Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (21 page)

*   *   *

It's a clear night, and we decide to take the long way, up Beach Street. We can hear the waves lapping the shore as we walk. I quickly point out the Big Dipper, and she finds Orion, something we've done a hundred times before. I fill her in on the parts of the game she missed. She nods but doesn't say much.

“You okay?” I finally ask.

“I don't really want to talk about it,” she says. I try to read her face but can't.

We walk for a while in silence.

We get to the bottom of her porch steps. Franki's house is like most houses in her neighborhood: small and square with a postage-stamp yard and a need for a new paint job. A beer bottle leans against the railing, and a rusty tricycle sits off to the side. I can hear the television inside.

“Do you want to sit for a while?” I say.

“Don't you need to get home?”

“I can hang out for a minute or two.”

She shrugs and plunks down on the steps, and I do, too. We sit with our backs very straight, our shoulders barely touching. The night feels colder now, and I'm glad I remembered to grab my jacket. Pretty soon she's leaning into me, her body heavy against mine.

After what seems like a long time and no time at all, she stands up. “I got to go. Rose is probably waiting up for me.”

I stand up, too.

“Yeah. My mom will send out the cavalry if I'm not—”

She leans toward me and puts her lips on mine. Her eyes squeeze shut.

And then it's over. She turns toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. She pulls open the door and disappears inside.

I stand there for a minute, staring up at the house. Then I start walking home. It's suddenly too warm for a coat.

*   *   *

I'm standing in my driveway when I feel them. Goose bumps pop up, covering my skin. At first I think it's because I took off my jacket, but I know that's not it.

Something is wrong.

I look up at my house. There's a light on in Lucy's room, and I can see my dad moving around in the kitchen. The van sits in the driveway, and the porch light is on.

It's Franki. My scalp prickles. Something is wrong with Franki.

I turn and run. Even though it's dark, I cut across Cemetery Hill, not caring about patches of ice or zombies or tree branches. Even when a shadow falls across my path, I don't care. I just run faster.

But when I get to the other side of the cemetery, I stop dead. Even the pounding in my chest freezes midbeat.

I need my science journal. I need Dude Explodius.

I can see the journal, sitting on the tip-top shelf in my closet, where I tucked it away for safekeeping. Just in case.

I want to go back for it, but the prickling feeling starts in my scalp again, and I know I don't have time. Plus, I don't believe in all that superhero stuff anymore, right?

I start running again.

*   *   *

I can hear voices, muffled but angry, on the other side of the door.

I stop at the bottom of the steps that lead up to Franki's house. I put my foot on the first stair, hesitating, thinking maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all. Then I hear a crash and a scream.

I stop thinking. I race up the stairs, and I'm almost to the door when my sneaker slips on a piece of ice. My arms are like propellers as I slide across the porch, trying to steady myself. I slam into the door.

“What was that?” I hear from the other side.

I turn the handle before I can change my mind. The door creaks open, and I look around. The light is dim, but it doesn't take me long to see Carl standing in the corner, a beer bottle in his hand. Someone crouches down next to him.

Franki.

“Get away from her!” I scream.

“Charlie?” Franki whispers. “What're you doing here?”

“Get away from her,” I say in a voice that's not my own. “I mean it, Carl. Leave her alone, or you're going to be very, very sorry.”

“Who're you?” Carl says, his words slurred and slow. “Prince Charming?”

I glance around the room. Pizza boxes and stacks of dishes take up any available space on the couch and coffee table. A television blares in another corner.

I cross the room in three steps and reach around Carl, grabbing ahold of Franki's arm. It takes a little effort, but I pull her into a standing position next to me.

“You okay?” I ask her, and she nods. “Then let's get out of here.”

Carl squints at me, his body swaying back and forth. “Playing hero, are you?” He takes a swig of the beer. “I hate to break this to you, buddy, but your little girlfriend ain't going nowhere.”

“I'm not your buddy,” I tell him, tugging on Franki's arm. She follows me across the living room, but when we reach the door, she stops.

“You're a bad person, Carl,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “I hope my mom figures that out before it's too late.”

Carl sways, then takes a step toward us. “Get back over here. I mean it, girl.”

“Let's go!” I holler, pulling her out the door. We slip-slide across the porch, and I grab the banister for balance. We've made it to the first step when I hear him behind us.

“You don't know who you're messing with, kid,” he says, coming through the doorway. His face is full of rage, and as he barrels toward us, I shove Franki to the side, moving both of us out of his path. His foot hits an icy patch, and he starts to lose his balance.

“Whoa!” he yells. He smashes into the railing, and we hear a loud snap as he sails through it.

I peek over the side and see him, twisted sideways and motionless, lying on the frozen ground below.

“He's not moving,” I whisper.

Franki peers around my shoulder. “Do you think he's dead? I don't really want him to be dead.”

We wait, but he just lies there, motionless, drips of melting ice falling on him from the broken gutter above.

“Maybe we should do something,” Franki says, and I nod.

“Let's call my mom,” I say, turning toward the house. “She'll know what to do.”

Franki shakes her head. “Phone's off again.”

We make our way down the steps and start heading toward the road, hoping to flag someone down for help. We're almost to her mailbox when the blue minivan comes up the hill and stops next to it.

My mom jumps out of the passenger side.

“Don't get mad,” she says to me, holding up her hands. “I'm not trying to treat you like a little kid. It's just that it was getting kind of late, and we wanted to make sure you and Franki made it to her house okay—”

I throw my arms around her neck, and Franki does, too.

“Whoa,” my mom says. “What's going on?”

I let go of her. “Mom … there's been an accident. Carl—he's hurt and…” I motion toward the house but stop when I see him move a little. He tries to roll over, then lets out a wail.

