Chapter Text
Another dumb casualty….
Having fun!
In South West six,
When a hidden flick knife flicks
Oh ...
Kiss me deadly tonight!
“Can I do a sneak attack?”
“You know what, Frank, as a matter of fact; you cannot.”
“Can I uh,” He looked over his sheet, trying to remember which stats held what meaning. Tabletop gaming was something he never considered partaking in, so sitting there, fresh pack of dice, a sharpened no•2 pencils and zero clue what to do, left him the odd man out. “Can I do a normal attack?”
Frank didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, if that wasn’t aparaent. Dungeons and Dragons in some dudes' basement sounded like a secret code for some freaked-out sec party suburban parents attended to spice up their failing marriages.
And yet, here he was, braving a sword and lute up Illi’s bootleg Mount Doom.
All he knew was that he was here to relieve Toro of his double duties, and keep Mikey from stabbing someone at every minor inconvenience. Ray would lean over occasionally, checking his stats, and despite protest from their fearless Dungeon Master, made very minor, totally not mandatory suggestions on where or what to do.
So still, he was carrying twice the weight.
“You’ve still got that bow and arrow off that dead guy from earlier,” The older teen said, arms crossed, leaning back just enough to tip his chair. “And I think Mike's still got that Woodcarvers Tool. Illi, if we’re able to regroup, could we roll for it again?”
She chewed at the end of her pencil, chipping yellow paint off from it. “Mmm….I’ll allow it, but if it’s Frankie—”
“Not my name—”
“--attacking, he’s not gonna get a proficiency bonus from it. He’s not proficient with long range.”
“Alright then, new plan then…” Frank watched Ray flick a small toy— a vintage Burger King Orko from He-Man— back and forth between his fingertips as he contemplated their options.
No one could afford the real sets and official die-cast figurines, so all the monsters were an assortment of oversized, painted army men and bootleg Storm Troopers. Mikey had The Count from Sesame Street, and Frank was gifted a mini, half-burnt Hello Kitty from Illi. Something about her not-being-a-cat-but-more-of-a-girl fit his Barbarian-Bard class he stubbornly made up.
Every so often, Frank would peek over at the girl and catch her staring. Wide eyed, blinking relentlessly, breathing like one of those sad, deep sea fishes that would off itself if it made contact with any sort of daylight or living person...
It freaked him out, but Frank was so worried about grabbing those stupid answer keys, he couldn’t bring himself to make a fuss or cause a scene about it.
Pissing Mikey's weirdo sister off meant pissing him off, and while Frank had no problem clocking the little shit if things got bad, fighting Ray Toro was another story.
Plus, he kinda wanted to see where the rest of her little story went.
Placing the pencil on his upper lip, Frank cocked his chair back, using his sneaker beneath the table to balance him. “Why not just give the shit to Mikey and let him take the shot? Isn’t he supposed to be sneaky?”
Ray nodded. “You’re right. Good call. Mikey, since you’ve got an advantage, we’ll circle around to you, get the bows ready, and you’re not even paying attention.”
He was right. Mikey hadn’t said much in the last twenty minutes, and every time Frank looked up at him, he was lost in space. It wasn’t until this time did he realize why.
“The show,” Mikey said, no acknowledgment of his absence, “What time does it start?”
“Uh—“ Illi picked at her guns with the edge of her pencil, “Think Pat said around like, five? Four thirty?”
“And what time did everyone say they were coming over.”
“Like, three?”
“And what time did we start.”
“Like eleven Mikey, what’s the problem, what’re you being so cryptic about.”
Frank looked at the clock on the basement beam as the pair argued, two Mickey Mouse hands ticking to one and fifteen, until he realized it hadn’t been ticking at all.
“Cause,” Mikey couldn’t help the smile that cracked the corner of his lip, and neither could Frank, “Ray never put in new batteries.”
“What!” Ray snapped his head, and as if on queue, the basement door flung open, a series of rapid steps marching down as a collective one, two, three kids stumbled down it. Frank had to correct himself on a fourth, Ray's mother peeking down to them.
“Honey, your friends are here!”
The tallest of them whispered a chant of ‘shit’ beneath his breath, hurling over to the hunk of a television box in the far corner of the basement.
