Opposite of Always(18)
“What’s Abuela saying?”
Franny shrugs. “It’s her son, you know, so she’s all sorts of conflicted. She told me that she won’t let him live with us if I don’t want him to.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. She’s happy that he’s coming back. But she’s sad, too, because she thinks I haven’t forgiven him. I know what she wants me to do. I mean, you know how she is, always talking, Francisco, be the bigger person. Which is bull. He’s had a lot more time on this earth to figure things out, but because he’s blown every opportunity, has ruined every good thing in his life, I have to be bigger. Where’s the goddamn sense in that?”
He slumps onto the stairs. “But I tell him to stay away and I’m the bad guy. I let him back in and I start the countdown until he messes up again. I’m screwed no matter what. Story of my life, right?” Franny says, smiling. Except I know his real smile. His happy smile. This isn’t that. This is his I have to be tough, I can’t let anything faze me smile. This is the smile that I see most.
“You can’t worry about what anyone else thinks,” I tell him. “You have to do what’s right for you.” Which I realize is easier said, but it’s true, even if it sounds like Afterschool Special Soup.
“I just have a bad feeling.”
“What do you mean?”
He chews on his lip. “I don’t know. Like, something bad might happen.”
“Then maybe you should tell Abuela no. That you don’t want him in the house.”
Franny nods. “Will you come over still? You know, if he’s around?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Since when do we let The Coupon decide anything for us?”
“You’re right! The Coupon can kiss my ass.” He laughs. “Sometimes I forget that about you, man.”
“What?”
“That you’re the toughest nerdy guy I know.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Thanks, I think.”
He stands back up, his shadow stretching out deep across the yard, throws a rock so hard, so far, I’m pretty sure it’s still climbing long after we walk away. “It’s definitely thanks, bro,” he says, looking away from me. “It’s definitely thanks.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “So, I’m on probation for the foreseeable future. And apparently, I’m also a dog wrangler now.”
“That’ll teach you to steal your mom’s car.”
“Hey, I asked!”
Franny grins. “Jillian says Kate’s pretty hot. You really like this girl?”
“Think so, yeah,” I say, playing it cool.
“Yeah, well, you’re a good kid. Mostly,” he says, tousling my hair in that big-brother way that he sometimes assumes, even though technically I’m older by four months. “I’m sure your folks will let you off early for good behavior.”
“They were pretty disappointed.”
“Disappointment’s their job, man. As long as you can still practice, we’re all good.”
“Right,” I say. “The band.”
Some Joy for Your Toy
You might not know from looking at us. If there’s a mold for this sort of thing, we probably don’t fit it. But the three of us are in band. No, not in a band (at least until just recently). In band. As in at school. You have Jillian on the big bad bass; Franny doing his thing on drums; and me holding down the trumpet. I won’t kid you, though. We mostly suck. Well, to be fair, I suck. Jillian is pretty good and Franny holds his own. But it’s not fair because Jillian comes from a musically inclined family, and Franny is one of those Good at Everything people.
That said, what I lack in natural talent (a considerable deficit), I make up for in (near) tireless effort. And for the last three months, we’ve been practicing harder than ever. Because in just a couple months our own newly formed band, JoyToy, will have its world premiere performance.
At my parents’ thirtieth anniversary party.
Okay, so a limited world premiere.
And with a yard full of fifty-year-olds, not necessarily our target demographic.
But still.
A hundred and twenty-five people are a hundred and twenty-five people, right?
We’re pretty amped.
But shhhh, whatever you do, don’t tell my parents that we’ve formed a three-piece band, that we’ve been practicing nonstop for months, and that it’s our way of saying thank you to two of the most awesome people this universe has ever produced.
It’s a surprise.
Compositions
I consider texting Kate, but I remember something my mom once said, that my dad had “wooed her with long handwritten letters.” But my handwriting’s terrible, and I’d like Kate to get my messages sometime this year, so.
I toss my laptop onto my bed. Click Compose.
Heeeey Kate . . .
Too informal.
Delete.
Wut up Kate,
Nope. Trying too hard to be cool.
Delete.
Dear Kate,
Classic, right?
Dear Kate,
How do you feel about student dances? Particularly high school student dances. And if you are not vehemently opposed to the idea, would you perhaps entertain the idea of attending one, say, with me? I promise you this will not be like in the movies where the high school loser shows up to the dance with some college knockout and is the envy of all his tormenters while simultaneously the king of the Soul Train dance line—where all of the cute, previously unavailable high school girls ooh and aah and wonder aloud when did Jack King become such a stud, while his best friends cheer him on, knowing that he had it in him all along.