawked at by a bunch of hairy, apron-clad middle-aged men.

The call goes up around us: ‘Get your tomatoes! Granny Smith apples! Two ninety-nine a kilo! Potatoes! Get your potatoes here!'

‘
Bella
!' calls Sergei as Vinnie marches up to his stall. He reaches down and brings up a box of vine tomatoes. ‘I keep these aside. Just for you, my
bella
.'

She doesn't even look at the fruit. ‘Half price, I assume.'

Sergei looks at her like she just flopped a dead rat on his table. ‘No, no, no. How I live?' he asks, hands imploring. ‘How I feed my son?'

‘I've seen your son,' says Vinnie. ‘He could skip a meal or two.'

Sergei sighs loudly. ‘Is true.' He leans forward, pushing the box into Vinnie's arms. ‘Half price for my
bella
.' He winks.

Somehow Vinnie always manages to strike the perfect balance between flirting – ‘Why, you have the biggest plums, Sergei' – and haggling – ‘Who would pay full price for these? They look like they've already been eaten'.

So much I need to learn. Teach me, oh masterful one.

‘Now,' says Vinnie, eyeing off the other veggies. ‘How about those cucumbers? They look a little limp.'

I stand to the side, tighten my scarf around my neck and people-watch.

There's an older woman wearing pearls and a powder-blue cardigan. She's stuffing a bag of something red into her trolley with her face scrunched up. Retired secretary, divorced, small dog. She spies on her neighbours. Hasn't spoken to her only daughter for twenty years. Bitch.

A guy walks past. Late thirties, green-rimmed glasses, carrying a giant bag of almonds. I don't even bother because it's just too easy.

The stallholder opposite is arguing with a woman who wants to pay a third of the marked price for spring onions. I reckon he's married to a woman who wears floral dresses. Puts onion in everything he cooks because he needs an excuse to cry. Has a total disappointment of a son. A son who still lives at home even though he's forty and collects science-fiction toys and never – never – takes them out of the packaging.

‘Frankie?'

Vinnie is holding out a bag of cucumbers; she shakes the bag at me until I grab them.

‘Are we planning a girls' night in? Face masks, cucumbers on the eyes. I'll let you braid my hair.'

‘I'll braid your tongue,' she says.

I stuff the cucumbers into the bottom of the trolley. When I look up, the stallholder opposite is throwing his hands up in exasperation and I wonder how long he's been doing this job.

I read somewhere that the average person has seven jobs in their lifetime. Vinnie used to be a secretary for an accountant; that's how she met husband number two. After he got done for fraud and the firm went bust, Vinnie burnt their wedding photos in the backyard and went to work as a cleaner. After that she was a barmaid, then a cleaner again and then an Avon lady. When Uncle Terry went to jail, she started making kebabs.

But what if this is it for me? What if I get stuck sweating it up at Terry's Kebab Emporium for the rest of my life? If I make kebabs for long enough will I start smelling of garlic sauce?

The woman walks away from the stall shaking her head. The guy gives her the finger and swears in whatever language he speaks.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out but I don't know the number flashing on the screen. Maybe Xavier calling from home?

Vinnie shoots me a look.

‘What? It's Cara,' I say.

‘Thought she wasn't supposed to talk to you.'

‘I'll tell her.' I move away, holding the phone to my ear.

‘Are you Frankie?' It's a guy's voice. Gruff like Marzoli's but deeper.

‘Who are you?'

He laughs. ‘So you inherited your mother's charm. Real polite.'

‘Do I know you?'

‘Where's Xavier?'

I push past a hugging couple. She's standing on tippy-toes to kiss him and the stallholder is waving them aside, trying to let paying customers in.

‘Tell me who you are or I hang up.'

‘Bill. Bill Green.'

Ah.

I don't know much about Xavier's dad – only what Xavier's told me, which is that he's an arsehole. If Juliet hooked up with him, that's a given.

‘Why are you asking me where he is? You're his dad.'

Bill laughs like a smoker coughs. ‘Guess you don't know Xavier very well.'

Down hackles, down.

‘I've only met him twice, Bill. Pity you're not my dad. Then I could have inherited my charm from Juliet and my intelligence from you.'

‘Well, if I know your mother then I've got as much a chance of being your father as the rest of Collingwood.'

