Making the Grade
Chapter 10
Frank allows me to wake myself up the next day, seeing as it’s a Sunday. I head into the living room to see him still asleep on the couch. I quietly creep over to get a better look. His lids are heavy against his eyes, and his mouth a faint line. His hair is a ruffled mess, and the blanket has fallen off of him. He’s wearing Coke pajama bottoms with an oversized Christmas sweater, which has risen to the bottom of his ribcage, bearing not only his stomach and waistline, but also displaying quite a large chunk of his bright pink American Eagle boxersm the ones with the little grey and black birds all over them. I shake my head at his cuteness and roll the blanket back over him, going to the bathroom.
I return to the kitchen initially for a glass of water, but after finding this note,
“Dear Gerard,
In case you wake up before me, feel free to make whatever you want for breakfast. Be careful to clean up after (I know I know I’m a neat freak). I should be up by 11:00 ish. There’s a TV and lots of books in my room which you’re welcome to browse through for entertainment, seeing as you didn’t bring anything along with you but clothes, understandably. See you soon, kiddo.
Your friend, Frank”
I smile at the note, noticing that it’s only 9:30. So, I make myself some breakfast, and go back to Frank’s bedroom, watching an episode of Jackass. I’m done with my cereal about ten minutes in, and decide to look through Frank’s book collection, which is massive. There’s a large shelf, a crate of them, and a hanger full of them on the back of his door. I find some comic books, including the Pokémon Adventures series and Kill Your Boyfriend. I leaf through Kill Your Boyfriend, which I’ve read about 8,000 times, when Frank appears in the doorway, showered. His hair hangs in wet snarls, framing his face. He’s wearing a light wash denim button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his tattoos. The low collar reveals both of his neck tattoos and those on his forearms. It’s weird to see all of his tattoos in their full glory. I’ve only seen them one other time; when he had mistakenly worn a short sleeved shirt to school. Other than that, he keeps the tattoos that aren’t on his hands very well hidden. He’s wearing tan khakis that are a touch too long, so long that they’re rolled up and cuffed at the ankle. He hangs in the doorway, arm slouched lazily against it. “You know, that’s a good comic.”
“I know,” I agree. “I’ve read it.”
Frank smirks.
“What?” I ask, sensing his grin. I finish the page and then looking at him, playing up my hazel eyes.
“Many books will be read once, but only a special selection of books do we take the time to read more than that,” Frank tells, that smile still painted onto his face.
I shake my head, grinning myself. He offers,
“I’m about to make lunch, if you want to help?”
“What are we having?” I question.
“I was thinking… spaghetti? Do you like that? Cause if you don’t, then I could totally make something else. It’d be no problem at all except I’m vegan so there’s kind of a limited option of food I can eat and of course the sauce will be meatless,” Frank rambles.
“That’s fine!” I cut in. Frank stops and blushes, and I apologize. “Sorry. Just didn’t want you to wear yourself down.”
Frank becomes abruptly chipper, beaming and repeating, “So, are you helping me or what?”
I stand, tossing the comic onto the bed. I follow Frank into the kitchen, rolling up my own sleeves as we walk.
Frank chops up a bunch of vegetables on a pink cutting board, of course not without asking me if I like every single one that he severs. I dump the sauce in, and Frank slides the veggies in after, lifting the pan and tossing it around a bit to mix it up. He retrieves a spoon from the drawer, handing it to me.
I reach for it, and our fingers brush, sparking a flickering electricity from mine to his to back to me. I grip the spoon tightly and recoil, shuffling over to the sauce and putting all of my concentration into not letting it settle.
Frank does the noodles, contently watching me stir until the water’s boiling. He drains them, and I throw the sauce into the pan.
We end up having way too much for just two people, and even though Frank and I eat two large plates each, we are left with half of a pot of vegan spaghetti. We keep the rest in the fridge and clean up the kitchen together.
“Thanks for helping out, Gerard,” Frank thanks, tossing a dishcloth over his shoulder. He dips his hands into the sink, starting on the dishes. I only now notice that he doesn’t have a dishwasher.
“It was fun,” I reply.
“Well, I’m glad,” Frank responds, pausing to look up and smile at me. He turns his attention back to his dishes, continuing, “So, we can have leftovers for supper. I didn’t think that my perception of spaghetti consumption would be that skewed, but I’m used to cooking for more people.”
“How come?” I wonder aloud.
“College,” Frank answers earnestly. “Lots of nights with six people in an apartment, minimum.” Frank gazes out his window in pensive thought. “Ya know, it’s those little things. We did that every Friday and I couldn’t wait to get out of college. I never would’ve thought I’d miss it.”
He plucks the dishes from the sink and places them on the rack. He sets the dishtowel down onto the counter, walking past me on his way to the bathroom.
“Frank?” I begin.