Mikey excused himself from the table, going up to one of the boys- glasses and a clearly infected lip piercing- and quickly trailed off with him to talk over a small Tupperware container. Illi did the same, making her way to a shorter girl, wild auburn and orange bouncing as the two embraced, setting down bags of chips as they raided it together.
That left Ray and Frank with the last of the group. He was shorter than Frank but not by much, the hat he wore peeled to the side, the rim of his glasses lifting them up as he set his own gifts down in the form of three large pizza boxes.
After a few moments, Frank had realized; these were some of the kids from Ray’s van, from the polaroid.
“Patty!” Ray laughed, a personal handshake being shared between the two, a hug, followed by; “Dude, I didn’t even realize the time.”
“We tried calling the house,” Patrick took his hat off as if addressing something much more serious, moving to help Ray pull the TV out some, “But Hayl’s said we should just get a couple different flavors and call it a day. Then you know, she proceeded to grab the dill pickle flavor,,,.”
“Barbecue, cream’n onion, cheese…hey! Those are good!”
“No, you’re right! They’re good!” Patrick shouted back, thankful Ray was there to block him as he made a grim gesture with his hand sawing at his neck.
Frank shuffled, scraping his shoes together as they all broke off, arguing and chatting across the room.
Alright. Cool. Everyone was busy. Even if he suddenly felt iced out in the corner like some dumbass, he reminded himself of why he was really here. He had to focus, couldn't get his feelings wrapped up in something as silly as being pushed to the side.
Maybe if the other three were here as distractions, he could excuse himself, slip upstairs to Mikey’s bag hanging from Ray's dresser door, or figure out where that stupid packet was, and then dip. It’d save him the embarrassment of whatever circle jerk show they were excited about.
Yeah, these idiots had no fucking clue.
He looked around, and once again, Illi was staring at him, the new girl yapping to her. She awkwardly raised a hand, waving, her body hunched over.
She looked less like a fish now and more like a bug. Not a mosquito, not a fly, something weirder. A horse fly or a jumping spider, Alaus Oculatus, or something else with an exotic name.
He didn’t wave back.
“Oh yeah,” Ray stuck an arm behind the TV, the shorter male feeding him a series of cables from above. “Guys, this is Frank. Frank, this is Pat,”
“Hey man.”
“Andy,”
“Hi.”
“And Hayley.”
She didn’t immediately turn to him, caught whispering to Illi about something before she finally looked up. If it wasn’t clear before that they’d just been talking about him, the look over she gave him confirmed it.
“Hi.”
Frank sucked at his gums. “Hi.”
Patrick clasped his hands together, either not realizing the tension or not wanting to feed into it. He gestures towards the food. “So! Little Caesars, drinks, chips, uh," He made a vague motion to the boy beside Mikey, nodding , “Fruit and-and cookies? Right? Yeah. Anyways.”
“No drinks.”
“Pardon?”
Mikey looked up from one of the bags, shaking it upside down, like a magician proving the absence of a fuzzy, six pound mammal inside. “No drinks. You forgot the drinks.”
Not a two-liter, individually linked six pack or juice pouch in sight, and Frank highly doubted these freaks sipped on anything with an alcohol percentage higher than a distant cousin's wedding champagne, so he knew there wouldn’t be a bottle hidden somewhere.
“Aw shit,” Andy huffed, “I left them on the counter, fuck, sorry guys..”
“That's alright,” Hayley chirped in, “Maybe we can call up Pat's mom again to drop them off?”
“No-go.” Patrick sighed, “She’s at her aerobics class til seven. Probably didn’t bring her phone with her either.”
“Alright then, new plan.” Illi said, “I’ll go get some. I’ll be back before the opening match if I run it.”
“Isn’t it supposed to rain?” Andy plopped down, half knocking Mikey over like two dogs fighting for a comfortable spot to claim on a couch they’d both be kicked off of soon.
“I’ll be quick.”
“Are you sure?” Hayley shook her head, “Illi, no, one of us will go with you,”
Frank looked down, something nudging his foot. He stepped aside as Ray laid on his back, pulling and adjusting wires.
“It's fine, there’s no reason for anyone else to miss the show. Besides,” Illi grabbed a long coat off the back of her chair, followed by the universally shared scarf hanging from her brother's seat, “Mikey’s gonna lend me his bike. I’ll be right back.”
