Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The thing about Franklin Kaspbrak that every single person that has ever met or talked to him for longer than five minutes knows is this: he is incredibly, incredibly perceptive.

He likes to attribute it to the fact that, due to being the only Deaf person in an entirely hearing family — on both biological sides of his family, and the found family that his father has cultivated — he essentially had to learn how to be an observer in order to get by in casual conversation. He understands much, much more than he believes many people — especially his own family — believes that he does, even if he might not understand or pick up on what was said: expressions and body language have become something that he’s well-adapted to reading.

That’s how Frankie knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Richie is planning something for Frankie and his father’s birthday — something huge, something that Richie and Shay and the rest of the Losers have been tight-lipped about.

And not just them: Frankie’s closest friends seem to be weirdly dodgy about the upcoming milestone, either going oh, yeah, sure, whatever you want whenever Frankie mentions making plans for his birthday, or outright running away from Frankie’s questions when he begins to badger them too much.

Something is brewing, but since there’s still a little over a week until the big day (Richie’s words, not his own), Frankie still doesn’t know just how big the obvious surprise party will be — since neither Frankie or his father are stupid, and even though Richie knows they both hate surprise parties, that that has to be the obvious reason for everyone’s weirdness — and it’s not like he has much time to really think about it too much, between his general bundle of nerves about his upcoming acting project (which, fucking finally, that might be something), being a sophomore in a pretty rigorous high school, dealing with a crappy home life — on one side, at least — and with the weirdness of everything post-Kitty Hawk.

Out of everything, it should say something that school is the most welcome distraction out of all, but here he is, sitting in a classroom after the last bell of the day with a few of his friends and classmates, waiting for the teacher in charge of the school newspaper — Ms. Morris, Frankie’s Attic Greek teacher, who has very quickly become one of Frankie’s favorite teachers, maybe ever —and watching as his friends talk about something or other.

“But see, that’s completely besides the point,” Isaac says harshly, huffing when Margo looks unimpressed, “You just- you can’t say that you can overlook the obscene lack of medical realism within the show because you used to read good fanfiction about the characters!”

“I sure can,” Margo shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a thick cable knit sweater, and it bunches at her wrists as she regards Isaac. “It’s not like I’m thinking of becoming a doctor or anything, so like, does it really matter?”

“Well, when I write my PhD dissertation, I’ll be sure to reference this conversation,” Isaac randomly says.

“Reference what, that someone you know reads fanfic about House and Wilson?” Margo laughs, all smiles and flashing teeth, before Frankie watches her glance around the room and hides it behind a hand; he always feels so sad when she does that, hides pieces of herself.

“Frankie, what do you think?” Isaac turns to glare at Frankie, huffing and turning to face him. “As a cisgender and heterosexual man-”

Before Frankie can blink, a flash of ginger plops into the seat next to Margo, laughing and giving the other girl a side-hug before looking at Isaac with a massive grin.

“Why are you outing Frankie?” the girl — Lily — teases, reaching over to give the top of Isaac’s hand a light tap.

“Using the term outing when I’m simply embracing Frankie and his sexuality and gender-” Isaac begins, but before everyone can launch into yet another conversation about how Frankie is the token cishet out of both his dad’s side of the family and most of his schoolmates, apparently, Frankie clears his throat.

“I’m right here, you know.”

“And we love you and accept you no matter what,” Lily’s hazel eyes are light and teasing, and there’s something about her that reminds him so much of Wren and Shay. “You really are the ally in the Gay-Straight Alliance, Frankie.”

Margo snorts out a laugh, swatting Lily’s arm and grinning as the other girl buries herself into Margo’s side for a hug; the sight of them together makes Frankie feel warm.

While Frankie’s known Margo since seventh grade, and he and Isaac are once again in five of the same classes just like they were in their freshman year, Frankie and Lily only really became friends this year, now that they’re both in the school paper and the same Geometry class. Lily and Margo, however, apparently became close last year due to being in the same art class — and Frankie understood why instantly, when Margo introduced the pair of them, mentioning how Lily was going to be in the school paper this year with them, and Lily had promptly sat down next to Frankie and went, “I heard you play video games a lot,” and when Frankie listed the ones on his Steam account that had the most hours, she’d rolled her eyes and went, “Fucking nerd,” and Frankie had liked her instantly.

“Two gay dads,” Frankie answers her with a simple shrug, smiling. “Comes with the territory.”

“Your dad and stepdad sound so cool,” Lily says with a loud sigh.

Isaac nods. “Yeah, I can’t wait to-” Frankie watches as Margo gives the leg of Isaac’s desk a rough kick; Isaac jolts and narrows his eyes at her, before glancing at Frankie and going, “-can’t wait for Ms. Morris to get here, and for us to start…”

Before Frankie can bark at everyone to stop being so weird, Ms. Morris enters the room; she gives a nod to them as the little group of students all stop conserving and wait for her to give instruction.

Truth be told, Frankie really only joined the school paper because of Margo and Isaac, and because Ms. Morris had offered him a spot — the Townsend Harris school paper isn’t necessarily an easy extra-curricular to get into, especially for a group of sophomores, and his parents had seemed excited when he told them he’d gotten in. He doesn’t think he’s a particularly good writer or overly creative, not in the way that Lily and Margo are, but he knows it’ll not only look good for…well, whatever future college he chooses, if he even goes into college, if it’s even worth thinking about-

-but it’s a welcome distraction from…well, everything else, so. Win-win, as far as he’s concerned.

There’s not a lot of students in the club — just the four of them and three seniors, who generally keep to themselves and let the sophomores do all the work — and oftentimes, Ms. Morris sits back and allows them all to bounce ideas off of one another, catching up on her grading or sometimes even reading a paperback.

Today, she’s reading Frankenstein; Frankie hasn’t read it yet, even though Margo’s always told him that he should, and it’s after Isaac tells Frankie to go and grab one of the Expo markers from the whiteboard so that he can begin assigning roles to people — despite the fact that one of the seniors, Shelby, is glaring daggers at him and threatening to rip the mini whiteboard from his hands — that he gives a nod to his teacher, and, eyeing the cover, goes, “I haven’t read that yet.”

“Hm,” Ms. Morris looks up from her paperback; she gives him a small smile. “I believe it’s on the curriculum for your junior year, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Is it good?” Frankie can’t help but ask, titling his head to the side; his Greek teacher regards him.

“It’s very good,” Ms. Morris tells him, reaching behind her to grab one of the black Expo markers stored on the little shelf behind her. “Here, these are much better. I don’t think Isaac will be happy if you gave him a streaky marker.”

Frankie takes it from her, giving her a light nod. “Thanks. And- yeah, I’ve… I mean, my stepdad likes calling me Frankenstein when I’m cranky, or whatever, so- you know, he’d probably go crazy if he saw me reading that, but…”

Ms. Morris is quiet for a moment before she closes the paperback and goes, “Your stepfather and father seemed nice,” She thinks for a moment, blinking before going, “Richie, right? That was his name?”

“Yeah,” And then, hoping it doesn’t sound too cheeky, he goes, “He’s done a few comedy tours and has been in some stuff, if…”

“Oh,” Ms. Morris nods curtly. “Yeah, I thought I might have recognized him.” She picks up her paperback and gives Frankie a little smile. “Isaac is glaring daggers at you, you know.”

When Frankie turns to look at his friend, Isaac is doing exactly that: eyes blazing and pointing at Frankie, and then to the empty chair next to him. Lily and Margo make gagging faces when Isaac isn’t looking, before the other teen looks at them and goes, “You two need to respect my chart!”

“Later,” Frankie gives a wave to Ms. Morris, but before he goes, she gets his attention and says:

“Your birthday is next week, right?.”

“Yeah,” Frankie shuffles his feet. “Me and my dad’s.”

“You have the same birthday as your father?”

Frankie nods.

“I’ve heard that that’s good luck,” Ms. Morris murmurs, and Frankie’s heard that too before: that it’s good luck, a blessing, that it means that he and Dad will have a deep connection for the rest of their lives.

His father spent most of Frankie’s childhood barely celebrating his own birthday and allowing Frankie to call the shots; it’s only after Richie came into the picture that Dad began to celebrate his birthday again. As a kid, Frankie used to think it was the coolest thing in the world to have the same birthday as his father — he remembers being in first or second grade and, when his teacher would double-check that it was his birthday, the first birthday in the whole class, that means you’re the oldest, frankie!, he’d tack on: and it’s my daddy’s birthday, too, in sign, despite the fact that no one in his class minus his interpreter or Oliver spoke ASL.

(Frankie’s always figured that his mother hates it, though. That it’s another thing that Frankie and Dad have in common — even though it’s quite literally a random coincidence — that she can’t share with them.)

“Well,” Ms. Morris gives a little laugh, nods towards where Isaac is impatiently waiting for Frankie’s return, “I’m sure you must be excited. Sixteen is a huge milestone, Frankie.”

Frankie supposes that’s true for most people, but for him, he’s just glad that turning sixteen means that he’ll be another year older, only two years until he’s eighteen and he’s old enough to not have to get permission from his parents — namely his mother — on anything. That he can make his own choices, do what he wants to do, and…

(and there’s a part of him that thinks about what his living arrangements will be like after he turns eighteen; legally, he’ll be an adult. He’ll be an adult and it’ll be his choice on who he lives with and who he sees.)

“Right,” Frankie finally says, sighing when Isaac throws a balled up paper at the back of his head. “Chill out, man, I’m coming.”

Isaac snatches the marker from Frankie as soon as he’s near and begins to add onto his chart; Frankie plops down next to Margo and shares a snicker with her when Isaac begins to discuss what he thinks the best course of action will be for the upcoming draft of the paper, before Shelby plucks the marker from his hand and goes, “So yeah, what we’re actually doing is…”

The rest of the meeting goes by rather smoothly; at the end of it, Frankie walks alongside Margo, Lily, and Isaac as they head towards the gymnasium.

Margo’s holding a thick paperback in her arms; Frankie watches the strap of her backpack begin to slide down her shoulder, and right before it slips off and threatens to unbalance her, he reaches over and helps take it off of her arm, moving his backpack onto one shoulder and Margo’s on the other.

Margo stares up at him, eyes a little wide behind her glasses; he frowns.

“What?”

Margo lets out a noise that sounds like halfway between a babble and a squeak; he frowns at her when he sees her cheeks pinken.

“Uh, I just…” Frankie frowns. “Sorry, it just looked kind of heavy.” 

Margo’s backpack is much heavier than his own — she must have her art notebooks and the other books she’s borrowed from the library stuffed into there, and whatever Lily has given her throughout the day. Frankie knows that in the time he’s known Lily, she’s handed him random objects in Geometry and before they leave for the subway station. He has clusters of things hidden around his room at both of his parents' houses.

Speaking of Lily, the girl is staring at Frankie, smirking a little bit before skipping ahead of them, saying something to Isaac.

They reach the gym; it looks like practice has just ended, and Shay jogs right up to them, grinning and running over to give Lily a hug, and then Margo; she ruffles Isaac’s hair and then, looking at Frankie, goes: “Oh, yeah, you.”

Frankie rolls his eyes at his sister, watching as she wipes her forehead with a rag. “Practice was okay?”

“Apparently, my herkie is getting better by the day,” Shay says, shrugging when Frankie stares at her. “Frankie, you’re supposed to know this shit.”

“Why would I know anything about cheerleading moves?”

“Because,” Lily says, leaning over to shove Frankie’s arm. “It’s your job as her brother to keep up with Shay.”

“Exactly,” Shay says, grinning and poking Frankie’s chest, hard. “And because I can’t practice at home with Richie or Eddie or the twins, so. You’re it, buck-o.”

“Hell fucking no,” Frankie shakes his head. “Nope.”

“You’re tall,” Isaac comments, looking Frankie up and down thoughtfully. “Which would help with cheerleading moves, I imagine. And you are the brawn in the group.”

Frankie raises a brow. “The brawn?”

“He’s not as tough as he looks,” Shay says, snorting. “I beat him in arm wrestling last week.”

“Because you kicked me,” Frankie reminds her, groaning. “You’re a cheater.”

“Am not.”

“Am too.”

“Am not.”

“You are objectively strong,” Isaac continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re carrying two backpacks, after all.”

“Oh yeah,” Shay zeroes in on where the second backpack — obviously Margo’s — hangs off of one shoulder. “You are.”

Margo hugs her paperback tighter to her chest, seeming to laugh awkwardly as she avoids eye contact.

“I’m being a good friend,” Frankie tells them, narrowing his eyes.

“A very good friend,” Margo pipes up, and when Frankie looks over at her, the girl’s plump cheeks are a little more reddish than they were before. “Because…yeah, Frankie and I are really good friends, and he just- you know, he just saw that my backpack was heavy, so…”

A beat of silence passes between the five of them, until Lily cuts in and goes, “Yeah. You know what — Frankie’s a good mule, huh?” and then the ginger-haired girl promptly takes her bag off of her back and hands it over to Frankie, grinning ear to ear. “Me too, Frankie.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll give him my shit, too,” Shay laughs, but Frankie focuses on the way that Lily looks past Frankie to smile at Margo, a moment of nonverbal communication passing between the pair of them, and Frankie just thinks: well…alright, i guess, not really understanding anything of what just happened.

Shay tells them about her practice as she follows them out of the school and towards the subway station; even though Isaac interjects every few seconds to try and talk about the school newspaper and his plans for total club domination within the school year, Frankie keeps looking over at Margo.

Margo glances up at him, their eyes meeting, and she gives him a little smile, her face still flushed as she ducks her head and walks at his side like always.

—

When Frankie gets to his mother’s apartment that afternoon, he’s already planning on spending the rest of the night in his room, catching up on his homework and forcing himself to read some more of his to-read pile (which isn’t easy, since he’s been struggling with reading for leisure lately) and then topping the rest of the night before he goes to bed by playing some video games, but those plans are immediately thrown out the window when he unlocks the front door, toeing off his sneakers and setting his backpack down next to the armchair in the living room, and looks over to see his grandmother sitting on the sofa.

“Grandma!” Frankie feels himself grin, quickly crossing the space between them and hurrying over to his grandmother.

Grandma Ida gets to her feet — a little more slower than Frankie would like to see, but she’s otherwise steady when she finds her footing — and holds out her hands, palm-side out, her blue eyes wide as she looks him up and down.

“Franklin,” his grandmother gasps, putting a hand to her chest. “Franklin, you’re tall.”

Frankie knows he’s shot up in height; as a kid, he was always one of the shortest in his class. But now, after his growth spurt, he’s one of the tallest in his grade — he’s not too far from being taller than Richie, a fact which he’s fucking excited for, but all of his parents seem to get a little choked up about.

“Myra,” Grandma continues, and it’s then that Frankie sees his mother coming out of the kitchen, “You didn’t tell me that your son got to be so tall!”

“I know,” Mom says, and when Frankie meets his mother’s eyes, he gives her a tight nod; she purses her lips as she adds, “He’s gotten to be very tall. It’s a little unsettling.”

“That can’t be from your father’s side of the family,” Grandma says to Frankie, chuckling as she closes the gap between them and opens out her arms; Frankie immediately leans down to hug his grandmother, feeling himself melt against her short and relatively frail frame. “Hi, sweetheart. I’ve missed you quite a bit.”

Frankie’s missed her, too; out of his mother’s side of the family, Grandma Ida is one of the only people that Frankie genuinely likes and cares for. While many people fear Grandma Ida — Mom included — Frankie loves his grandmother’s stern personality, her way of telling it like it is. She’s honest with her feelings and her criticisms, never beating around the bush; Frankie admires these things about her with his entire heart, and he knows — since she’s told him quite frequently — that she loves him back just as much.

“What are you doing here?” he asks her.

“Well, it’s my favorite grandchild’s sixteenth birthday in less than a week,” Grandma says, squeezing his elbows from where she’s holding him in place. “You didn’t think I’d miss that, did you?”

Frankie grins and hugs her again; he’s missed his grandmother terribly. Although his extended family has grown quite a bit since the Losers came into his life years ago, Grandma Ida has always been there for Frankie and someone he can trust.

Mom has never understood it; even now, she watches the pair of them interact, her expression unreadable. Frankie’s always gotten the vibe that his mother is jealous of the fact that Grandma seems to like him so much, when all Grandma and Mom do whenever they’re together is bicker.

“Myra,” Grandma says, glancing over at Mom, “I thought you were going to get that iced tea. Granted, I asked more than fifteen minutes ago, but I figured by now you must have something prepared for your guest.”

Mom blinks. “Uh,” She shakes her head, “Yes, Mother. Wait- wait just a second,” and then Mom dashes back into the kitchen, out of sight.

“Tell me all about school, dear,” Grandma says as she brings Frankie down to sit next to her on the couch. “I want to hear all about it.”

Frankie starts to tell his grandmother a little bit about his day; it’s nothing too exciting, really, but Grandma nods and asks questions here and there.

Eventually, Mom comes over with a glass of iced tea; Grandma takes it from her and then looks down at the glass coffee table, and back up at Mom.

“Do you want me to ruin the nice glass table I bought for you and Darren for your wedding gift, or may I have a coaster?”

Mom stands there for a moment and then nods. “Yeah, let me- sure, Mother,” and disappears again.

Grandma takes a sip of her iced tea and then sighs, looking at Frankie. “I’m so glad you’re home, Franklin,” she goes, shaking her head. “I think Darren is a wonderful man, but one can only take so much conversation about paper before she starts going mad.”

Frankie snorts; Mom comes back with a coaster, and Grandma sets the glass down on the table.

Frankie chats with his grandmother for a little longer before dinnertime; Darren comes out of his office then, smiling when he sees Frankie.