My mom looks at Carl, then at Franki. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Burger. But my mom and Rose. They'll be home soon, and—”

“We'll take care of it.” She looks at me. “Charlie, can you walk Franki back to our house? Stella's there with Lucy, and I need your dad to stay here with me.”

I nod, and we start walking again. We're halfway down the street when my mom calls out.

“Charles?”

I turn.

“You sure you're okay?”

I nod. “Trust me, Mom. I'm fine.”

*   *   *

Later that night, after Franki's eaten three helpings of my dad's meatless meat loaf and crawled into bed with Lucy, my mom comes into my room. She tells me that Carl's fine, but his right leg is badly broken and he's going to be in a cast for at least twelve weeks.

She smiles at me. “He won't be chasing anyone for a while, that's for sure.”

I try to smile back, but my face feels tired, and I can barely keep my eyes open. “I was scared tonight, Mom.”

“I know, Charlie. I was too.”

“You were?”

“Sure,” she says, hugging me. “Nobody's perfect, you know.”

I hug her back.

We sit like that for a long time, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go.

 

CHAPTER

38

I wake up to my dad hollering up the stairs.

“Snow day!”

I jump up and peer out the window. At least six new inches cover the backyard. This time, it looks like a real winter wonderland.

I tug a sweatshirt on over my pajama top and go to my closet, searching the top shelf for my wool socks. If we hurry, Franki and I can be at Grant's before the little kids get to the hill.

My hand grazes the familiar leather of my science journal. Tiny bolts of electricity shoot up my fingers.

I pull it out and hold it up to my nose, inhaling the now-faded smell of rawhide and thinking about Mr. P.

I hope, wherever he is, he keeps doing his experiment. Even when it got messy, it was worth it.

*   *   *

I peer into Lucy's room. Her bedspread is pulled up tight, and her five billion stuffed animals are lined up like always. She sits in the middle of them, her Barbies spread all around.

“Where's Franki?” I ask her.

“She promised she was going to play with me this morning,” she says to me, not looking up. “You want to play instead?”

Fat chance,
I think, but bite the inside of my cheek so the words won't come out.

“Maybe later,” I say as I run down the stairs, hoping she's in the kitchen.

As I'm passing the front hallway, the doorbell buzzes.

“Got it!” I scream, and unlock the door. I pull it open, and Franki stands in front of me, wearing a parka plus a pair of thick gloves and a stocking cap.

I grin up at her. “I just need to eat a quick breakfast, then I'm ready to go.” I look behind her. “Did you go home to get your sled?”

“Charlie…”

I sigh. If we have to go all the way back to her house, it's going to eat up another twenty minutes. “Fine. You can borrow Lucy's. She's busy anyway.”

Franki gives me a look that makes me think she's not thinking about sleds or Cemetery Hill.

“Didn't your mom tell you?”

“Tell me what?” My stomach growls.

“I'm … I'm going away.”

Not this again. “What do you mean … like, to visit your dad?”

She nods and slides her high-top along a patch of powdery snow. “Yeah. Lila and your mom worked it all out with my dad. They say it's for the best.”

“They say what's for the best?”

She shifts from one foot to the next. “I might be going away for a while. At least until after Christmas.”

When I went to bed last night, Franki was curled up next to Lucy, snoring like a truck driver. Now she's telling me she's leaving, maybe for more than just a week. I take a deep breath, and frosty air fills my lungs.

“So, when do you go?”

“Today.”

I shake my head. This can't be happening. Not now.

“Lila took some time off, so we're all driving to Boston this afternoon. We're going to stay with Aunt Carol for a few days, and then I'll fly to Colorado.”

I try to breathe, but the air burns at my insides.

“Don't be sad, Charlie. It's not forever.”

“Nothing's ever forever,” I say.

“We'll sled when I come back,” she says, her face lighting up.

“Okay.” It's the most I can manage.

We stand like that for a minute. Finally, she looks down at me and gives me a gentle shove.

“Well, then,” she says, “I guess I'll say Merry Christmas now.”

I nod.

She turns and starts down the steps.

“Frank?”

She whips around.

“Yeah?”

I take one more deep breath. “We'll sled when you come back.”

The lopsided grin spreads like maple syrup across her freckly face.

“You can count on it, Charlie Burger.”

 

CHAPTER

39

Franki doesn't come back in time to go sledding.

After she left for Colorado, things got pretty bad between Lila and Carl. He couldn't do much for himself, on account of his broken leg, so Lila took pity on him and came back from Boston to take care of him. Everything was pretty calm for about a week.

My mom wouldn't give me all the details but said Carl's actions eventually landed him a spot in jail overnight and convinced Lila to take Rose and go back to Boston for good. Two weeks later a
FOR SALE
sign went up in their yard.

At first, Franki and I wrote to each other all the time. I told her about how Boomer's mom makes the best chicken-fried steak and how he got two other guys to join the chess club without even bullying them into doing it. I filled her in on Grant and Dolores's love affair, and how even though our soccer team didn't win the finals, Coach Crenshaw made it through the whole game without making a single guy puke or cry. I told her about my mom's decision to retire from the police force for good, and how she's trying to convince my dad to open his own restaurant. I even told her about how Lucy talked me into showing her how to hunt for frogs at Mill Pond, and how Stella already got elected to be president of her class for next year.

She told me about Colorado, her stepmom and half brothers, and how she's learning to ski. She wrote about her new school and the debate team and some of the friends she's made. She wrote about her dad, and how much he likes soccer and playing the guitar and old show tunes, just like Pickles.

But by March, her letters weren't coming as much, and by April, they stopped altogether. Then one night in early May, I got home from play practice, and my mom said she had called.

“Here's her number,” she said, holding out a piece of paper. “I told her you'd call as soon as you got home.”