Let’s Be Frank

“Hey, it’s Jake. I’m not sure if you would remember me.”

………….

I always had a teeny tiny crush on him. The bell would ring and we would gather on the pavement like little ants attacking a crumb on the sidewalk. His golden-brown hair would flop to the beat of his steps when we all trekked up the hill to make our way home. A cigarette would hang out of his mouth, conflicting with his innocent curls. He looked like a character from a PG 13 movie I wasn’t allowed to watch.

Jake would always stay about 5 steps to the side of the group with smoke floating away from us. He never asked us if we wanted some. He knew we would never touch it, but he loved to let the nicotine stain his adolescent fingers. I didn’t know much about cigarettes, besides the stories my mother would tell me about people dying after taking one hit. She would even plug my nose when we walked by a cloud of smoke on the busy streets of Toronto. I later found out she used to go through 2 packs a day, so it turns out she wasn’t the prude I always thought she was.

We passed the purple and green playground with newly scribbled swear words spreading across the monkey bars. Our paths diverged at the top of the hill where Jake turned left, and the rest of us turned right. Our houses were close in proximity, but there was enough buffer room to avoid seeing each other too frequently.

Sometimes, on Sundays, we would hear a knock on the door. Jake would come by our house and ask to play with my brother. He never used the landline like the rest of the kids. Our house was the last one on the street, meaning he had gone by everyone else’s before knocking on our door.

“Be nice to Jake. Go play with him,” my dad would say.

So they shot Christmas-gifted Nerf guns at each other in our unfinished concrete basement. Dante always let him win, so Jake was always nice to us, and our pumpkins were never smashed on Halloween.

When the snow started to trickle onto the pavement, everyone in town would be at the hockey arena watching the kids play. Pucks scraped the ice while parents yelled as if their kid’s house league hockey tournament was the most competitive sport there could be.

Us siblings would gather and run around the arena playing tag and hide-and-seek while the parents sat in the stadium. We’d use the payphone and dial random phone numbers, hoping to hear an unfamiliar voice on the line, and then immediately get scared and hang up. We’d squeeze our hands into the vending machines to see if we could sneak out a bag of All-Dressed Ruffles or a Cadbury Caramilk bar. When the game hit the third period, we’d settle down in the top row of blue seats, tired and worn out.

“Riley, can I have a fry?” Cassie said, already reaching over.

“Ya sure, my mom got them for everyone.”

“Sweet thanks!”

Our hands piled into the french fries and we licked the salt and ketchup off our unwashed fingers. Riley got up to go to the bathroom and shuffled by our legs. We demolished the fries before he could get back. A burst of energy emerged in the crowd as a puck went straight into the opponent’s net. Just before they could sit back down and feel the ice-cold air between their thighs, Dante sliced the puck past the goalie and hit the mesh of the net. The crowd went wild as the scoreboard hit 3-2 with 10 minutes left in the game. Jake and his brother Tyler snuck in for the final minutes, sitting two rows ahead of us. They looked like twins despite the age difference. Tyler’s hair was the same golden brown, but not curly and bouncy like Jake’s. They didn’t wave or speak to us. I didn’t see them whisper a word to each other throughout the entire game. Their faces stayed sturdy on the timer, ticking slowly.

My mom crouched down beside me with 1 minute left in the game.

“Sweetie, have you seen Riley?”

“Not since he gave us the french fries,” I said while pointing to the empty container with smeared ketchup and one leftover fry that had gone cold.

Riley’s mom was on the phone, pacing by the boards. Her arms waved angrily, but I was too far away to hear what she was saying. Before the game-winning buzzer could go off, the crowd had turned into little ants looking for a crumb. I took my mom’s hand as we walked by the payphones and the vending machines, but no sign of Riley. We passed our blue seats again, but the arena was hollow except for Jake and Tyler sitting in the same spot, staring at the empty ice.

The boys had already gotten dressed and started coming out of the change rooms with their hockey bags over their shoulders and sticks in hand. Blinking red and blue lights pierced through the window as cops burst into the building.

“He’s just… gone. I don’t know what happened. It’s been about an hour now. Oh God, I’m a terrible mother! Please find him, I’m begging you,” Riley’s mom told the rows

of policemen.

“I found him!” a voice called from the other end of the rink.

Riley’s hand was interlaced with a familiar parent on the team. His lip puckered, and a tear dripped down his face.

“Oh, thank God. Riley, don’t ever scare me like that again! Thank you, Dave. Where did you find him?”

“He was locked in the storage closet. He must have wandered in there by accident.”

“Riley, why did you go into the storage closet?”

Riley didn’t reply. He stared at his mom for a second, and then hugged her tightly without a word said.

………….

Jake’s apron drapes over him as he carries a tray of silverware out from the back. The Chef’s voice floods into the restaurant, yelling order numbers,

“... We got a pound of wings for table 16, hot and ready in 2!”

“Coming up Chef!”

“Yes, Chef!”

The voices trickle back into the room as the swinging door closes shut.

“Of course I remember. How have you been?” I replied, nervously.

“Living the dream,” he says as he lifts his tray to signal a shrug, showing his flexed arm of rose tattoos. We stare at each other with brown eyes that lock and blur our surroundings.

“Take out for Sofia?” the bartender says as he plops my bagged food onto the counter.

“Hey listen, would you want to get dinner sometime?” Jake asks.

My heart flutters in fear. I remember the cigarette of 5th grade, and Riley’s mom screaming on the phone. My eyes gawk at him, and I just can’t help but crack a smile.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay, I’ll meet you at Frankie's at 7 pm tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be late,” he says cheekily.

“Okay.”