“What— like hell you are, Illi, take your own stupid bike.”
“Stupid, we rode here together.”
“You touch it and your ass is dead.”
“You can’t kill someone’s ass dead, genius, aren’t you like a biology-chemist wizard?” She teased, “Shouldn’t you know that?”
“Illi, how would you know, you’re failing biology and chemistry.”
“I’m only failing one of those. Plus, It’s an artistic choice.”
“It's an artistic choice to fail?” Patrick asked, “That— doesn’t sound right.”
As admirable as it was, Frank knew she wouldn’t ‘be right back’. Riding with a bunch of shit with her, making it in time for the opening bell against the threat of rain, she’d be lucky if she made it back to see the show at all, riding or not-
“Ow-“ Frank hissed, feeling something knock at his sneakers again. He thought Ray kicking him was an accident, the teen forcing red, yellow and white plugs into their corresponding ports with little room or view of his surroundings,, but on the second time, Frank was forced to take notice.
Ray looked up, jerking his head slightly, then again as Frank narrowed his eyes in confusion.
Illi was halfway up the steps by the time Frank caught on.
“Uh— ‘Millin, wait up, I’ll go with you.”
There she went again, all bug eyed, staring at him. He pretended not to catch the glance she made to Hayley.
“Really? Uh— You sure, Frankie?”
As if he had a choice. And he did, he just…chose this instead. This was his in— his Plan B— after all.
He grabbed his jacket, gesturing to her to hurry up the stairs.
“Yeah, just don’t call me that...”
—
“So what’s your deal, Iero?”
Frank peddled harder, checking either side of the girl currently mounted on the handle of her brother's bike. The winds were picking up, and at any given time it threatened to collide and knock the two over. “My deal?”
Despite Mikey’s threat, they had taken his bike, both with the promise of ‘I won’t tell if you won’t’ between them. Frank peddled with Illi settling on the bridge between the handles, the two intending to switch on the way back.
“Yeah, you know,” She shrugged her shoulders, repeating herself, “Your deal. You don’t talk to anyone at school, or anyone I really know for that matter,”
“You know a lot of people, ‘Millin?”
“Oh, I’m very popular amongst our fellow Saint Matthew-ens. Matthew-ins? Whatever. Point is, you don’t interact with any of us, and next thing we know, you’re kicking it at Ray Toro’s board-game-basement-bash, riding to get sodas with a girl you don’t really know.”
“How would you know that?”
“Cause,” She stiffened up, gripping for dear life on a sharp turn that almost sent her flying back. “I’ve seen you around.”
Frank was caught silent as the wind and threat of rain whirled past them. For all his stalking and detective-work, he hardly anticipated she’d been doing the same, learning about him, seeing what he was all about. By the sound of it, far longer than he had, too.
To him, Illi’s sheer existence began the moment he started noticing her, but when had that happened? It seemed inconsiderate, thinking her entire life was blipped into existence because he suddenly decided to take interest, and maybe for someone else it would’ve been an issue, but not for him, not yet.
“I sat behind you, all of freshman history and sophomore science.”
“Nah,” Frank shook his head in earnest, and what followed only made Illi hum in agreement. “Must be thinkin’ of someone else. I would’ve remembered you annoying the shit outta me.”
“Oh, so you’d remember lil’ ol’ me?”
“You’re talking an awful lot for someone who’s one break away from busting her face open on the road.”
“You know we’ve got like, five of our friends who’d probably kick your teeth in if you did that.”
“Five of your friends.”
She didn’t speak. She just wiggled her eyebrows and smiled.
When the series of smaller shops started to appear, Frank knew he was close. Their old liquor store used to be closer, and his favorite part was that it was a drive-through, the only one of its kind in town.
He remembered when he was a kid, his mom used to pull up in his grandmother's car and let him order whatever he wanted, all while some unlucky asshole would have to grab each specifically flavored treat and serve it to them.
The small act was a luxury they could afford, but Frank realized as he got older that it was because his mom could afford a pair of Campbells and stale crackers here, far more than fresh foods at the grocery store.
Rain or shine, the barn-yard-esque-shaped building was one of his favorites, and now, like most things in town, it was getting replaced.
