There is nothing quite so deathly slow as a Monday afternoon in the spring in the suburbs. Nothing. I can hear my longboard, Ramona, calling out to me from my locker: Fraaaaaaaaankieeeeeee. Get me out of here, Frankie. And I’m yelling, SHUT UP, I CAN’T HELP IT, IT’S SCHOOL. But she’s still calling: Fraaaaaaaankieeeeee. Where are you? Of course my family thinks it’s strange to enjoy being by yourself on a zooming piece of plywood—and dangerous, since a person should wear pads and a helmet and stuff—but I don’t care. It’s only really dangerous when there are hills involved. Other than that, it’s just transportation, though it’s also peaceful. Nobody bugs you. You’re just whizzing by.
I accidentally made the mistake of calling my longboard Ramona in front of my dad about a month ago. Now his big joke is, “So, you’re riding Ramona to school?” Then he falls all over himself, laughing. So clever, Pops.
In debate class, I listened to a couple of the Art Club kids talk about how cool it is that Uncle Epic is back in town, did you see the photos in the paper, and I wanted to shake them and say, “I did that! ME! I made those eyes!” When it’s over, it’s time for Spanish and time to stare at Rory’s head, but when I get there, she’s not in front of me anymore. Like a jackass—though a subtle one—I look around to see if I can find her. Then she’s sliding into the seat next to mine.
“Mind if I sit here?” She looks at me, all cool and classy, like she used to look at Max Ledermann, and she should have on an evening gown with sequins instead of a skirt and a hoodie and rain boots. Rain boots? People wear rain boots for a fashion statement? Rory smells good, too. Exotic. Like a spice counter in a foreign country would smell, if I’m imagining it right.
“Sit wherever you like.” I am too surprised to say anything more than that.
Andie Braswell comes in the door after Rory. She used to sit next to me, and she glares when she sees Rory in her spot. I shrug, and Andie sits in Rory’s spot after giving Rory a pissy look, which Rory ignores.
For the record, the back of Andie’s head isn’t nearly as nice.
Rory arranges her skirt so it nicely covers her knees, though I’d be happy if she left them bare. “Maybe we should do some planning.”
“Planning?”
Her smile is a little secretive. “You know. Projects.”
“With your cousin, and your uncle? Those kinds of projects?”
“Well, of course.” She looks like she’s offering me the grand prize in some sweepstakes. “We’ve only got a month to get people curious about his Walker show.”
“How does an anonymous guy have an art show?”
Her face says that she knows many deep secrets, and this is just one of them. “His assistant Marta makes all the arrangements. Then she places the pieces in the galleries and texts Epic photos of everything. He lets her know if he wants things changed.”
“Aren’t people pissed that he’s not at the opening?”
“Who says he doesn’t go to the opening? Nobody knows what he looks like.” Then she pretends to flip through her notebook, which I take as a cue to stop asking dumb questions.
“When do we go out next?”
“Didn’t I just say we have to plan first?” She gets something wooly out of her bag and puts it on her lap. “Are you free tonight?” She bats her lashes at me, which I thought people only did in movies.
“I have to work at Pizza Vendetta until nine.”
“David will be by to help you find the workshop again.” But then she looks up front, and composes her face into fake sincerity.
Señor Gonzalez, the Spanish teacher, is giving us the evil eye. “Hola, estudiantes. Díganme sus nombres.”
“Sí, señor.” We all say it in unison, just like we do every day. And then there’s a jumble of sound while we all say our names.
For the rest of the class period, Rory sits next to me and knits. I’ve never seen her do this before, and I have no idea what she’s making, but it’s ice blue and screaming orange, in alternating sections, and it’s long. That’s all I can tell. Señor Gonzalez doesn’t even yell at her for not taking notes, which might be the weirdest thing of all.
When the bell rings, she packs up her knitting and her Spanish book and gives me an elegant-lady-leaving-the-party look. “See you after nine, all right? David will show you the way.” She waves, then disappears into the crowd, trailing a tail of orange and blue.
I free Ramona from the locker and we kick home. Now that it’s getting to be nice, it’s way better to take Ramona to school instead of the truck. That stupid thing takes a space and a half to park, so people bitch at me, plus then I have to take Lou to school. This way she has to get there on her own.