“Oh, hey, Frankie,” his mother’s husband goes, laughing, “I got caught up with work; how was school?”

“Eh,” Frankie shrugs.

“Darren,” Frankie watches as Darren nearly leaps out of his skin when Grandma Ida says his name; he looks over at his mother-in-law, dark eyes a little wide and frantic.

“Yes, Ida?”

“I was only going to ask when dinner will be ready,” she says, her eyes glinting with amusement as Darren heaves out a sigh of relief. “You’re a very skittish man, Darren.”

“Well,” Darren blinks and laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let me just see if Myra…” and then Darren practically runs into the kitchen and out of view.

“Your father was the same way when he and your mother first got married,” Grandma randomly says, laying a hand on Frankie’s wrist and smirking. “Darren will get used to me soon, I imagine.”

Frankie snorts again, helping his grandmother get to her feet and letting her hold onto his arm as they make their way to the kitchen. It looks like Mom’s made some type of salad and chicken dish; Frankie feels his stomach rumble.

Frankie’s excited to eat dinner with his grandmother again after so long, but that excitement dies when Frankie sees his mother mutter:

“Oh, you’re actually going to be eating dinner with us,” Mom turns away before she can catch Frankie’s eye.

Grandma Ida does not miss anything; Frankie sees her eyes narrow, and she takes one look at Frankie, and then at Mom, and goes, “Are family dinners not commonplace in this household?”

Frankie knows that what he has to say will not be anything that his mother will want to hear, and is not anything he feels like dredging up at all, so he stays quiet. Mom purses her lips and goes about setting the table. Darren just looks uncomfortable all around.

Grandma frowns deeply; she won’t let this go, of course, even though Darren tries to lighten the mood by talking about work again — which everyone just nods and smiles along with, happy to have something take away the tension in the air.

Frankie hasn’t been on the greatest terms with his mother ever since the end of the summer, when he visited Kitty Hawk and saw the text messages between Mom and Aunt Bev. The ones right after his parents divorce, when Mom went on and on about how much she hated Frankie’s father and thought he was manipulative, pathetic.

Dad told Frankie that he thinks Mom said those things because she was hurt; that now, she’d be embarrassed about it. Richie, for once, decided not to say anything at all, but Frankie knows that that in itself is enough of an answer into what Richie thinks: that Mom probably did mean those things at the time, and still thinks it’s true.

To say that Frankie’s been angry at his mother wouldn’t be entirely too accurate: it’s more like he has so much more context for so many things, and has begun to see her in a different light. He’s spent years defending and protecting his mother, and was proven wrong about her — this is not something that Frankie can take lightly, or pretend like he knows how to handle.

His friends have told him that it’s probably for the best if he stays out of his parents business; Frankie tells them that his parents business has become his business for as long as he can remember.

“Can you pass me the salad, Frankie?”

Frankie doesn’t look at his mother as he picks up the bowl and places it in front of her; she just frowns at him and mumbles something under her breath, too low for Frankie to hear and her face kept at an angle that makes it difficult for Frankie to see.

Irritation prickles under his skin. “You’re supposed to look at me if you have something to say,” he snaps before he can stop himself; his mother looks up at him sharply.

“I don’t have anything to say to you right now,” Mom counters, narrowing her eyes when Frankie locks gazes with her.

The pair of them stare at one another, wondering who will be the one to break first — until Darren coughs and goes:

“Frankie, do you have any plans for your birthday?” his stepfather asks, giving Frankie a soft, yet pleading look: please, not right now, not in front of your grandmother.

Grandma Ida is staring at Frankie and his mother, her gray-blue eyes unreadable as her gaze ping pongs back and forth between them.

Frankie just shrugs and picks at his plate. “Me and my dad will probably do something, I guess.” He doesn’t mention that he’s certain that Richie is planning something big for him and Dad — he knows that’ll open up a can of worms around his mother that he is not interested in going through right now, not with his grandmother sitting next to him.

“Sixteen is a big birthday for a young man,” Grandma finally goes, taking a long sip of her wine. “Hm. Myra, you’re not drinking tonight?”

Mom glances up at Grandma, and Frankie watches as her gaze flickers to Darren briefly; Mom shakes her head. “No, Mother. I don’t feel like it right now.”

“Hm,” Grandma narrows her gaze again, but before Frankie can ask why she cares so much about Mom drinking wine or not, his grandmother looks at him and continues, “And it’ll be Eddie’s forty-fifth birthday, right?”

Frankie nods. “Yeah.”

“I highly doubt that Richard-”

“Mother,” Mom cuts in, hand gripped tight around her fork. “Please.”

“It’s been a few years now, Myra,” Grandma sets down her glass. “And he seems like a nice man; surely, you have to-”

“I would prefer,” Mom grounds out, her shoulders stiff, “if we just talk about Frankie. I’m not interested in discussing anything about…” And Mom trails off, once again refusing to acknowledge Richie’s existence; Frankie frowns at her.

“You know-” Frankie’s about to say, right before Darren goes:

“It’s been a very long day for everyone, I imagine,” Frankie watches as Darren lays a hand on Mom’s shoulder; Frankie’s mother isn’t too happy, but Frankie watches as Mom’s shoulders begin to relax little by little, Mom sending a little glance towards Darren as she lifts up one of her hands to put on top of his, giving it a squeeze.

Frankie looks at his plate. Even though he can’t stop himself from thinking of the shit Mom said about his father — Eddie is weak, manipulative, it’ll only be a matter of time before he hurts that man or one of you or even Frankie, and I can’t stand by and let Eddie ruin Frankie’s life the way he ruined mine — seeing his mother become so physically uncomfortable at the mention of Richie and Dad’s relationship always sends a wave of conflicting emotion.

Frankie knows that his grandmother is dying to get involved; Grandma Ida is used to calling the shots and dictating conversation, after all.

But, perhaps noticing the same thing Frankie is — that Mom seems upset, more than usual, practically leaning against Darren for support — she decides to drop it for now, regarding the three of them with a careful stare.

—

The next day is a Teacher Planning day, and even though Frankie would usually spend the day off hanging out with his friends or taking the subway over to the park and grabbing some lunch, Grandma Ida comes early in the morning after spending the night at her hotel and, taking a long look at Frankie clad in his pajamas with his hair in disarray, goes, “We’re going to spend the day together, Franklin. And I expect you to be presentable by the time I finish my morning cup of tea.”

“Yes ma’am,” Frankie yawns behind his fist; his grandmother frowns.

“Your shirt has holes in it. Are those bleach stains?”

“Yep,” Frankie yawns again, trudging into the kitchen and going into the cabinets; Mom and Darren don’t have any snacks like how Dad and Richie do, but Frankie decides that Darren’s Honey Nut Cheerios are a good substitute for a poptart.

“If you weren’t my grandchild, I’d think you were a delinquent,” Grandma says with a shake of her head, reaching up and touching his hair. “And your hair is far too long, dear.”

“Well, I like it long,” At this point, Frankie’s hair touches his shoulders; Wren called it a heterosexual shag cut, and he figures that works. “Makes me look like I’m going to start listening to heavy metal music and wearing skinny jeans.”

“Your sense of humor is peculiar," Grandma shakes her head again, but there’s a smile on her face; it’s so weird to Frankie that she and Mom have such a tense relationship when Frankie gets along with her so well.

Frankie quickly eats his bowl of cereal and gets changed; his grandmother has finished her tea by the time he gets done, but she decides not to comment on it in favor of watching him lace up his sneakers, grabbing her coat and purse and holding out her elbow for him to grab so he can help lead her out of the apartment.

His grandmother is rather fit for her age; he knows that she’s not ancient, but she feels fragile and small next to him — more than she has ever. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s older and a bit taller than the last time he saw her face-to-face at Mom and Darren’s wedding, but he makes sure to walk slower than his normal pace as they move down the sidewalk together.

Grandma Ida will not, under any circumstance, ride the subway; she practically shivers when he mentions it, pursing her lips and telling him how dirty they are — and that’s why i like it, grandma, he told her with a wink — but after Frankie brings her to one of his favorite bodegas to get a quick cup of coffee, grinning when Grandma hums and gives it her seal of approval (despite the fact that she gave the poor cashier a hard time after quizzing him on the exact type of bean used in the coffee brew), his grandmother hails them a taxi.

When they get in the backseat, Grandma adjusts herself and has Frankie hold her purse in his lap as she turns to the driver and says an address that Frankie can’t pick up on. He checks his notifications on his phone and shows his grandmother a few of the pictures of his friends and his cats at his father’s apartment, but it’s after a little while that Frankie looks out the window and realizes that the scenery starts to become incredibly familiar to him, almost as if-

“Grandma,” Frankie looks at his grandmother. “Are we going to my dad’s house?”

“I figured it’d be nice to drop in to see Eddie and Richard.”

Although Frankie would love to see Richie since Dad’s definitely at work, he still stares at his grandmother, perplexed, until the old woman huffs and goes:

“I looked him up on Whitepages, dear. I need to know where your father is living, Franklin; and Eddie should have been a gentleman and mailed me his new address, anyways, so I could update my address book. Your father knows I like to stay on top of where everyone is.”

Frankie knows he can’t apply normal logic to his grandmother, so he just shakes his head. “Mom won’t be happy about you coming over here, you know.”

Grandma Ida turns to give him a long stare. “As if your mother scares me, Franklin,” Grandma turns to face him. “And besides: we’re going to need to discuss the strangeness from last night, you know.”

Frankie frowns.

“I know you and your mother have a stiff relationship,” That feels like an understatement. “But to see the pair of you be so tense with one another — that’s not how a mother and son should be, Franklin.”

Before Frankie can tell her that that’s not his fault, everything about the text messages and how he’s so angry at his mother and doesn’t know why it’s so bad only now, why it feels like those text messages were the fucking straw that broke the camels goddamn back, their taxi reaches the townhouse; Grandma pays the driver, and Frankie gets out and goes around the car to help his grandmother out and onto the sidewalk.

“These are gorgeous,” Grandma says as she stands on the sidewalk and regards the townhouses. “You even have a stoop and everything.”

“Yeah,” Frankie shrugs. “I like it here.”

Grandma looks at him and purses her lips; he knows that she knows he’s not just talking about the townhouse.

Frankie realizes he should have probably texted his father or Richie to let them know that he and his grandmother were coming over; he grabs his phone out of his pocket, but before he can shoot off a text to either of them, he sees movement down the sidewalk, and looks up to see Richie practically speedwalking towards him, trailed by-

Frankie feels his fucking heart nearly leap out of his chest; he stuffs his phone into his pocket, telling his grandmother to wait for just a second as Frankie jogs down the sidewalk, passing Richie completely — and Frankie can very faintly hear a i guess i’m chopped liver, huh, from his stepfather — and running right into Aunt Bev’s waiting arms.

“Oh no,” Aunt Bev says as he steps back, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t get taller.”

Frankie smirks and shrugs his shoulders; his aunt groans and swats his arm.

“I can’t handle it,” she mutters, shaking her head and reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re supposed to stay small forever, kiddo.”

“Ew,” Frankie wrinkles his nosebridge; he looks past his aunt’s shoulder and gives an ungraceful squeak when he sees Uncle Bill rounding the corner, running towards his uncle and giving him a bear hug.

“You’re crushing me,” Bill laughs when Frankie pulls away. Looking him up and down, he sighs deeply. “And you got even taller.”

“What are you guys doing here?” Frankie looks between his aunt and uncle, and then at Richie; Richie’s grinning ear to ear at him, although his stepfather tries to look annoyed as he reaches him.

“Well, these two were supposed to be a surprise for you when you came over on Sunday,” Richie crosses his arms over his chest as he finishes signing, pretending to look thoughtful as he adds, “Well, half of your surprise — their better halves are-”

“Uncle Mike and Uncle Ben are here, too?” Frankie grins, bouncing on his toes until he sees the adults looking at him with amused glances and, clearing his throat, shrugs nonchalantly and adds, “That’s cool.”

“You’re so totally happy to see us,” Bev teases, punching his bicep. She makes a face. “Okay, I don’t like that you’re getting meat on your bones now, too.”

“I can beat Richie at arm wrestling now,” Frankie says.

“Yeah, nice try. You can’t beat my biceps of steel, Kaspbrak.”

“I…,” Frankie looks down the sidewalk and sees his grandmother still standing there, watching them all with a curious look; he remembers his manners and moves past them, ignoring the way Richie looks down the sidewalk and goes still very briefly in a manner that reminds Frankie of how Darren looks every time Grandma asks him to get something for her.

“Grandma,” Frankie says as he reaches her, holding out his elbow. “Did you want to meet my aunt and uncle?”

“I was wondering when you’d remember I was here,” His grandmother takes his arm and walks alongside him. “These are your father’s friends, yes?”

“His best friends,” Frankie says.

Richie looks a little awkward; Frankie figures that one of the last people he expected to see here was Frankie’s grandmother, but Richie still crosses the space between them and waves at her.

“Long time no see, Ida,” Richie says, looking a little awkward as he pauses. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to like, bow when I see you or something.”

Grandma peers at Richie for a long moment, before smiling and reaching over to shake his hand. “Richard, it really has been too long.”

“Well-”

“I know I come from a different generation than you do,” Grandma continues, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders as she regards him, “But in my day, when people moved, they notified others.”

Richie furrows his brows, clearly not following; he looks at Frankie for help.

“I know Eddie is my ex-son-in-law, but the pair of you are responsible for my grandchild every other week,” Grandma reminds him, narrowing her eyes. “I like to be informed about Franklin, Richard.”

“Oh, right,” Richie nods. “Sorry, ma’am, well-” Richie blinks, frowning. “Wait, how did you know where we live? Did Frankie-”

“I found the pair of you on Whitepages,” Grandma shakes her head. “I had to use the internet to find your new address, since my daughter acts as if it’s some grand secret.”

“Uh,” Richie scratches the back of his neck. “Okay. I don’t know if I’m following, but-”

“And you two,” Grandma Ida looks behind Richie at Bev and Bill, who seem to be unsure of whether or not they should make a run for it back inside the townhouse. “You are Frankie’s new aunt and uncle, correct?” Before either of them can say anything, Frankie’s grandmother continues: “Do neither of you know how to say hello?”

Bill gives Grandma a dazzling smile, easily melting into that charmstatic front that Frankie’s always been envious of.

“I’m sorry,” Uncle Bill apologizes, extending a hand towards Grandma. “I’m Bill. I’m Frankie’s uncle.”

Grandma regards Uncle Bill with an unreadable expression, taking his hand and finally giving an approving nod. “Hm. You’re shorter than I imagined you’d be, but still very handsome.”

Bill blinks. “You-”

“I’ve read a few of your books before,” Grandma answers simply. “Don’t care too much for the endings or for horror in general, but they’re still quite enjoyable. Although, I wish you would remember that longer books don’t always mean better — oftentimes, I find that they drag the point quite a bit. You could have wrapped some of them up in a few hundred pages less.”

From the way Bill looks at Grandma Ida, Frankie thinks that his uncle doesn’t quite know if he’s being complimented or insulted — usually par for the course with Grandma, though.

“Uh,” Bill just shrugs. “Okay. I’ll uh…keep that in mind.”

“And you,” Grandma Ida looks at Beverly, beckoning her forward. “Come over here. I need to get a look at you.”

Aunt Bev doesn’t look like she wants to leave her place at Richie’s side, but after Richie gives her a little nudge, she drags her feet over; Grandma Ida gives Beverly a once over before nodding.

“Well, you look amazing, dear,” Grandma finally says, and Frankie can practically see Beverly sigh with relief.

“I’m Bev,” she finally says, shaking hands with Grandma Ida. “And thank you, um- yeah, Frankie’s told us a lot about you.”

“I should hope so,” Grandma Ida extends her elbow towards Frankie; he takes it, watching as his grandmother promptly stares at Richie.

Richie looks back at her, confused, and Grandma’s eyes narrow.

“So, you’d allow an old woman and her grandson to stand out on the sidewalk in the chill?” she asks, and when Richie hesitates, Grandma adds, “Richard. I’d hope in the time that you and Eddie have been married, he’d have taught you a bit more about hospitality — Eddie never allowed for me to stand out in the hallway like some distant relative you want to keep away.”

“Oh,” Richie looks at Frankie, pleading; Frankie just gives him a shrug back. He had no idea that they were even coming over here until like, five minutes ago. “You want to come inside?”

Frankie’s grandmother just stares at Richie, unimpressed.

“Yes ma’am,” Richie goes, looking towards Bev and Bill; the pair of them stop hiding their amused snorts behind their hands and dash up the porch steps, Bill not-so-subtly throwing a glance at Frankie’s way and hurrying when he realizes Frankie’s staring right after them, wondering what in the goddamn fuck is up with everyone. “Yeah, sure, uh- hey, did I ever tell you about the uh…you know the time we…” Richie wracks his brain, clearly looking for a story to dredge up — Frankie raises his brow when his stepfather looks back at him, “you know, when me and Frankie went to LA?”

Grandma blinks. “I know you two went years before, but I’m not quite sure why you’re bringing this up now, Richard.”

“Well, it was tons of fun,” Richie continues. “Like, lots of fun — and hey, did you know Frank’s on the soccer team at his school? He’s great at sports.”

“I’m okay,” Frankie admits when his grandmother looks at him; he’s hardly the best, but he’s good enough to stand a chance during auditions. “And the auditions start next week, so I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“But he will,” Richie says firmly, “Definitely. And-”

“Richard,” Grandma interjects, cooly looking back up at Richie.

“Yes ma’am?”

“I love talking about Franklin, you know that,” Grandma Ida says, narrowing her eyes. “But I’d rather like to be out of the cold and off of the sidewalk. Stop stalling and allow for me to come inside to put my coat away; you can carry on once we’re out of this ghastly chill.”