I stand in the centre of the walkway with my teeth clenched and my hand balled into a fist by my side. People push past; I push back.

‘Just tell that shithead brother of yours to get his worthless arse home,' says Bill. ‘The prick owes me money.'

The line goes dead before I can tell him to fuck the fuck off.

It takes me a minute to get my breathing under control. I grip the phone tight, staring at the cracked screen. I wait for the red blots to clear.

I remember the first time I felt like this. Not long after I moved into Vinnie's she was taking me somewhere. The doctor's, probably. I was pretty sick for the first little while.

Vinnie led me out the front door and the neighbour leaned over the fence. ‘That her?' she asked. All I remember of the woman is the pink floral blouse she wore with a big frill around the neck. Like a posh frilled-neck lizard. Vinnie turned. ‘This is my niece, yes.' The neighbour sized me up. ‘Looks like trouble,' she said. ‘She's got her mother's mouth.'

The red blots descended. Later, I cut the heads off the flowers in her front garden. It was the only thing that helped draw the red away.

Since Xavier materialised, it's been shitting down memories. Things I haven't thought about in years. Things I didn't think I remembered.

I pull out my phone and dial his number. But what am I even going to say?

The call goes to message bank: ‘I'm not around so leave a message. Probs won't call you back, but, yeah. Beep.'

I hang up and slide the phone into my back pocket.

When I calm down, there's only one thing left in my head: ‘The prick owes me money'. That's what Bill said.

I try to think rationally. Xavier owes his dad money. No big deal because a) Bill is a prick who deserves to be swindled and b) I owe Vinnie heaps – well, I will after she pays Steve's medical bills. It's a child's duty to owe their parents money. So it's no big deal.

When I finally get back to Vinnie, she shoves a box of lettuces into my arms. ‘Put these – You look pale. Are you sick?' She grabs my chin.

I shake her off.

I hate that little crinkle between her brows; I hate when it's there because of me.

I grab the lettuce and stuff it into the trolley. ‘I saw an Ian Curtis look alike. I'm still swooning.'

She laughs, shaking her head. ‘What am I going to do with you?'

‘I take her off your hands. I have son,' says Sergei. ‘Short but clean. Good match.'

Vinnie laughs. ‘For her, maybe. Not such a good deal for him.'

As punishment for The Steve Sparrow Incident, Vinnie has given me a list of crappy jobs. First on the list: bin duty.

I drag the garbage across the tiled floor of the Emporium, ignoring the trail of bin juice. I push open the shop's back door with my butt and lift the bag into the alley. The gate swings shut behind me.

Rain is falling steadily, the kind that covers you in a soft film of dampness the second you enter it.

Rain and bin juice; it's like that sometimes.

As I drag the garbage along the cobblestones, a siren cuts through the rumble of traffic from Alexandra Parade. One of my earliest memories is of a siren. I can't remember who Juliet was living with then, but I can picture his boots as the policeman marched him out the door. He'd wrapped the laces several times around the top before tying them. Juliet was crying, louder than the siren.

I lug the bag to the dumpster but a noise behind stops me short. My whole body tenses. I don't know karate but I'll damn well give it a go.

I drop the garbage and swing round, fists raised.

Black jeans, black hoodie, bright-blue high-tops.

I grab my chest and fall against the dumpster. ‘Holy crap, Xavier. You scared the shit out of me.'

He stares wide-eyed like I'm the last person he expected. Which is stupid because this is where I live
and
work – it'd be no fun playing
Where's Frankie?
in this part of the world.

‘Wha–?' He drags his fingers through his hair and laughs: a nervous splutter. No dimples. ‘What the fuck, hey?'

‘Who were you expecting?' My heart is still trying to parachute out of my chest. ‘And don't say fuck.'

He laughs again. A little less nerves, a lot more dimple. ‘You've been my sister for a week and already you're telling me what to do?'

‘It's in the DNA, bro. Wait till you meet Nonna Sofia.'

He flicks a cigarette onto the ground and grinds it under his boot. There's a scattering of butts at his feet so he's obviously been here for ages. Why is he standing around in the rain? It's freezing.

‘Thought you were going to quit,' I say.

‘I did. Just then.'

‘So you're here because . . .'

‘Came to see you, didn't I? What else?'