I go up to my room and do my homework, just because I know I should, and I’m at Pizza Vendetta by five, just like I’m supposed to be. Tonight’s job is to make sauce and dough. Mix, mix, mix. Knead, knead, knead. Blend, blend, blend. There are pizzas to make, in between things, when the place gets busy—which isn’t very busy, since it’s Monday—but work gets done, and I get out the back door by nine, just like I’m supposed to. I’m only called Pepperoniangelo twice.
At 9:05, David’s standing by the truck, wearing something that looks like cargo shorts but is really a skirt, and he’s shifting from foot to foot, like he has to piss or something.
“A cargo skirt?”
He smooths it down. “Technically, it’s a utilikilt.”
“My bad. Please tell me you have something on underneath your utilikilt, and you’re not going traditional Scottish commando.” I unlock the door for him to get in.
“That’s for you to find out.” His grin is big, like he’s inviting me to check. “But never mind that right now.” David’s eyes flash almost angrily behind his spectacles. “Rory has ideas for a side project. Ideas I think are dumb.”
“What are they? Have you done a side project before?”
“No, and you’ll just have to wait.” He frowns in his seat while he tells me the turns to take. This time I try and remember where I’m going, just in case I ever have to get there without a cousin escort.
When we pull up in the driveway, the big garage door opens and we drive in. Rory’s there, motioning us forward like we’re parking a ship instead of a delivery truck. Finally she puts her hands up and we stop. The engine isn’t even off before she’s heading to turn on a TV in the corner of the garage.
David comes around to my side and waits for me. “She’s excited.”
Rory glides over and squeezes my elbow. “It’s amazing. Just wait. It could be almost like a business.”
“A business?”
There are ratty old recliners and a couch over there, and I flop into one of the chairs. Rory’s got a laptop hooked up to the TV, and YouTube is on the screen.
“Watch this.” Her grin is huge. “We want to do something like this, but we’d need more people. And the problem is cops—they’re paying attention again, now that Epic’s back in town.” Of course there was coverage of the capitol eyes in the big Sunday papers, so I casually took out the recycling and stole the sections with the stories and the photos. Into the scrapbook they went, with FUCK YEAH written in big letters across the pages.
“Why do the cops care about Epic?”
David laughs. “Because they hate not being able to catch him. It’s not like they can charge him with a lot, but it would blow his anonymity, and that would destroy him. Epic would quit making art for sure. Plus, when he was in LA, a bunch of other graffiti artists got involved and spray-painted a whole block’s worth of buildings after he left. The city was pissed, even though the public loved it. Then someone spray-painted a bunch of penguins at the zoo and they died from the fumes. So whatever city he’s in, the cops are always on hyper-alert, just in case shit goes down, whether Epic does it or it’s copycats.”
I frown. “Not good. For the penguins or for Epic.”
“And none of it was Epic’s fault, but the cops don’t see it that way.” Rory glares, like she’s been personally insulted instead of Epic.
“Did any of this hit the Web?” Why don’t I know about this?
David shakes his head. “Marta managed to keep it quiet.”
“Shut up, you two, and watch this.” Rory’s impatient.
The video starts, and I realize it’s surveillance footage, a security camera in a convenience store, it looks like. Then a kid comes in dressed like he’s in the court of Louis XIV, all powdered wig and long coat, but with a mask. He’s really broad, so the coat’s almost bursting at the seams. Then another guy comes in, dressed in the same kind of costume, and he’s just as broad. A couple more seventeenth-century guys bust through the doors, then four girls come with their own white wigs and those dresses that have huge hips on them, then a few more guys and a few more girls. Everyone’s got a black silhouette mask on over their eyes, but they also have on white face paint. Some of the people are holding their masks on sticks, like it’s a masquerade ball. You hear the clerk ask who they are, and someone shouts, “Flash rob!” Then it’s chaos.
Someone’s throwing Twinkies, someone else is throwing bags of chips, and someone’s pelting someone else with pieces of bubble gum. Everyone’s laughing and having a good time, pushing stuff off the shelves and pitching it around, slipping it in their pockets. One girl is laughing and clapping her hands, not throwing things or damaging stuff, just watching and laughing. Then a deep voice says, “You don’t want me to hurt you, old man. Move it.” Then you hear a SMASH, and you know the cash register has hit the floor.
When the clerk yells, “YOU KIDS GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” they all just laugh. Then a perky voice says, “I’ve got a gun. You don’t want to see me use it.” The place goes quiet, and suddenly there’s a gun in front of the security camera, held up in a gloved hand as if to record that, yes, there’s a gun at this little event. The clerk says, very quietly, “All right.” And things explode again.