It’s not even that cold, despite it being the end of October, but Frankie’s learned that his grandmother views anything under seventy degrees to be chilly; old people, Dad had commented one time years before when they’d gone to Grandma’s lakehouse for a holiday and Frankie had realized that his grandmother kept her thermostat in the upper seventies.

“Right away, ma’am,” Richie actually does a bow; Frankie can see the glimmer of amusement in his grandmother’s eyes, and there’s a moment where he wonders why it can’t be like this with his mother, too.

Grandma Ida can be difficult, of course; Frankie knows that, even though he loves her. But even she seems to like Richie, tolerating him despite the history between Frankie’s mother and him, and Darren and Richie get along great — so why does his mother have to be so fucking stubborn? So fucking mean?

Because Richie hurt her, one side of his mind acknowledges as he helps lead his grandmother up the porch steps, the flash of anger towards his stepfather coming in. But Dad only cheated on Mom because it was clear that Mom treated him like shit, and he loved Richie, and….

Nothing quite makes sense to him anymore, so Frankie tunes it out in favor of leading his grandmother into the townhouse.

When Grandma moves a few paces in front of them, Richie comes over to stand at Frankie’s side, meeting his eyes and furiously signing, “Dude, you could have given a guy a little bit of warning before stopping by!” And when Frankie raises a brow, Richie quickly adds, “Not that I don’t love you and cherish all of our time together, my dear son, but-”

“Dude, I had no idea we were coming here until the taxi pulled up,” Frankie tells Richie with a shrug. “And what are you hiding, anyways?”

Richie blinks. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” Frankie’s definitely not an idiot; it’s very clear that this obvious surprise party is going to be something big, but he decides to drop it in favor of walking over to greet Uncle Mike and Uncle Ben, both of whom seem to be a little unsure of how to handle Grandma Ida.

Frankie’s not too sure what his grandmother is saying to the pair of them, but from the way that Uncle Ben quickly tucks in his shirt and tries to smooth away any wrinkles, flushing when Frankie snorts at him, Frankie can only assume that his grandmother is making quite a spectacle.

“This townhouse is quite lovely,” Frankie sees his grandmother say to Richie when he walks up to her side; Grandma peers around the living room, nodding her approval. “But I’ve always said that gay men make great interior designers.”

Beverly and Mike share a glance. Richie shrugs and goes, “Okay.”

“Patty and Stan aren’t here,” There’s a brief pause which lets Frankie know that means yet, which brings a whole new wave of excitement — the fact that he’ll see his aunt and uncle and probably his cousins again soon brightens his mood just a little bit more.

Shay’s hovering in the doorway; when she meets Frankie’s gaze, she tries running back into her room, but Frankie walks right over and hooks an arm around her neck, almost dragging her into the living room.

“Hey, Grandma, didn’t you say you wanted to meet my sisters?”

Shay beats her fist against Frankie’s bicep, and when that doesn’t work, gives him a hard pinch right on the skin of his ribs; he squeaks inelegantly and glowers down at her.

Grandma seems excited to meet Shay, Phoebe, and Charlie; growing up, his grandmother had been one of the only people to ever comment on the fact that Frankie was an only child. He remembers conversations that he’s sure neither his mother or father know he saw where she’d ask one of them, but especially Mom, if Frankie would ever get a sibling — his mother had always gotten a reserved look on her face and glanced away, Frankie unable to ever see her response to the question.

Shay’s reserved nature around his grandmother lasts all a few seconds until she realizes that Grandma Ida isn’t nearly as scary as she seems; despite the fact that Frankie’s aunt and uncles don’t seem to know what to do around her, Shay takes to her easily, laughing along to something his grandmother says and nodding, stealing glances Frankie’s way.

Richie keeps disappearing and reappearing into the room every few seconds; Frankie glares at him, narrowing his eyes, even as his stepfather raises his hands in a don’t mind me gesture.

“So you’re all in town for a little while,” Grandma says as she peers at Bev, Ben, Mike, and Bill; the four of them nod, the conversation now taking place in the kitchen. “Would I be wrong to assume it’s for the special occasion next week?”

“Well,” Mike shrugs. “I mean, sixteen and forty-five is a big deal, so-” He jolts suddenly, turning to glare at Richie. Frankie slides down in his own chair to kick the leg of Richie’s chair in retaliation, but he misses and accidentally kicks his stepfather’s shin instead; Richie glares at him.

“Do not,” Grandma cuts in before either one of them can say anything, her gray-blue eyes piercing as she locks eyes with Frankie, and then Richie, “start acting like toddlers in front of me, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” they both say at the same time.

“I think it’s great that you all came to support Franklin and Eddie,” Grandma says; Frankie sees Shay snort, his sister cupping a hand to hide her face as she mouths Franklin at Frankie.

Before anyone can say anything, a strange look crosses his grandmother’s face: it’s one that Frankie knows well, and he doesn’t have time to consider just how terrible the next forty-eight hours of his life is about to be as his grandmother goes, “Are any of you doing anything special later tonight?”

Richie blinks once, twice. “Uh…I don’t- I mean, I don’t think so, no.”

“Any big plans? Anything you would have to reschedule?”

“Grandma,” Frankie goes, already fearing that he knows where his grandmother’s mind is going.

“Well, I’d love to have all of you join me for dinner tonight,” his grandmother continues, confirming his theory. “Me and my daughter, of course. I think it would be a fantastic idea.”

Frankie can see everyone’s faces stilling for a moment; Bev and Ben glance at each other. Mike shifts in his chair. Bill opens his mouth, glances at Frankie, and then doesn’t say anything. Shay just stares at everyone with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

Richie’s the one to break the ice, “Ida, that’s- I mean, that’s a nice thought, but…”

“I for one,” Grandma continues, looking at Frankie as she continues, “have grown very, very tired of the tension between everyone in this family — and I am including all of you, save for Shay and the younger children. You are all supposed to be adults — my daughter and Eddie included. If all of you cannot have one dinner together without it resulting in an all out war, then I believe that says quite a lot about the level of maturity of everyone here.”

“I’m completely fine with having dinner,” Bev’s the first to speak, raising her hand to quiet Richie when he tries saying something, “But- and I have the feeling you’d appreciate me being blunt, Mrs. Nelson, so I’ll just come out and say it: I don’t really know if your daughter will be happy to see us, and…look, it’s Frankie and Eddie’s birthday, so they should be the ones calling the shots on that.”

Although Aunt Bev glances at Frankie, he knows that his aunt is really thinking of his father: how Dad, the person whose opinion matters probably the most of all, more than Frankie, isn’t here to give his opinion.

Grandma Ida regards Bev with a calm stare, one that Frankie thinks has a tinge of respect in it, too — for being blunt with her feelings. Grandma hates when people beat around the bush.

“My daughter should only be interested in seeing her son around people he loves,” Grandma says, and the meaningful way she looks at Frankie causes a prickle of discomfort to go down his spine, although he doesn’t quite know why; he looks down at his lap, just so he doesn’t have to meet the eyes of anyone else.

Grandma names a restaurant that Frankie loves — especially the cheesecake, which sounds fucking great right about now, although he’s not sure if that’s because he needs something else to think about other than his mother having dinner with him, his father, Richie, and the Losers or if it’s his puberty hunger talking — and she seems to win Richie over when she says, “And I’ll be the one paying, dear.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-” Richie starts, until Grandma raises a hand.

“I want to. I don’t get to spend time with Franklin often, and I want it to be my treat,” Grandma Ida continues.

Frankie doesn’t think that Dad will want to — fuck, Frankie doesn’t even want to. He already has a feeling that he knows exactly what will happen: that Mom won’t be able to spend more than five seconds around Dad and Richie and their friends, and will either say or do something that will piss Frankie off and make everything so much worse. To think of his mother having dinner with the Losers is quite possibly in of the top five worst case scenarios.

To be fair, Frankie knows that he has a penchant for being dramatic now and again — being the son of Eddie and Myra, it comes with the territory. He just doesn’t realize at the time, less than four hours from the dinner from hell, how right he is.

—

Looking back on this dinner in the weeks and months to come, it’s quite obvious to see how everything turns out the way it does from these three facts:

1. Darren is not able to come. Although Frankie texts the man more than he thinks he ever has before — most of he and Darren’s text messages involve the same topics, whether it’s dinner or what time Frankie will be getting home from school — Darren is all apologies about the fact that he’s too busy at work (at a paper company, for crying out loud) and confused at why Frankie seems so desperate for him to come; he simply reminds Frankie that everything will be okay, and to please, please give his mother grace — she’s going through a tough time right now, frankie, and she’s really going to need your support — although Frankie has no idea what that could possibly mean but, whatever.
2. Outside of the promise of good (free) food, none of the Losers want to be there. Dad and Richie do not want to be there. Frankie doesn’t want to be there. The only two people who seem semi-excited to be there are Grandma and Shay; Rosie and the twins are at the townhouse with a babysitter, and Frankie thinks that pretty much everyone is envious of the three little girls for not having to endure any of this.
3. His mother’s situation, which he is not aware of at the time, but in context, makes everything so much more complicated.

In present time, though, Frankie practically drags his feet after his mother and grandmother. Grandma has a small bounce in her step, clearly excited at the thought of entertaining and learning more about the Losers; she quizzed Ben and Mike for about forty-five minutes about their careers, and ended the conversation with a little side glance at Frankie and murmuring, “You didn’t tell me your uncles were so handsome,” which made Frankie nearly gag.

Mom looks just about as annoyed and miserable as Frankie assumes he does; Frankie, at least, will be around his family. He’ll be around Dad, Richie, Shay, and the Losers, and he knows that they’ll have his back, no matter what.

But his mother, of course, doesn’t have anyone — Darren isn’t here, and Grandma Ida will be too busy entertaining and prying into the Losers lives.

That fact makes Frankie feel pity for his mother, despite his anger; even though he realizes that this is the first time he’ll see his mother and father near each other for longer than five minutes in…well, fuck, ever since they got divorced, and even though he hates the fact that Dad has to sit near the woman who hurt him so badly, the woman in question is still his mother.

Frankie hates that loyalty for his family is so engrained into him sometimes. He hates that he feels so bad for Mom, even though this is a grave that she dug all on her own, long before Frankie knew any of the Losers, long before he knew Richie, even. That his parents didn’t get divorced because of Dad’s sexuality, or because his father fell in love with someone else — those were the final strikes, sure, but that his parents never should have been together in the first place.

As a child, Frankie thought that his parents didn’t love each other just because they were too different. He’d be seven years-old, watching his father avert his gaze away from his mother when Mom became a bundle of nerves whenever Dad did literally anything, and he just thought his parents were weird.

He was too young to know any better. And he hates that he still feels like he’s too young to know how to feel now that he knows more.

Mom stops in her tracks as they pass the hostess stand; Grandma apparently reserved them a private booth in the back.

“Mother,” Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m really, really not okay with this. I don’t- you can’t expect me to sit across from my ex-husband and that man and put on a happy face.”

“I don’t,” Grandma turns to look at her. “But Myra, Richard and Eddie aren’t going anywhere, you do understand that, right?”

Mom’s eyes flash. “I’m well aware.”

“You have Darren now; you should be-” Frankie turns away in time to miss the way his grandmother’s eyes sweep her daughter, lingering over her crossed arms, “-happy to see Franklin around people who love him.”

“I’m happy Frankie has a big family,” Mom grounds out; Frankie sneaks a glance at her, and when their eyes meet, both of them look away, “But they’re going to ambush me, Mother.”

Frankie turns to look at his mother fully, frowning.

“Myra, they seem like good people,” Grandma continues, taking off her coat and placing it on the rack outside of the private room. “Honestly, dear, you-”

“Can we just go and sit down?” Frankie’s never cut his grandmother off like that; Grandma looks at him sharply, but he lowers his head and grumbles, “Let’s just get this over with already. Jesus.”

Mom practically drags her feet; Frankie can’t help but feel that she looks like Phoebe and Charlie when they don’t get their way.

Grandma sits at the head of the table, of course, but Frankie realizes that he’s in an odd situation: at any minute, his father’s family will file in. Mom doesn’t have Darren there — Darren would have no problem sitting near Dad or Richie or any of the Losers, and if Frankie had never seen those text messages, if he’d never experienced something fucking weird in Kitty Hawk that’s been fucking with his perception of what’s real or not, doubled with the stress of high school and his extracurriculares, he’d sit next to his mother, no problem, and act as the buffer.

But when his mother meets his eyes, there’s a look of irritation there that he knows, deep down, is not directed at him at all, but at the situation in general — the fact that she’s being dragged here by her mother, and Mom still doesn't know how to say no to Grandma Ida.

But at the moment, Frankie feels like his mother is staring at him and seeing Eddie Kaspbrak there. Someone she can’t stand.

And so Frankie drags out a chair at the other side of the table, far away from his mother; Mom watches him, hurt clear as day in her eyes.

She doesn’t have time to demand him to come and sit near her, to save her from these people who she hates and don’t care for her in return, before Frankie practically feels the floor shift from the amount of feet walking up to the private room; he gets to his feet and breathes out a heavy sigh of relief when he sees Dad.

“Thank god,” he quickly signs, letting his father hug him; he didn’t get to see Dad today, and his father — thankfully — doesn’t look as upset as Frankie had imagined he’d be.

He’s definitely not happy to be here, of course. But Dad has the luxury of being among Richie and Shay and the Losers.

Dad only gives Mom a small glance before stepping around Frankie and going over to greet Grandma; Grandma gets to her feet and actually gives Dad a quick hug, saying something to him. It’s strange; Grandma doesn’t seem to be as fond as Dad as she used to be, but she doesn’t hate him.

Frankie thinks that it’s just another thing that burns his mother; that not even her own mother hates her ex-husband like she clearly does.

“How awkward is this going to be?” Shay comes to grab Frankie’s hand, glancing around the private room. “‘cus Richie was making it seem like this was going to be the longest dinner of my life, and I literally don’t know how to deal with that, man.”

“Pretty fucking awkward,” Frankie signs back, wincing.

As everyone begins to awkwardly file into the room, he realizes that the chairs are going to be taken up, and no one really wants to sit near his mother.

“Sit next to me,” Frankie hisses to Shay, dragging his sister into the seat next to him.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting next to…?” Shay looks at his mother, who’s staring at the pair of them; Shay flinches and pretends to fix her braids, turning in her chair to ask Frankie if her dress is zipped up all the way.

Uncle Ben is the last one in; Frankie watches as his uncle sighs deeply, realizing that he’s going to have to be the one sitting next to Mom. If this were a sitcom without the brutal reality of the situation, Frankie thinks this would be a comedic moment: there’d be a laugh track playing as Uncle Ben sinks into the seat next to Frankie’s mother, giving her a tight nod and looking at the person to his right — Uncle Bill — with pleading eyes.

Even though Frankie’s life doesn’t feel real most of the time with how chaotic and frightening it’s become as of late, this isn’t a sitcom: it’s awkward, extremely awkward. Barely anyone says anything or moves — not even Richie, who looks like he’d rather perform his last standup routine before he went on hiatus than be here.

Grandma Ida does not look impressed.

“Are any of you in handcuffs?” she asks, regarding all of them with a cold stare. “Is this a hostage situation?”

“Feels like it,” Richie breathes, meeting Grandma’s eyes and then pretending to fix something on Uncle Mike’s sleeve.

“The only two children in this room are Franklin and Shay,” Grandma acknowledges. “The rest of you are adults: this will be a civilized, orderly dinner. We’re here to celebrate Eddie and Franklin’s birthday, after all.”

“Here, here,” Shay speaks up in an effort to lighten the mood; no one laughs, and Shay just goes, “Damn. This is fucking crazy.”

“So,” Grandma stares at her first victim: Dad. “Eddie, how have you been? How’s work? You’re still in the same place, correct?”

“I am,” Dad answers, taking a sip of his water. “Same place.”

“Still boring,” Richie adds, smirking when Dad rolls his eyes; that alone seems to lighten the mood just a fraction.

“It’s a good career,” Grandma agrees. “Pays well, and it’s quite secure. Very good, Eddie.”

“Thank you,” Dad doesn’t seem like he knows whether or not to agree — everyone else knows that Dad’s grown a little tired of his job and wants to do something else — but in front of Grandma Ida, he decides to leave it at that.

“And I saw, Richard, that not only did you do an episode of SVU, but Myra mentioned that Franklin did one as well,” Grandma continues, nodding in approval. “I didn’t realize that you had such an interest in the arts, Franklin.”

Frankie shrugs; he likes them, he supposes. Acting comes easily to him, and he really likes having something he can do with Richie, in all honesty.

“Frankie’s great,” Bill says, giving Frankie a big thumbs up. “I mean, really talented-”

“Are you folks having a good time?” The entire room jolts when their server pops in, a massive grin on his face. “You definitely seem like you are!”

Everyone looks at one another; save for Richie, who apparently watched Ben nearly spill water on himself when the server began talking, no one is even close to smiling.

“What can I get you guys to drink?”

“Can we have a few bottles for the table?” Grandma asks, and Frankie watches as his grandmother rubs her forehead. “We’ll need it.”

“It’s wine o’ clock, amiright?”

Frankie watches Mike snort at that; Bev just stares at him, and he shrugs pitifully.

“I thought that was good,” he says as Bill leans over to give his husband’s shoulder a pat.

“Water,” Mom says sharply, frowning down at the table. “Water for me. And the kids, obviously.”

“You look like you could use a nice glass of wine,” their server says, and Frankie watches the tips of his mother’s ears redden. “You like white or red?”

“I said a water, please.”

