Guilty By Association

Oscar

“Did you know that statistically, vets have high suicide rates?” Blake asks, parking himself on my bed.

I spin in my desk chair to face him. “And this is important because?”

“Frankie is studying to be a vet.”

My shoulders tense. “Are you saying you think she’s suicidal?” I’m not an idiot. I heard him telling Keith at the gym last night that he was talking to Frankie again. Sure, I was curious, but I’m not going to waste time analyzing why. And I certainly won’t ask Blake what they talked about.

“No, I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to her. She’s cool.”

“Uh-huh. ‘Cool’ is exactly how I’d describe her.” I add air quotes and an eye-roll to emphasize my sarcasm.

“She asked about you,” he adds, challenging me with one raised eyebrow.

I won’t give in. “Good for her. Do you have anything important to tell me?”

“We’re having another party next Saturday, but it won’t be as crazy. Turns out Dear Ol’ Dad actually does check his credit card statements, and he wasn’t thrilled about the $1168 liquor store charge. Go figure.” He shrugs, but in typical Blake fashion, turns it into a joke. “I think five hundred bucks is more reasonable for next time.”

“Right. I’m sure Fletcher will appreciate your restraint.”

He stands and rubs his hands down his thighs. “He’ll be proud I’ve learned my lesson. Like any good father would.” With that, he exits my room, but I don’t feel any peace in his absence.

Every time he mentions his dad, it makes me feel bad for him. Not only did his father cheat on his mom, but he turned it around to blame his actions on Blake because he was “too much of a handful.” A phrase a lot of neurodivergent kids hear far too often. If only people realized how much of a handful having an uncooperative brain can be. Add that on top of constantly being told something out of your control is “too much” and it can take its toll.

Being reminded of his terrible parents makes me appreciate mine.

This conversation also leaves me wondering, what did Frankie ask about me? And why does that matter?

The past ten days have been a blur. Between the demands of my classes, assignments, work, and training, I’ve been going non-stop. That’s how I operate best, but it also leaves me feeling like there aren’t enough hours in a day. So tonight, I promised my friends I won’t be a recluse, and I’d actually come to their party.

But the second I walk downstairs to find twenty people in our living room, it takes every bit of self-control not to turn around and go right back upstairs. There’s a collection of girls hovering around the sofas that are crowded with guys around my age. I only recognize Austin’s distinguishable curls and the girl who was more interested in the dog than anything else last time she was here.

I wonder if Frankie will come up with something new to complain about and show up again tonight.

The weird thing is, I’m kind of annoyed the music is so quiet, making that unlikely. We haven’t spoken a word for two weeks. Blake has talked to her a few times, but he never admitted what she asked him about me. I’m too stubborn to ask. So instead of trying to make amends and be neighbourly, I’ve avoided her.

If she wants to call me a criminal for trying to help, then what do I care?

As I enter the kitchen, another group of girls, who all look identical, surround my other two roommates. Not only do they all look similar, they talk, walk, and act the same. You can’t tell one from the other. In my experience, all the girls who end up at these random parties that aren’t hosted by the campus jocks are ones trying to climb their way up the social hierarchy. Ones trying to earn an invite to parties hosted by campus jocks or resident rich kids.

“Ozzie, my man. What are you drinking?” Keith walks around the kitchen island toward the fridge, pulling it open. “I grabbed these just for you.” He hands me a light beer with a satisfied smile on his face.

“You’re an idiot.” I laugh, swiping the can from his hand. “But just because I don’t have to work tomorrow, I’ll drink it.”

“Thatta boy. You know I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking it. It was bad enough buying it. I had to wear a face mask.”

I don’t tell him that I would have preferred he not buy it, deciding instead to pop the top and take a swig just to see the smile of satisfaction on his face. We might have different priorities, but Keith is still a good friend, so I appreciate him trying to include me. Even if my experience with alcohol has only ever exacerbated my ADHD symptoms and is not a feeling I enjoy. I won’t drink to get drunk, but I’ll have a beer and hang out with my friends.

