Following her, Frankie crosses the threshold next and watches her pup fly toward the ocean. Steadily, she walks toward the water, then lowers herself carefully onto the blanket I laid out, its corners tucked into the packed sand. When I catch up to her, she’s sitting with her knees drawn up, staring out at the water.
My chest squeezes, impossibly tight. Seeing Frankie in sweats and a messy bun on her head, looking so at home here is a bittersweet moment. I want it to last, but I know soon she’ll be gone, with no guarantee that I’ll have time like this with her ever again.
“Pazza’s in for a rude awakening,” she says, lighting up a joint and exhaling slowly, “when she’s back to living in my little bungalow, no exciting trips to Aunt Lo’s or this swanky spot.”
I settle onto the blanket next to her, still holding our teas. “Why won’t she go to Lorena’s anymore?”
Or spend time here?
Because she doesn’t plan to spend time here, idiot. Pretty clear, if she’s saying that.
Frankie gently extracts her thermos from my grip. “Well, with law school, I’ll have a better routine, no overnights or days away. No need to stay at Lo’s.” She shrugs.
For a while, we sit in silence, staring at the ocean, watching the moon paint the water silvery white. Pazza digs in the sand, rolls and snuffles and bounds away, returning obediently when I whistle and call her back. After long, peaceful minutes, the delicate weight of Frankie’s hand jars me, pulling my attention from the shore.
She stares at her fingers sliding over my hand. Her brow furrows, and she pulls her hand away. “Tell me about the real Ren.”
I peer over at her. “What do you mean?”
“The one hiding behind all that happy-go-lucky shit. The one we sort of danced around discussing after yoga.”
I drop back onto the blanket and stare up at the stars. “Oh. That one. Well…”
As if she read my mind, Frankie holds out the joint in front of me. I stare at it, then extract it carefully from her grip. Over half the team smokes weed, for lots of reasons—pain relief, reducing anxiety, recreation. I’ve just been so uptight since the moment I signed, I never even considered it. But the thought of being a smidge more relaxed as I talk to Frankie, less stuck in my noisy thoughts, sounds pretty appealing.
After taking a small hit, I exhale slowly and battle the desperate need to cough.
Frankie grins down at me. “I’ve corrupted you.”
I laugh before it turns into a hacking cough. It doesn’t take long, under a minute maybe, before a quiet heaviness settles in my limbs. My mind is stunningly clear. “Wow. I regret not trying cannabis sooner.”
She belly laughs and ruffles my hair. “Welcome to the dark side, Zenzero.”
I meet her eyes and smile, searching her face. “You said you want the real Ren. Is this quid pro quo? Does this mean I know the real Frankie?”
Her smile falters, even as her finger twines a lock of my hair around its tip, a steady, soothing motion. “Yes, I think so. More than most people do, at least.” She nudges me. “Quit deflecting.”
Turning my head, I watch the constellations. “The real Ren is still a bit of an unsure misfit.”
“Why?”
I shrug and lift my hand, signaling I want another hit. “Who knows.” Carefully, I take another small drag on the joint and hand it back to her, speaking through my exhale. “I was awkward when I was younger. Then we moved when I was in high school, so I had to start all over again, trying to find a few friends. I never found my stride.”
“Until hockey?”
I smile up at the stars. “Yeah. I’m happy on the ice. And I actually get along with the guys. They like my weirdness. I don’t know, I feel accepted, I suppose.”
“That’s important,” she says quietly. “I have that with Annie and Lo. I’d be miserable without them.”
I turn my head and stare up at her. “What about your family?”
Frankie shrugs. “Eh. I love my sister, Gabby, but she was a real asshole when we were younger. I was her baby sister having all these meltdowns and issues, and she felt ignored. We’re mostly past that, but we’re also really different people with a country between us. With Ma, I’m a walking time bomb, and every step I take is one closer to falling apart. Nonna’s cool about the arthritis, but she doesn’t get autism. I drive her nuts with my lack of a filter. I used to embarrass her at church and in her social circle. The Catholic church and I don’t get along too well, and it’s like her life.”
“What about your dad?”
She stares down at the sand, dragging her finger slowly across its surface. “He died when I was twelve. It’s part of why I make my mom so anxious. She never got over losing him. He was a firefighter, and when he died on the job, it just deepened her anxiety about her family’s well-being, if that makes sense.”
Carefully, I press my hand to hers, my knuckles sliding against hers. “I’m sorry.”
Slowly, her fingers dance with mine. “That’s all right. I’ll always miss him, but the pain dulls after a while.” She sighs, stubs out the last of the joint, and sets it next to her tea. “So, tell me about Shakespeare Club.”
I tip my head, confused by her changing directions. “What about it?”
“What you like about it. Why you still participate.” She sips her tea and stares at the ocean.
“Well, it started in high school, a couple of nerds like me who loved reading and performing these words from a time when language meant something—when you didn’t just throw words at each other, or I don’t know, maybe you did, but at least you had to get creative about it.”
“Thus, the oaths.”
My cheeks heat. I’m not embarrassed per se, but I wasn’t doing it with the awareness anyone was listening. “You noticed that.”
She grins and sets down her tea. “I think my favorite to date is boil-brained codpiece.”
“It gets the job done. I don’t like swearing at people, particularly in public. Maybe it sounds extreme, but I feel the weight of every little fan who watches me, whose parents read what I say in print. I-I guess I want to respect that. Still, at some point, you have to let off some steam, you know?”
She nods. “Shakespeare Club keeps it fresh in your mind. Anyone I know a part of this motley crew?”
I prop up on my elbows and take a long drink of tea, avoiding her eyes. “I can’t tell. It’s a secret.”
When I glance up, there’s a twinkle in her eye, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And how does one gain access to this exclusive gathering?”
“Well, first they have to be invited by a member. Then they have to recite their favorite lines of Shakespeare.”
“Sounds kinda easy.”
“Oh, there’s more to it. Membership is contingent upon authenticity, upon words spoken from the heart. They have to say it like they mean it, like it matters to them.”
“Why?” Frankie asks.
“That’s how you keep it safe. If someone were to join and bring a dismissive attitude, it would ruin everything.”
“Well, maybe I’ll have to brush up on the Bard, then.”
I whip my head sharply to meet her eyes. “Y-you’d want to come?”