Jagged Little Pill, page 2
“Well!” Nick exclaims, slapping his hands on the table, breaking all the awkwardness in the air. What am I supposed to do when he’s not here to do that? “I’m hungry, so . . .”
He leans over the table, looking at the stack of pancakes in the center. He glances at me, and I shake my head. The least I can do is try to warn him. He reaches out anyway, plopping a few of the pancakes—sandcakes, really—onto his plate.
His funeral.
“Oh, wait! Just a second . . .” Mom says, getting back up from her laptop. She hurries over to the counter and quickly returns, a plate in her hand. She places it gently in front of Nick, beaming brightly.
I squint at the pancakes. They don’t look any better than the ones on the kitchen table, and there’s something written on them in what looks like blueberry syrup.
“Why does it say ‘Dick’ on them?” I ask.
Nick sputters out a laugh.
“Frankie, come on,” Dad protests, still looking down at his phone. Even when they’re at each other’s throats, Dad still comes to her defense over little things. Like making fun of her syrup penmanship.
“What?! No, it doesn’t!” Mom gasps, leaning over the table. “‘Nick.’ That’s an ‘N.’ Just . . . not a great ‘N.’” She storms back over to her chair, but before she sits down, she sets her eyes on me. Her eyebrows furrow down, and she glances around the table, tsk-tsking.
Great.
Here we go.
I can see it happening, another one of her mood shifts. Another side effect of her recovery post-accident? Her frustrations with her not-quite-friends? Or just extra rage pouring over from whatever she and Dad have been going through these last few months? I don’t know. All I know is she’s a warm and bubbly Instagram mom one minute, then a cold and easily set off will-probably-end-up-going-viral-for-yelling-in-the-supermarket mom the next.
And I know it. I know she’s like this now. But why should I have to change who I am to avoid whatever this wrath is she’s hurling at me and Dad, while never sending any of those vibes at Nick? It’s not fair that I’m the only one caught in the crossfire of her and Dad’s fights.
“It’s December, Frankie.”
“I’m aware of the month?” I’m not sure where she’s going with this one.
“Apparently your shorts aren’t,” she snips.
Ah. There it is.
“Oh, come on,” I groan. “It’s hot in school. They blast the heat like we’re all going to freeze.” I glance over at Nick, hoping for some acknowledgment, but he just pokes at his pancakes.
“I’m sure you can find some jeans upstairs?”
“MJ,” Dad says, looking up at Mom from his phone for a flash, an exhausted expression on his face.
“What?!” Mom snaps.
“Do we have to get into all this?!” he groans, leaning back in his chair. It squeaks against the tiled floor, and Mom winces, like she feels the pain of the ceramic. “I didn’t call out of work this morning to listen to you fight with the kids over nothing and have you bickering at me.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but how you present yourself to the world matters,” Mom retorts, glaring at him. “Especially when you’re a young woman.”
“Nick,” I whisper, elbowing him, wanting him to tag in and just say something. Anything. “You know how hot it gets inside the cafeteria—”
“Anyone want more syrup?” Nick asks, shifting a little in his seat, like he’s thinking about getting up.
So much for him showing up for me. I reel back at Mom, glaring at her.
“You’re so focused on my shorts but haven’t even asked about my signs in the living room. That is something that matters, and it’s more important than just that small aside in your stupid Christmas card. Not what I’m wearing.”
I jump out of my seat, and Nick sighs, resigning himself back into his chair. I stomp my way into the living room and pluck one of the poster board signs off the couch, which flaps about, making a funny noise in the hustle.
“SMAAC is protesting in the cafeteria today.” I hold the sign out.
Mom exhales.
“Does my period blood scare you?” she asks but also reads, her tone as flat as the paper the sign is made of. It’s just one of several Jo and I spent all night working on. “What are you even protesting? Is someone anti-periods? What’s SMAAC?”
