Page 26 of Shallow

“WhereisCary?” I try for nonchalant, but I’m not sure I quite makeit.

“I guess he’s with Taryn.” Frankie avoids eye contact as he tears open little paper squares filled with round cakeydiscs.

“They look good together.” The words stick like molasses in mythroat.

A slow smile pulls at his lips as he gives me a sideways glance. “You jealous,Snowflake?”

“Me?” I crinkle up my nose in disgust. “Hell no. I’m out of here in three years. I don’t give a shit about anyone in thistown.”

“So I’veheard.”

Without a word, Frankie nods toward the shelf again and I follow him like a robot. Handing me the discs, he instructs me to fill each cup with water and drop the tablets inside. I assume Cary meant for me to do this all on my own, but I’m not going to turn down thehelp.

“When did he start fighting?” I ask, trying to appeardisinterested.

Mindlessly fishing into the bucket, Frankie pulls out a mouth guard from a Ziploc labeled with Tiny’s name and drops it into the fizzing liquid. “Dude’s been throwin’ fists as long as I’ve known him. I guess about four years now. Taught me everything Iknow.”

“But isn’t fightingbad?”

He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Isn’t cokebad?”

Ouch.

I should’ve known that the people here would feast on the details of my downfall. I mean, shit, I made the newsfeeds all over the world. Why the hell wouldn’t the gossipy people of Myrtle Beach have a field day with this? I just hoped I wouldn’t have to face it day in and day out for threeyears.

“Look, I ain’t judging you,” he says, his tone softer. “Hell, I got busted for selling weed just to put shoes on my feet and sleep somewhere with a roof. We don’t try to kick each other’s asses here. Boss taught us when to quit hittin’, but getting in that ring gets all that pissed-off shit we got inside of usout.”

I glance over my shoulder. “You can’t be more than eighteen. What do you have to be madabout?”

Frankie chuckles and mumbles something in Spanish. “What kind of car do you drive,Snowflake?”

I remain silent because my car is a pile ofwreckage.

“I take the bus everywhere Igo.”

I can’t imagine taking public transportation. I actually don’t think I’ve ever stepped foot on a bus. Or near one. Or on the same block as one. My mother used to say bums used public buses as urinals and we could get STDs from sitting on theseats.

Frankie drops the rest of the mouth guards in the cups and faces me as I reach for the same mop from yesterday. “How about your place? How big isit?”

“What does that have to do withanything?”

“Just answer thequestion.”

I sigh, leaning my hip against the handle. “Five thousand squarefeet.”

“I lived in a foster home with a dude who beat the shit out of me every day until I parked my ass on a bench.” He waits for a reaction, his hand gripping the back of his bald head as if it still holds the steelimprint.

“Frankie, I…” I have no idea what to say. I’m not good in situations that require empathy. I’m not sure the Wests even possess thatgene.

“How much do you make a year?” he continues, prolonging thetorture.

Oh boy. Here’s where shit getsreal.

“Nine million.” My voice is barely above a whisper because even to my own ears it sounds ridiculously pretentious. Who the hell deserves nine million dollars for pouting and showing herass?

Frankie doesn’t even flinch. “I make fifteen thousand five hundred dollars, and I’m damn happy to get it. Know why? Because I know that’s all the boss can afford.” Throwing his arms out, he motions around him. “This place brings in shit for money, but he takes care of us first with what it doesmake.”

“I had noidea.”