“Oh, we have some great options,” the man continues, leaning over and practically elbowing Ben in the face as he grabs the drink menu from the center of the table. “And if y’all are their parents — which, from the looks of you,” They point at Dad, and then Frankie, “that’s definitely your kid, it’s okay if the kids have some, you know. I mean, it’s 2021, right?”

“My son will not be having a drink, thank you,” Mom cuts in, raising her hand to try and silence Dad, who literally wasn’t even talking or looking her way, “And no, I said a water. Thank you.”

“You’ll want one later,” The server gives Mom a wink. Mom’s eyelid twitches.

“I could definitely use a drink,” Frankie grumbles; Shay nods to herself, raising a finger — Richie snaps his fingers and points at her, as if to say hell yeah.

“No, you will not,” Mom says harshly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, I’m going to,” Bev shakes her head, stealing a glance towards Frankie’s mother and then, when she thinks Frankie is not looking — which Frankie is always looking, of course — shares a grimace with Uncle Mike.

After getting their drink order, their server disappears; Grandma Ida practically shivers.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Grandma mutters, shaking her head. “Regardless. Where were…?”

After a beat, Shay decides to say, “Well, Mrs. Nelson, it’s um- thanks for uh…well, it’s really cool of you to want to do this for Eddie and Frankie. I mean, it’s- you know, you only turn sixteen once,” She blinks, “Or something. I don’t know, I’m just trying to fill the silence.”

“I remember being sixteen,” Richie randomly goes, sighing deeply. “That was a long time ago, though, right guys?”

“You all have known each other for a long time, correct?” Grandma Ida looks at the Losers. “Since Eddie and Richard were children.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bill says, nodding. “Yeah, for almost our whole lives, it feels like.”

Mom rolls her eyes and clearly mutters something loud enough for Ben to hear it; Uncle Ben does an impressive poker face, although Frankie can see that his uncle looks deeply uncomfortable.

“And you’re all so successful," Frankie watches as his grandmother touches his mother’s arm from under the table, which doesn’t seem to calm her down in the slightest. “I mean, Eddie has a good career in Manhattan, Richard is a successful,” Grandma Ida blinks and decides to say, “Entertainer,” since she still doesn't particularly like the fact that Richie, at one point, had been quite a raunchy comedian, and everyone pointedly ignores the way Frankie’s mother obviously rolls her eyes. “And we have a writer, a fashion designer, an architect, and a librarian — and your other friend is an accountant, yes?”

“The second most boring job in the world,” Richie declares, smirking when Dad elbows him roughly. “But yeah, yep.”

“You know,” Grandma Ida looks over at Uncle Ben. “My lakehouse in Wisconsin is a little older, but I’ve been wondering as of late if I should think about an expansion. It feels like my family’s only getting bigger, after all, and I’d like it to be in prime condition for when I give it to one of my grandchildren.”

“Oh,” Ben blinks once, twice. “Yeah, sure. I mean — Frankie’s shown me a few pictures, it looks gorgeous. What were you thinking of doing?”

As Ben and Grandma discuss the lakehouse — definitely not an interesting topic — Frankie feels his phone buzz in his pocket and sees a text in the group chat between him, Richie, Dad, and Shay:

Richie

If you guys want a sip of wine when we get it, take the chance when myra goes to the bathroom or something. This is way too much dude

Dad :/ 

Seriously???

Honestly, it’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. Everyone just stay polite and it’ll be over soon.

Shay

i’m getting free expensive food so im good lol

keepin frankie in line too

Frankie rolls his eyes and nudges Shay; she nudges him back. He’s never been more thankful that he has her, though; it’s a little easier to deal with everything when she’s here.

Overall, the mood begins to lighten when they get their drinks and appetizers; although Mom doesn’t look happy, since no one is actually talking to her directly, she seems to be at the very least grateful to have something to preoccupy her with her appetizer in front of her. But she cracks a smile every now and then when Grandma mutters something to her, and more than once, she even looks Frankie’s way — and even though it’s still tense, he thinks, briefly, okay. she’s actually trying. she doesn’t want to be here, but she can see that no one is going to be mean to her and just wants to finish this dinner, and she’s trying. for the first time ever.

That lasts all of two minutes as their entrees come out and, after Frankie digs into his steak and has a napkin thrown in his face by Bill for saying something with food in his mouth, Grandma Ida goes:

“Oh, Ben, when I was over at Myra’s apartment, there seems to be an issue with her plumbing,” Frankie knows the problem; their faucet has been leaky, and Darren’s useless when it comes to anything blue collar while Mom keeps muttering about how their maintenance will charge her an arm and a leg for a relatively easy fix, “Now, I know you’re not a plumber, but-”

Before anyone can say anything, Mom looks up sharply and goes, “I called our maintenance man. It’s fine, Mother.”

“And when did this magical phone call take place? On our way here in the taxi?” Grandma asks, frowning.

“Oh,” Ben looks put on the spot; Frankie can see Aunt Bev looking at her husband desperately, practically reaching out to him from across the table. “I mean…well…”

Uncle Ben is a nice person; even if he doesn’t care for Frankie’s mother, Frankie knows that he only entertains the idea due to the fact that Mom is, well, Frankie’s mother.

But Mom just looks at Grandma and goes, “Mother, drop it, please.”

Grandma blinks once, twice. “I figured you grew out of this…phase,” Grandma gestures to her. “But you’re still just as stubborn as always, Myra.”

Mom’s cheeks burn red; Frankie actually feels pity at her, and a very weird sense of deja-vu: at that moment, the way that Grandma speaks to Mom is a way that…well, Mom speaks to Frankie.

Huh, Frankie looks between his mother and grandmother, I guess in all the ways that everyone compares me and Dad and says I’m like him, Mom is a lot like Grandma. And Frankie knows his mother well enough to know that the comparison would not be met with fondness.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Uncle Ben laughs awkwardly and subtly scooches his chair closer to Bill. “I really don’t want to be at all. Really.”

Frankie stabs at his steak with his fork; he ignores the look his father sends him over Richie’s shoulder, clearly privy to Frankie’s emotions.

“You know, this wine really is good,” Uncle Mike says, holding up his glass. “Incredible.”

“I’m on my third glass,” Aunt Bev comments, reaching over to clink her glass with Mike.

“I wish I could have some wine right about now,” Frankie mutters, figuring that his mother probably heard him.

She does, of course, sending him a glare down the table full of mirth.

“Well, you’re still a child,” Mom says, her expression condescending. “So no.”

Frankie clenches his jaw, locking eyes with his mother. He feels Shay touching his shoulder.

“That was a joke,” Frankie finally snaps, loud enough that everyone — save for Grandma, who just seems concerned — jolts. “I was clearly joking.”

“When are you not?” Mom snaps back, shaking her head and muttering something into her water glass.

Frankie knows he needs to drop it, but right now, he feels the anger bubbling under his skin; everyone here knows that once he gets started, it’s very, very hard for him to drop it so easily.

“Whatever,” he bites back, stabbing into his steak again. “Whatever, whatever, whatever.”

“My salad is really good,” Shay blurts, giving Frankie a glare when he looks at her. “What?” she signs, rolling her eyes.

“Frankie’s pretty mature,” Frankie faintly hears Richie say; despite the people between them, he has a good view of his stepfather’s face, and he watches as Richie looks at Mom, practically bristling. “I wouldn’t really call him a child. He’s almost sixteen.”

Mom just stares at Richie blankly, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

“Okay, so you’re back to pretending like I don’t exist,” Richie’s similar to Frankie in the fact that he also has a hard time backing down, and right now, Frankie can see that his stepfather’s patience has been worn thin. “Real mature.”

“I wasn’t even talking to you,” Mom snaps back, and then, in probably the worst decision that she could make, looks at Dad and goes, “Eddie, can’t you control him for more than five seconds, or do you just let him say whatever he wants?”

Uncle Ben shifts his chair closer to Bill, to the point where he’s practically sitting on top of him. Bev looks like she wants to start screaming, if her white-knuckled grip on her fork is any indication. Mike taps his fingers on the table cloth. Grandma just sits back, expression unreadable.

“Excuse me?” Frankie watches as his father stares at Mom, his posture stiff.

“You know,” Bill raises a hand, struggling to remain calm, “Mrs. Nelson, this dinner has been really lovely, and I’d hate to leave before dessert, but maybe-”

“I don’t know what the point of this is,” Mom takes her napkin off of her lap and slaps it on top of her plate, shaking her head. “I don’t know why we’re all sitting here like everything is normal and peachy, when this has been the most uncomfortable dinner of my life.”

“Oh, because it’s about you,” Richie can’t stop himself from saying. “Right, it wasn’t to celebrate your son’s birthday, or anything. No, it’s-”

“Do not,” Frankie jolts when Mom slaps her hand down on the table top, glaring at Richie, “ever use my child against me, do you understand?”

“Okay,” Bev sets down her fork. “You know what, Frankie and Shay are sitting right there, and they can see everything you guys are doing. So maybe we should all chill-”

“It’s amazing how I talk to one person, and five other people constantly chime in,” Mom says without even looking at Bev.

Before Dad or Bev or anyone can say anything, Frankie slaps his hand down on the table; everyone’s attention finally lands on him again.

“Can you stop?” he asks his mother, glaring at her. “You’re embarrassing me and yourself right now. Can’t you just-”

“I’m always embarrassing you, so it doesn’t matter,” Mom cuts in, looking hurt. “Frankie, can’t you see-”

“Hey,” Dad snaps; there’s so many voices and too many people moving, and Frankie’s beginning to get a headache. He wants to rip his cochlears off and tune them all out, but he knows he needs to see this, to jump in. “Don’t do that. Do not ask him for his input on any of this, Myra. You can’t-”

“Right, silly me, it’s always you two against me,” Mom looks upset, her cheeks reddening. “It’s always been like that.”

“This is like an episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” Shay whispers to Frankie; he doesn’t even have it in him to laugh.

“Myra,” Grandma lays her hand on Mom’s shoulder. “You-”

“You, too,” Mom shoves Grandma’s hand off of her shoulder and stands up, shaking her head. “This is just your whole point, isn’t it? To embarrass me, to force me to be around people who hate me?”

“Who even said anything about hate?!” Dad asks, leaping to his own feet. “Myra, you-”

“Eddie, get out of my face-” Mom puts a hand over her mouth and jolts forward; she shuts her eyes and turns sharply, hurrying out of the private room.

Frankie watches his mother leave, rooted to the spot for a few seconds and tuning out the chatter behind him before he finally gets to his feet and follows her.

He’s so angry. He’s embarrassed, humiliated, and so fucking tired of everyone and everything. He’s so angry that no one, not his mother, not even his fucking father, could just be calm for one dinner, to just- to-

Frankie sees his mother come out of the bathroom; the two of them stare at each other, Mom throwing away her paper towel and crossing her arms over her chest to glare at him.

“Why did you do that?” Frankie finally asks Mom as he walks up to her, nostrils flaring. 

“I’m sorry, did you not see any of that in there, Frankie?” Mom looks taken aback, in shock; she clearly can’t see her own involvement. She’s never been able to, and that’s only one of the many problems she has. “Did you not see your father and his friends-”

“Dad wasn’t- he was just trying to stick up for me and Richie, Mom. He wasn’t-”

“Your father got exactly what he wanted,” Mom snarls, shaking her head; it’s too public, so Mom moves towards an empty private room, out of the wandering gazes of the other restaurant go-ers and turning to face Frankie once again. “He got everything he wanted: to see me humiliated, surrounded by his friends, to be- to-”

“Why do you think Dad’s the worst person who’s ever lived?” Frankie can’t help but ask. “What, because he cheated on you?”

Mom looks stricken; she reels back for a moment and glares at him. “Your father hurt me, Frankie.”

“You hurt him too, you know.”

Frankie watches as his mother’s expression turns from shock, to puzzlement, and then to caution; she blinks and stares at him, very slowly going, “Excuse me?”

Frankie clenches his jaw and looks away; he can feel his mother’s eyes boring onto him.

“What are you talking about, Frankie?” Mom asks again, reaching out to grab his wrist and giving it a light squeeze. “Answer me, young man.”

“You know what I’m talking about, Mom.”

Mom stares at him, and he can’t tell if she wants to cry or scream at him; she doesn’t have time to do either as movement appears in the doorway, and none other than Frankie’s father comes into the room, Richie in tow.

Dad looks at the pair of them, and before he can even say anything, Mom goes in: “What did you tell our son?”

Dad takes a step back. “Excuse me?”

“Is that what’s been going on?” Mom looks from Dad, to Frankie, at Richie very briefly, and then settling back on Frankie. “Is this- this cold shoulder, the weirdness, everything, is it because your father told you-”

“Dad didn’t say anything,” Frankie points out. He didn’t have to.

“Myra, I didn’t-”

“What kind of father are you?” Mom demands, looking offended. “Is that what you all do when you’re together? Talk shit about me, about- saying that I’ve, that I’ve hurt you, that I’m this terrible mother-”

“We don’t care enough to go on about you,” Richie snaps, coming to Dad’s side defensively. “And look, you-”

“Mom, leave him alone,” Frankie interjects, and when his mother looks at him, he goes: “And yeah, you know what, I’ve been angry with you, sure. Call it a cold shoulder or whatever you want. But I’m tired of pretending like everything is okay when…” When it hasn’t been for years, even before you guys got divorced. When…

“When what, Frankie?” Mom demands, her eyes shining. “What? When what?”

“When you- you always do this,” Frankie tells her, throwing up his arms. “When you always-”

“I can’t believe you,” Mom completely ignores the rest of what Frankie’s saying in favor of glaring at Dad. “Is it not enough that you had to go and break up our family? Isn’t it enough that-”

“Hey,” Richie glares at her. “Back off.”

“No one is talking to you!”

“Don’t yell at him,” Dad snaps, laying a hand on Richie’s chest to calm him. “Myra, you-”

“I don’t want to listen to another-”

Frankie just stares at his parents, watching them all argue as if he’s not even there. He realizes very quickly that this is always what happens, how it always turns out, especially with his mother, and he doesn’t even realize how angry he is until he yells:

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

His parents snap their heads to look at him.

“I was trying to talk to you about the problems I have with you,” Frankie tells his mother, the tips of his ears burning. “And you completely ignored me to yell at Dad.”

“I didn’t-” Mom blinks, and then glances at his father. “You-”

“Stop talking to him!” Frankie screams, feeling like he’s going insane. “Talk to me! I’m the one who you should be talking to, not him!”

“Fine!” Mom screams back, turning to face him. “Fine, Frankie! Tell me, go on. Tell me what’s been going on with you. Tell me about how angry you are at me. Tell me-”

“I’m angry that you keep doing this! I’m angry that you- that it’s like…” Frankie thinks of the past few years. He thinks of all the times he’s defended his mother without question. Of the times he’s screamed at both Dad and Richie to protect her. Of the times he’s ignored his own relationship with her in favor of being fair towards her.

How fucking stupid he was. How naive.

“You always do this! It’s like you- it’s like you don’t even see me, or know me, or…”

“Oh, I know you,” And the expression on his mother’s face, the way in which she looks him up and down, gives him every indication of: i know you, and i don’t always like what i see.

“You know absolutely nothing about me! You don’t know what’s been going on in my head, or what I’ve been feeling. All you care about is being angry at Dad and Richie for shit that happened almost six years ago!”

“Because I’m hurt!” Mom snarls, not even acknowledging the first part of Frankie’s sentence — she’s too angry to see it, to understand. “You think this is easy for me, Frankie? To be in the same fucking room as these two, like your father didn’t ruin-”

“There you go, it’s always Dad and Richie, Dad and Richie!”

“You-”

“Frankie,” Dad tries to cross the space between them, looking simultaneously enraged and incredibly sad — sad for Frankie, he realizes. “Buddy, let’s just-”

“I don’t know why I keep trying with you,” Frankie finally tells his mother, and he thinks it’d hurt less if he spat at her. “I don’t know why I keep giving you all these chances.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom puts a hand on her chest. “Frankie, I had to sit there, while everyone in that room-”

“I was the only one who stood up for you, you know,” Frankie feels his voice tremble; he wishes more than anything that he could use sign, but of fucking course, his mother wouldn’t understand a word of what he said — yet another problem in their relationship. “I was the only one for all these years who was on your side. I defended you from everyone. From Dad and from Richie. I kept defending you and…and sticking up for you this whole time, Mom.”

Mom stares at him, blue eyes wide, but before she can say anything, he carries on: “But you know what? This whole time, I’m the one sticking up for you, and you just keep digging your own grave deeper and deeper. You just can’t let go of anything, and it’s like- it’s like…”

Frankie doesn’t realize he’s said it until he feels the words leave his throat: “It’s like you hate Dad more than you love me.”

“Frankie,” Mom looks stricken; Dad looks like he wants nothing more than to take Frankie away from here, from Mom, forever. “Sweetheart, that’s not-”

“You’re just using me to get back at him,” Frankie tells her, feeling years long hurt begin to rise up. “It’s either that, or whenever you look at me, you see him, and- and it’s like I’m not even my own fucking person.”

“I’ve never-” Mom shakes her head. “Baby, that’s not true. Frankie, you need to know that that’s not true.”

“How would I know that?” Frankie asks her, frowning. “Huh? When’s the last time you and I hung out together just because? When’s the last time you made an effort to talk to me about something other than school? Mom, you didn’t even learn sign language for me. And that- it hurts Mom, it really fucking hurts.”

The mention of sign is what breaks his mother’s shock; he can see his mother stiffen, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Frankie, I don’t know what your father-”

“Stop talking about Dad!” Frankie screeches. “Just pretend like he doesn’t exist for two seconds!”

“Your father is the reason why it’s broken in the first place!”