“Social Movements and Advocacy Committee,” Nick says before I do. I can’t help but look at him, surprised. I didn’t realize he knew what it actually stood for. “Frankie started it with Jo this year.”
“Are you in it too?” Mom asks, sounding slightly aghast.
“Well, no, not really—” Nick starts.
“And what if he was?” I ask, glaring at her. “Would that be so wrong?”
I mean, he’s definitely not in the club. I’ve asked him, and he’s come to two meetings, but I think that was mostly to talk to girls there. And that interest quickly faded when the only people in the club at the second meeting were me and Jo. I’d join the other social movement club at school, but I’ve never really gotten along with those girls. Back in junior high, me and another adopted kid, this Indian girl named Rebecca, “didn’t really count” to them as people of color, having white parents and all. I got in a fight with one of them and was suspended for a week.
Whatever. I’d do it again.
We’re all older now, wiser and all that. But you don’t forget those kinds of moments, and I don’t need them to be my friends. Rebecca ended up at a private Catholic school. I wonder if it’s any better there for her.
“There’s nothing wrong with standing up for your beliefs, Frankie,” Mom says, sounding worn out. She rubs her hand over her face. “Look, when I was in high school, me and my friends were just like you and Jo.”
A little snorting laugh escapes Nick, and despite how terribly unhelpful he’s being, I can’t help the smirk that cracks my face.
“I . . . seriously doubt that.” I glance over at Nick, and he looks away, his face twisted up in a pained trying-not-to-laugh expression.
“Well, we were!” Mom exclaims, gesturing at my sign. Nick snorts again. “We made signs, we hosted bake sales, we had sit-ins. There were these woods in back of our old school that were home to saltmarsh sparrows, which are critically endangered in Connecticut, I’ll have you know. So, we were fighting to stop them from developing back there.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling a little impressed. “That’s . . . actually awesome. What happened? Where was that?”
“Well—” Mom starts.
“They cleared the woods,” Dad chimes in, still looking at his phone.
“Goddamn it, Steve,” Mom snaps. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is we were fighting for something, even if we didn’t really win. We got attention. And that still counts as making a difference.”
“Birds are dead,” Dad says matter-of-factly.
“Steve!” Mom shouts, and Nick sputters out a laugh again before clearing his throat and swiping at the tears pricking his eyes. Dad smirks. “You’re not helping, Nick. And I’m not sure that all of this—how you’re dressing, these . . . confrontational signs—is giving off the image you want it to, Frankie.”
“Image?! Confrontational? Well, this is what I’m doing.” I hand her my sign and she drops it on the table. “Just because it’s about having free tampons in the bathrooms and not about some fucking birds doesn’t make it any less important.”
“Frankie, watch your language,” Dad says.
“You’re the one instigating! And come to think of it, where were you when Jo and I were in the civil rights protests last year? You can show up for birds but not racism?”
“Oh, come on, Frankie.” Mom sighs, sounding exhausted. “You know we’re anti-racists in this house. We don’t see color.”
“Mom!” Nick exclaims.
“Jesus, MJ.” Dad buries his face in his hands.
“What?” Mom asks, perplexed. “We don’t!”
“We’ll unpack that later.” I glare at Mom, and she shakes her head, looking away. Mercifully, the tension in the room is interrupted by my phone’s alarm. It’s time to head off to school, and if I want to get there without requiring a ride from my brother, who smells like a college dorm room party, I’ll have to get going.
I take my sign and walk back into the living room, gathering the rest of the poster boards.
“Frankie,” Mom presses.
I grab my tote bag off the coffee table and start shoveling the markers inside—supplies that Jo left behind. They rattle against the books inside, a beat-up paperback of Great Expectations taking the brunt of the attack. Oh, Estella. I feel you sometimes. Raised in a place where you feel you don’t belong that also makes sure you know it, so you lash out.
“Frankie, wait, did you want a ride?” Nick asks.
“Now you want to help?” I snap back, pushing open the front door.
