3 Jamie
I’m going to kill that motherfucker one day.
Not today. And not for, like, a year, I guess. But one day, Gary Stone would die.
I storm into my room and grab a duffel bag, shoving in the few things I actually give a shit about or might need.
Then I dump every piece of clothing I own- clean and dirty- into a laundry basket.
I’m halfway through dragging my mattress off the bed, figuring I can haul it across the street, when my dad steps into the doorway.
“The fuck are you doing?”
“I’m moving in with Christian.”
“Well, you aren’t taking my shit,” he says.
I stare at him for a second. I’m pretty sure we got this mattress from some neighbor when their parents died, but whatever. I let it drop, shoulder the duffel bag, grab the basket, and shove past him.
I walk through the house, past my mom on the couch, phone lighting up her face.
My parents aren’t divorced. You’d think they were, the way they live- separate rooms, separate routines, barely a word between them. It’s less a marriage and more… inertia.
“Jamie?” she calls as I reach the door. “Where are you going?”
“Across the street,” I say, not slowing down.
The storm door squeals as I shove it open, then slams behind me.
“I need you at the shop at nine,” my dad calls after me.
I stop on the porch, closing my eyes for a second, dragging in a breath.
“Fine.”
I remember some cop coming to our school in sixth grade, talking about choices. About staying out of trouble, like it was something you could just decide to do if you wanted.
I never got that choice.
I never decided to start committing crimes. It was just expected of me. As soon as I could reach the pedals, I was brought into my dad’s shop to start boosting and chopping cars, then run drugs or cash whenever and wherever I was told. It wasn’t optional.
You can’t really stay out of trouble when you’re raised in it.
I hate it. Not even because it’s illegal- because it’s not mine. I don’t choose the jobs. I don’t choose the people. I get paid whatever my dad feels like giving me, and that’s that.
But I take the money. Because Frankie needs it.
Between the bills, the house, and her grandma, everything falls on her whether she wants it to or not.
Christian could cover it, I’m pretty sure. But I won’t let him.
Because she’s mine to take care of too.
I know Ryan feels bad he can’t contribute more money, but between classes and baseball, he barely has time to breathe. I’m the one who pushed him to take that scholarship- I’m not about to let him throw it away now.
And it’s not like he doesn’t pull his weight. His schedule means he’s the one who usually stays up with her, makes sure she keeps up with school, helps around the house and with Gram. And he’s the one who makes her laugh.
Christian handles the big shit. I try to protect her, make sure the ugly doesn’t touch her.
But Ryan?
Ryan keeps her happy.
“Last bedroom is mine,” Christian says without looking up when I barge back into his place. “Take either of the other two.”
I head down the hall, picking the middle room out of habit. This is the same layout as my parent’s place- every duplex on this block is identical, like someone copy-pasted the whole street.
There’s already a bed, dresser, and nightstand. I drop my bag on the mattress and head back out.
“Didn’t know it came furnished,” I say, dropping into the chair across from him.
He glances up at me over his glasses, which have slid halfway down his nose like always.
“Bought in bulk.”
I lean back, the adrenaline finally starting to drain out of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, nodding at the laptop.
He exhales and shuts it. “Getting her a new phone. Adding her and Gram to my plan.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s one less thing she has to worry about. And I want to make sure she can always reach me.”
That tracks. “Add me,” I say.
He looks at me, eyebrow raised.
“Add me to the plan. I’ll pay you. Just- add me.”
“What if I don’t?”
I glare at him. God, I hate when he does this shit. He knows exactly how to push. Always has to be in charge.
“You will,” I say. “Or else I’ll tell Frankie you’re being a dick.”
One side of his mouth lifts. “I already added you. And ordered you a new phone.”
I blink. “Oh.”
He stands, pocketing his phone. “I need groceries. Come with us?”
I consider telling him to fuck off just on principle, but it’s barely four and I’ve got nothing to do for the next five hours. Besides, if I live here now, I probably need to have food here.
“I’ll grab Francesca,” he adds, knowing I won’t say no if she’s there.
As he steps out, crossing the small porch toward her side of the duplex, something in my chest tightens, dragging me back to the first time I saw her.
It was on that same porch, three years ago.
Ryan and I had been standing in our shared front yard across the street, watching the new people move in. We were sixteen, bored, nosy, and with nothing better to do.
Christian was there with his dad, unlocking the place. We knew him, but not really. Knew of him would be more accurate. Christian Smith- three years older than us, out of high school now but even when we was there, he seemed seemed wildly more mature than anyone else.
She was hauling this massive comforter up the steps, the whole thing bunched in her arms so high it blocked her view. She was trying not to trip, but just barely managing it.
She looked like she was trying to wrangle a cloud.
“We should help her,” Ryan said, because of course he did. He had manners and was nice like that. He walked over and I followed.
Without saying a word, he took the blanket from her. She tipped her head back to look up at him, flashing this huge, bright grin.
“Thank you so much. I’m Francesca. But you can call me Frankie if you want. I always say it’s not just a boys name. Frankie can be a girl too.”
“Frankie the girl, huh? Frankie girl,” I said, already intrigued by her.
“Hmm… not sure I love that nickname. I’ll think on it and let you know. I’m fourteen, how old are you guys? Do you live around here? I’m in ninth grade-”
She turned and walked straight into the house mid-sentence, still talking, like she just assumed we’d follow.
We did.
And that was it.
By the end of the day, she had us- all three of us- moving boxes, organizing rooms, doing whatever she told us to do.
And we didn’t even question it.
She was fascinating. Different. Not hardened. Not angry. Not like anything we were used to. She was bright in a way that didn’t make sense in a place like this, like the world hadn’t gotten to her yet. It was refreshing. Almost addictive.
So we just stayed.
We started hanging around her all the time- Christian included, who somewhere along the way stopped being the landlord’s kid and just became one of us.
We walked her to the bus, mowed the yard, helped with whatever she needed, even though she didn’t really need us. She could handle herself just fine.
But we showed up anyway. Every day. Like it was our job.
Like we couldn’t not.
Then last year, she actually started needing us.
And from that moment on, our little fascination with her turned into an all-consuming obsession. She was this incredible being, dropped in the middle of our world, that we all wanted to just fucking keep safe.
But sometimes, like last night, we failed.