The Infamous Frankie Lorde 1 Read online

  “So this…,” I said, gesturing grandly to him, “is a conscious choice you’re making?”

  “Hey, I’ve worked really hard to cultivate a disguise that allows me to remain unnoticed wherever I go,” he said, giving me an impish smile. “You, on the other hand…you got your mother’s devastating looks. That means you’re going to have to work extra hard to hide the fact that you’re absolutely extraordinary.”

  “I don’t look that much like her,” I said, waving off the compliment, though I wished it were true.

  Because the truth is, my mom was stunning. Like, movie star beautiful. With her long blond hair that swished around the middle of her back and a figure that would make a supermodel jealous, her beauty was only surpassed by her cool-chick attitude. Of course, I don’t know this from experience. I was really young when she went away. But everyone who knew her said the same thing: Laney Lorde was a force to be reckoned with.

  Over the years, I’ve often wondered how my mom managed to be as good at the con as she was. If what Dad said is true, people stopped whatever they were doing to stare at her whenever she entered a room. And after years on the job with Dad, I know it’s nearly impossible to get away with anything when all eyes are on you.

  Then again, I guess that’s why Dad insists that Mom was the best in the biz. Her looks had forced her to work even harder at her craft, which made her better than the average thief.

  Whenever Dad said I reminded him of her, we both knew he was exaggerating or saying it to make me feel better about myself. Because, while I inherited Mom’s blond hair and cheeky attitude, my body still looks like a boy’s. I’m all angles and bones. Let’s just say I’ve been wearing a training bra for years now, but the training has not helped.

  Still, the features my mom did pass on to me are unusual enough to get me noticed. Thus, the reason I’d opted for a mousy-brown dye job and an Anna Wintour–like haircut for my move to Connecticut. At least it dulled me down enough to ensure that I’d fit in.

  Because I had no interest in standing out here. In fact, I planned on doing my time quietly until Dad either got out on parole or broke out—whichever came first—and we could resume our perfect lifestyle of traveling and conning.

  Uncle Scotty suddenly cleared his throat, and I startled, the reaction snapping me back to reality. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been standing there just staring at him until it was glaringly obvious that I’d been doing so.

  “You okay?” he asked me, since I still hadn’t said anything.

  I shook my head to make the memory fade and cleared the expression from my face.

  “Sure, yeah,” I said, and then added quickly, “You look the same.”

  I knew it was a silly statement. Of course he’d changed over the past five years. Everyone changes. But it was also sort of true. Uncle Scotty looked exactly how I remembered him.

  “I had a beard for a while,” he offered, reaching up to touch his currently smooth face absently. “But I shaved it when it started to get warm out. It was…itchy.”

  “Oh,” I said, nodding as if I could picture it. But the truth was, I couldn’t. I just kept picturing a deranged mountain man with a grizzly beard. Which was so not the clean-cut young cop in front of me.

  “Well, you’ve certainly changed,” Uncle Scotty said, reaching out and tousling my short bangs awkwardly.

  I instantly began to brush them back into place self-consciously, then realized I was fidgeting again and stopped abruptly. It was a new tell for me, and one I wanted to nip in the bud as soon as possible. Tells—things that people unconsciously do that clue others in to what they’re thinking and feeling—can give you away. And if Dad taught me one thing, it was to hold all my cards close to the vest.

  “Yeah,” I said, standing up straighter. “New look for my new life, I guess.”

  I said this last part mostly for Dr. Deerchuck’s benefit, since she was standing right there and probably analyzing our every move. A quick peek out of the corner of my eye proved me right.

  Dr. Deerchuck’s tell is that she can’t hide her emotions. She was currently beaming at me, like I’d just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize or something. And I knew she was silently congratulating herself on another job well done. I would’ve rolled my eyes at how easy she was to read, but then I’d be giving myself away too.

  And I just wanted to get out of there.

  “Well, it looks like everything’s going to work out just fine here,” Dr. Deerchuck said, clapping her hands together. “Frankie, what do you think? I can stick around for a while—”

  “No!” I said, a little too quickly, before relaxing into a shy smile. This family reunion was going to be awkward enough without having my therapist chiming in on everything we said. “I mean, I think we’ll be okay. After we catch up and stuff.”

  “Okay,” she conceded happily. “Well, I’ll be talking to you on Tuesdays for our mandatory sessions, but if you need anything before then, you have my number.”

  I pulled her business card out of my back pocket and held it up for her to see.

  “Very well,” she said, and turned to Uncle Scotty. “Nice meeting you. Please feel free to reach out with…anything that might come up.”

  “Will do,” Uncle Scotty said, shaking her hand in a businesslike way.

  I beelined for Uncle Scotty’s truck and tossed my bag up onto the seat before Deerchuck could change her mind.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked me as the engine roared to life.

  “It’s all I need,” I said instinctively.

  “Right,” Uncle Scotty said with a wry smile. “I forgot how much like your dad you are.”

  I raised my eyebrow at him curiously.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked, figuring his answer would give me some insight into what he was thinking.