It'd be easy just to slip into the banter, keep it light and fluffy. But I frown at the graveyard of cigarette butts and blurt, ‘Your dad called me.'

He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah?'

‘Said you owed him money.'

He wets his lips with his tongue. ‘Who hasn't swiped a twenty from their dad's wallet? Told you the guy's a prick.'

Exactly. Perfectly sound argument. What the hell were you worried about, Frankie?

He looks over his shoulder at the brick wall, at the purple-skinned girl hidden beneath Jackknife's shitty tag.

‘So it's nothing, right?' I say.

He nods, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans and flicking his eyes between the wall and me. ‘Dad's a tight-arse.'

Okay, so this isn't exactly like the last meeting we had in this alley. No giggles, no dumplings, no playful punches. Am I going to have to give him a homicidally themed nickname after all?

‘Then I guess you're here for that free kebab,' I say. ‘Sorry,
two
free kebabs.'

His eyes grow big and he takes a step back. Maybe I oversold the ‘worst kebab joint in Collingwood' line. Clearly the kid thinks he'll get the salmonella special with a side of gastro.

‘Nah. It's cool. I should probably get going, hey.' He looks at Jackknife's tag again but doesn't move.

‘Oh. Okay. Well I'm drenched. Plus, hanging out here makes us look like we're up to no good. There's this cop who already thinks I'm robbing the neighbourhood. I hate to break it to you, Xavier, but our family is no stranger to the wrong side of the law. Our uncle's in prison for armed robbery. And then there's Juliet.'

Xavier mutters something I can't hear. So I lean forward hoping he'll repeat himself but we end up just staring at each other.

He looks down at his high-tops, gnawing on his bottom lip. ‘Sorry, but I'm –'

He doesn't get to finish because a black blur lands with a heavy thud just behind him, a guy jumping down from the brick wall.

Because
that's
normal.

The first thing I notice about him is his jacket. If Ian Curtis and Lou Reed had a love child who grew up to run a vintage clothing shop on Sydney Road, that jacket would be somewhere in the back of that shop. It's textured black velvet. If you brushed your hand along it the wrong way it would send a shiver down your spine.

The second thing I notice – and I really should have seen this first – is the balaclava the guy's wearing.

Paging DI Marzoli, I have your burglary suspect on line one.

He whips off his balaclava and I get an eyeful of the bluest damn eyes I've ever seen. He's stupidly hot, if you're into that indie boy punk look with the unkempt hair and I-live-on-cigarettes-and-coffee physique. But even though he looks rough round the edges, he still seems put together. He's taken a lot of time and effort to look this just-rolled-out-of-bed cool. Like his tattered jeans are actually brand-new and his hair, a bramble of black, loose curls, is really a well-manicured, artfully arranged bramble.

In other words, he's a poser. An art-school dropout, musician-wannabe, Kerouac-reading ponce. Fuck me, it's Shia LaBeouf.

He stuffs the balaclava into his back pocket, blue eyes calmly assessing everything but me as he swings his oversized duffle bag on to his shoulder and faces Xavier.

‘You call
this
keeping a lookout?' He flicks a hand in my direction.

Apparently I'm a ‘this'.

Xavier shrugs. ‘Told you it was a bad idea coming here, Nate.'

So poser-boy is called Nate. He points to the duffle and grins. ‘Yeah? Cos I reckon it was a brilliant idea.'

I'm five or more steps behind everyone else but as I'm looking between my brand-new baby brother and this black-clad skinny guy I'm joining the dots. Suddenly my brother's incessant brick-wall staring is making a whole lot more sense.

My jaw drops. ‘Shut the fuck up.'

Xavier shoots me a sheepish grin. ‘Don't say fuck.'

Nate's duffle bag makes a loud clatter as he adjusts it higher on his shoulder. ‘If you're done with your mothers' club meeting maybe we can split?'

‘Are you serious?' My voice is high-pitched and squeaky. But Xavier won't look at me.

Nate rolls his stupidly blue eyes. ‘It's not exactly the done thing to hang around for a chat after –'

‘Oh I can tell you're an in and out kind of guy,' I say. ‘Done in three seconds.'

The duffle bag slips off Nate's shoulder as he steps toward me. He's centimetres from my face and way taller than I first thought. Maybe not so scrawny either. I back up.

‘What are you inferring?'