First the liquor store, then the Marshlands donut shop got canned for overpriced, high sugar-corn syrup with Dunkin’s, and finally, as they skittered closer to the small corner mart, they both turned their direction to the enormous “GRAND OPENING” banner, hanging with triangular streamers spreading over a packed parking lot.
Not only did Belleville receive a piece of the big city, but the surrounding towns fled here too to get a piece of the action too. Bulk shopping seemed to be all the rave nowadays; the bigger, the better, the cheaper, the more you could feed you, yourself and your bratty shitstain kids, too.
“Hate that stupid Mega Mart…” Illi mumbled, as if reading his thoughts, “It’s so ugly…You ever hear their stupid advertisements on the radio?”
In the quiet of morning, when Frank wanted sleep but his alarm clock refused to grant him rest, he did. They played a few jingles, mostly advertising canned goods for sale with the use of an insane coupon deal, or their deli-selection that hadn’t paid someone off to give them that capital A health inspector rating to hang.
It was catchy, and despite his disgust, he caught himself whistling to it on more than several occasions.
“Yeah, they’re pretty shit.”
“You wanna do something fun?” He didn’t need to see her face to know she was smiling, “Wanna learn about their amazing five-finger-discount deal?”
Frank slowed at the crosswalk, careful not to send her face planting into the pavement. As fun as it sounded, as tempting as it was (Frank was about ten seconds from running the light to try and make it down there too), something caught his eye and made him think otherwise.
Across the way, he could see her. He could see his grandmother's car, parked. He could see his mom, but more importantly, he could see a man too, tall with a button up, carrying a suit jacket in his arms.
He could see them laughing, and despite his hardest not to look, he saw them hug, holding onto one another.
Who the fuck was he? And more importantly, what was she doing?
“Nah.” He says, pulling into the shared parking lot of a sandwich shop, a tattoo parlor, and the liquor store. “Place ain’t got anything worth stealing from.”
-
You can learn a lot about someone’s life based on the contents of their shit spread across their lawn, Frank was slowly realizing.
The trip to the liquor store had been a fast one, on account of their combined fifteen dollars (ten of which was from the bet Illi still owed Ray and five of his own cash in quarters) getting them just enough juice to keep the seven of them running with his change to spare.
With the extra time to waste, and the threat of rain seeming to hover with no answer, Illi suggested they stop to check out the final stretch of a yard sale around the corner.
Suggested was putting it lightly.
Since Frank was playing figurehead to the bike on the way back, he was being held hostage. What was with all the random kidnappings he was letting these creeps get away with on him? Eventually he’d have to say something…
The collection of bins and outdated phases of this particular person's life was interesting at best and alarming at worst, but Illi was all too excited to rummage through it, yanking out items from old cardboard boxes and holding them up, like crackled treasures.
“Look at this one,” She said for the utmost time, yanking a wooden picture frame out from a u-haul box. In it was a painting of a boy and a dog, running along the countryside. “You could pop the frame out, maybe put something in it, or hang a grid in the back and use it like a vision board.”
He dug through his pocket, slipping out a pack of gum and popping one in his mouth. He didn’t question it when she reached out and took her own. “What the fuck is a dream board?”
“Vision board, and obviously, it's where you put your visions and stuff.” She put the old frame down, reaching for another item; an old hat. Carefully she aligned it with his head, closing one eye as she tried to envision him with it. The style didn’t suit him much. “You know, hopes and dreams, places you wanna go, people you wanna be.”
“People I wanna be? Like pretending to be?”
“No, people you wanna skin and wear the face of, dude.”
Sarcasm, their greatest companion.
Frank had to sit on the question for a moment. He was, by all arguments and definitions, pretending to be someone right now, but the idea felt wrong.
He was…. Inspired, loosely, to be someone new for her.
“You’ve never thought about it? Being someone else?” Illi continued, setting the hat down and instead reaching for a small set of charms; an old, beat up pair of keychains in alien gimmicks, one in red with a pizza slice and the other in blue with a hot dog. They jingled when she shook them.
“Look, matching.”
“Don’t. I’m not using that.”
Defeated, she set the blue extraterrestrial down.
Frank went quiet, mumbling as he examined a paperweight. “Never something I really thought much about. I don’t know who I’d even be..”
“Well, just know no matter what, you are who you choose to be.”
