7. Franny

"Some guys will be round later on tonight. They'll take a few of the boxes from upstairs."

I place my spoon back down into my bowl of soggy cereal as my dad pours himself a cup of coffee. "What are they taking? Why didn't you ask me? There's stuff I want to keep."

    "It's just some clothes, Franny." He leans back against the counter and looks down at me. The gesture irritates me and I have the foolish desire to stand up so we're the same height—so he can't look down on me as if I'm beneath him.

    "You could have told me," I mumble like a petulant child. My dad just sighs.

    "Well I'm telling you now," he says. "And you're not off the hook for staying over at Tally's the other night."

    "I'm surprised you even noticed," I mutter. My dad doesn't say anything, just stands there, until I hear his cup being placed down on the counter and his footsteps echoing down the hall.

    I finish breakfast in silence.

***

    Tally doesn't participate much during history class, which is strange for her—she always answers at least one of the questions right, seeing as she's one of the smartest kids in the room. I don't push her or lean over to ask her if she's okay, though.

    The whole of yesterday, after I'd spent the night at her house, she had been quiet, too. Not as quiet as now, though, and I'm not sure if it's about the fact that she told me she's bisexual or that she kissed me.

    Before I can open my mouth to talk to her, she turns her head and leans over a little. "Thank you."

    I don't speak at first, just look at her eyes which are so serious and pained as they stare back at me. "No problem," I whisper back.

    I know that I've said the right thing when she smiles, the corner of her lips quirking up, and raises her hand to answer the next question.

    I lean back in my seat, chewing mindlessly on the end of my pen. It's actually Tally's pen. She stares daggers at me from the side when she sees her pen covered in my saliva.

    I take it out of my mouth and offer it to her, but she holds up her hand. "No, keep it," she says. "Really. All yours."

    I roll my eyes and put the pen back to my mouth. I turn sideways in my chair so my back is against the wall. The World War II poster falls and stabs me in the eye and I bat it away, creating a loud noise that ricochets through the classroom.

    A few people look over and I look down sheepishly. Sighing, I press my head back against the wall and look out the window on the opposite side of the room. The rain is coming down hard and I'm reminded of why I don't like this time of the year. October is cold and wet and makes my bones constantly cold and a chill is always running down my spine.

    I catch movement in the corner of my eye and glance over at Tyler, who's leaning back against the wall in the exact same position as me. His eyes are already on me and I get that unsettling feeling again which always seems to come up when he looks at me. Maybe it's just the blankness in his stare—as if he isn't actually looking at me, but just staring because I'm there.

    He raises an eyebrow at me and before I realize what I'm doing I raise one back. His eyes narrow.

    "Mind not staring at me?" he asks quietly.

    "You were looking first," I say back.

    "Don't flatter yourself," he mutters.

    "I can if it's a fact," I say.

    "Madden, Howard," Mr Dalton calls out and I begrudgingly turn around and look at him. "Am I interrupting your enthralling conversation, or can I please get back to teaching the class?"

    "Sorry," I mumble.

    Tyler doesn't say anything but the teacher turns away and finally starts talking again, his hands moving around erratically as his eyes widen from whatever pointless words he's spewing out.

    I catch Tally's eye and she gives me a suggestive look, glancing back at Tyler with a sly smile. I hope to God that Tyler didn't notice her doing that because the mortification sets in quickly and I throw my pen at Tally's head making her laugh. The teacher glares at us once more.

    Later, in drama class, I end up in the cafeteria with a paintbrush in my hand and a cut-out of a tree. It's a small tree and only stands halfway up my leg. I frown at it, not sure that it can really be classed as a tree given its pathetic height.

    "What's wrong, Howard?" Mr Small asks. "You look confused."

    "Nothing," I say. "It's just . . . I mean, isn't it a little small?"

    "Of course, Howard," he says and stands beside me, his head reaching my shoulder. I try so hard to keep my face straight. "That's the tree after it's been zapped."

    "Zapped?" I ask.

    "Yes, Howard." I clench my teeth and wish he would stop calling me by my last name. "The play is about a lost warrior who's very short and he seeks vengeance on the world and invents a shrinking ray to make everyone else smaller than him."

    "So, he shrinks a tree?" I ask. "Shouldn't he shrink a person instead?"

    "You have to start small, Howard, and then get bigger."

    Well that obviously didn't work for you, I think.

    I bite back the comment and smile at Mr Small as he finally walks away. I mix a little of the brown paint with black to get it darker and start on the tree trunk, creating different shades with the black and white paint until the trunk starts to look a little more realistic.

    I glance over at the girl beside me who is also painting a tree, and see that the whole thing has been painted brown, leaves and all. I don't comment. If there's nothing nice to say, then don't say anything.

    I mean, it could be a tree from the desert.

    A brown tree from the desert.

    Tyler is moving his paintbrush up and down lazily, his wrist flicking back and forth as his hand hangs limply. He looks bored out of his mind;  every few seconds, his eyes wander over to the door that leads outside and ultimately to his freedom.

    I can hear his depressed sigh from a mile away and snicker a little.

    "What?" he snarls.

    "Sorry," I say and shake my head, turning back to my tree.

    "No, what?" he asks again, turning to face me fully, still annoyed but also curious.

    "Well it's just . . . " I start with another little snicker, "you look like a puppy that just got kicked."

    He glares at me. "Fuck off."

    Most people would probably be insulted by  that,  maybe yell something back, but I do the exact opposite. I laugh. I must come across as completely crazy. What starts out as a little snicker soon becomes a full-blown chuckle— with snorts thrown in for good measure.

    Tyler just looks at me and many others do, too.

    I don't know why I'm laughing. Maybe it's because the last few days have felt so surreal. Maybe because when I go home tonight half my mom's stuff won't be there. Maybe because this morning's pitiful example of a conversation proved once and for all that my dad really doesn't care.

    I laugh until I'm practically crying, and then I look up to see Tyler's shoulders shaking —he's laughing, too.

    Now everyone's looking.

    And we let them.

    I let them.

    Sometimes it's nice to have people look at you.

    Reminds you that you're actually there.

__________

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(French edition of my book ASK AMY is available in bookstores in France and online retailers outside France)