Harder (Caroline & West #2)(48)

She’s a terror, Mrs. Dieks would tell me, and I knew even when I was twelve years old that Frankie wasn’t. She was normal. Curious. It was Mrs. Dieks who was too old to be watching her.

I could tell from the way she looked at me—like I might be carrying a disease—that Mrs. Dieks didn’t like me. I could guess from the bruises on the softest parts of Frankie’s thighs that Mrs. Dieks didn’t like my sister, either.

But there was nothing I could do about it but tell my mom, who blew it off. She falls down, my mom said. I’m sure they’re from accidents.

I remember being so upset, I threw up. Wiped my eyes, rinsed out my mouth from the bathroom tap, and swore it was the last time I’d count on my mom for anything.

You’re going to have to fix this, I told myself. You’re going to have to make it better for her.

But what could I do? I was a kid, barely older than Frankie is now. I carried my sister home the second I got off the bus, changed her diaper, rubbed the diaper rash cream in as gently as I could.

Once she was in school during the day, we both got off the bus at the same time. Mom was working. Frankie was mine to worry about.

When I got my driver’s license, I could drive her around. I had money of my own to buy some of what she needed—clothes and food and treats. Even when I left her behind to come to Putnam, Frankie was my first priority, my principal worry, my sister, mine.

But now she is mine, legally my responsibility, and I’ve failed her. I brought her here where she’s vulnerable. I left her alone too much. I knew something was going on, but I didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “All of this is my fault.”

“You’re wrong,” Caroline replies.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do understand, and you’re wrong. But we can talk about that later. Right now, you need to focus on constructive solutions to this problem.”

“What’ll be constructive is if I bash that little f*cker’s face in.”

I don’t mean it. I just haven’t got anything constructive to offer.

“It won’t help if you get yourself arrested,” she says. She braces an arm on the chair in front of me and leans close to my back to say, “Everything’s going to be fine, West. Trust me. I know this feels huge, but I was already talking to the counselor, and it’s really going to be okay.”

I grab her arm, wrap it across my chest, forcing her to drop into a seat behind me on the chair, pressed up against my back. When she puts her other arm around me, I cross mine to cover her hands and squeeze tight.

“Breathe,” she says.

I breathe in. Breathe out. Drop my head back until it rests against her neck, her shoulder.

I focus on Caroline. How right she feels against me.

I pitch my voice low and tell her, “It’s abuse. What he’s been saying to Frankie.”

“I know.”

“That kind of shit messes you up. I can’t fix it.”

“I know. But West, we’ll help her through it. I promise.”

I look at my sister, perched on the seat of a blue plastic chair with her knees squeezed in tight to her chest, and I try to make myself believe it.


From where I stand, leaning against the exterior of the school building, Frankie’s face is visible in profile.

She’s got her head bent, her hair pushed behind her ear and scattered over her shoulder. I told her to brush it this morning, but it looks like she forgot.

She’s sitting in my truck, and I’m pressing the back of my head against unyielding brick, letting the rough surface bite into the underside of my fingers.

All I can see is Frankie. The fine little-girl lines of her face. Her thin shoulders and scraggly hair and black sweatshirt.

Ten years old, alone in a cold car.

Caroline pushes my shoulder, a gentle shove. “West. I’m talking to you.”

“I heard you.”

I didn’t, though. I’m not quite inside myself. I’m set apart, noticing the pressure of the brick teeth on my palm, observing my sister, listening to a recording of everything the counselor said without feeling any of it.

Frankie needs enrichment. They haven’t got her test scores back, but she’s doing work above grade level in every subject.

She’s unhappy. She’s in his office three or four times a week. She’s walking out of her classroom to sit in the chair by his door or across from his desk, and that’s okay. She’s allowed to do that. He cleared it with her teacher. He gave my sister a safe space to go to when she needs it.

He’d like to see her make more friends.

He’d like to see her talking more at school, would love to give her more opportunities across the board, and he wants to know if I’ve thought about music or art lessons, because sometimes they help kids who are dealing with grief.

I guess that means she told him about Dad.

What else does she tell him when she goes to sit in the safe space he made for her?

What does she tell Caroline on their long afternoons together?

Obviously a f*ck of a lot more than she tells me.

Caroline faces me. “West.”

“I’m going to quit at the factory,” I say.

“You don’t have to. I can pick her up every day. I don’t have any classes that late.”