When class is over and Frankie steps outside into the sweltering sun, she thinks about how she's going to have to face her parents at some point or the other. They know she's back. Frankie had called them a few days in advance with the news she'd be moving back to Charming. The response had been all but enthusiastic, which she had expected. They'd assumed their daughter would have returned only after making a name for herself, only after she'd achieved nothing short of fame and glory, so her mother and father could boast to the people of the town about what a wonderful child they'd brought into this world. That's not really possible when your daughter's nothing but a simple English teacher.
Walking to the school's parking lot, Frankie grabs her flip phone from her messenger bag and starts browsing through her contacts, looking for her mom's phone number, but when she reaches the contacts listed under the letter 'm', she freezes. It's a sort of mental paralysis that prevents her from doing anything, a feeling she's been experiencing more and more over the past few years whenever her mother's involved. She stares at the word 'Mom', trying to remember how her hands and fingers work. She sighs and closes her phone, her grip tight around the device.
As soon as she gets into her car, Frankie starts fumbling with the buttons of the radio, turning on the music. She decides on some Bach to help her unwind after her first day of work. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel and closes her tired eyes. Frankie's not used to getting up early in the morning anymore and even though she's only had one group of students to teach today, she feels drained. She wonders whether it's just her nerves wearing her down, whether it's the thought of a possible confrontation with her parents that is gnawing away at her.
Frankie raises her head, but holds on tightly to the steering wheel, her eyes fixated on the ground in front of her.
"I'll be fine," Frankie says to herself, "I'll just go see them. No big deal. What's the worst that could happen?"
She sighs, starts her car, and backs out of her parking space, her grip unusually tight on the steering wheel.
The closer Frankie gets to the house she grew up in, the more the invisible hand around her stomach tightens, squeezing it so uncomfortably hard, she's afraid she might throw up.
The street she once lived on looks just as it always did. The colourful houses, separated by luscious trees, are beautiful as ever with their well kempt gardens full of bright flowers and overpriced ornaments, not one of them without at least two expensive cars in the driveway. It's as if time stood still here, as if Frankie never left.
When she parks in front of her house, she sees her neighbour, Miss Johnson, getting the groceries from her car. She's a kind old woman, probably in her late eighties now, though Frankie can't quite recall. Frankie remembers her as the lady who'd always sneak candy into her backpack when she got home from school, because she knew Frankie wasn't allowed to have any. It was one of the few things that made Frankie excited to go home after class, because she couldn't wait to see which type of snacks Miss Johnson would give her this time. Skittles were always her favourite.
"Can I help you with your groceries, Miss Johnson?" Frankie asks when she gets out of her car.
Miss Johnson looks up and nearly drops her bag full of fruit and vegetables on the pavement when she realises who just spoke to her.
"My goodness," she exclaims, "Sweet girl," Frankie can see how her kind, brown eyes well up with tears at the sight of her, "I can't believe it's you."
"In the flesh, ma'am," Frankie replies, smiling ear to ear.
Miss Johnson hands her the bag of groceries and kisses her on the cheek. "You look well, honey. No longer just skin and bones," she smiles.
Frankie follows Miss Johnson inside. She doesn't remember Miss Johnson's house that well. She's only stayed at Miss Johnson's place once, maybe twice in her entire life. The old woman only took care of her when Frankie's parents had to leave urgently, like when her father had broken his leg when he'd fallen down a ladder. He was decorating their house with Christmas lights.
"You can leave the bag on the counter, darling," Miss Johnson says, placing the bag she was carrying on the kitchen table. The woman gives an exasperated sigh, the exertion clearly having exhausted her.
"Are you all right, Miss Johnson?"
"Oh, don't your worry about me, Frankie. I'm just an old woman," she says, "My bones are getting tired."
"You still look as wonderful as ever," Frankie replies, giving Miss Johnson the brightest smile she can muster.
Miss Johnson giggles, "Still as kind as ever, you are," she says, "Are you here to visit your mom and dad?"
"I am," Frankie nods, "But I've been back in Charming for a couple of days now."
"You moved back here? Oh, my darling, I thought you'd grow old in New York. I never thought I'd see you again."
Frankie smiles weakly. She didn't really feel like explaining everything to Miss Johnson, didn't really want to think about all the things that went wrong back in New York. She had indeed planned to stay in New York forever or at least for a long while. One thing she had been sure of was she never wanted to come back to Charming. But things don't always work out the way you plan them to.
"Change of plans," Frankie replies, "I'm actually an English teacher at Charming's high school now."
Miss Johnson seemed surprised, but not in a negative way. Her eyes immediately started to sparkle, an unmistakable expression of joy on her face.
"Like me?" she asked.
Frankie laughed, "Yes, ma'am, like you."
"Oh, that makes me so happy to hear. Those kids are lucky to be having a teacher like you."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that yet, Miss Johnson," Frankie says, "They didn't seem that eager to read books."