“Myra, you can’t fucking blame me for-”

“It’s always been you two against me!” Mom says, repeating herself from earlier; Frankie realizes that this must be a long-buried source of anxiety for her. “From the day he was born, it’s- you just couldn’t wait to sink your claws into him, to-”

“I can’t stomach this shit anymore,” Richie snaps, shaking his head. “Look, Myra, you need to-”

“You’re actually just,” Frankie slaps his hands against his sides. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it? I guess I should just give up.”

“Haven’t you already?”

Frankie stares at his mother; even Dad and Richie look stunned.

“What?”

“You keep blaming me,” Mom goes on, and Frankie watches as she takes a step back, trying to create distance between them. “But every time I’ve tried, Frankie, you make it abundantly clear that all you want is to stay with your father. You can’t wait to turn eighteen and get away from me.”

Frankie stares at her.

“And you’ve been changing so much over the past few years; you have such a temper, and you…I just feel like you don’t…”

She’ll never change, Frankie realizes. She’ll never change, and even worse, his mother will never see that it’s not everyone else — that she has a part to play in everything. That it’s not Myra against the world, but that she’s just as flawed as anyone else.

But this, Frankie needs to know: “Why don’t you like me?”

His mother blinks, owl-eyed. “Excuse me?”

“What did I do to you to make you not like me?” Frankie asks again, swallowing thickly. “Ever since I was a kid, you- you’ve made it so fucking clear that you don’t like me. What did I do?”

“Frankie, I love you-”

“You love me,” Frankie goes on, his cheeks burning, “But you don’t like me at all. You don’t like my personality, you don’t like spending time with me. You think I’m out to get you, and you just…you…”

“Frankie, buddy,” Dad signs, trying to get his attention. Dad looks so, so fucking heartbroken. “Come on, let’s just…”

Mom is staring at Frankie, arms crossed, until she finally goes, “I love you, Frankie. I love you so much that it hurts. And if you don’t- if you can’t understand that…”

“You say you love me,” Frankie finds himself saying, locking eyes with her, “but how can you love someone when you don’t like the most important things about them, huh?” When Mom looks confused, Frankie goes: “You wish I wasn’t Deaf. You didn’t even learn sign language for me, and you never even tried. You spend so much time pretending like I’m- like I’m not, and if you knew even one thing about me, you’d know that I’m fucking proud to be Deaf. It’s literally who I am.”

A shadow crosses over his mother’s face. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“What?” He blinks, shoulders stiffening. “What does that-”

“Frankie, you almost died,” Mom says, glaring at him. “I almost lost you. You- it wasn’t…it wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to be…”

And there it is. Even after all this time, after almost twelve years, his mother still cannot process what happened. His mother doesn’t understand that Frankie’s Deafness is not just a part of him, but that it is him. She’s never allowed herself to embrace Deaf culture as an ally in the way that Dad and Richie and his father’s side of the family do, because his mother has never bothered to learn the first thing about him.

That’s really the problem with them, at the end of the day.

“Well, it happened,” Frankie says, slow and angry. “And instead of facing reality, you’d rather just feel sorry for yourself.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Mom snarls. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but-”

“Of course you don’t! You only think about yourself!”

“Hey, is everything okay in here?” a server pops in; everyone looks at them, and the server slowly backs out, clearly not interested in getting involved.

“You’re just going to hold everything that other people did over my head for the rest of my life, like I’m the one who did it,” Frankie snaps, finally glaring back at his father. “Look, you two were the ones who got married in the first place, okay? You guys were the ones who decided to have me! I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask to be here, or to be in the middle of your fucked up lives!”

“Hey!” Both his mother and father say at the same time.

“And you,” He looks at his mother, trying to swallow back the hurt. “It’s like…you know, it’s like, ever since the divorce, and when….when I left school….”

“You didn’t leave school,” Mom says, slow and mean. “You were expelled, Frankie. And then no private school wanted to take you, so you had to be homeschooled for eighth grade, and had to go to a public school for high school.”

For some reason, that’s the most hurtful thing that Mom has said to him the whole night; he feels like the wind gets kicked out of him as he takes a step back.

“Mom,” Frankie squeaks out. “That wasn’t…”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

Frankie knows that his father and Richie are a millisecond from running across the room and taking him away, from cursing out his mother; but before anyone can move, another figure appears in the doorway, silencing everyone with a calm, “Myra.”

Frankie looks over to see his grandmother standing there, watching them all with a cold stare.

“Frankie, please go back to the table. I need to speak to your parents.”

Frankie doesn’t even have it in him to fight; he just turns and walks away, moving out of the way of Richie’s hand when his stepfather tries touching his shoulder. He looks away from Grandma Ida and slowly walks back to their private room, tail between his legs.

He doesn’t look at anyone when he gets back into the room; he feels everyone’s eyes on him, and he knows he looks like a mess. He lowers himself into his chair and sees that a cheesecake is on the table, waiting for him.

“Um,” Shay’s the first to break the silence. “I know it’s your favorite, so we…you know, we saved you a slice.”

Frankie just nods.

He feels a hand touching his wrist; Aunt Bev.

“Frankie…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Frankie mumbles. “And you guys eat it. I’m not hungry.”

His aunt and uncles look at one another; he knows that they must’ve heard everything. The whole restaurant probably did.

After a moment, his grandmother comes back into the room, taking her place at the head of the table once again.

“Well, this cheesecake does look divine,” Grandma Ida says, getting up and swatting away Uncle Mike’s hands when Mike tries to cut the cake for her, “Please, Michael. Enjoy watching a professional at work,” she adds with a wink.

Frankie watches as she plops a slice onto his plate; he doesn’t move to touch it, watching as his grandmother gives everyone else a slice. Mom, Dad, and Richie don’t make an appearance, and Frankie notices that Grandma does not put a slice on any of their plates — he figures that his grandmother told them all to get the fuck out, probably. He feels bad for Dad and Richie, since he knows that they tried, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to see either of them right now. He definitely doesn’t want to see his mother at all.

After the cheesecake has been served, Grandma sits back at the head of the table. “Well, come on, now. Everyone eat up; this cheesecake is supposed to be the best in the city, you know. Or so Gina M. says on Yelp; I’ll be the judge of that.”

Frankie just stares at his plate.

After a beat of silence, Grandma, never one to shy away, finally goes, “Well, that was…it was something, wasn’t it? Some would say dinner and a show, but- well, that wasn’t a very good show, if I may say so.”

“Definitely not,” Shay breathes next to Frankie, looking over at him sadly; his sister keeps leaning into his side, trying to get his attention, but for once, Frankie doesn’t crave her comfort.

“You know, people say things sometimes when tensions are high, Franklin,” Grandma says, clearly attempting to be nonchalant. “I gave your mother a stern talking to, though. And I figured it was best if Eddie and Richie took a breather; it was too much energy in such a small room. I think everyone would agree.”

Although no one vocalizes it, it’s clear that yes, everyone would agree.

“Your mother- well, she has a temper. And…,” Grandma stops talking when she sees Frankie look back down at his plate, clearly lost in thought. 

He can’t stop thinking of the way his mother looked at him. How she didn’t acknowledge anything he said. Using him getting expelled from private school — when he thought she’d been proud of him for standing up for what was right, after she defended him and tried to fix his record — just to hurt him, to be mean.

“Franklin, please look at me so you can understand what I’m saying.”

Slowly, Frankie does.

“Over the course of your life — a relatively short life, mind you, as everyone over the age of twenty-five in this room knows — you’ve been a witness to the downfall of your parents' marriage. You’ve had to rationalize it and brush it off from an early age, and you’ve had to be caught in the middle of this distasteful tug-of-war between both of your parents. Foolishly, I thought…well, I thought perhaps I could try and push your mother into seeing that the only person in this room that should matter to her is you.

“Frankie, you’ve had to swallow a lot of hurt and resentment over the years. You’ve had to see people say that your parents should have never gotten married, and talk about lists of regrets and resentments. But young man, one thing you will know before leaving this room, that you have never, ever been a regret or something that should not have happened. You were never a mistake; I don’t want you to think that about yourself. The only good thing that came out of all that mess was you. Do you understand me?”

Slowly, Frankie nods. “I do, Grandma.”

“Good boy,” Grandma smiles at him, warm and soft, before her expression narrows and she goes, “Now elbows off the table, Franklin. And eat that cheesecake. You know I hate wastefulness.”

—

His aunt, uncles, and Shay offer to walk him back home; Grandma Ida takes a taxi, and although no one says it, Frankie gets the feeling that the vibe is clear: Dad and Richie are still cooling off, and Grandma leaves early to probably try and give Mom yet another talking to before Frankie gets home.

His uncles and aunt decide to take them out for boba; Frankie doesn’t usually care for boba, but Margo likes it — sometimes, when he walks her back to her apartment, when it’s just the two of them, Margo will pick a flavor and make Frankie close his eyes as he tries to guess what it is, only to squeeze the straw and not let him get any of the tapioca pearls.

There’s an ache when he thinks of his friend; even though he knows that Alex and Oliver, due to how long they’ve known him, would understand just how fucked up tonight was, the only person that Frankie wants to see right now is Margo. To have her walk alongside him and sit next to him on a bench in Central Park, getting his attention to show him a page in the book she’s reading.

Shay’s trying, though. Frankie feels embarrassed that the Losers and Shay had to witness that, but he feels bad for Shay — he knows how much she likes being with them all, and he feels terrible that him and his fucked up family dynamic keep ruining things for her. But she keeps pointing out random people to him and trying to push him onto the uneven parts of the sidewalk to make him laugh, and her trying to create a sense of normalcy for him helps just a little.

It’s not until they’re at the subway station though, Bev rolling her eyes and reminding them all that it’s the easiest and quickest way to get to where they need to go, and that Dad will just have to suck it up when they tell him about it, that Frankie takes a moment to really think back onto dinner.

The subway station is relatively barren at this time; they’d just missed the A train by a few seconds, even though from the way that everyone was packed into the carts, he figures it’s not a bad thing. But it’s just them and a few other people, all of whom are either staring down at their phones or talking to one another, not paying them any mind.

Shay’s talking with Mike and Bev about something or other, excitedly bouncing on her toes when Bev smiles and murmurs something to her; Frankie guesses that she’s finally worked up the courage to ask Beverly about any old purses that Bev would want to give away to her. Frankie doesn’t know much about bags, but he’d mentioned that Bev would talk every now and then about some vintage Coach bags that have been sitting in storage for years one time, and Shay had practically screamed with excitement.

It looks like Bill’s in the middle of talking to someone; probably someone who recognizes him and wants to talk to him about his books, he’s not entirely sure.

Everything feels like so much. Frankie’s used to fighting with his parents, especially his mother; he knows he’s angry at her, that in some ways, he’s the one who started it. Who asked for this. He saw the texts between her and Bev, and the anger kept building and building, after all. Right?

I gave her so many fucking chances, Frankie thinks, shutting his eyes. That’s what he’s really angry about, he realizes: Frankie is not someone who gives out multiple chances to people. He’s frustratingly loyal to those he cares about — so much so, that he’ll burn bridges with other people he loves just to protect someone who he deems needs it. He saw his mother being talked about behind her back for years, and time and time again, he defended her. He fought with his father and Richie, the Losers. His cousins and friends. For years, over and over again. He stuck up for her when no one else did, and he had to realize that his mother wasn’t who he thought she was.

Frankie knows that most people aren’t; he’s not quite the person that everyone around him seems to think he is (smart, kind, worth fighting for). But he stuck up for his mother time and time again, and tonight, to repay him for it, she wrote him off. She used his pain against him to hurt him — it’s a trait that he shares with her, he knows. He feels even worse knowing that that’s how it must feel whenever he’s done it to Dad or Richie.

His mother is a deeply flawed person, but more than that, she’s fucking mean. She’s hateful and spiteful. Or maybe she was at that time period, and tonight it resurfaced, but he tried for fucking years to stand up for her. He protected her.

He did all that knowing that she never really understood or saw him. He just thought…he figured that maybe one day, maybe she’d try a little harder. That she’d…

Frankie feel himself crouch down against the side of the wall; he’d never sit on the floor of a subway station, fucking ew, but he stares down at the concrete, feeling hot tears burning at the back of his eyes.

How stupid. How naive and childish.

“I guess Bill’s out giving autographs,” He’s faintly aware of Uncle Ben coming up to stand next to him. He can feel his uncle’s eyes on the back of his head, and Ben crouches down slowly to hover at his side. Frankie’s grown taller; at this point, he and his uncle are almost the same height. “Frank? Frankie, are you…?”

Frankie swallows. “I’m fine, Uncle Ben.”

“Are you…?” Frankie glances at his uncle, and Ben’s eyes are so sad, so heartbroken. “You are.”

“I’m not,” Frankie’s crying, though; he hates crying in front of people. He hates showing weakness or vulnerability. He’s had to be strong his entire life; he’s had to take care of both of his parents, to be the rational one when they both decided to spiral into their respective anxieties. He had to be strong when his father left his mother and left Frankie behind to deal with it, and strong when his father showed him over the years that he had a hard life, much harder than Frankie knows his will ever be. “I…”

He’s so tired of being a pillar. He’s so tired of being emotionally intelligent and mature. He wants to be young and stupid.

“You are,” Ben repeats, and gently, his uncle touches his shoulder, and then allows his hand to move across his shoulder blades and wrap around him, tugging Frankie into his side. “Frank, it’s…”

It’s not okay, obviously.

“What did I do wrong, Uncle Ben?” When Frankie looks up at his uncle, he sees Beverly, Mike, and Bill hovering inches behind Ben; Frankie doesn’t see Shay at first, until he feels something press into his side, and glances to his other side to see his sister there, putting a hand on his wrist. “What did…”

“Frankie,” Ben says sternly, “You did absolutely nothing wrong, do you understand me?”

“I…”

“You’re the one person in this whole scenario who did everything you were supposed to do. None of this is your fault, okay?”

Frankie sniffles, feeling a tear track down his cheek. “Okay.”

Beverly comes to crouch in front of him, pressing a kiss to his forehead; his aunt usually doesn’t show such broad displays of affection, but he knows that perhaps in this moment, she’s seeing herself crouching there instead of him.

Frankie feels a rumble underneath his sneakers, and wind whips across his face as their train speeds past and slows to a stop; no one leaving the train even looks at them as they step off to go wherever it is they need to go.

“That’s our train,” Frankie hiccups.

“There’ll be another one,” Mike murmurs, patting his shoulder. “Just sit here for a moment, okay?”

So Frankie does.

—

He and his mother do not speak to each other when he gets home. Grandma Ida stays with him awhile, talking to him for a little bit about this and that, before having Darren take her back to her hotel. Before Darren leaves, Frankie sees him hesitate in the hallway; Frankie watches as the man turns and looks at him, his expression so sad and heartbroken.

Frankie wonders why Darren sticks up for Mom so much, sometimes. Normally, Frankie likes the fact that Darren treats Mom so well and loves her so much — she has become better because of it, Frankie knows. But it hurts that Darren was able to do that so much easier than Frankie or Dad ever could. That Mom was willing to change for Darren, and not for Frankie.

Darren opens his mouth to say something, before closing it and giving Frankie a long, sad stare and a small wave; Frankie waves back and goes into his room, locking the door behind him. Dad and Richie text Frankie a lot; Dad sends him wall of text after wall of text, apologizing profusely and asking Frankie if he feels safe, if he’s okay. If he needs Dad to try and find a way to come over, to figure something out. Richie just apologizes; there’s no jokes or trace of humor in the texts at all.

They feel terrible, and Frankie knows that Dad and Richie aren’t blameless, obviously. Dad should have fucking tried harder when he was married to Mom, and Richie eggs Mom on quite a bit when they do meet face-to-face. But at least they know Frankie. They see him, and they accept him.

Frankie stays in his room for the entire night, only getting a few hours of sleep before he has to get up for school the next day.

—

Frankie knows that all of his friends know something is wrong; he stays quiet the entire day, stiffening his shoulders when Isaac plops down into the chair next to him during one of their many classes together and refusing to study together for their American History quiz the following day. When Isaac huffs and tries going in on him for it, Frankie just glares at him and turns his desk away from his friend, not wanting to talk about anything at all.

Frankie softens when he sees Margo, but only a little; he has a massive soft spot for Margo, and when she sits next to him in Attic Greek, he can feel her concern coming off of her in waves — he knows that she’s worried for him. That she wants to help him, to know what’s wrong, but Frankie doesn’t quite feel like anyone can help him, really.

He stays at his desk after the bell rings; his friends hover around him, watching him curiously, but Margo just nudges Isaac and says a soft, “Tell me about it later, Frankie,” before leaving.

“Frankie.”

Right before he finally is about to leave the classroom, Ms. Morris turns in her chair to face him; his teacher watches him, nodding towards the free chair in front of her desk.

“Please sit.”

Frankie drags his feet and sits down in the chair, looking at the whiteboard behind his teacher. He barely remembers anything from this lesson.

“Is everything okay?”

Frankie looks at his teacher; her odd gaze, one brown and one green, stares back at him, concerned.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m very concerned about you. You’re so quiet.”

“I don’t like talking much,” Frankie tells her numbly. 

“From the amount of times I’ve had to tell you and your friends to quiet down during study hours, I don’t think that’s quite true, Frankie.”

Ms. Morris is a serious woman; she doesn’t often tell jokes, but she cracks a tiny smile at that one, sighing when Frankie simply stares back at her.

Frankie doesn’t really feel like he should trust more people, is the thing. The trust that he had in his mother feels so fractured; maybe it’s because the wound is so fresh, but he feels betrayed by her. It’s silly — those honors should probably go to his father, after all. But Frankie’s hurt, he’s angry, and he’s so, so tired.

But Ms. Morris is his teacher; she’s always been kind to him, and he likes her quite a bit. She’s offered to listen to him in the past, and so slowly, Frankie goes:

“I got into a really bad fight with my mom is all.”