Frank raised an eyebrow, sticking both hands in his pocket. Every so often his attention would pull to the bike, afraid someone would ride off with it. “Jesus. That’s some shit you would say…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. That’s just something a mom would say…” He shrugs. “Anyways, what kind of motivational Chicken Soup for the Soul’d you pull that shit out from?”
“What? ‘You are who you choose to be?’ Dude, that's from Iron Giant.”
“Iron Man? Course you read lame comics….”
“No, wait, yes. Yes, I do, and no, not Iron Man. I don’t really like Kurt and Rogers storytelling on this current run, everyone says it’s gonna be the best one cause it's supposed to elevate Tony Stark as a character. I like Otomo more anyways.”
“Who’s Otomo?”
“You don’t know!” She shouted, whipping her head back and whacking his arm. “He’s the dude who made one of the greatest comic books ever! And then they made a movie based off of it! Did you know when they made Akira, they used and made over 50 new colors for it? Like, shades we’ve never even seen before in animation, cause it beat the record for the most colors used in an animated feature. It’s about these two kids, and they’re best friends, and they always have each others back cause they’re in a gang, and,”
“Illi,” Frank said, “The quote.”.
“Oh. Right. Iron Giant. The movie’s called ‘The Iron Giant.’ It's about this huge robot, who learns that just because he’s scary and could kill a bunch of people, that that's not who he is. It’s not who he has to be, either. He can be kind and loving to all. Like, kinda what Destroya is.”
“Who’s Destroya?”
“Oh my— dude, move.”
Frank watched as she made her way to an older man, lounging on a fold out chair, not minding the occasional droplet that fell on the rim of his chewed up hat.
She held up the single alien.
“How much for this little guy?”
The old man smacks his lips, nodding. “Gimme a five.”
“I only got two.”
“Gimme a five, and I’ll throw in the dog painting.”
“Damn. You drive a hard bargain. Frankie, go grab the dog.”
Frank looked at her, and if his squinted eyes and cocked lips could be pulled up in a visual dictionary, it’d read, ‘Seriously?’ But he still came and returned with the painting, and when she looked at him with a wide grin, he only groaned slightly as he shelled out his quarters, scoffing when the old bastard knew he had shorted him by 50 cents.
“Thanks boys, you two stay dry out there. Have a good day.”
Frank didn’t need to look over to tell Illi was upset at the title.
It showed in the way she lowered her head, like the rain came pouring down on her and her alone. She was scooping up the handles of the bike without her usual, polite ‘thanks’, before peeling off.
He races to catch up with her on the curb, wanting to hop back on, but finding themselves walking instead.
“Why don’t you ever say something?”
He watches her lips tighten.
“Why don’t you ever correct them?”
“Because. It’s easier, Frank.”
“Yeah, but it's not fair.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Does if it keeps happening,” He bumped his hand against the handles, steering her back towards the street. “Does if it keeps upsetting you. Obviously these people are a bunch of losers, Pinball Wizards’n shit if they can’t bother to see you.”
“Is… is that a Who reference?”
Franks is all too proud of himself, snatching out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Half tank. He should’ve gotten a new pack. “Yeah it is.”
“Well, it’s easier if I just don’t. Saves me the embarrassment.”
“Of what? Telling them they’re wrong?”
Illi stops, looking at Frank, her expression softening from sadness to something more, something stronger than he knew.
“....You think they’re wrong?”
“Dumbass. I know they’re wrong. And if you don’t start sayin’ something when we go out, I’m gonna have to, and that's gonna be a whole other can of worms and bullshit I don’t really wanna open on some poor dude's face. I’m gonna end up being one of those guys from that movie.”
Illi tries to smile, “Kaneda and Tetsuo. It started from a Japanese comic book.”
“Whatever. We’re gonna end up like those two clowns, covering each other's asses.”
Frank huffed, but didn’t object when she was offering his seat at the head of the bike again. They both climbed on as she kicked off.
“Does that mean we’re gonna hang out more?”
“Sadly,” He said, “I think that means we’re gonna hang out a lot more.”
-
Up the porch steps and inside, Illi was racing to the basement, with Frank following until he slowed near the kitchen.
“Have you spoken to him at all?”
“No. He’s been pretty distant.”
It's Patrick, and from the looks of it, Andy.