“We’re not done talking about this!” Mom shouts, as I hitch my bag up.
“Swing by the protest later,” I say, turning around to glare at Nick. “I’ll save you a sign.”
And with that, I’m out the door.
Chapter Two
Jo
The fun thing about the hallway once school is out, or hell, even when it’s in session in between classes, is the people-watching. You can figure out pretty quickly who is using who, who is fooling around behind someone’s back, when and where the next big house party is going to be. And right now, leaning against the cold brick wall outside Mr. Martinho’s classroom, I’m observing the masses while waiting for Frankie.
The early Christmas gift I got for her is digging into my leg, and I’m eager to give it to her. That and wrap her up in my arms when we’re finally alone in the classroom. I almost hope we get no new members today.
I give the door a little nudge. It’s open and unlocked. Our club isn’t exactly approved by the school board, because of membership rules (two official people a club does not make) and our often “volatile” subject matter (protests that embarrass the less-than-liberal teachers and parents here). But it’s nice to have a young history teacher who makes space for us. Oh, Mr. Martinho, you rebel. My parents would hate you, and that only makes you cooler.
It’s free period, a brief moment of respite before lunch, when most of the student body hangs out in homerooms, the library, or the cafeteria. Supposedly some kids hit the gym for sports and, like, working out. I’ve never seen it and never will—free weights and treadmills are not for me—but I believe it.
I spot Swapna and Preeti walking with bags from Wendy’s gripped in their hands, which tells me they either cut their last class to make the mad dash to the downtown area a quarter mile from our school, or maybe missed the entire first half of the day. With winter break almost here, it’s not surprising. Teachers always seem to start caring less and less about cutting class and other nonsense that doesn’t actually matter as vacation looms.
I can’t quite see Andrew, David, or Lily, but I can hear them making their way down the hallway beyond the students currently milling about. I’ve been around them enough, particularly at Frankie’s when they’re hanging with Nick, to recognize that trio’s voices together. They’re like a really shitty pop band trying to harmonize, their gossip and boasting playing off one another, but all I hear is feedback.
And then there’s Nick and Bella.
It’s hard not to see how smitten Nick is with her. The confidence that he seems to radiate around school and even at the Healys’ house—all that cockiness while driving his car or holding court with his bros outside—it just evaporates. And right here, standing next to her across the way, he even looks a little shorter. It’s probably just from the way he’s angled, I’m aware, but part of me thinks that bravado makes him a few inches taller, and Bella just makes it crumble away.
It’s sweet, sort of.
He’s in his usual dark jeans that look like they’ve had one too many days on the beach, even though we’re nowhere near one, and he keeps running his hand through his permanently windswept hair. And Bella, she’s got this soft, kissable smile that betrays her whole punk rock, leather-jacket-wearing aesthetic. She pulls the jacket closer to her as Nick leans against the wall, like he might be able to disappear into the concrete if he pushes hard enough. They’re close to something, those two. You can see it, and I wonder if anything is ever going to happen with them before they jet-set off to college in six months. Not that I terribly care, but he is my best friend’s brother. Hard not to feel a little invested in whatever his drama is.
I fuss with the little gift I got for Frankie, tucked away in my pocket. I hope she likes it. With how serious my family takes Christmas, it’s not likely I’ll get to see her on the holiday, even if we do live a quick bike ride away from each other.
The bell rings, the same weird buzzing drone we’ve been listening to these past few years, and Nick straightens up and glances over at me. He gives me a little nod and walks over, Bella trailing him.
“You hear about this one?” Bella asks, bumping against Nick. “Harvard?”
“Yeah,” I snort. “It’s Frankie’s hot topic of the week.”
“Is she . . .” Nick looks around and back at me, his brow furrowed. “Is she okay? She kinda bolted this morning and hasn’t really answered any of my texts. I think she’s mad at me.”
