Frankie by Shivaun Plozza Page A

speaking to him.
Ever
.
    I am going to focus on sorting out my own shitty mess: it’s going to be homework every night and I’m going to volunteer for a charity or read to sick kids or something. And I’m going to be a good niece and do the laundry like Vinnie asked (demanded). I’m not going to spend another second searching through the bins looking for that stupid, ridiculously expensive record because a) someone has definitely stolen it and b) bins are gross.
    I slide my phone out of my back pocket: no new messages. Seven unplayed messages.
    I might have something to say to Xavier if he left me four and a half thousand messages, but he hasn’t called for the past two days. Not even after my more-than-helpful stay-away-from-Smith-Street warning text.
    I curl onto my side and squash the pillow under my head. I let out an angry sigh.
    What is it with Vegas and monumental mistakes? Shakespearean nose-breaking, armed robbery, stealing, drug addiction and dumping your kids, marrying the wrong guy (three times). Robbing your dad to buy a gift for a girl you just met because . . . I don’t even know why.
    Why?
    I roll onto my back and glare at the star stickers all over my roof. They’re not glowing – it’s daytime – but I can see the outlines and they’re pissing me off. So cheery and pretty and meaningful. Stars – I hate the bastards.
    Screw this.
    I push up to seated and stare at the floordrobe that is my room. No wonder Vinnie threatened me with extreme physical violence if I didn’t get my laundry done pronto.
    I slide down the edge of the bed and onto the carpet, and when I’m on my arse I start dragging clothes toward me. Sniff-test time. I get four pairs of socks, a t-shirt and one pair of jeans into sorting before my mind drifts. Four and a half thousand. Why hasn’t he called? Vinnie’s going to kill me if I get expelled. Yuck, this jumper stinks. I’m starved. Four and a half
thousand
. Wish I’d kicked LaBeouf. What if Cara finds a new BFF because I’m not around enough? Four and a half – but why? Why steal for
me
?
    Of course, I could just
listen
to his voice messages. I’m not going to call him back so there’s no harm in
listening
to the little shit’s grovelling messages, is there? Besides, if he’s got an explanation, then I’d like to hear it.
    I could do with the laugh.
    I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear, freeing my hands for laundry duty. ‘You have seven new messages,’ says the message-bank lady in her robotic tone. ‘Message received on the tenth at one-seventeen pm.’
    How do you get to be the lady who does these stupid voice recordings? Easiest job in the world. Just talk slowly and put a weird emphasis on every fifth word. I
really
want that job.
    â€˜Frankie?’ Xavier sounds like he’s outside. Like he’s in a wind tunnel or something. ‘I’m sorry, okay? Call me back. I’ll tell you everything.’
    Beep.
    The robot lady intros the next message. Four hours after the first one.
    â€˜Frankie? Did you get my message? I know you’re mad but call me back.’
    Beep.
    I’m not getting an overwhelming sense of pity for the guy. Where’s the poetry? The badly sung forgive-me ballads? The I-have-so-much-grovelling-to-do-I’m-going-to-get-cut-off-trying-to-leave-it-all-in-one-mess–
beeeeeep
.
    The next three are pretty much the same. ‘I’m sorry. Call me back.’ ‘Me again. Please call me back.’ ‘Frankie? Call me back. Please.’
    I close my fist around the t-shirt in my hand. Is it light or dark washing? Does it matter?
    The sixth message starts with a heap of background noise. Lots of voices. Shouting, swearing, laughing. Someone is singing the blues.
    â€˜Frankie,’ he says, voice covered with static. ‘I messed up, hey. But it’s not my fault.’ He breathes heavily,