“I mean,” The taller teen reaches up, grabbing styrofoam plates that clash with the mismatched mugs weaved in his fingertips. “No one wants to talk after that kinda stuff, man. I’m surprised Mikey was cool enough to talk to me about it….”
“About Pete, or Ross?”
“Both.”
Patrick gathers a few utensils and bowls in his arm, hesitation on his tongue.“Yeah….I get it….You know anything about the new guy?”
“Who, The short guy? Maybe. I don’t know. Seems nice though? Ray said’he was alright.” Andy grabs a few napkins, fighting against the paper towel holder as he does, “Must be cool if he’s hangin’ out, don’t think they’d all vouch for him and have him over if they didn’t. But yeah, man. If you wanna get a hold of Pete, by all means.”
Patrick nodded as Frank quickly darted back towards the basement stairs, “Yeah. I’ll tell him.”
-
It’s an hour, hour and a half of non-stop yelling. Any indication that the group thought or even acknowledged this was all for show felt like it was hauled out the window the second the bell rang.
Like the gargantuan body pressing some unfortunate soul off the edge of a turnbuckle, no one was going to object to watching brutality unfold on a fuzzy RCA.
When the commentators started calling for the bad guys' removal, the eruption in both the live crowd and basement were infectious; loud and overwhelming to the point that Frank didn’t even realize he’d join in til he was bickering with them.
“Are you fucking kidding me!” He shouted, mid-chew into a slice of pizza, swallowing it down with an additional fist-full of Doritos.
He came back with Illi, fully planning to stare at a water stain in the roof and wait the two hours out, but his curiosity had naturally spiked once violence and the occasional bikini shot was prompted, a lucrative deal for Frank's attention that he simply couldn’t ignore.
In between the occasional waves of dedicated silence, the older Way would fill him in on the expansive lore of why Asshole #1 Asshole #2 had decided that ruthless chair-shots to the back of the head were the only means of solution to a minor altercation.
“— but he’s not alone, his friends totally gonna show up to save him,” Illi said, contained to a passionate whisper as if not to shatter the illusion for their friends. “Just watch.”
Ray shook his head, unable to turn away as the hero of the story— the babyface— was scooped up and body slammed yet again. The plastic plate in his hand crinkled under the stress of his grasp, clearly taking it harder than anyone else.
The camera didn’t shy from the blood, the echo of lights encapsulating memories for anyone lucky enough to have a seat in the stadium. “Dude, we are so fucked, he’s gonna kill him man, I can’t believe this, oh man…”
Mikey, who was most invested, wouldn’t look away either. He was silent in his observation, only leaning over when Illi held a piece of popcorn or chip for her to chuck in his mouth. “He’s comin’ out,” He muttered, reaching back, stealing a few dill flavored chips for himself. “He wouldn’t flake on him like that…”
The seven of them were cradled on the couch, its springs crying whenever one of the teens moved on its cheapening frame.
Hayley sat up top, taking over the armrest with Patrick leaning against her legs below. Beside her, Illi, Frank and Ray, with Mikey sprawled at his leg and Andy beside him. The box tv rattled whenever the volume was too loud, stretched to capture every thud and slam on the canvas.
Several lights flashed as a sudden shattering of glass sent the room on fire. Frank had never heard a group of people get so loud over some bald guy.
Ray nearly catapulted himself onto Mikey, who had latched onto him, the two shouting as they shook one another. The shorter girl was cackling, nudging Patrick with her hand flapping open and closed. Much to his disappointment, he dug out a twenty, handing it over to her.
Illi was slapping Frank's arm, over and over, waving and pumping her fist in the air as if the performer on the other side of the screen could hear her, somehow empowered by the group's rallying. If anyone ever knew how excited he was to join them, he’d deny it completely.
“Holy shit!” She shouted, so loud that her voice cracked, high pitched and strung so much, her throat swelled like a frog. Pixelated sparks coming off of the audience's cameras gave it a more glamorous, larger than life feel,“I told you! I told you!”
Rattling Mikey as hard as she could, he swatted her away, scoffing as he leaned back against Ray’s kneecaps.
Everyone was so focused on the screen, that it was almost easy to miss the way Mikey kept his elbow bent upwards, the way Ray’s hand draped over his shoulder, how just barely through the final dramatic moments of the match, their fingers were hooked against each other.
It would’ve gone past Frank too, had he not locked eyes with Ray, who quickly pulled away.
