Frank

YOU DEVELOP DEFENSES.

Like, whenever someone tells me how sorry they are that Mom died, I always say, “Oh, that’s okay. She was a pain in the ass anyway.”

This is how I sort people out now. The people who laugh are cool. The people who are shocked might turn out to be cool, or they might not. The people who get offended always turn out to be uptight jerks.

It’s true that Mom was a pain in the ass, but she was the kind of pain you get used to, like sore muscles after karate practice, or the burn when you’re sinking into a hot bath. Mom was a good pain. Losing her—not so much.

Lately Xander is also a pain, but there’s nothing good about it. Tonight she left the house wearing her tank top with rhinestones on the spaghetti straps, her studded belt, and her “man-getting jeans,” which are ripped in all the most strategic places. If ever there was an outfit for creating trouble, she’s wearing it now. And since, naturally, it’s a Friday night and I don’t have anything to do, I’m sitting up in Mom’s old bedroom like a stupid jerk, drinking my mint tea and listening for Xander to come home. I don’t know why I do this.

It’s not all bad. The crickets are chirping, and my tea is warm and sweet with honey, and my legs have that nice used feeling they get after I do my two hundred kicks. My back is sore, but I rubbed Tiger Balm on it and it’s starting to feel better. I overdid the punching tonight, but I even like how that feels. Shotokan makes me strong.

I glance through my trigonometry textbook once more for my final on Monday. All that’s left is a few papers to write and the school year is done. Then summertime. My last summer with Xander and Adam.

Through the open window, I hear a car door slam, then another. I freeze, holding my mug to my chest. Xander laughs in that mean way she does, and she says, “I didn’t invite you in!”

Some guy mutters a low, angry sweet talk. I don’t like the way it sounds.

She giggles again. “I think you’ve had enough, Hank.”

“Frank,” he says.

“Whatever. Good night.” Silence for a second, but then I hear her voice hit a surprised register, as if she’s been hit from behind.

I’ve pounded down the stairs and am almost to the front door when I hear her trying to reason with him. “Come on. I’m jailbait, you said so yourself. And it’s past my bedtime.”

“I’ll let you go if you give me one more kiss.”

I open the door to find Xander in the arms of a guy I’ve never seen before. He has a tattoo on his forearm that says “Christ is King” in scrolling letters drawn to look like a crown of thorns. He’s wearing a black leather vest and ripped-up blue jeans. He doesn’t see me because he’s leaning in to Xander’s hair to smell it, his finger snaking through a hole in her jeans. Xander is turned away from him, her face scrunched up in disgust. She sees me and rolls her eyes. “You’re really pathetic, Hank, you know that?”

“It’s Frank. Why are you trying to piss me off?” He’s pretending to be amused, but I can tell he’s angry.

“Why won’t you let me go in my house?” she asks, enunciating every word like she’s talking to someone who barely speaks English.

Frank finally notices me, and freezes for a second. Now that he’s looking at me, I can see he’s not that cute. He has a hooked nose and a goatee. His bottom lip has a sharp steel stud in it, but the piercing looks angry and red. He seems to register how young I look, and relaxes. “Don’t worry, honey, she’s fine,” he says to me.

He laughs a little, and I can see by the porch light that his teeth are crooked, and even from where I stand his breath smells as though he hasn’t brushed his teeth in recent memory. The guys Xander chooses!

Or maybe they choose her.

“I’m not moving until you let her go,” I tell him.

“Well, then I guess we’ll have to leave,” he says, and pulls Xander back toward his car, murmuring in her ear as if she’s an animal he needs to keep calm.

“Let me go right now!” Xander yells. She has finally stopped kidding around. I watch her prepare the move I taught her. She pulls her knee up to her chest, but she’s gone too high. She misses stomping his foot by inches, and jams her ankle instead. She cries out in pain as he pulls her backwards, laughing. He thinks this is a game.

Does Xander? I can’t tell.

The way he drags her fills me with a rage so hot, I can feel my brains simmering. As I’ve been trained, I walk across the lawn, keeping my gait steady and my eyes on my target until I’m within striking distance.

Xander sees me coming, and chides, “Oh ho, Hank, you’re in for it now!”

He scoffs at her.

Xander ducks.

My roundhouse kick to his temple makes a cracking sound so loud, the crickets shut up for a second. He’s stunned, and lets go of Xander, shaking his head like he has water in his ears.

“Bull’s-eye!” Xander yells. She backs away from him, but stays nearby so she can get a good view.

“Who did that?” Frank tries to focus on me, but he can’t believe that a skinny teenage girl just knocked his block off.

“Jesus, Hank, she must have killed one of your two brain cells,” Xander says, and giggles.

A light comes on across the street—Adam’s bedroom. Xander pretends not to notice, but I can see her get a little more serious.

Frank swings around and looks at me again. “What the hell was that?” He’s obviously still stunned, because he’s not thinking clearly. Or maybe he’s just a moron.

“Frank,” I say as I assume strike pose, fists raised. A sore muscle in my back screams, but I don’t show my pain. “Drive away in your car, or ride away in an ambulance. Your choice.”

He sways on his feet, seeming to consider my offer. His knees buckle suddenly, and he has to lean against his car.

Adam comes out of his house in his pajama bottoms, holding his aluminum baseball bat. He stares at Frank like every muscle in his body wants to bash the guy’s brains in and the only thing keeping him in check is a weak hold on common sense.

Frank sees Adam and his bat, and seems to rethink the situation.