Ms. Morris nods slowly.

“We fight all the time, so… I mean, I should be used to it, I guess. But last night it was…yeah, it was kinda bad. Not- I mean, I’m safe and everything. But we just…”

“I’m sorry, Frankie.”

“I should be used to it,” Frankie repeats, shrugging. “I…I mean, we- my mom and me, we don’t really get along most of the time.”

Ms. Morris hesitates for a moment before asking: “Is it because of the divorce?”

“I used to think it was,” Frankie finds himself saying, picking at the bottom of his hoodie. “I used to think it was ‘cause my dad left and got a new relationship but…you know, it’s kind of always been like that between me and her. Ever since I can remember.”

He thinks of when he was younger — maybe seven or eight — and his mother nearly yanked him out of the pool when he jumped in without warning; Frankie had rolled his eyes, flushed and embarrassed that she was tearing into him in front of so many people.

“Mom, everyone else is doing it!” he said, frowning when his mother’s cold blue eyes swept him up and down.

“You’re not everyone else, Frankie,” his mother had snapped, narrowing her eyes as she continued, “Why are you always so difficult? Why can’t you ever listen? It’s like you enjoy making me so nervous!”

Or when he was five, coming home from school and seeing his mother on the couch; he ran full-speed at her and jumped right into her lap, all elbows and knees, turning to grin up at her and frowning when his mother let out a noise and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, tossing him off of her.

“That hurts, Frankie!” And when Frankie had laughed, thinking maybe Mommy was playing a joke on him, his mother’s face twisted with hurt. “And you think it’s funny!”

All the times his mother has pushed him away. All the times she’s defaulted to yelling at him and assuming the worst from him. It’s been like that before the divorce, and it’s only getting worse, not better.

I can’t fix her.

“I just,” Frankie looks down at his lap, shutting his eyes. “I just…I was so angry at her these past few weeks, because…”

“You can talk to me, Frankie,” Ms. Morris lets a moment of silence hang between them before adding, “Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I get the feeling that you don’t have many adults to talk to about these kinds of things.”

He did once; he had a therapist for a few years, but to think of going back to Dr. Novik now, head hanging, knowing nothing has improved, feels embarrassing — and he knows that it’s not, that there’s nothing wrong with needing her again, but he can’t muster up the courage.

He should be able to talk to his father and Richie, but especially his father. There’s a childish part of Frankie that wants Daddy to rescue him again and make everything all better, but there’s a mean part of him that thinks about last night and realizes: you’re the one who did this. you’re the one who married her and had a kid with her, and you just- you ran away from us when it got too difficult, and now i’m the one who has to fucking deal with the fallout of everything.

He can’t bear being mad at his father, too. Dad tries, at least.

“I just wish she was different,” Frankie finally says. “I keep expecting her to be. She has Darren, and…and Darren’s helped her a lot, she’s a little bit better than she used to be, but she’s still…”

She still doesn’t like me, Frankie feels hollow. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why she had a kid and decided one day that she didn’t like him.

Everyone on his mother’s side of the family has told him at some point how all his mother wanted was a child; that all she talked about in the years between her and Dad getting married and having Frankie was how excited she was to have a baby. How, when she was pregnant with Frankie, Mom bought a bunch of baby books and spent hours decorating the nursery, just for him. Got embroidered baby blankets with his name on it and gushed about how well her pregnancy was going and how excited she was to meet him.

She loved me before she met me, Frankie realizes, but then when she had me, I guess…I guess her imagination just didn’t live up to reality or something.

“Frankie,” Ms. Morris looks sad for him; his teacher isn’t one who shows much emotion, stoic and serious, but right now, Frankie thinks that he’s never seen her look more sad than she does for him. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t tell him that that’s not true, that he needs to try to fix everything with his mother. That he should give his mother a chance. Ms. Morris just listens and nods.

“And your father,” Ms. Morris murmurs, frowning. “What’s his role in everything?”

“Me and my dad get along really well,” Frankie says, shrugging. “My dad…I mean, I get why he divorced my mom. I know he had to, and…I mean, my mom and dad are both in better relationships now, I know it was a good thing…”

“Right. But what’s been your father's role in the relationship with your mother?”

Frankie looks at his teacher, brow furrowed.

“I’m not a psychiatrist, or a counselor," Ms. Morris tells him honestly. “But…and I’m just going off of what you’ve told me, Frankie, but your father divorced your mother because of your stepfather, right?”

Frankie nods, not following.

Ms. Morris looks like she wants to say more, and it’s in the silence that Frankie realizes what she’s saying: he divorced Mom for Richie, but not for you.

Frankie thinks of how quickly his dad jumped into a new life; Dad got a new apartment and had a boyfriend before Frankie fully grasped what was going on — he knew his parents were getting a divorce, that his father had to leave. That it was not Frankie’s fault and, as his father was halfway out the front door, Frankie following him-

Wait, Frankie thinks hours later, sitting in Central Park, going over his memories. The memories of the night his father left are fuzzy, as most memories from his childhood tend to be, but now they begin to slowly surface. I thought I….

Frankie remembers being in his room when his parents were fighting, cochlears off and sitting on his nightstand so he didn’t have to listen to them. They thought he was asleep, but Frankie could feel doors slamming throughout the apartment, and he woke up, getting to his feet and following the vibrations.

He remembers his father tugging out a suitcase, hands moving erratically as he talked to Frankie’s mother. Mom, crying and screaming, grabbing at Dad’s hand and trying to bring him back.

Frankie disappeared to grab his implants, even though back then, they didn’t pick up the amount of noise that they do now, just to see if he could hear a little more; when he came back, Dad was looking at Mom, expression stricken. Mom was holding herself and shaking her head.

Dad reached out to touch Mom’s arm; Mom reeled back as if burned, slapping Dad’s hand away harshly.

“I’ll never forgive you for this, Eddie,” Frankie heard his mother sob. “I’ll never forgive you for doing this to me and Frankie.”

Frankie remembers watching his father bite his lip and look away.

Stay, Frankie thinks, shutting his eyes. Please stay. Please don’t leave me here with her. Please, Daddy, don’t leave. Take me with you.

Frankie remembers taking out his backpack and trying to put some clothes in there as quickly as he could; the pitiful nature of this memory burns deep in his gut now at almost sixteen, as he remembers how desperate his ten year-old self was to get away from his mother.

Mom had disappeared into a different part of the apartment, and Frankie saw it as his chance; right before Dad left, Frankie ran up to him.

“Frankie,” Dad looked panicked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Buddy, you need to go-”

“I wanna go with you,” Frankie had said, brown eyes wide. “Dad, come on, please-”

“Not yet, okay?” Dad signed, his expression pained. “I just- it’s going to be for a few days, okay?”

“You said that last time,” Frankie remembers the way his mother looked after that phone call. Your father is in the hospital. Long fingers, hooked claws, trying to reach Frankie through the darkness the night his father left on that spur of the moment trip, yellow eyes- “You…”

“It’ll be a few days, buddy, and then,” Dad tried to look hopeful, smiling through his heartbreak as he signed, “and then it’ll be me and you, okay? I just- I can’t take you with me just yet, kiddo. You have to stay here, with your mother.”

“I don’t want to,” Frankie signed back stubbornly. “She doesn’t know what I’m saying half the time, and…” And it’s going to be really bad if you’re not here. I need you.

“It’s going to be okay, Frankie,” And then Dad had wrapped his arms around Frankie, tight. He rocked them back and forth, and Frankie knew it was killing his father. That all Dad wanted to do was snatch Frankie up and take him with him, but he couldn’t. Mom would lose her mind if Dad took Frankie. “I promise. You’ll see. It’s going to be okay, and…”

Frankie remembers his father wrapping his pinky around Frankie’s, tight. “I pinky promise, Frankie. It’ll be for a few days, and then I’ll be back.”

Please don’t leave me with her, Daddy, Frankie doesn’t know if it’s his ten or sixteen year-old self begging. Please come back.

Dad came back; the two days later, actually, to sit Frankie down with Mom and to officially tell him that they were getting a divorce. That they had to work out a custody arrangement, but that they loved him very, very much. That sometimes, marriages just don’t work out, and that it’s okay.

Mom looked crestfallen throughout the entire conversation. Heartbroken. Dad was just focused on him.

Now, Frankie runs his fingers through his hair, feeling just as stupid and clueless as he did back then. Knowing that his father hurt his mother, that Mom has reacted the way she’s been because she’s in pain — even though she has Darren, even though the pain has lessened — and because Mom is just as stubborn as Frankie is: once someone has burned them, it’s hard to let it go.

Frankie feels bad for his mother. He feels terrible for his father.

But mostly, he just feels sorry for himself.

—

Frankie and his mother are great at their cold wars; they’ve had quite a few in the course of their lives, but this one is quite possibly one of the worst. Frankie and his mother barely see each other, and when they do, they don’t look at one another, going to separate sides of the apartment and staying there. Frankie stays out with friends for as long as he possibly can, and Mom stays later at work, just to avoid him.

Grandma Ida and Darren don’t know what to do; Grandma is annoyed that she has to talk separately to them, that even when Mom and Frankie are in the living room with one another, they won’t look at each other.

On a Friday afternoon, Frankie home early from school, Darren comes into his room; Frankie watches as his mother’s husband hesitates in the doorway before shutting it behind him, crossing the space between them and gently lowering himself onto Frankie’s bed.

Darren’s never come into Frankie’s room like this before; their relationship is different than the one he has with Richie. Frankie likes Darren a lot and thinks he’s a great guy, but Richie’s pretty much Frankie’s second father and one of his closest friends; Darren is Mom’s husband.

But now, Darren looks at Frankie and goes, “You’re going over your father’s for the week in just two days.”

Frankie shrugs.

“Frankie…,” Darren sighs deeply. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Frankie mumbles, shrugging again. “I told you before you and Mom got married: get used to it.”

“I really don’t want to get used to this,” Darren tells him, much sharper than he usually ever is; Darren closes his eyes and sighs again, looking so sad. “Frankie, I…”

Frankie picks at the covers; he’s never really craved comfort from Darren before. Their relationship isn’t exactly awkward, but it’s just different than what he has with his father and Richie.

But Darren is the only person who Mom actually talks to, it feels like. Darren seems to know Frankie’s mother better than anyone, probably even Frankie’s own father, ever has, and so, Frankie finally blurts:

“Does Mom hate me?”

Darren looks at him, eyes wide. “No, Frankie. She doesn’t. Not at all. She doesn’t hate you.”

“It feels like she does,” Frankie murmurs. “It feels like she can’t stand me.”

Darren shifts on the bed, turning to face Frankie completely. “You and your mother have such strong personalities, Frankie. I like to call Myra a porcupine; when her defenses are raised, she’s sharp and hides within to protect herself.”

“She’s probably not too happy about that nickname.”

“You’d be right about that,” Darren chuckles, shrugging. After a moment, Darren continues: “I wish I’d been there. Things got too out of hand too quickly; I think your grandmother has the right idea to want us all to be together, for us to be a real blended family. Regardless of how Myra and Eddie feel about each other, they have you: everything they do needs to be about you, not about them.”

“Everyone’s told them that,” Frankie mutters, annoyed. “I know you’ve told Mom that.”

“I’m not defending her,” Darren tells Frankie softly. “She told me about…about the fight she had with you, Frankie.”

She probably made herself look good, like it was all me being an angsty fucking teen.

"I wish I'd been there," Darren repeats, and Frankie can see how sad Darren is. Frankie feels a tinge of guilt for being partly responsible for him feeling that way; making Darren upset is on par with hurting Uncle Ben or Uncle Mike's feelings: they're just too kind and giving, and don't deserve to feel horrible, ever. "I wish..."

"Well, you weren't," Frankie's tone isn't sharp; he's mostly just fucking exhausted. "But Mom was, and she really let me have it, Darren. And- look, I know you love her, and I know you want to protect her, but you're..." Too late, Frankie thinks, and the thought of that fucking hurts: to feel like, at nearly sixteen, the relationship between he and his mother is too broken to be fixed.

Frankie's always thought that there'd be a maybe one day for them; that maybe Darren could break through to her before it turned out like this. Frankie's so tired of giving second and third and fourth chances and having it thrown back in his face.

"She wants to talk with you, Frankie," Darren tells him, his eyes sad behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "She wants to fix this."

"Then why are you here, and not her?"

Darren gives him a knowing look; Frankie's so frustrated with the fact that he understands what his stepfather means, that Mom is waiting and hiding because she's afraid of getting burnt. Just like I am.

Frankie has spent his entire life being compared to other people — his father, his grandfather who he's named after, but being compared to his mother gets under his skin in a way that seldom anything else does. It's hard for him to come to terms with the fact that, despite looking like his father physically, so many of his personality traits actually come from his mother.

(Lately, as he grows taller and starts to fill out more, he's beginning to wonder if he's starting to resemble her physically, too. If perhaps his mother is finally getting what she wants — for there to be some trace of her within Frankie.)

"I'm going to be there the whole time," Darren pauses. "Your grandmother is at her hotel; something about there being some exclusive dinner that she managed to talk her way into, I think. But..," Darren hesitates for a while before he reaches over and touches Frankie's hand; they don't hug much or show physical affection very often. But Darren gives his hand a squeeze, and Frankie doesn't pull away. "I'm in your corner, Frankie; I want you to know that."

Frankie looks at his stepfather, frowning. "I always thought you had Mom's back."

"I love your mother," Darren says seriously. "I thought- I thought I'd never feel that way about another person again, up until I met Myra. I love her strength and her passion; she's fiery where I'm a little," Darren laughs softly, "well, bland."

Frankie snorts; he can't help it.

Darren looks emotional as he continues, very softly: "I know that our relationship is very different from yours and Richie's, and I respect that — I can see why you love Richie so much. He's wonderful, really. But...," Darren swallows, and Frankie can't look at his eyes as he watches his stepfather go: "You were my second chance to have a child, Frankie. After I lost my daughter..."

"Darren, you don't have to-"

"Whatever happens," Darren tells him seriously, and the look in his eyes is determined, "I need you to understand that, Frankie. That your mother and I will always, always care for you no matter what, okay? That...that nothing can replace you, or take your place."

Frankie's brows furrow; he doesn't miss much, but there's a thought that crosses his mind — sudden and strange, since he thinks he'd know if that was going on — and he blinks.

"Darren, what...?"

"Come on," His stepfather nods towards the door. "I have your back the whole time, Frankie. I promise."

—

In true Darren Lee fashion, the intervention takes place in the living room of their apartment: Mom is sitting on one chair, Frankie on the opposite, and Darren brought over one of the dining room table chairs to sit in between them to be their mediator.

And worse of all, there's a pillow that Darren calls the Talking Pillow, something Frankie knows is from Breaking Bad, which makes Frankie wonder when in the world Darren, of all people, watched that show.

The pillow sits on the coffee table between Frankie and his mother; neither of them know who should be the first to grab it.

"Myra," Darren finally says, taking the pillow and passing it to Mom. "You should start."

Mom holds the pillow in her lap; she's not looking at Frankie, but she seems to be very, very uncomfortable. Frankie can't tell if it's because she feels bad, or if she's angry that she has to be here in the first place.

"I...," Mom blinks once, twice. She thumbs the end of the pillow and then purses her lips. "I don't know what to say."

Frankie just stares at his mother, arms crossed over his chest and leaning back into the couch cushions, waiting.

Darren's gaze flickers over to Frankie, and then back to Mom. "Myra, I know you do." Frankie wonders if Mom and Darren rehearsed an apology or speech or something — knowing them, most likely.

Mom hesitates, and then looks up to meet Frankie's eyes. Finally, she goes: "I lost my temper with you. I felt provoked and cornered, and I got angry with you. I need to control my temper, and...to not let your father and those people-" Darren reaches over and touches Mom's wrist; Mom stops bristling, "-get under my skin like that. I wanted you to have a nice dinner, even if- you know, your birthday is next week, so my mother really could have waited, but-"

Frankie just stares at her.

"I...," Mom sighs deeply. "I know I need to work on not...letting things spiral like that. I need to… Well, it shouldn't be like that. And," Mom meets Frankie's eyes. "Frankie, I..."

Frankie shifts in his seat, uncomfortable; he wants, more than anything, for this all to be true. For his mother to apologize and for them to start over. He doesn't want to be angry with her. He doesn't want her to hate his father. He wishes he never saw those text messages, that he didn't remember any of the shit from the divorce. He wishes he could pretend that his mother was a different person.

"Frankie, I'm sorry."

Frankie nods. He looks down at his hands.

Darren takes the Talking Pillow from Mom and passes it to Frankie.

There's so much he wants to say to his mother. Not all of it is hostile — he wants her to tell him that he was being overdramatic for saying she doesn't like him. For her to take back what she said about him getting expelled. To promise that she'll be nicer to Dad, that maybe she'll work on apologizing to him.

Frankie hesitates, thumbing the pillow. He's so afraid of being burnt again. He feels like forgetting and putting the relationship between him and his mother behind him, swallowing the lifelong hurt and resentment, will be a coward's way out. He wants his mother to love him, all of him, not just the parts that she deems worthy.

"Thank you," Frankie finally says; he feels like that's good enough for now.

Darren's smiling in encouragement; he's nodding to himself, seemingly pleased with this outcome.

But when Frankie looks at his mother as he places the pillow back on the coffee table, Mom's expression is unreadable.

"What?" Frankie asks, brows furrowing.

Mom frowns. "Is that it?"

"Is what it?"

"Is..," Mom furrows her brows and crosses her arms over her chest. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Is that..." Frankie feels a cold anger beginning to build; he fucking knew it. He knew it, he fucking knew it. "Seriously, Mom?"