Food starts whizzing around, including cans, because you can hear them thunking on the floor, and you hear someone scraping money together, probably from the change that’s on the floor, since the cash register got knocked over. The craziness continues for probably another twenty seconds. Occasionally a person comes into view of the camera, waving the gun around. It’s never the same person twice. At one point the gun is passed to the girl who’s been standing off to the side, watching the insanity. She holds it, but like it’s a snake that’s going to bite her, and she hands it off again to some dude who goes dancing away. Then you hear someone yell, “All right, troupe. We’ve done our jobs!” And they all trip out the door, laughing and waving. When they wave, you see the white gloves again. They’re too smart for fingerprints. One of the big guys is carrying a plastic bag, and you can see money in it. He bows before he leaves. When they’re all gone, the store clerk shouts, “GODDAMMIT!” And then the video goes black.
Something’s knocking at the back of my brain. Something I can’t quite pin down.
“Such well-costumed anarchy. I love it more every time I watch it.” Rory laughs like she’s seventy-five social levels above everyone in the video. “Maybe they think it’s performance art. Think we can pull it off?”
I’m amazed, but not in a good way. “Flash robs are a thing? Scaring clerks and ripping off convenience stores?” Imagine the balls it takes to rob a place, let alone in costume, let alone destroy the place on top of it. I give Rory a look. “I don’t think performance art has to be rude or destructive.” The whole thing was a real asshole move, if you ask me.
Rory shrugs. “Performance art can be anything. The idea is what matters, not just how you put it out there. And there’s a bunch of flash robs on YouTube. This one happened Friday night, at the Kwiky Pik near Golden Valley Boulevard and Highway 12.”
It’s one of a chain of convenience stores. They’re all over the Cities. “How’d you find out about it?”
David answers. “A kid in my algebra class was talking about it.”
“How stupid is it to put it on YouTube? That’s insane.” I feel bad for that poor clerk.
Rory nods. “A senior named Joseph Margo works there, and he taped it off the security footage with his phone. He’ll get fired if anybody finds out.”
I can just imagine the fallout if a flash rob happened at Pizza Vendetta and a video went viral. Geno would find out who leaked it and kill that person personally, with his bare hands and a pizza pan.
She points to the TV. “Let’s watch it again.”
I watch them all start throwing things, and laughing and having a good time. When I focus on the girl clapping and watching, I realize she has on a comedy/tragedy necklace. Simple small gold masks. Her hair is loose around her head, in a big fluff, and she’s draped in a huge dress.
When it’s over, I want to know for sure. “Play it again.”
We watch one more time. There’s the necklace. And the way the girl claps her hands—it’s very polite, even though it’s happy. Very polite and proper. Then I notice how the girl bites her lip on the right side. Like she’s thinking.
A word starts to ricochet around my brain: Pepperoniangelo. Hey, Pepperoniangelo. All the staring and laughing.
“So what do you think, Frankie?” Rory’s got her slinky voice on. “If we just took a little money, it would be a misdemeanor, wouldn’t it? And we wouldn’t want a gun. That’s too much. Maybe we don’t have to take anything. Maybe we could just mess the place up a bit.”
The synapses in my head are connecting and reconnecting. Zip-up banana bus. Happy art kids.
“Frankie?” David can see that something’s going on.
“That’s my sister.” Momentous connections are happening. Splintered skateboard deck. Bent bike wheel. The real Frankie is loved. Pepperoniangelo, hey, Pepperoniangelo!
“We could try the Pick N Go on Riverfront Drive, and . . . who’s your sister?” This gets Rory’s attention. “Turn it on again, David.”
David laughs. “So your sister’s a bit of a felon?”
“She didn’t take anything. She’s the one who’s laughing and clapping.”
We watch it one more time. It’s definitely Lou.
I can’t believe she’d do something that ignorant.
I can’t believe what beautiful, enormous, magical, wonderful, intensely flawless blackmail material just fell into my lap.
Do the crime, do the time.
“I WIN!” I jump up from the squishy chair and run around the room. If I could do cartwheels, I would. “Suck it, stupid sister!”
I want to climb the walls and shout it from the roof. This is going to be good. So. So. Good.
Rory and David just look at me. Then Rory shuts off the TV. “So you won’t help us pull a flash rob?”