I press my legs down on the cold leather seat of my dad’s pristine car. I shake my head back and forth while banging the steering wheel. I can’t go, obviously. My dad would have my head on a stick, and my mom would wash my mouth out with soap until I stopped suggesting such silly thoughts. I’m not going. I will go home and eat the pork chops my mom made for me. My dad will indulge in her food, change whatever subject we were previously talking about to hockey, and then leave his plate on the table for me to clean while he goes and gets ready for bed. I’m not going. I will eat a bag of All-Dressed Ruffles until the insides are licked clean, watch The Outsiders with my mom, and fall asleep around 9:30 pm. I’m not going. Even though the last time I went on a date was with my high school boyfriend Cameron at Boston Pizza, and we split the bill.

The restaurant is a small Italian place in the back of the McDonald's plaza. I’ve seen the red, white, and green sign hundreds of times, but never bothered to go in. An old man stands behind the bistro counter. He wears a white apron with a white tank top underneath. The fridge shelves are lined with bottles of Peroni, Brio, and San Pellegrino. The place is empty, but soft Italian music plays in the background. It’s as close to perfect as you can get.

“Hey, Frankie. For 2?” he says to the old man, sprinkling flour on a freshly baked pizza dough.

“Anywhere you want Jakie.”

We sit down in the corner booth by the window. The tables are lined with checkered patterned cloths with red seat cushions to match.

“I know you probably were expecting something fancy, but trust me, this is the best Italian food in all of Newmarket.”

“Do I look that high maintenance?”

“No, but a girl like you belongs in a high-end restaurant.”

His brown eyes dart to the table and slowly scan the upper half of my body until his gaze meets with mine. His mouth breaks into a smile, but before I can reply, Frankie places two Peronis in front of us.

“She’ll have the spaghetti carbonara and I’ll take the veal parmesan.”

“You got it, boss,” Frankie says before returning behind the bistro counter and preparing our meals.

“So I don’t have a say in what I eat?” I say, trying to be sassy.

“Nope,” he says while taking his first sip of the cold beer.

I’ve never seen anyone that confident before. I can’t help but compare the many times Cameron asked what time worked best for me or what kind of food I wanted to eat, with a drip of sweat emerging from his forehead and a timid smile.

The spaghetti comes perfectly twirled in the middle of my plate and Frankie places a fresh basil and garlic mixture on the table, just like Nonna used to do. Jake was right to order for me.

“How is it?” he asks with a sly smile, as if he already knew the answer.

“Nothing like Nonna’s, but not bad,” I say, refusing to fill his ego any higher than it already is.

“And what’s so special about Nonna’s?”

“Well, it’s made with love, and she uses an empty cream cheese container to measure the flour.”

“Ah, I see.”

We take our bites in silence. The clinks of forks and knives hitting the plate fill the empty restaurant, drowning out the soft music and his slobbery chewing of saliva meeting his veal. He defies the proper dinner manners that I am accustomed to, but I admire his ability to aggressively be himself, without anyone else’s opinion in mind.

“So, how is school?”

“Oh come on, Jake. I think we’re better than small talk.”

“You’re right, we are. Why did you come?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

“I’m not complaining,” he says while taking another sip of his beer.

“You still live with your parents?” I pry.

“No, I bought my own place.”

“Restaurant job pays you well?”

“Among other things.”

His grin is slightly sinister, but also sweet. He fills the typical romantic trope of a bad boy, who is only nice to one girl. It’s my favourite rom-com and I can’t seem to get it out of my head, despite the pepper stuck in the crevasse between his teeth. I nervously grab my beer and take a sip, feeling the freezing condensation on my palms. I stop myself from asking about Tyler. I’m too scared to know the answer.

“You still live with yours?” he asks, breaking my imaginative state.

“Yes, I want to move out soon though. It's tough to deal with parents all the time.”

“Ya, for sure,” he says mockingly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound…”

“It’s fine,” he cuts me off. “We come from different worlds.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

I analyze his tattoos. He has his mother's name written on one of the roses. I remember the stories we used to hear, about fists hitting rosy cheeks, foundation covering bruises at town get-togethers, and screams being heard down the street of tucked-in families. I am pathetic for comparing my cupcake lifestyle to his.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

“Of course.”

“I can’t stop thinking about ripping your fucking clothes off.”

My mouth waters as I stumble to reply. My mind whirls thinking about his arms wrapped around me and his rugged body pounding against mine. He is nowhere close to anyone I have ever been with, and judging by the way he ordered my food, I imagine I’d be experiencing something beyond the realm of slow and compassionate lovemaking.

“Me too,” I say slowly.

“Let's go then.”

The next thing I know, my hand is in his and we are walking out to his 2003 Land Rover. My bra is unbuckled and my knit sweater flutters into the back seat of his car. His kisses are cold and slobbery, not like I imagined in my mind. He struggles to open the wrapper of the condom, as I wait and stare at the foggy windows that hide the dark parking lot. I close my eyes and let his unfamiliar hands graze my body. The sex is quick and unexciting. My skin feels permanently stained with someone else’s sweat.

“How was that for you?”

I look around at his messy car, with dirty napkins and McDonald's wrappers filling the front seat. I think about how I am going to stomach the nicely cooked meal that waits for me at home.

I make him drop me off a block away from my house. I walk in and say nothing to my mom and dad sitting at the dining room table. I strip my clothes off in the upstairs bathroom and stare in the mirror. My first time following any sort of sexual desire only reminded me of my insatiable nature. My half-empty face has an imagination too big for my own good. I step into the shower. The water pierces at my skin while my tears clean the rest of my body, and I question why I tried to rewrite a memory.