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I try hard not to feel let down by him. It wouldn’t be the first time someone couldn’t give me what I needed.
Frank is in his room, but the door is open, and he is on his way out for college. He stares at me with the typical look a seventeen-year-old gives his little sister when she’s bugging him.
“I hate him,” I whisper. Saying it out loud makes it real. I’ve said it in my head so many times it feels like a song stuck on repeat. But my words sound different. Not only have I said the words aloud, but Frank’s reaction only clarifies that I shouldn’t have said them at all. “He’s doing things to me, at home and at school,” I quickly add.
“How do you know it’s him?”
“I just know.”
“And what do you think he’s doing?”
“He graffitied on my locker and keeps writing things about me on walls and stuff.”
“It could be anyone doing it,” Frank huffs, trying to look at his phone.
“It’s him. I know it is. And he peed in my bed.” Frank looks up, his phone suspended in his hand.
“What?”
“You heard what I said. He peed on my bed. I asked him about it, and he didn’t deny it. He called me a little rich bitch and told me to fuck off and get out of his room.” My lip trembles as I finally admit what has been going on.
“Shit! Are you sure?” I open my mouth to argue, but Frank holds his hand up and continues. “Okay, okay, I get it, but it’s just… I don’t know… weird. Are you sure it wasn’t your cat?”
“So, you don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that. But you must admit it’s odd.”
“It’s psychotic,” I hiss. “You should see some of the things written about me on the walls. They’re disgusting. I don’t know what to do,” I plead.
Frank considers this for a moment before his hand falls to his side, still clutching his phone.
“Look, I’ll admit I haven’t warmed to him. He’s not like any of the other kids we’ve had here, but I’m not sure what you should do.” He appears genuinely stumped.
“I should tell Mom, but…”
“God, no! Mom has enough going on right now with Grandad. This’ll send her over the edge.” Grandad’s dementia has been getting worse. He’s become violent. Mom and Dad spend every waking moment at the care home. Mom has lost weight, and Dad is trying to keep strong for them both. But she is watching her father’s mind die right before her eyes, losing a little more of him every single day.
“That’s why I haven’t said anything.”
Frank falls silent. I chew on my lip.
I know he’ll think it over, but he will come up against the same obstacles I face. We’ll have to have a family meeting, and I will have to talk about what has been happening in front of everyone, including Carl. I can’t imagine he will simply stop after one family meeting. It is more than likely he’ll just heighten his campaign.
“I gotta go, or I’m going to be late for the bus.” Frank twists his wrist to examine his watch. “I’ll think about what to do about Carl.”
He never got back to me.
Frank was the only one who knew what Carl had been doing to me. He was the only person I’d asked for help. I shouldn’t have expected help from a seventeen-year-old. I was cross with him at the time as I really believed he’d know what to do, but in reality, he was just as clueless as me.
“You need to sleep,” Gianni lulls me back into the room. Like a hypnotist, his words worm their way into my conscious thoughts. As if he’s clicked his fingers, my eyes are closing again. The soft bed beneath me feels safe and warm as I drift into a dream-laden sleep.
ChapterTwenty-Three
The pain in my bladder calls through my grogginess, and I blink back the sleep that has invaded me for the past few hours. Although I’m still tired, my need to pee overtakes my need to sleep, the urgent call growing with every second it takes me to open my eyes.
By the time I’ve come round, I’m desperate for the bathroom. I sit up, carefully swinging my legs over the side of the bed as I risk a glance over my shoulder. I expect to be greeted with an empty bed, but something warm stirs inside me when I see Gianni. He’s sitting upright, arms folded across his chest as his head lolls to one side, the slow rhythmic rise and fall of his chest making his sleep appear clockwork.
I want to touch him, but I don’t want to wake him. He’d seemed miserable the last time I woke him, a wretched look that’s only seen on the tormented. This morning he is peaceful and serene. I gorge on the opportunity to study him properly, to admire him unhindered. I enjoy the moment, taking in the beauty of his face, skin, and hair. He’s remarkable. Everything about him is so perfect I want to cry.
