Free Frankie by Shivaun Plozza Page B

him . . .
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 . . .’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Piss off,’ I tell it.
    The bird grips the tomato in its beak and flies away.

I perch on a stool in the front of the shop and lean my forehead against the glass. The crack in the Emporium’s front window might be giving Smith Street its cheesiest grin, but I’m giving it one hell of a scowl. My breath fogs up the glass.
    â€˜Are you going to mope around this place all day? You’re scaring off customers.’ Vinnie’s on her knees, filling up the drinks fridge.
    There’s only one couple in the shop, eating their Magpie Kebabs in silence (no actual magpies were harmed in the making of the kebabs – just don’t ask what happened to the chickens).
    I draw a frownie face in the huffed-up glass. Maybe I will stay here. Maybe I’ll never leave. Ever.
    â€˜Do your homework. Didn’t they give you a heap when you first got suspended?’
    â€˜Done it.’
    The fridge door slams shut. Vinnie grips the handle to pull herself up. ‘I’m not even going to act like I believe that.’
    Outside, a tram rattles uphill, cutting through the rain shooting down at an angle. People walking past hold their umbrellas out in front and duck their heads.
    Vinnie’s got nothing to worry about. I’ve been totally productive this morning. I made a list: Xavier’s pros and cons.
    Pro: He brings me dumplings.
    Con: He lied to me about the vinyl.
    Pro: He’s the only other person who knows what it means to be the spawn of Juliet Vega.
    Con: It looks like he might have inherited some of her less desirable traits.
    Pro: He’s a stupidly talented artist.
    Con: He might also be a stupidly talented con artist.
    A dark-grey sedan parallel parks