I chat with Blake and the girl standing beside him for ten minutes until her obsessive recounting of campus gossip bores me near death. On my list of things I’m interested in, who is sleeping with whom this week is as close to the bottom as discussing my sister’s period.

After I chug my beer, I decide to escape into the backyard, which is thankfully empty. Since the party population is so much lower this time, I guess no one else felt the need to escape.

“Blake?” a familiar voice calls through the fence.

“No. Oscar.”

“Oh.” She says a lot more than the one simple syllable with her tone.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“I didn’t say I was disappointed,” she snaps.

“Right. Maybe you didn’t say those words, but you made it pretty clear.”

“You think you’re some expert on me now? Like you know me and can tell what I’m thinking without me saying it?”

Silence. Well, not really, because sounds of the city hum in the air; everything from honking and car sounds to a shouted argument somewhere down the street. Despite not being able to see her, the lack of conversation hangs over me like a rain cloud. I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I revert to my default Frankie setting: irritated.

“If you want to talk to Blake so badly, why don’t you just come to the front door and crash the party again instead of lurking in the backyard like a creeper?” I finally ask, and every ounce of confusing, petty jealousy seeps into each word.

“I’m not a creeper,” she shouts automatically. Like that word in particular triggered some angry, defensive side of her.

“Says the creeper calling over the fence.”

Metal scrapes concrete, making me squint from the sound.

“I don’t know why you’ve had a problem with me since day one, but I suggest you get over it. Get over yourself,” she seethes.

I can’t see her, but I can picture the steam coming from her nostrils, all while her angry dog snarls beside her. It still doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest. It’s not the first time she’s told me to get over myself.

“Front door is open if you want to talk to Blake.”

With those parting words, I clear two steps at a time and duck in the back door, sliding it closed behind me. But the second I return inside to the humid air and the constant buzz of conversation, I realize that arguing with Frankie is the most interesting thing I’ve done all night. Even when we can’t get along, I’d still prefer talking to her than any of the other girls in here.

This isn’t my scene. The guys knew that from last year, because I didn’t go to parties unless I went to make sure they all found their way home. I get overwhelmed by the music and conversations and smells and sights. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin to make it all stop.

As I get to the bottom of the stairs to disappear to my room, I hear a knock at the front door.

I refuse to accept that the flutter of excitement I feel has anything to do with it possibly being Frankie. But when I open the door, there’s no denying that’s the cause.

She stands on the other side, dressed in an Eagles T-shirt and black sweatpants.

Interesting.

“Blake’s in the kitchen,” I say instead of a proper greeting. We’re beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“I didn’t come to talk to Blake.”

She doesn’t elaborate, so I prompt, “Okay?”

“I came to talk to you.” She narrows her eyes at me, but if she thinks she’s intimidating, she’s way off the mark.

To say I’m surprised by those words is a fair assessment. I trail my eyes down her left arm, noticing her fist clenched around a dog leash. My eyes follow the leash to find Brad sitting on our front porch, unmoving, aside from his wagging tail.

“Frankie!” Blake’s voice shouts from behind me. “You made it. And Brad’s here. Everybody, Brad’s here!”

Even with Blake saying his name, the dog doesn’t move. Once the brunette who gushed over him last time hears his name, she comes running to the door and ushers Frankie inside.

Frankie says something that sounds like Italian to Brad, who dutifully follows behind. She flashes me a pleading look, like she wants me to intervene.

What am I supposed to do? And why, after the interactions we’ve had so far, would she expect that?

Oh, no. My bad. That’s anger. I can see it clearly now that she’s standing still, glaring at me.

I’d be more inclined to step in on her behalf than I am to stick around and be the recipient of her death glare, but I don’t want to do either. So, while everyone is distracted by Brad’s arrival, I turn away and head upstairs. Back to my sanctuary where I can get lost in my own music and forget about Frankie.