  Uncle Scotty remained silent for a moment as he put the truck into gear and pulled away from the train station. Just when I thought he wasn’t going to answer me at all, he glanced over and gave me a smile.

  “I guess it depends on who you ask,” he said finally, and pulled out into traffic.

  Entry Five

  “You hungry?” Uncle Scotty asked me as we drove.

  “I could eat,” I said, thinking maybe we wouldn’t have to talk all that much if we were busy stuffing our faces. “I could use a coffee, too.”

  Now it was Uncle Scotty’s turn to raise his eyebrow.

  “You drink coffee?” he asked.

  “Dad says—” I started, but stopped when Uncle Scotty began to chuckle.

  “Of course your dad would let you drink coffee,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell if the comment was meant as a judgment or just a matter-of-fact. The truth is, I’ve always kind of wondered what Uncle Scotty really thinks of my dad and our lifestyle, considering we’re probably the epitome of everything he despises. Well, maybe not despises. But let’s be honest, our values sort of fly in the face of everything he believes in.

  Case in point: Uncle Scotty is a cop, so he must have pretty strong feelings and opinions about staying within the bounds of the law. And while our side of the family is a little more…relaxed on the boundaries of right and wrong, it would make sense that Uncle Scotty would be more black-and-white about things.

  At least, that’s what I’ve assumed.

  Since he’s a cop and all.

  “It’s a myth that coffee stunts your growth, you know,” I said. “It’s true that it contains caffeine, which stimulates the central nervous system and in high doses can cause anxiety and dizziness and interfere with normal sleep patterns, which can lead to other health issues. But soda and tea have caffeine in them too. So does chocolate. Dad believes in making informed decisions and always thought it was important to let me ultimately choose what went into my own body.”

  Uncle Scotty looked o
ver at me as I finished my mini-lecture, his mouth hanging open slightly.

  I smiled proudly. I love dropping knowledge bombs on people. Especially when they don’t see them coming.

  “But don’t worry, Uncle Scotty,” I added before looking out the window again. “I only drink decaf. A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.”

  I stared at the scenery as we drove by, taking in every building and house and store I saw along the way. We’d left the train station in one direction, but after a few minutes, I noticed that Uncle Scotty had made a turn and was heading back the way we’d just come.

  I notice things like this. Directions we take in cars, paths we go down, addresses and streets we’re near at any given moment. It’s a tactic that comes in handy, in case you need a quick getaway or have to retrace your steps.

  I did it now without even thinking about it. And I have to admit, the habit serves me well more often than you’d think.

  As soon as I realized we were backtracking, there was a small part of me—a part I’d never admit to anyone else—that wondered if Uncle Scotty was taking me back to the train station. Like, he’d already decided I was going to be too much trouble for him and he was cutting his losses early.

  Nope, sorry, kid. You’re too messed up to fit in with my law-abiding lifestyle. Good luck and see you in another five years, I imagined him saying to me before peeling out and disappearing forever.

  But, of course, this wasn’t what happened.

  Instead, we pulled onto Greenwich.

  And it was like arriving in Narnia.

  Okay, that’s a total exaggeration. It was more like finding myself on the set of Pleasantville or The Stepford Wives, or in some sort of idyllic buttoned-up town like that. The point was, Greenwich was unlike anywhere I’d ever been before.

  And I’d been a lot of places.

  Let me set the scene for you: Greenwich Avenue is an interesting mixture of old-school elegance and modern wealth. The one-way street is lined with deep green trees and brightly colored plants hanging from old-school-looking streetlamps. People waved hello to one another as they walked their Labradoodles and Yorkies and Maltipoos, or other equally fancy dogs, and browsed the shops along the way. The aforementioned shops ranged from high-end places like Saks Fifth Avenue to Starbucks and stood just a few stories high.

  And everything was so…clean.

  Like, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find men running out of their hiding places to pick up the stray garbage people dropped on their jaunts down the avenue. Then again, I couldn’t actually imagine people who lived in this town littering, so perhaps that was the real reason for the strip’s pristine appearance.

  After a few blocks of this, Uncle Scotty pulled into one of the empty parking spots along the street and turned off the truck.

  “You should like this place,” he said, pointing to the little café in front of us. “It’s worldly, just like you—and it even has coffee!”

  I looked over at him to see if he was serious but could tell instantly that he was teasing me.

  “Har, har,” I responded, rolling my eyes.

  “Just want you to feel at home,” he said, winking at me.

  “Here?” I said before I could help myself. “Not a chance.”

  The look was only there on his face for a split second, but I caught it anyway: mild disappointment. Or maybe it was sadness?

  I couldn’t really tell with him yet, and before I could analyze the look any further, he’d replaced it with an easy smile and held the café door open for me.

  * * *

  As soon as I walked through the doors of Méli-Mélo, the sweet smell of dough and sugar filled my senses and I immediately began to drool. Not noticeably, of course, but enough to make me swallow hard and look around to see what was making me suddenly so hungry.

  “Crepes,” I breathed as I spied the menu on a nearby chalkboard.

  “Did I do good?” Uncle Scotty asked, sounding slightly relieved.