"Myra-" Darren tries to say, but Mom just glares at him.

"Frankie, a lot was said the other night."

"Yeah, ninety-nine percent of that came from you, not me."

"You-" Mom blinks, throwing up her hands. "I can't believe this."

"What do you want me to say?" Frankie demands, staring her down. "Huh? What is it you want from me?"

"You said very hurtful things to me, Frankie," Mom hisses. "And- and as your mother, you-"

"You said fucked up things to me, too!" Frankie snaps back. "Are you really going to throw a tantrum just because I got mad at you?!"

"You're hearing this, right?" Mom looks at Darren, who just looks down at the Talking Pillow, sighing deeply.

"I fucking knew this was going to happen," Frankie growls. "You'd think I'd have learned by now."

"And just what is that supposed to mean, young man?" Mom gets to her feet right after Frankie does, crossing her arms over her chest. "Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm fucking sick of this, Mom! I'm sick of you treating me like shit!"

"I do not treat you like shit, Franklin!"

"You're the one screaming at me because I didn't bow down and apologize to you! And I didn't even do anything!"

"You-"

"Please stop," Darren tries to get in between them. "This isn't helping."

"I'm done, anyways," Frankie snaps, leaving the living room. "I'm going into my room."

"No, you are not," Mom moves in front of him, arms crossed and eyes ablaze. "You're going to tell me what you mean. What did I do?"

"Everything, Mom!" Frankie yells back, angry. "You just- it's fucking everything!"

"Give me an example!"

"I did! You didn't learn ASL for me, you barely like spending time with me, you-"

"You're being so-" His mother's cheeks are red, her eyes glassy, "-so dramatic!"

"Coming from you, that's fucking rich, Mom!"

"I knew this was a bad idea," she snarls at Darren, turning and going towards the kitchen.

"Myra, please," Darren follows her. "You two need to talk to each other, to-"

"I'm dramatic, huh?" Frankie goes around his stepfather and follows his mother into the kitchen. "Me?"

"Just go into your room," Mom snaps, moving around the kitchen. She looks a little pale, clutching her stomach. "Frankie, just- just..."

Frankie stops, concerned; he stares at his mother with furrowed brows. "Mom?"

“I'm gonna be sick," Mom puts a hand over her mouth and runs past Frankie and Darren, tearing through the living room and down the hallway; Frankie barely registers Darren's resigned look, his stepfather going into the cabinets to grab some things as Frankie follows his mother down the hallway.

When he goes into the guest bathroom, he sees his mother hunched over the toilet, vomiting.

"Mom?" Frankie frowns. "Mom, are...? I mean, you're not that angry with me that I'm making you sick to your stomach, are you?"

His mother doesn't even acknowledge him, breathing heavily, her hair dangling in front of her face as she grips the toilet seat; in a normal state, his mother would never do such a thing.

Darren slips past Frankie and into the bathroom, carrying some wet wipes and what looks like Emetrol — an anti-nausea medication — and brushes the hair from Mom's face as he gives her a bottle of water.

It's strange how the little things over the past few weeks that Frankie didn't pay much attention to, or had just thought were kind of weird, begin to suddenly click into place. Why Mom ran from the table the other night. Why she hasn't touched a drop of alcohol in weeks. Why she's been so...

"Are you pregnant?"

Mom slowly looks up from the toilet; she sways slightly, wiping her face with some paper towels and shutting her eyes. Darren has his hand on the small of her back, holding her in place.

For how perceptive Frankie is, he can safely say he didn't expect this. His mother and Darren really haven't talked about having kids; he always assumed — and he hopes this isn't a weird thing to say about his mother — that Mom was too old now to have kids. That she didn't really even like children, if the relationship she and Frankie have is any indication.

Neither of them correct him. Darren looks apologetic; his little comment in the bedroom makes so much more sense now. Why he's been so protective of Mom and her feelings, more than usual.

"You're pregnant," Frankie repeats, touching the doorframe.

Frankie doesn't know a lot about pregnancy; just the bare bones, really. He wasn't around day to day to see Aunt Patty or Aunt Bev when they were pregnant — he only got little glimpses, after all. But he feels like, from the way that his mother and Darren are acting right now — like how Phoebe and Charlie look when Dad or Richie catches them doing something they weren't supposed to do — and the way that Grandma Ida went from questioning everything Mom did on the first night she got to Manhattan, to an odd, resigned manner of dealing with her, means that Mom has known for a while.

"Okay," Frankie blinks. "Okay." He gives them a thumbs up and leaves them to it; he's back in the living room by the time he sees Mom following after him, still a little unsteady, but her eyes determined.

"Frankie, I-"

"I mean, that's cool," Frankie shrugs. "Congrats, I guess."

"Frankie," he can see Darren say from behind Mom.

"I just," Frankie frowns. "When were you planning on telling me, Mom? When the baby comes out or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother says. "I was- I was going to tell you soon, it just-"

"You've known for a while," Frankie points out. "I can tell. And clearly you told Grandma, and I'm sure Aunt Karen knows too, so… I mean, were you ever going to tell me?"

"Of course I was," Mom repeats, crossing her arms over her chest. "I just-"

"I don't believe you," Frankie bites back.

"When was I supposed to tell you, Frankie?" Mom demands, throwing up her hands. "When you were ignoring my texts? Shutting yourself in your room? The other night, at dinner, in front of all of those people? When you were yelling at me-"

"For the last fucking time, you were yelling at me, too-"

"I wanted to tell you! I was going to tell you! But it's not like tonight was the night I was going to go, hey Frankie, by the way, I know you're angry at me and clearly don't want to speak to me, but I'm pregnant!"

"You know what, yeah! I would've been okay with that!"

"Can you two just stop it already?" Darren comes in between them, expression pleading. "Just stop it! This isn't how a family is supposed to be!"

"It's not like I want this, Darren!" Mom tells her husband, gesturing to Frankie. "Can't you see I'm trying?!"

"Oh yeah, she's trying, Darren," Frankie snaps, "Can't you tell?"

"Stop it!" Mom screams, and Frankie sees that her eyes are shimmering — she looks seconds from crying, and for a moment, he feels bad. He feels terrible for pushing her so much, but then he remembers that she's the one who pushed him first. "Just stop it, Frankie!"

"Fine! I'll just go to my room!"

"No, you will not!" This time, it's Darren who speaks: Frankie and Mom are both practically stunned into silence, staring at the man with wide eyes. "No one is going anywhere! The three of us are going to talk about this as a family!"

"I-"

"Myra," Darren looks at his wife. "You love Frankie. Frankie means everything to you — isn't that true?"

"Of course it is," Mom looks offended that he'd even ask.

"And Frankie," Darren whips his head to look at Frankie. Frankie has never seen his stepfather look this close to being upset before. "All you want is for your mother to talk to you, right? To answer your questions and explain herself?"

"Literally, that's it."

Before Mom can say anything, Darren steps aside and goes, "Then go ahead. Ask her something, anything."

"Okay," Frankie stares into his mother's eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why didn't you learn ASL?"

Mom blinks at him. "I-"

"I want you to explain it to me without bringing up Dad or Richie or any of the Losers. I don't want to know about what Dad did or didn't do. I want you to tell me why you didn't learn, and why you still refuse to learn."

"I...," Mom looks at Darren; her husband just frowns.

"Myra, don't look at me," Darren says, and from his expression, Frankie thinks his stepfather's tone is gentle, "Look at your son. He's the one asking you."

Mom shuffles her feet, arms crossed protectively over her chest. "I...the doctors...," Mom swallows, "The doctors told me not to. They told us- they said that if you were to learn ASL, and if you didn't get your implants, you'd...you'd have delays. Learning and speech and...that it was better for you if we just- if we got you the surgery and treated you like everything was normal."

Normal. The word strikes against Frankie's heart; the idea that being Deaf isn't normal, that there's something wrong with him because of it.

"That's what they told me, Frankie," Mom insists, frowning at his expression. "They told me that it was better for you and your development if we didn't. They- that's what the doctors said, and- Frankie, the doctors told me that! The audiologist and- and your pediatrician, they all told us that!"

Frankie just stares at his mother; he figured as much. He's known other people who have similar situations as him — whose family did not teach them ASL. And generally, it's for similar reasons: hearing doctors view Deafness or being hard of hearing as something to cure and fix.

But then...Dad...

"Dad learned," Frankie says, swallowing. "Dad taught himself. He pushed me to go to ASL classes and to learn alongside having my implants, so why..."

Mom looks down. She shuffles her feet.

"So why?"" Frankie implores, staring at her. "Why did Dad do all of that, and you didn't? Why?"

"Your father- he… Your dad read all these books and talked to people after you got sick," Mom says. "He told me that everyone he spoke to said that you should learn. I reminded him what the doctors said; he got upset and we- look, Frankie, you just said you didn't want to talk about your father."

Frankie thinks he can understand: Dad, due to his childhood under Grandma Sonia's rule, was terrified of unnecessary medical procedures and writing off what Frankie wanted or needed. That Dad — and Dad has never said this directly, maybe doesn't even realize it himself, but Frankie's always thought this to be true — because of his sexuality and the craving he had for a community, to understand himself more, wanted Frankie to have that. Dad talked to Deaf people and realized that there was a culture that Dad or Mom could never teach Frankie, that Frankie should have for himself.

Dad wanted Frankie to have the choices that Dad never got.

"So you just," Frankie shrugs numbly. He figured as much, but it's different to have his mother say it. "You just didn't try, because...because of the doctors. Cool."

"Frankie, they told me that," Mom says again, adamant. "I'm sorry if that's not good enough for you, or-"

"No, it's not good enough," Frankie snaps. "Not really. Because- okay, so some fucking doctors told you when I was a kid not to do it. But then you saw how much it meant to me to learn ASL, to meet and talk to other Deaf people. You can see how much I struggle with- with oral conversation sometimes, how fucking frustrating it is to have to lipread and how exhausted and overstimulated I get! You saw all of that, and you still didn't learn! You're not telling me everything, Mom. You're just telling me the short version, and I need to know right now what it was that made you decide to not learn. I deserve to know."

"I-"

"Why, Mom? Why did Dad learn and not you? Why didn't- when me and Dad used it in front of you, all the times you'd tell us to stop excluding you, why didn't you pick up a book or watch a Youtube video and fucking try? Why?"

"You told me not to!"

Frankie stares at his mother, stunned speechless.

Mom's actually crying now, tears down her cheeks; she wipes at her face as her shoulders shake.

"I...," Frankie blinks. "What?

"When you were little," Mom says, sniffling, "When you were little, I- I wanted to try. I used the home signs we made up after you first lost your hearing, and...and when I saw… I wanted to try. I thought- I thought maybe they… I thought they could've been wrong, you know? That maybe Eddie..."

Frankie waits.

"I tried learning a few signs, you...you were maybe five or six. I don't remember. I tried, and then- I mean, I wasn't good at all, but I tried to show you, and you," His mother takes a deep breath. "You said: I only want Daddy to talk to me with signs."

Frankie doesn't react when his mother says that; he doesn't even blink. He simply stares at her, the room around them feeling very, very still.

"That's what you said," Mom continues, wiping at her face. "That's what you told me. You said...you said that it was something you and Daddy had in common. You told me to stop talking in sign language with you."

For as long as Frankie can remember, all he wanted to know was why. What it was about him that made his mother put up so many walls. Why she pushes him away.

Mom waits, staring at him. She's waiting for him to react, maybe to apologize. To go oh my god mom, i don't remember. i'm so terrible!

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Mom's eyes widen.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Mom?"

"Frankie-"

"You're telling me," Frankie says slowly, his blood beginning to boil, "that because one time, when I was a fucking kid, I told you that I liked talking in sign language with Dad, that that is why you refused to learn?"

Mom clearly didn't expect this reveal to make him so angry; in her mind, this logic makes sense: the hurt that she feels justifies the years long ableism that Frankie's had to endure.

"Mom, for years I've been- all I've wanted to know was why. Was what the hell was so goddamn wrong with me that you didn't want to learn."

"Nothing is wrong with you, Frankie," Darren says faintly.

"I wanted to know why my own mother kept pushing and pushing me away, why you- why you didn't want to share that with me, why you… That's all I wanted to know."

"I-"

"And you mean to tell me that that's your big reason? That because you're so fucking- fucking..."

"Frankie," Darren frowns. "Frank, maybe-"

"Frankie, I didn't- I didn't know how to react to that!" Mom says, backing away. "What was I supposed to say? What was-"

"You should have been a mother! I needed my mom!"

"I've always been your mother! I'm not the one who left us, Frankie! That was your father! He's the one who left, who- who turned his back on us! Your father, and you’ve always chosen him! You choose him over me every time, ever since you were a baby! You've always chosen him!"

"So that's what it is? You think- what, you think I love Dad more or something?"

"I do," his mother snaps, freely crying now. "You make it very clear that you've always preferred him over me."

"You know what," Frankie snarls, his cheeks burning, "Right now, I do."

Mom looks stricken; she's never expected him to actually agree, he imagines.

"Dad loves me for who I am. Dad's always been there for me, he's always stood up for me. You make it so clear that I'm- I'm a big fucking mistake, that you wish you never even had me!"

"That is not true!" Mom roars back. "I never, ever want you to say that again!"

"You're probably so fucking happy to be pregnant right now, to have another kid who won't be such a huge fuck up! Who won't look like Dad, and who you can get it right with this time!"

"Frankie, that's not true," Darren interjects. "I think- this has gone too far. We need to all take a breather, and-"

"I love you, Frankie! I always have! I'm not the one who left!"

"Dad left you," Frankie says, low and mean. "He didn't leave me."

Mom has to hold the side of the sofa to keep from falling. He watches as his mother's cheeks go from pink to red. Her eyes glistening.

"What did you just say?"

"He left you," Frankie repeats. "He left you because you're a manipulative, selfish, hypocritical person. He left you because you bullied him and pushed him around, just like his own mother did-"

"You have no idea what the hell you're talking about, Franklin Kaspbrak."

"I do. Dad left you because Richie loves him and cares about him. Dad left you because he couldn't stand to be around you! And I fucking wish he'd taken me me with him that night! I wish I didn't have to live with you or see you or talk to you ever again!" Frankie clenches his fist. "I fucking hate you!"

Darren looks like he doesn't know whether he needs to stay in the room, or call for backup; Mom is strangely silent, staring at Frankie.

A long stretch of silence goes between the three of them, until Mom finally goes: "Then go."

Frankie blinks. "What?"

"Then go. Leave. Go stay with your father."

"Myra," Darren says, touching her arm. "Myra, no. We need to calm down, and-"

"If I'm such a bitch," Mom plows on, "If I'm such a manipulative, heartless mother, then you go and stay with your father. Go and live with him from now on."

"Mom," Frankie hadn't actually expected that; he's pissed off and fucking hurt, yeah. He's so goddamn angry, angrier than he's ever been in his entire life. But he never...he didn't... "Mom, I-"

"Get out of my house!" Mom says, actually pointing to the door. "Go and stay with him! If you love him so much, then go! I won't keep you locked up anymore, Frankie! Go and be a big boy and stay with your father, and tell him what a witch I am! Just go!"

Frankie watches his mother, swaying just slightly. He never expected this, ever.

I love you, he thinks randomly, unsure of where that came from. I still can't stand you. I just want my mother to love me.

"Okay," Frankie swallows, turning. "'kay. I'll go."

"Frankie, no," Darren says, trying to stop him. "No, no. You're not leaving."

"I'll, um," Frankie blinks back tears. "I'll just...you know, I'll see you later, Darren, maybe. I don't know. It's not your fault."

"Myra, don't do this," Darren says to Mom, pleading. "Don't make him go. We can fix this, we can-"

Frankie grabs a few of his things; his backpack, his keys. His laptop and his Switch. He doesn't know if anything else matters. He hikes his backpack over his shoulder and walks down the hallway, past Darren.

"Frankie, don't leave," Darren says again. "Please, we can..."

"I'll see you, Darren," Frankie says numbly, refusing to look at his mother as he walks out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

Frankie doesn't cry as he walks down the hallway and to the stairway, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible. He doesn't cry as he waves goodbye to the receptionist at the front desk and goes out into the street, nor when he goes to the subway station and waits for his train. He doesn't even bother texting Dad or Richie; maybe it's for the better if they're out with their friends or something, so he doesn't have to face them. He really, really doesn't fucking want to talk about it.

What Frankie does not know — and of course he doesn't — is that after the door slams, Darren turns to face his mother, demanding to know what that was all about. Telling her to go and fix this. Frankie doesn't know that his mother stands there, swaying in the living room in her sweatpants, arms hugged around herself as she begins to sob, burying her face behind her hands. He doesn't know that his mother shoves past Darren and tears open the front door, running down the hallway towards the elevator. With his mother's pregnancy, she can't go down the stairs to run after him — that would have been much quicker, and she might have caught up to him.

By the time his mother gets down to the street, Frankie's already long gone, stepping onto the train; his mother doesn't know which subway line to take or where to go. Frankie doesn't know, and won't for a very long time, that his mother sits on the sidewalk in the first trimester of her very unexpected pregnancy, sobbing into her hands. Darren walks up behind her a few minutes later, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders and rubbing her back while she sobs, rocking back and forth.

—

Frankie doesn't actually get off at the stop near his father's house; he stays on the subway for four more stops and reaches the apartment building of one of his best friends, Oliver.

Oliver opens the door; his friend is excited for all of two seconds until he takes into account Frankie's demeanor and goes, very seriously, "What happened?"

"Would your parents be cool if I stayed the night?" Frankie asks, frowning. "Just...just for the night, I..."

"Come on," Oliver leads Frankie inside; both of his parents are sitting at the island in the kitchen, looking up when they see Frankie come in.