I stop and look at her. “Hell no, I won’t help you. I don’t do anything more illegal than putting art on public property. I’m here to help Epic, that’s it.”
David flips Rory off. “I told you he wouldn’t help us.”
Rory sniffs. “Like I said, I thought this might be a side project.”
“Really? Felonies are a side project? What did David just tell me about Epic and the cops? Another flash rob will bring them around for sure, and Epic doesn’t need to be connected to that kind of stuff, even accidentally. I’ll help you do his pieces, but that’s it.” Is she really that dumb?
“There’s already been a letter to the editor about how people are sorry he’s back in town, and how he doesn’t deserve his Walker show. The lady wants to help the cops catch him.” David goes to a table and picks up a newspaper. “Rory’s mom collects his press clippings.” He hands it to me.
Sure enough, some woman from Anoka, which is pretty conservative, spent a quarter of a page talking about how Uncle Epic is corrupting America’s youth with his “common garbage masquerading as art used to turn kids’ minds toward disobeying authority.” She wants the cops to go door to door and catch him. She thinks Epic’s “blatant defiance for public property laws will convince boys and girls to willfully disobey laws” and says the vandals who cut all the soccer nets out of the soccer goals in Anoka’s parks must be part of Epic’s “band of hooligans.” She is also convinced that the flag that was stolen from the post office must be Epic’s work, since “only godless vandals like Uncle Epic would make art that defiles our most cherished American flag.” To my knowledge, Epic has never done a flag piece. Maybe he should start. In Anoka.
“Does Epic care about this stuff?”
“He’s used to it. What are you going to do about your sister?” Rory’s face has a funny look on it. I can’t quite read it.
“I don’t know yet. You two will be the first ones to find out.”
That idea pleases her, and she takes my elbow again. “Well, if flash robs are out, what about guerrilla knitting?”
Her friendly grab feels weird, given that she was just talking about robbing people and I was kind of pissed about it, but I’ll go with it. “As long as it doesn’t involve guns or jail time, I’m there.”
She points to her bag on the floor, which is still leaking its ice-blue-and-violent-orange tail. “I’m part of Yarn Bombers Anonymous, the Twin Cities branch—just me, not Epic or David. We cover weird stuff in knitting.”
“That I can handle. But you don’t need a delivery truck.”
“You never know.” She squeezes my arm, and it makes my stomach wobble, which scares me and excites me and makes me realize I have no idea what to do around someone like her. She’s looking into my eyes, deep into them, like everything she needs for the rest of her life is in there. After two seconds I look out the window. Rory starts rambling on, talking about bridges and light poles and street signs. Evidently some people in Pittsburgh just covered a bridge in knitting, and people have done buses, cars, bicycles, trees, and buildings all over the country. I had no idea.
I hear David sigh. Rory ignores him and keeps going. I shoot a look over my shoulder, and he’s staring at the floor, like someone’s died.
“You don’t like knitting, David?”
He doesn’t look up.
I don’t get home until one, and my mom is in the living room, reading a book about the Rat Pack—Sinatra and his friends. Which must be why she’s wearing a fedora.
“Hey, Mom.” I try for friendly.
“This late-night thing is getting to be a habit.” She looks angrier than she might normally look if she hadn’t just called the cops because I was out all night. “I know we don’t put many rules on you, but one is too late for a school night.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And I am, because my ass will be dragging at six a.m.
“Go.” She gestures with her hand. “I’m going, too.”
I almost blurt out what I know about Lou, but I don’t. That information is best thought about for a while.
She kisses me on the cheek as she goes by, and the kiss almost knocks the fedora off her head. “You’re a good kid, Frankie. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
There’s a lot of saying “I love you” in this house, but I don’t believe it, at least not when it’s applied to me. It’s easy for them to love the girl with the freckle F, since she’s just like them: talented, outgoing, dramatic. I’m the fake Frankie, remember?
I go up to my room, but I can’t sleep, so I get my laptop and find the video on YouTube, then watch it over and over again. Knowing who Lou knows, and knowing who’d be dumbass enough to do something like this, by the fifteenth time I’ve finished it, I think I know at least three guys by their build, and maybe three of the girls by their hair. I think. I hope. Some people are still a mystery, but that’s all right. I think I’ve got enough to go on.
Lou Neumann, the perfect daughter, perfect friend, perfect actress, perfect student, the Chosen Frankie and perfect person, is not actually perfect. I am validated. And I’m going to show the rest of the world just how imperfect she is.