  “Very,” I answered, nodding as I ventured farther inside the café.

  It was obvious that the place was meant to resemble a French bistro, with lots of single tables lining both sides. The walls were painted bright yellow and adorned with colorfully painted canvas. Oversized windows at the front of the store were opened up to let in the fresh air, and a few people sat at the tables and the stools at the counter.

  The place wasn’t authentic French. It couldn’t be, since we were in the states, of course. And the real France was somehow both romantically intimate and completely autonomous at the same time. The buildings all held an old-school feel to them, like they hadn’t been changed since the day they’d been built, and no detail was left untouched. For instance, every single door was unique and authentic, complete with different designs, shapes, colors, and materials. It sounds like a weird thing to notice—like, who cares about a door, right?—but it really embodied the city itself. No two things were the same in Paris, and nothing was quite what it seemed. I suppose that’s the reason I felt so at ease there. Nowhere in the States could compare to that kind of atmosphere—but this café was certainly trying, which made me a bit nostalgic.

  And it didn’t hurt that it smelled fantastic.

  Perusing the menu, I could see that they had a little bit of everything. Soups, salads, sandwiches and crepes—oh, the crepes! Savory, sweet, and everything in between.

  I wanted them all.

  To be honest, anything would’ve been preferable to the bland cafeteria-style food we’d been forced to eat at the residential treatment facility I’d been stuck in while my dad was on trial. The sad thing was that the repeat lodgers—i.e. kids who’d been separated from their parents before because of prison stints or trials, and didn’t have any other relatives willing to take them in—swore the food where we were staying was better than at child services or most foster homes.

  I couldn’t see how that was true, but then again, I was a newbie.

  Plus, the food was no doubt better than the prison food my dad had been getting. But when you’re international foodies like we are, being forced to eat plain chicken, white rice, and a vegetable five nights a week is practically torture.

  Uncle Scotty and I sat down at one of the tables near the open windows a few minutes later, our black-and-white number card there to tell our waiter where to bring our food.

  “So…,” he said once we were settled.

  “So…,” I answered, because I didn’t want to be the one to start this conversation.

  “How are you doing?” he asked finally, broaching the subject with what seemed like caution.

  “Fine,” I answered. “Hungry.”

  This was what I assumed he wanted to hear. That although all these crazy things had happened to me over the past months and my whole world had pretty much fallen apart, I was holding it together and ready to get on with my life. He didn’t really want to know about the hard parts. The down-and-dirty details that would make him feel like he had to fix me.

  Nobody really wanted to know that.

  Except for maybe Dr. Deerchuck. But that’s her job.

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” Uncle Scotty said softly. “I meant, how are you dealing with all this stuff with your dad?”

  Or maybe he did want to know all the dirty details?

  I hadn’t been prepared for that and squirmed in my seat a little.

  “I don’t know,” I said, not really interested in elaborating. “It sucks.”

  “Yeah,” Uncle Scotty said, and ran his hand down his face. “It does.”

  Suddenly he looked tired and stressed. And I started to feel guilty, because I knew at least part of it was my fault.

  “Hey, I didn’t ask to come here and interrupt your life or anything,” I said defensively.

  He stared at me, a confused look on his face.


  “You’re not interrupting my life, Frankie,” he explained clearly. “I’m glad you’re here. I just meant…God, this is all so messed up.”

  I studied him for a few seconds before looking down at the table and laughing out loud.

  “You can say that again,” I said, nodding in agreement, as our food arrived. I’d ordered both sweet and savory—a crepe with ham and cheese and another with brown sugar, cinnamon, and a whopping dollop of frosting on top. I did a little happy dance in my seat before digging in.

  “How’s your dad doing?” Uncle Scotty asked, as if the question were a normal one.

  I paused, the big bite of ham and cheese filling every inch of my mouth, making it nearly impossible for me to answer. I chewed the best I could and then swallowed, the food burning my throat as it went down.

  “He’s in prison,” I answered bluntly. “How do you think he’s doing?”

  “Fair enough,” Uncle Scotty said evenly. “But are they treating him okay?”

  I could hear the concern in his voice, so I held back the response I really wanted to give, which was something to the effect of He’s doing great! They have five-course meals and thousand-thread-count sheets. Prison’s like a regular old Club Med!

  “I guess,” I said instead, shrugging noncommittally. Then, turning the tables on him, I added, “You haven’t talked to him yet?”

  “I have,” Uncle Scotty admitted. “But he only wanted to talk about you. Wouldn’t really give me any details. You know your dad. He’s not exactly a talker.”

  “Mmmm,” I answered, and took another bite so I wouldn’t have to say more.

  “Clearly another trait you got from him,” Uncle Scotty answered with a laugh. I knew he meant it as a joke, but it still managed to feel like a dig.

  “Maybe he doesn’t like to be interrogated,” I said.

  Another pause.

  “Frankie, I’m not trying to interrogate you…,” Uncle Scotty began, then trailed off. “I’m just trying to…understand what happened.”

  I’d been waiting for this question from the beginning and still didn’t have a good answer for him. But I could tell he wanted one anyway, so I gave him the best explanation I could.