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Saying, theres no good pizza in this town.
But it’s a week and a half before she texts me to ask if I can pick her up from school again. I’m at the library. The vibration of the phone in front of my face wakes me up from a doze, and my cheek feels overwarm where I propped it in my hand.
I wipe drool from the corner of my mouth, checking to see if anyone’s around to notice.
Nope. It’s a quiet Friday afternoon in October, a glorious fall day, and I guess most people have the sense to spend it outside.
Sure, I text back. What time?
Now.
10 min.
When I get to her school, she’s sitting on a low concrete wall. The buses haven’t left yet, but I spot her right away because she’s alone, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes on her feet. She’s wearing black leggings and a dark top. When she shoulders her backpack, I feel a little bit like crying at her bony knees and skinny calves, her breasts too big and too soft, this baby-woman all alone.
I wish I could scoop her up and shelter her from how mean life can be. Especially how mean it is to girls, smart girls, girls with boobs, girls with no boobs.
I can’t, so I take her shopping.
Putnam hasn’t got any decent stores to shop at, but we go to the Mattingly’s outlet. Mattingly’s makes athletic uniforms. Their outlet store is full of shiny polyester emblazoned with the names and logos of obscure high-school sports teams. I buy her gigantic two-dollar basketball shorts—black with yellow insets—and a matching shirt that says “Prairieville Hornets.”
Then we hit the Salvation Army thrift store and try on all kinds of ridiculous stuff—prom dresses, overalls, a sweater dress from before I was born, T-shirts and low-rise jeans that show our ass cracks.
We go for burgers at the student union and run into Krishna, who hangs out with us for a while. It’s a good afternoon for all of us, I think. A nice break from the routine.
When I drive Frankie home, she says she wants me to come in and see her costume.
I agree with indecent haste.
The apartment isn’t very big. There’s just the kitchen and a living room plus a short hall with two bedrooms and the bathroom in between. The kitchen is divided off from the living room by a half wall topped with those wooden spires you find on a banister. There’s a lot of dark wooden cabinets.
The sink is empty, gleaming, and someone’s draped a neatly folded dishrag over the faucet.
West.
In the fridge, there’s a plate with a homemade burrito on it and a sticky note bearing West’s handwriting. Microwave about 2 min. Salsa & sour cream after.
There’s a carton of cigarettes in the freezer next to a half gallon of fudge ripple ice cream.
I dish out two bowls when Frankie comes back, and then I make her get out her homework.
The kitchen clock ticks. Ticks. Ticks. It seems to slow down with every passing minute.
When I was thirteen or so, I used to babysit a lot, and I remember this sense of anticipation—this greediness for the moment I got the kids to bed and I could roam through the house, eat frosting from the plastic tub in the fridge, open and close closet doors, bedside table drawers, bathroom cabinets.
Frankie keeps asking me to stay a little longer.
“Sure,” I tell her. “Just until you’ve taken your bath.”
“Sure, I’ll help you pick out an outfit for school tomorrow.”
“I’ll sit by your bed and talk for a few minutes.”
“I’ll rub your back until you fall asleep.”
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
And then she’s snoring softly, and I’m walking on tiptoe across the hallway to West’s bedroom.