“Hmm?” he responds.
“Who is that girl on your wall?” I question.
Frank inspects the patterns on the tile floor, mumbling, “Ex-girlfriend.”
I’m about to apologize for prying, but Frank slams the bathroom door. Although no water runs, he doesn’t come out for thirty minutes. I swear I can hear choked back sobs escaping through the walls.
I return to the kitchen initially for a glass of water, but after finding this note,
“Dear Gerard,
In case you wake up before me, feel free to make whatever you want for breakfast. Be careful to clean up after (I know I know I’m a neat freak). I should be up by 11:00 ish. There’s a TV and lots of books in my room which you’re welcome to browse through for entertainment, seeing as you didn’t bring anything along with you but clothes, understandably. See you soon, kiddo.
Your friend, Frank”
I smile at the note, noticing that it’s only 9:30. So, I make myself some breakfast, and go back to Frank’s bedroom, watching an episode of Jackass. I’m done with my cereal about ten minutes in, and decide to look through Frank’s book collection, which is massive. There’s a large shelf, a crate of them, and a hanger full of them on the back of his door. I find some comic books, including the Pokémon Adventures series and Kill Your Boyfriend. I leaf through Kill Your Boyfriend, which I’ve read about 8,000 times, when Frank appears in the doorway, showered. His hair hangs in wet snarls, framing his face. He’s wearing a light wash denim button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his tattoos. The low collar reveals both of his neck tattoos and those on his forearms. It’s weird to see all of his tattoos in their full glory. I’ve only seen them one other time; when he had mistakenly worn a short sleeved shirt to school. Other than that, he keeps the tattoos that aren’t on his hands very well hidden. He’s wearing tan khakis that are a touch too long, so long that they’re rolled up and cuffed at the ankle. He hangs in the doorway, arm slouched lazily against it. “You know, that’s a good comic.”
“I know,” I agree. “I’ve read it.”
Frank smirks.
“What?” I ask, sensing his grin. I finish the page and then looking at him, playing up my hazel eyes.
“Many books will be read once, but only a special selection of books do we take the time to read more than that,” Frank tells, that smile still painted onto his face.
I shake my head, grinning myself. He offers,
“I’m about to make lunch, if you want to help?”
“What are we having?” I question.
“I was thinking… spaghetti? Do you like that? Cause if you don’t, then I could totally make something else. It’d be no problem at all except I’m vegan so there’s kind of a limited option of food I can eat and of course the sauce will be meatless,” Frank rambles.
“That’s fine!” I cut in. Frank stops and blushes, and I apologize. “Sorry. Just didn’t want you to wear yourself down.”
Frank becomes abruptly chipper, beaming and repeating, “So, are you helping me or what?”
I stand, tossing the comic onto the bed. I follow Frank into the kitchen, rolling up my own sleeves as we walk.
Frank chops up a bunch of vegetables on a pink cutting board, of course not without asking me if I like every single one that he severs. I dump the sauce in, and Frank slides the veggies in after, lifting the pan and tossing it around a bit to mix it up. He retrieves a spoon from the drawer, handing it to me.
I reach for it, and our fingers brush, sparking a flickering electricity from mine to his to back to me. I grip the spoon tightly and recoil, shuffling over to the sauce and putting all of my concentration into not letting it settle.
Frank does the noodles, contently watching me stir until the water’s boiling. He drains them, and I throw the sauce into the pan.
We end up having way too much for just two people, and even though Frank and I eat two large plates each, we are left with half of a pot of vegan spaghetti. We keep the rest in the fridge and clean up the kitchen together.
“Thanks for helping out, Gerard,” Frank thanks, tossing a dishcloth over his shoulder. He dips his hands into the sink, starting on the dishes. I only now notice that he doesn’t have a dishwasher.
“It was fun,” I reply.
“Well, I’m glad,” Frank responds, pausing to look up and smile at me. He turns his attention back to his dishes, continuing, “So, we can have leftovers for supper. I didn’t think that my perception of spaghetti consumption would be that skewed, but I’m used to cooking for more people.”
“How come?” I wonder aloud.
“College,” Frank answers earnestly. “Lots of nights with six people in an apartment, minimum.” Frank gazes out his window in pensive thought. “Ya know, it’s those little things. We did that every Friday and I couldn’t wait to get out of college. I never would’ve thought I’d miss it.”
He plucks the dishes from the sink and places them on the rack. He sets the dishtowel down onto the counter, walking past me on his way to the bathroom.
“Frank?” I begin.
“Hmm?” he responds.
“Who is that girl on your wall?” I question.
Frank inspects the patterns on the tile floor, mumbling, “Ex-girlfriend.”
I’m about to apologize for prying, but Frank slams the bathroom door. Although no water runs, he doesn’t come out for thirty minutes. I swear I can hear choked back sobs escaping through the walls.