‘I'm not inferring anything; I'm implying it.'

‘What's that mean?'

‘Steal a dictionary and work it out for yourself.'

‘If I were going to steal a dictionary it would be to shove it up your –'

Xavier grabs Nate's arm. ‘That's enough. This is my sister.'

‘Like I give a shit who she is.' Nate shrugs free. ‘Just make sure she keeps her mouth shut.'

He stands there, framed by Jackknife's logo. It's like some sort of crazy aura.

‘Well, I care who
you
are. Xavier's just turned fourteen and you're dragging him along on a felony. Who does that?'

Nate covers his mouth with a gloved hand, eyes wide. He looks like a puppy that took a dump on a brand-new carpet. For a second anyway. ‘You mean I missed his birthday? Now I feel
awful
.'

Give the man an Oscar.

‘Grow a brain,' he says. ‘You think I had to twist your brother's arm?'

I glare at Xavier. I wouldn't exactly call his expression ‘innocent'. I'd go for ‘guilty as sin'. Or ‘Jesse James's got nothing on me'.

‘We should split,' Xavier says. He's backing away, tugging on Nate's arm. He couldn't be in a bigger hurry to get out of here. It might have something to do with the whole being-in-the-middle-of-a-burglary thing or maybe he just doesn't want to have ‘the conversation' with me. The ‘oh, didn't I mention I'm a criminal?' conversation. The ‘well, you can't fight genetics' conversation. The –

The penny drops. It falls from the bloody Eureka tower and lands on my head. ‘Oh my god. The vinyl.'

‘Frankie . . .'

‘You didn't swap it for four Eminem CDs, did you?'

‘I swear I bought it, Frankie. Legit.'

‘Swear? On our mother's life?'

He winces. ‘Honest, Frankie. I bought it from that shop. The one on Smith Street. Paid heaps.'

‘Then why did you tell me your mate swapped it?'

‘Cos I didn't want you to know how much I paid for it.'

‘Why?'

‘Because then you'd think I was desperate for you to like me!' His voice echoes through the alley, the sound as cold and as sharp as the air. He rubs his face, both hands. ‘I mean, shit. How lame is that?'

I swallow.
Don't believe him, don't believe him, don't believe him . . .

‘It's the truth, Frankie. Honest.'

The duffle bag clatters. ‘Can we go, X? This chick is boring me.'

Now I remember. The cafe. The phone call from some guy called Nate. The ‘favour'.

I face Nate; the guy is sneering. I mean genuine, silent-movie-bad-guy sneering. This pathetic excuse for a punk is Fagin to my brother's Oliver Twist. This guy is going down.

‘Well, how about I grab Uncle Terry's baseball bat? It's perfect for playing Pin the Jackass with a Right Hook.'

Nate leans forward, challenge in his eyes. ‘Sure. Like to see you try.'

I feel the red descending. That's it. I lunge forward, but Xavier grabs me and hauls me back. ‘Shit, Frankie,' he says, breathless. ‘Calm down.'

‘I'll calm down after Hamburglar takes his skinny arse back to whatever butt crack he crawled out of.'

Nate scowls. ‘If you were a guy you'd be flat on your back right now. I'd have hit you so hard . . .'

‘And if you were a guy I'd be impressed.' I kick out, aiming squarely for Nate's balls, but Xavier holds me back again and all I get is air.

Then Xavier shoves me. Not hard, but enough. I stumble, crashing into the dumpster. I'm too shocked to say anything.

Xavier runs his hands through his damp hair as he starts walking away. ‘I'm sorry, okay, but you don't know shit about it. I didn't have a choice. I'm in way over my head and I . . . Screw it.' He turns his back on me, hunching his shoulders and digging his hands into his pockets. ‘It's not my fault, okay?'

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Just a cloud of foggy air. My back stings; funny how bashing into a dumpster feels like taking a knife in the back.

Nate grips the duffle bag and hoists it over his shoulder. ‘Pleasure to meet you,' he says, and salutes. Then he gives me the finger as Xavier drags him round the corner.

When they're gone, the alley is silent and I'm breathing hard. I think about punching the wall, right between the two Ks in Jackknife.

A pigeon picks at a rotting tomato that's fallen out of the garbage bag.

‘Piss off,' I tell it.

The bird grips the tomato in its beak and flies away.