“Ask her yourself.” I nod behind them. Frankie is walking our way, posters in hand, a fraying tote bag over her arm. There’s a pile of books illustrated on the side, the name “A Novel Idea” screened on it—a bookstore we visited on our class trip to Philadelphia freshman year. The bag has seen better days, much like Frankie and her family.
“Hey, where have you been?” Nick asks, as Frankie hustles by him, ducking into Mr. Martinho’s classroom. She peeks back out and looks at me.
“Did you hear something?” Frankie asks, looking around the hall as if no one is there. “Weird.”
“Oh, come on!” Nick exclaims, and then looks at me and over at Bella. “What am I supposed to do here?”
“Just . . . give her a minute to cool down. You know how she is,” I say, looking into the class. Frankie’s laying the posters out over the teacher’s desk and emptying her tote full of markers and notepads.
“Fine,” Nick grumbles. “You coming to Andrew’s party tomorrow night?”
“What?” I laugh. “Me? No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“It’ll be fun,” Bella presses, giving me a playful nudge. We don’t know each other terribly well, but I like her. She’s one of those people I wish I’d taken the time to get to know better, but now with her and Nick’s graduation looming, I feel like maybe it’s a bit too late. Maybe we can reconnect on social media or something, like so many people seem to do in every Netflix teen drama I’ve seen.
“That’s debatable.” I roll my eyes. Though in reality, I kinda want to go. I do. I heard Kelsey is going, this girl I’m convinced would be a great addition to our club and also just exudes this wild coolness that I’m eager to learn from, with her half-buzzed bright reddish-orange hair and lip ring. We went to summer camp together ages ago, and she’s since grown into one of the coolest girls here, while I’m just . . . well, me. And besides, nothing wrong with a few more friends.
“Well, be sure to tell her about it,” Nick says. “I’ll, um, catch you later, J.”
“You don’t want to stay?” I ask, but he and Bella are already walking away. He looks over his shoulder, giving me a look that says I should know better. And I should. The hallway is mostly cleared out at this point, though I spot a few students toward the other end, making their way out of the building. Probably seniors, wrapping up with early schedules. A door to a classroom next door creaks open, and Mrs. Podos, one of the dance teachers, steps out, exhaling loudly. She catches me looking and ducks back into her classroom.
I get it, though.
Everyone is stressed out about something. Someone. As the year wraps up and the holidays approach, it can feel like you’re running out of time to make things happen, even though the new year offers up exactly that. A new year. A time to shake things up. Hm. Maybe it isn’t too late to connect with Bella. I wonder if it’s too late for me, and all these questions I have about myself. Will it be easier after high school, or should I go full New Year, New Me come January?
The door opens again, and I half expect to see Mrs. Podos hustling out with a carton of cigarettes, making for the parking lot where students and teachers who smoke all meet on common ground, but instead it’s Kelsey Nicolau. She’s slinging her backpack over her shoulder, dancing gear in a little duffel bag on her hip. She practically floats down the hallway, like a punk rock ballerina stepping out of a music video for A Day to Remember.
“Kelsey!” I shout. My voice cracks a little, and I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Get it together, Jo. She turns and looks at me, a little smile quirking on her face. “Do you, uh, have a minute? We’re having the . . . you know, the club . . .”
Oh God, what is happening to me? I feel like I’m sweating. If she does stay, that takes care of any alone time I’m hoping to steal with Frankie, but . . . I can’t help myself.
“Ah,” Kelsey says with a little rueful look on her face. “Can’t this time, Fabrics, but maybe next week? Some of the dancers are getting coffee.”
“Yeah, totally.” I nod. She is the only person on the entire planet who can call me “Fabrics”—a bad reference to my full name, “Joanne,” and that craft store—and get away with it. I think if anyone in my family tried it, or even Frankie, I’d probably lose it. But for some reason, that little nickname coming out of her mouth just sends me.
“You could come if you want?” She gestures down the hallway, like the coffee shop is right there. “I wouldn’t mind the extra company.”