"Can Frankie stay the night?" Oliver signs.

Mrs. Ramirez immediately gets up and pads over, her dark eyes concerned. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"I got into a fight with my mom and she kinda...," Frankie shrugs. "Kicked me out, so..."

"You can stay as long as you like," she tells him, laying a hand on his shoulder when she's finished signing. "Go on, get showered and changed, and I'll make your favorite."

Every time Frankie stays over, especially when tensions are high, Mrs. Ramirez makes him arroz con dulce: it's a Puerto Rican rice pudding that Frankie finds he always craves whenever he's upset.

"I don't know if my pajamas still fit you," Oliver comments, digging around in his dresser. "Wait! My brother gave me his old t-shirt — yeah, you're definitely gonna like this one."

It's a lame graphic t-shirt with the words I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE on the front; Frankie has the feeling that Oliver was keeping this shirt hidden up until this exact moment.

Frankie showers and gets changed; he had to borrow pajama bottoms from Oliver's father, since Oliver still hasn't hit the same growth spurt that Frankie has: Frankie is not only taller than his best friend, but his hips and waist are wider.

"So," Oliver asks, brown eyes concerned. "How bad?"

Frankie pushes around his rice pudding with a spoon. "Pretty bad."

"I'm sorry, Frank."

Frankie shrugs.

Oliver doesn't tell Frankie to go and apologize to his mother, or pry further; Oliver's always been good like that. A pillar that Frankie's relied on ever since he can remember, Frankie's very first best friend, back in the days where he didn't really know what a best friend was, just that Oliver Ramirez was the only kid in their school who talked to Frankie and liked him. He was the first kid their age to give Frankie a chance.

Frankie hasn't shared a bed with his friends since he was in middle school, but he craves the comfort; Oliver lays next to him and they play video games together until Oliver falls asleep.

Frankie pads out into the hallway a little while later and, going out on a limb, dials a number.

She answers on the second ring.

“Frankie?” He jolts when he hears Margo’s voice coming through the Bluetooth in his implants; he’s still not a hundred percent used to it, even after all these years.

“Is now a bad time?”

“Not really, but…is everything okay? Are you alright?”

“My mom and I got into a huge fight, and she kicked me out,” Frankie sits in the living room; because of the fact that both of Oliver’s parents and his older brother are all Deaf, Frankie’s not worried about waking anyone up, especially since Oliver is an insanely deep sleeper. “So. Physically, yeah, but…I don’t know. I feel like shit.”

“I’m so sorry,” Margo breathes. “Frankie, I…”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

“Yeah,” He hesitates, picking at the flannel pajama pants. “You’re actually the first person I called. I’m over Oliver’s right now, but…I haven’t even told my Dad or Shay yet. I just- I couldn’t…”

Margo is quiet for a little while, until: “And you called me?” She seems amazed, as if the thought that Frankie would call her first is shocking.

“Yeah,” Frankie suddenly feels shy; it’s not out of sadness, really. A little bit of embarrassment: to have a close friend, but especially a girl that he cares about a lot, having him vent to her. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is, dummy. I just…I wish…” She sounds so sad. “I wish I could…you know, be there.”

There’s a long stretch of silence; Frankie feels his ears burn.

“I just mean…,” Margo coughs, “I just- as…”

“I wish you were, too.” And he does.

He has a fantasy in that moment of laying in the same bed or on a sofa with Margo; it’s not explicit at all. But he imagines what it would be like if she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest, listening to the sound of his breathing. If he could feel her heartbeat against his ribs.

It’s intimate. It’s an image that he doesn’t have with anyone else but her. He feels like, if Margo Diaz was with him right now, he’d feel better instantly.

But she isn’t; Margo talks to him for a bit about everything and nothing, and then she goes, “I was just reading.”

“What were you reading?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” she tells him, sounding shy. “I really like it, and…um. You know, I think- I think you would, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you read some of it to me?”

“Huh?”

“Whatever page you’re on right now, can you…you know, read it to me?” Frankie shifts on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over his legs. “People say that when you read to someone, it helps, and…I mean, I usually don’t get that chance, so…”

“Sure,” Margo says, and then she begins to read the page she left off on: she laughs and stutters over the words, and when she apologizes for it, he tells her:

“I like your voice,” he murmurs sleepily. “I think it’s,” He yawns behind a fist, “Relaxing.”

“I like your voice, too,” Margo says quickly, and then Frankie hears her breath hitch. “I mean, um- I’m sorry if…”

“You do?” he can’t help but ask. Frankie’s not as self-conscious of his voice as he used to be, but there’s times where it still affects him. Sometimes, he’s wondered if maybe Margo didn’t like it; there’s a moment where he thinks: maybe she doesn’t think it’s cute.

“I do,” she answers honestly. “It’s you, and I, um…,” She clears her throat. “Well, you’re my best friend, and I like you.”

His heart thumps in his chest. “I like you, too.”

Neither of them say anything for a little bit, until Margo picks up on the page she left off. Frankie falls asleep to her reading to him.

—

Frankie does not want to tell his father or Richie what happened; on Saturday morning, by the time eleven rolls around, his father texts him multiple times in quick succession, wondering where he is and if he's safe, what happened. Frankie answers back that he's fine and spent the night at Oliver's; yes, he's sorry he didn't text. Yes, he's safe. No, he doesn't need Dad or Richie to come and get him.

But in the afternoon, Frankie finally goes to his father's townhouse; by the time he can see the stoop, he sees the door open and his father's head peek out of the doorway, Dad hurrying down the steps and walking towards him.

"Buddy," Dad goes, speed walking up to him, "Frank, I-"

"I'm really tired," Frankie says, accepting the quick hug. "I just want to crash."

"We need to talk about it," Dad says, and Frankie realizes that either his mother or Darren, but probably Darren since Mom fucking hates his guts, let Dad know that Frankie left their apartment last night, and since Frankie never came over, his father was probably in a state of anxiety all morning. It probably reminded his father of Kitty Hawk, of Frankie getting lost in the woods.

In any other circumstance, Frankie would feel more guilty about that.

"Mom kicked me out," Frankie tells his father, shrugging. "What else am I supposed to say to that?"

"Frankie," Dad says, gripping his elbow; Frankie sees Richie coming out of the townhouse, quickly moving down the porch steps and towards them. "Are you okay? I- Kiddo, I-"

"Can I just go and lay down?" Frankie asks his father, craving the quiet of his room. "I don't really want everyone staring at me and talking about it right now. I just want to lay down."

His father definitely does not want to leave it there, but he can't exactly bar Frankie from going into his room; Richie looks like he wants to say something. Probably to curse Mom out or something. But Frankie can't stand to have eyes on him, so he walks past the pair of them and into the townhouse, giving a little wave to his aunt and uncles before slipping into his bedroom.

No one bothers him for a while; Frankie keeps it dark, the only source of light coming from his phone as he scrolls through social media. Oliver and Alex check in with him; they know the most about his relationship with his mother. Oliver has a fuck ton to say about Mom's explanation for not learning ASL, but Frankie doesn't even have it in him to laugh about any of it.

It's after a while that Shay texts him; he leaves it ignored, but then she texts again. And again and again. And then he sees movement flickering from the light streaming under his door, and realizes that she won't leave him alone.

Frankie gets up and opens his door; Shay doesn't even say anything before pushing past him and coming inside.

"That's rude, you know," he tells her; Shay ignores him and flicks on the light. He squints, shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he goes to sit back up on his bed.

Neither of them say anything. Frankie figures she'll just sit here until he budges.

But finally, she gets his attention and goes, "She really kicked you out?"

Frankie frowns; Shay's dark eyes are soft and sad. He can't stay mad at her, really; he's become insanely close to Shay in the year she's lived with them, and he cares for her a lot.

Frankie brings his knees to his chest. "Yeah."

"I'm so sorry."

Frankie shrugs.

"Are you going to be okay?"

Frankie shrugs again. "I have to be, I guess."

"Huh?"

"I've always," Frankie swallows, crossing his arms over his knees. Sadness grips his chest tight as he says, "I've always had to be okay. I've always had to be strong and okay, because...because someone had to be, I guess. Someone had to keep us all sane."

"No one can be strong forever," Shay lays a hand on his shoulder. "And I definitely don't think you should."

Frankie looks at her.

"Your life is kinda messed up," Shay admits with a frown. "I don't know how you've been able to keep it together for as long as you have with only minor mental breakdowns, dude."

"What about you?"

His sister blinks.

"You've been through a lot," he tells her, because she has: Shay lost both of her parents. She spent years in the system. She's been through things that Frankie will never understand. "You've been through so much, and you're so… I don't know, calm. You know what to do with it," A beat. "I wish I was like you."

Shay tilts her head to the side, tapping her nails on his knee to get his attention. "What?"

"Your parents died, and you... I mean, I don't know what I'd do if that happened to me," Frankie closes his eyes. An image of his father, dying and bleeding, blood staining his chest, comes into his mind. Whenever he's imagined his father getting hurt, that's always what he sees. "I'd go insane. I wouldn't..."

Shay looks towards the wall of Frankie's bedroom, where he has some vintage Gamecube posters that Richie and Bill bought him years ago tacked onto it: Tony Hawk, Pikmin, Super Monkey Ball.

"I did lose my mind," Shay admits with a shrug. "I almost had to repeat the fifth grade. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I would spend entire days loitering in the Barnes & Noble in Union Square, just to be by myself. I didn't give a shit about anyone, but especially not myself; after my parents died, I just..."

Frankie watches her.

"It was a car accident. So fucking random. I spent years telling myself that I could've stopped it somehow, that I could've...that maybe if I'd been good that day, that maybe if I'd been a better daughter, they'd still be here. That it was a fucked up, horrible dream. I couldn't… I was horrible to my aunt, the one who took me in after they died. I'd scratch her and slam doors in her face and tell her to fuck off, pretty much every day. I was so fucking mean."

"You were grieving," Frankie tells her softly.

"Yeah. But it didn't mean it was okay to take out on her, not like that. She was grieving, too; she lost her sister, and..." Shay swallows, adjusts the sleeve of the t-shirt she's wearing to bed. Frankie realizes it's one of his old ones that he gave her months ago when she asked for some, just because you definitely have some, and i need a shirt that i can get dirty. "I didn't treat her well. But my aunt, she sat me down one day and told me that I couldn't carry the pain I was in for the rest of my life. That I couldn't become lost in the grief, or lose myself because of it. It wasn't what my parents would have wanted for me, and..." Shay blinks and wipes at her face; without thinking, Frankie offers his sweatshirt sleeve to her. She rolls her eyes but uses it, squeezing his fingers in her own. "At the time, I didn't get it. But I started to realize that my whole life was passing me by, and… I just couldn't be angry anymore. It was too much."

Frankie stares at her. "You've just- you've been through..."

"You've been through a lot too, you know."

Frankie blinks. "A divorce isn't the same as..."

"I mean, okay, sure. Objectively, yes. But I don't like comparing pain like that," Shay tells him, and then she looks so sad as she touches the palm of his hand and goes, "But you have been through a lot, Frankie. Everything you've been going through ever since the divorce isn't easy," After a moment, she goes, "You just brush it off like it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't."

"It does," Shay tells him, "because it happened to you, and it hurts."

Frankie swallows and nods. "I guess I have been through a lot," he admits with a weak laugh. "It doesn't always feel like it, but..."

When Frankie thinks of his life, it often comes in non-linear flashes: a memory here, a memory there. But for one of the first times, he forces himself to think of the major events of his life from start to finish: he thinks about what it was like to recover from meningitis. How it affected his family. He thinks of how fucking lonely it is to be the only Deaf person in an entirely hearing family. He thinks of his older cousins excluding him and picking on him. He thinks of kids on the playground covering their mouths and running from him; he used to spend recess sitting alone by his teacher, tracing shapes in the sand because no one wanted to play with him. He thinks of watching his mother and father, two fragmented and sad people, trying to pretend like their marriage was normal. He thinks of what it was like to have a mother who was miserable, who wanted a baby so badly but didn't like the baby she was given; of a father who had such a hard go at life, who didn't know how to be anything else other than what he is now. Of the divorce. Getting kicked out of school. He thinks about Kitty Hawk, of Roscoe almost dying. His father's fear — you think you can do these things, but you just can't! — and of the past few days.

Frankie has never given up in his life; he won't now, obviously. But he wonders if another person would have in his circumstances — is he just being dramatic, or was his life a little more difficult than he thought it was?

"I wish," Frankie swallows thickly; he can feel himself folding in on himself. "I just wish..."

Shay leans over; he can't say what he wants to, not to her.

I want everything to go back to how it was, he thinks for one of the first times ever. He wants to go back to when he was little and all he cared about was racing home to eat the grilled cheese his mother was going to make for him.

He has a memory, bright and dream-like, of walking between both of his parents: Dad had one hand, Mom had the other. And then Dad gently picked him up on one side, and even though Mom huffed, she eventually smiled and lifted up the other side, letting Frankie dangle in between them as he squealed with laughter.

He craves that memory like no other; he doesn't know why, really. He knows that the life he has now with Richie and his sisters is better than the awkward and depressing childhood he had growing up.

But weirdly enough, he realizes as he lets Shay rest her head on his shoulder, her presence calm and unflinching, he misses the times — brief and fleeting — where all he knew was that Mommy and Daddy loved him more than anything, and he was their one and only special baby.

—

Frankie gets quite a few text messages from Darren and his grandmother; both of them want to know if he's okay, and Grandma goes on about how she's giving Mom a stern talking to or something, he's not sure.

He doesn't get a single one from his mother.

—

After he badgers her, Shay finally tells Frankie that yes, Dad and Richie are fucking pissed at his mother. Of course they are. That the time in between them getting the notification that Frankie wasn't at his mothers and finding out where he actually was, Dad had been in a state of panic; Shay had seemed a little sad as she said that yeah, Dad almost drove over to go and curse out Mom. That the only reason he was holding back was because he didn't trust himself to say what he needed to at the moment; he was too angry.

"I figured Darren texted," Frankie finally mumbles, shrugging.

"It was your Mom, actually," Shay says, frowning. "And she called, she um...," Shay shifts. "She was crying. A lot, from what I could hear."

Frankie just looks away.

—

Frankie supposes it’s a good thing he’s here now; it’s clear that Richie’s planning something major for Frankie and Dad’s birthday in the upcoming week. Every time Frankie sees a package, Richie scoops it up and carries it to another room, barring Frankie from entering; the Losers are tight-lipped, pretending to forget entirely that their birthday is coming up at all.

It’s a welcome distraction, of course. It’s nice.

But on Monday, someone comes to the front door of the townhouse; Richie comes over to get Frankie, looking vaguely concerned but not exactly upset, and tells him that Darren stopped by.

Frankie comes over to meet his stepfather on the porch; he can tell that everyone is ready to support him and insanely curious, but he shoos them away and shuts the front door behind him.

Frankie’s not mad at Darren; Darren tried, at least. Frankie doesn’t know why Darren’s still here, honestly, but he’s a good man, and Frankie knows that his mother at least has him — even if Darren is too nice, too giving.

“Hi,” Darren says first.

“Hey.”

It’s awkward; not the usual funny, unserious awkwardness that comes up sometimes with Darren, but a tight, uncomfortable silence that Frankie doesn’t know what to do with.

“Frankie, I…”

“Darren,” Frankie murmurs, shaking his head, “Just stop, okay? This isn’t your job.”

“I hate how things happened the other night, Frankie,” Darren says; he looks so sad. “And…”

“You shouldn’t be the one over here,” he points out, frowning. “Mom should…she…”

“I know,” Darren says seriously. “Believe me, I know.”

“I’m supposed to be here now, anyways. So- if she… I mean, she has to wait until Sunday, I guess.”

“Your birthday-”

“She doesn’t give a shit about my birthday,” Frankie rolls his eyes.

“Frankie-”

“Darren, look,” Frankie lays a hand on Darren’s bicep; he’s not angry with Darren, but he’s so frustrated. He’s angry that his stepfather is over here to clean up Mom’s mess, and not the woman herself. Frankie would respect it if Mom were to come here, knowing that Dad and Richie were right behind that door, but doing it because she loved Frankie enough to try and fix what she did. “I like you. It’s not- I’m not angry with you.”

“Frankie…”

“But next time, tell my mother that if she has something to say to me, not to send you,” Frankie says, the hurt beginning to build up within him again. He wants to forget about her; his sixteenth birthday is soon. The Losers are here, and Stan and Patty and their kids are going to be coming any day now. It’s clear that Richie has a big party planned, and that’s what he wants to focus on. Not her. “Tell her to grow up and come over here herself.”

“Frankie, I’m sorry,” Darren repeats, and Frankie fucking hates that Darren has apologized more times than her.

“It’s fine, Darren,” Frankie says, shrugging. “Look, Richie’s clearly planning a big party-”

Darren’s head snaps to the door; Frankie blinks, and when Darren meets his eyes, he goes, “I think Richie just shouted no, i’m not.”

Frankie rolls his eyes. “Go away, Richie! This is private!” Looking back at Darren, he goes: “And I’m just focusing on that, okay?”

Darren looks so sad; he’s like a kicked puppy. Frankie feels bad for him.

But then he thinks of his mother, and the hurt returns in waves as he says: “And tell Mom that she can go and be someone else’s mother now, okay? That she’s getting the second chance like she’s always wanted, and I’m not going to be in her way anymore.”

Darren looks stricken; Frankie has nothing else to say, really, so he opens the door and goes inside. Everyone does a fantastic job of pretending like they weren’t listening, but Dad, namely, has wide eyes, staring at Frankie.

“Oh, yeah,” Frankie says to his father as he starts walking back to the kitchen. “Mom’s pregnant, by the way.”