“All right, I’m leaving,” Frank finally says, turning, and without looking at Xander, mutters, “Little whore.”

“Oh, well, that’s it, Hank,” she says. “You’ll never get my phone number now.”

He mutters even nastier insults as he slowly works his way around his big rusty car and climbs in the driver’s side. He sits there for a second, probably waiting for the street to stop spinning, starts his engine, and drives away.

Adam charges across the street toward us, shaking his head angrily. “Damn it, Xander.”

“Oh no,” Xander coos in a baby voice. “Widdle Adam is angwy.”

Adam was little until about two years ago, when he shot up eight inches in ten months. Now he’s almost six feet tall, but if Xander and I ever want to really get him mad, we call him Widdle Adam. Really, all we’re doing is switching around his name: Adam Little. I think it’s the baby talk that gets to him.

Adam has been our best friend for a decade at least, ever since he ritualistically beheaded Xander’s Barbie doll and we retaliated by electrocuting his G.I. Joe with Dad’s jumper cables and car battery. Adam was so intrigued by the way Joe’s face melted that we tortured to death his entire platoon, until we got caught by Dad, who, when he saw the carnage, made us sit in the basement and listen to all of his John Lennon albums. We bonded over “Give Peace a Chance.”

Adam chucks his bat onto our lawn and marches up to Xander, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “When are you going to stop?”

Even in the darkness I can see his eyes burning blue fire.

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” she says to him, blinking, wide and innocent.

“Who was that guy?” he demands.

“Stinky Hanky.”

“Franky,” I say.

She sneers.

“One of these days you’re going to get hurt, you know that?” Adam shakes his head. I’ve seen him mad at her, but tonight he’s positively seething. “I’ll come get you! How many times do I have to tell you that? Call me up.”

“I don’t want to wake your mom,” she says.

“Use my cell. Jesus, Xander! It’s not calculus. You don’t get in a car with a guy like that.”

She looks away from him, pretending she doesn’t care what he says.

Adam whirls around to face me. “And you!”

“What?”

“You weigh like a hundred pounds, Zen! A black belt doesn’t mean much when someone is a lot bigger than you.”

“I weigh one twenty-five.”

“I don’t care. Don’t take on these guys all by yourself. You come get me next time, do you understand?”

“The big stwong man is angwy,” Xander coos. Adam turns around in time to catch her with her hands folded under her chin, batting her eyelashes.

“Xander, one of these times you’ll tangle with the type of guy who won’t stop.”

I don’t say so, but I think Frank might have been that type.

“I can take care of myself,” she says. “I don’t need you.”

He glares at her, shaking his head, his jaw clenched. “Well, I don’t need you either,” he tells her, and storms off.

She wilts a little as she watches him. He picks his bat up from the yard and swings it a couple times before going back in his house. Xander blinks twice, and I almost see the beginning of tears, but she rakes her hands through her hair, and when she turns to me, she’s back to the same old stubborn, dangerous Xander. “When did he become such an authoritarian?” she says before heading up the porch steps.

“You’re welcome!” I yell after her.

“Thanks,” she says, almost sincerely, before going in the house.

“Next time I won’t help you,” I want to tell her. But I don’t. You can’t tell Xander anything.

And I’ll always help her, whether I want to or not.

I march after her, rehearsing a lecture under my breath, but when I follow her into the kitchen I find her sitting at the table with Dad. They’re both dipping spoons into a carton of ice cream, eating slowly. Dad’s blond hair is so dirty, it looks brown, and it sticks up in jagged clumps only where it isn’t matted to his skull. Sabbatical has not been good for him. Without classes to teach or anywhere to be, he’s sunk into a scary depression, and nothing Xander or I say helps.

“Nice to see you’ve emerged from the basement,” I say, taking a spoon from the open drawer behind Xander and dipping it into a chocolaty swirl in the Rocky Road. “Welcome to the surface of the planet.”

“Thank you,” he says with mock formality. “Who was that outside?”

I open my mouth to tell him, but Xander rushes to answer. “Adam. He’s lurking out there like the creep that he is.”

“You two aren’t getting along lately,” Dad says distantly, as though he were commenting on the weather. There’s no curiosity in the statement, no question. He seems much more focused on the huge mound of ice cream that he’s sucking off his spoon.

“Xander had an interesting ride home tonight,” I say, just to torment her.

Xander looks at me, telling me with her eyes to shut up. I shrug at her. I don’t really mean to tell Dad anything. He can’t handle even normal, day-to-day things, like brushing his teeth or changing into clean clothes. Basic parenting is beyond his abilities; parenting Xander would be beyond anyone’s.

“As long as she’s not drinking and driving,” Dad says.

“Good, Dad. Your fatherly duty is dispensed with for the evening,” Xander says, the smallest hint of bitterness in her voice. She pushes her chair back from the table and stands. “I’m off to bed.”

She glares at me as she walks out of the room.

I consider again telling Dad about what happened, but I don’t have the heart. He’d overreact, or he’d fade away. He certainly wouldn’t deal with it in any kind of useful way. So instead I lean over, give him a kiss on his bearded cheek, and say, “Good night, Daddy-o.”

“Good night, Athena,” he says, staring into the center of a fudge swirl.

I leave the kitchen, trying not to feel that empty ache I get around Dad these days. It’s not his fault, I remind myself as I round the stair banister. He lost his wife. It’s nobody’s fault.

That’s the problem. Having no one to blame is precisely what gets me so damn mad.