"Nothing's changed," Miss Johnson replies, sounding nostalgic, "The children of Charming need very special treatment."
"Don't I know it."
Miss Johnson laughs. It's such a beautiful and warm type of laughter, the kind that Frankie could listen to forever, the kind that could keep you warmer than a fur jacket in winter time.
"Will you stay for dinner, my darling?" Miss Johnson asks.
"Wish I could, ma'am," Frankie says, and she means it. She wishes she could stay and talk to her old neighbour for hours and hours, but if she doesn't pluck up the courage to go talk to her mom and dad right now, she'd never go see them. "I have to visit my parents."
"Of course, of course," she replies, "You'll visit me again, won't you?"
Frankie smiles, "I'll be back as soon as I can, Miss Johnson," she says, and places a kiss on the woman's soft and wrinkled cheek.
"Francesca," Frankie's father says softly when he opens the front door. He sounds surprised, but not at all pleased. Or, at least, not as pleased as you'd expect a father to be when he sees his daughter for this first time in nearly eight years.
Her father looks much older than Frankie remembers him. There are more wrinkles around his eyes and he's wearing glasses now, but his hair is still as vibrantly brown as ever.
He steps back to let her in.
"Leonora," her father calls out, "Our daughter's here," he says in Italian.
The sound of her mother's name makes Frankie's heart sink into her stomach. She doesn't feel comfortable around her father either, but at least he has the decency of giving her the cold shoulder instead of criticising her.
While they both wait for her mother to come downstairs, they stand in the hallway in awkward silence. Frankie looks around her at the large picture frames hanging on the walls and the small ones standing on the antique telephone table which Frankie always thought was the ugliest piece of furniture she'd ever seen. It is one of those tables that's got the seat still attached to it. The pattern of the seat's cushion is an amalgamation of orange and ochre flowers. It looks like someone puked on it.
The pictures are of Frankie mostly, which might sound surprising, but to Frankie it's a normal sight. It's pictures of her at violin and ballet concerts, of her holding awards, of her standing on the award podium next to the girls she won against. Her mother would often call them ugly and untalented. 'Did you see the face on that one', she'd say. It always made Frankie sad.
"Francesca," her mother says, a smile on her face that's all but genuine, "What a lovely surprise."
She opens her arms, inviting Frankie to hug her, kissing her once on each cheek.
"Hi, mom," Frankie says quietly.
Her mother invites her into the living room, where she quickly presents Frankie with coffee and a plate of those tasteless cookies which have less sugar and fat in them her family's bought for years.
"You put on weight," her mom says suddenly, pushing the plate closer to Frankie, "Lots of fast food in New York, I imagine."
Frankie's never been allowed to talk back at her mother, and even now, even though she's twenty-six, she's too scared to say anything to her, so she just nods and carefully takes a bite of her cookie.
"I bet if you didn't give up ballet, you'd still be as skinny as you used to be," her mom's voice starts sounding more and more stern with each word she utters. "Honestly, Francesca, there was no reason for you to quit."
"I broke my ankle, mom," Frankie replies, her voice as quiet as a mouse, "Even if I w- wanted to, I wouldn't be able to dance professionally anymore."
Frankie immediately realises she's made a mistake. She quickly averts her eyes to the ground.
"See," her mom starts, "I told you she quit because she didn't want to dance anymore," her voice is full bitterness now, "She quit because she's nothing but a lazy, stubborn girl."
Her father's eyes are on her, a look in his eyes Frankie doesn't know how to describe. Anger? Sadness? Disappointment? All three of those combined?
"I bet that entire story about your ankle was just something you made up to help you sleep at night," her mom says, "Something you could tell us so we'd feel sorry for you."
"Mom," Frankie whimpers, "I didn't," she feels tears welling up in her eyes, "I swear, I really did mess up my ankle."
Her mother squints her eyes at her, "Did you do it on purpose?"
Frankie swallows hard, not believing what she's hearing. Did her mom really just insinuate that all the pain and misery that she went through, that she went through it on purpose? Her entire future crumbled before her eyes because of that injury. One day she was dancing, laughing, happy, the other she was saying her career goodbye.
Without saying a word, Frankie stands up. Without looking at her parents, she walks to the front door.
Simultaneously, her mother yells, "Where do you think you're going?" and her father growls, "Sit back down, young lady," but Frankie's done listening to them. She opens the front door, goes outside, and slams it shut again.
Walking back to her car, Frankie can feel her body shutting down. Her breathing's getting shallow, her face feels as hot as fire, and her vision is getting blurry, but without thinking much of it, she gets into her car and starts the engine.
Not looking in her rear view mirror, she backs up, but immediately crashes into something, her body suddenly jolting forward. When she looks behind her, Frankie can see she drove straight into her parents' mailbox.
"Shit," she mutters.