As the lights soon flicked on, one by one, the teens dismantled themselves from the couch, stretching and cracking their bones back to life. Who knew sitting around on your ass all day, playing pretend, would exhaust someone so much?
“Alright, party people,” Ray was already regretting the question by the time the first pair of hands went up. “Who’s getting a ride home?”
-
It was already well past his 11pm curfew by the time the van had pulled up to McMillin's residency.
Mikey’s voice, whispering how important it was for them to keep quiet, was a frequent reminder of the time for Frank, like his own annoying, personal alarm.
Andy, Pat and Hayley all took off together a few streets back, insisting it was easier than having to navigate the endless roads and backstreets to drop them all off one by one. They lived within the same block, so the chances of a kidnapping via alien abduction or free candy were slim.
Both Illi and her brother decided not to bike and pick up his ride early the next morning. Mikey then, naturally, had taken his rightful place in the passenger seat, occasionally sharing his thoughts on the music, the pay-per-view, the session, and every time, Ray responded, more enthusiastically than the last time. He seemed more comfortable, more at ease the less people were crammed in his van.
Frank had dozed in and out of sleep, thankful for the cruising speed Toro had chosen. He tried keeping his head up, every so often rubbing at his eyes.
Illi was beside him doing the same, but with each twist and sudden turn, the two found themselves resting against one another, til her knees were curled beside her, her head resting against his forearm, her hands shuffling around to both station herself and keep distance from him.
“You smell like dill pickles, Millin….”
“Mm… You smell like ass, Frankie.”
He didn’t argue. He told himself he didn’t have the energy to, but in reality, the urge to correct her on his name was absent.
“Alright, skippers….” Ray parks the car, exhaustion peeking through. “Get the hell out my ride.”
Illi snorted, grabbing her satchel, mindful of any pins that could snag, bumping against Frank once more as she turned to crawl out. “That’s not very nice of you, Ray Toro…”
“Sorry. Where are my manners. Get the hell out my ride. Please.”
Frank closes the door after her, the two standing in the middle of the street, waiting for her brother.
“Hey, uh….Frank?.”
“Hm?”
“Thanks, for earlier today…” She hoisted the old painting out of the van, tapping her fingers against the old canvas and the wooden frame. “It’s uh…it means a lot.”
She didn’t get specific, but Frank wondered what exactly she was thankful for. Joining their ruthless crusade up her Mount Doom ripoff? Riding out with her for drinks? Baking her up with extra cash?
The conversation? For sharing a moment? For just being there?
No one had ever thanked Frank for just being somewhere, for just existing. The thought made his lips and face itch, his cheeks a tad more pink than it had been a moment prior.
Frank's shoulders shrugged as she eyeballed him again, less deranged beetle, more…less deranged.
“Yeah, whatever…” He said, hearing Mikey’s door shut, “Don’t mention it.”
And when the four said their secret goodbyes, the siblings crossed the yard and waved them away, Frank couldn’t help but do the same, left wondering, left utterly puzzled once again by Miss Illi McMillin.
-
“I’m home.”
The response he received was laughter from the studio audience on the living room TV, some late night host interviewing a comedian he didn’t know the name of.
His mother, crashed out, still in her scrubs, still with her glasses on, didn’t stir when he slipped in. Frank didn’t have the guts to wake her and ask if the leftover slices of pizza on the counter were for him or her lunch for tomorrow, so he showered and crept into his room hungry, sometime past midnight.
The first thing he drops off on the way to his bed were his shoes, his bag, then, his jacket, until something jingles in the pocket..
He sticks his hand in, fishing out the hidden item by a metallic loop, raising it to the lamplight.
Translucent blue, holding a half faded hotdog, was the matching keychain from earlier.
He stares at it, regretfully, irritated.
If someone caught her with it, then it’d fine.
If they caught him with it, if they put two and two together….
Illi had stolen it, not for herself, but for him. She did something stupid for him. He didn’t want it, but she wanted him to have it. A matching set, a pair, a ‘Do not separate’ package deal, something that tied them together even if they stood apart.
He stares at it again, carefully letting it dangle between his fingertips…
Frank tucked the small keychain in his hand, crawled into bed, and before long, let sleep overcome him, unable to stop the smile that grew across his tired face.