Hypocrisy

Frankie turned and groaned, his shoulders slumping. Shutting his locker door after ensuring Michaela was out of the way (as her locker was immediately below), the preteen started asking Trey why he couldn’t just give up his obsession about the Revolutionary War. Yes, Frankie himself was obsessed with the 80’s and Michael Jackson, but this obsession was because of the awesomely cool music meant just to be rocked out to. Could Trey have picked a dorkier era? 

Guess not. Frankie stifled a sigh and ripped his headphones off, forcing a smile onto his face. He wished he had eaten an onion, lettuce and hamburger sandwich for lunch so he could blow Trey away with his stinky onion breath—so he couldn’t tell Frankie to come see his so-called amazing piece of art he so lavished before the History class yesterday afternoon.     

Bet I’ll blow him away with my awesome set of music from my 80’s hit list! Frankie actually smiled this time and pretended to agree with his classmate as they walked towards the History classroom, Frankie nodding and smiling but actually jamming out to Thriller and then Man in the Mirror. Entering just before the bell would ring for bus dismissal, he skidded to a halt, telling Trey that he was going to be late for the bus.

Bye! Frankie waved Trey away before he could show Frankie everything Revolutionary War and dashed through the lines of other 11-13-year-olds escaping from J. J. Middle School towards its selected buses to take most students home.

Once he had taken a couple of fresh breaths and checked whether any teacher or principal was coming his way to warn him not to push another student or even authority out of the way again, Frankie unpeeled his backpack, chucked it onto the seat portion next to the window and jumped into the seat itself. He resituated himself and quietly listened to Whitney Houston’s I Have Nothing. After the song ended, Frankie thought of how to convince Trey that the 80’s and its music was a million times cooler than the Revolutionary War.      

I might just tell him. Frankie sighed, leaning against the bus window as it vibrated and rattled softly, the bus growling down the road towards a neighborhood, street or caul-de-sac—whichever was first. Frankie was glad he was one of the last stops. He had time to think about what he’d say and may even do to change Trey. Maybe he’d announce it in front of History class tomorrow, saying it’d be great if Trey came up with the 80’s. Or shout this at the birthday pool party next Saturday…

Maybe I could just let everyone know that the 80’s rocks, and the Revolutionary War stinks! Frankie half-smiled at that idea and half-crossed his arms. Maybe that would shake him.

The next day, he kind of succeeded.   

“So…” the girl sitting next to her closest friend from the grade above half-whispered to a headphones-jamming Frankie across the table, “Trey’s obsessed with,” she covered her mouth amidst some pizza cheese hanging from her mouth, “the Revolutionary War?”     

“Yeah!” Frankie spoke, nodding his head like his head was on springs, and pulled his neck in when looking backwards. “He…”

“What?” The girl asked. “He…?”

“He might be around here.” Frankie shifted in his seat but then now pulled a smug look on his face. Sitting tall, he wiggled his eyebrows and announced, “Trey’s so obsessed he wouldn’t even talk about something like the 80’s!”

The girl fell back against her seat, laughing and looking at the girl beside her. They both covered their mouths a little bit, but anyone like Trey would be hurt from the ugly gleam shining from their hazel and nut-brown eyes. Frankie, flicking his eyebrows as if to say, Well, just saying! looked smartly at the girls and just kept eating his Nachos and spinach salad, jamming to his songs. He even smirked a little and nudged the quiet kid beside him. He laughed, but Frankie whispered something to him and he bobbed his head.

“Good.” Frankie sat up, looking sideways at the rest of the table beside him. They were all busy eating their hot dogs and cucumber sandwiches, but Frankie spoke internally. Still aware of the ringing bell, he ignored everyone and jammed out to his tunes, hardly seeing anyone’s exchanged glances.

As he was leaving the lunch cafeteria with smug thoughts streaming through his mind and possibly a smug smile playing at his lips, Frankie almost halted to a stop as he stared and slowly looked around to see Trey running towards him. As soon as the lunch lady called out that students running were going to be reported to the principal should they neglect to listen one more time, Trey almost smashed right into Frankie, screeching across the cement floor and flung an arm across Frankie’s shoulders to stop himself from completely crashing to the ground.

Frankie shot his hands and a leg out to stop himself from twirling around, and a couple of guys snickered loudly. Frankie ignored them as he came to a stop and straightened, but one guy guffawed, “Practicing your 80’s dance moves for the Middle School dance this fall, Frankie?” Some other boys spent some minutes pointing while sniggering, half-bent at the waist. The remaining mockers followed after hooting at the ceiling and ordered the others to get going.   

“Shut up!” Trey called after them.

Frankie looked hard at the much taller preteens but he also shifted away from Trey, ensuring he didn’t follow him or even call after him. He noticed his headphones had come off in the incident and snatched them before the hordes of middle schoolers entering and exiting the noisy cafeteria could crush them. He continued jamming his head to the music, even singing the lyrics. He was so engrossed in his own little world he didn’t hear Trey pound up to him from behind. Frankie soon glared at him, ordering him to ditch the Revolutionary War crap for 80’s music. Trey backed away, blinking, and Frankie rolled his eyes, instantly surrounding himself with his music.

What a loser. Frankie slowly realized Trey hadn’t said or done anything to him that would replace Revolutionary War with 80’s music, but he shrugged, jerking his shoulders up and down. He’ll learn in high school.

Once he stuffed his semi-deserving grade of a paper into his backpack and plopped it back onto the floor beside his desk, Frankie threw his eyes up to the ceiling lights glowering down at him and imagined himself smiling at thousands of people before him as he waved to them while wearing sparkling diva clothing and standing with a few other singers. He’d be the best 80’s-like singer out there, followed maybe by a couple of fans. But he’d stand there for all to see, wearing his shiny azure apparel and waving to adoring, crying fans who just couldn’t stop listening to his music this time—

He then felt like something was going on, and jerked his attention towards his teacher standing in front of his desk. “Oh!” He felt his cheeks go from normal dark brown to scarlet red and quickly took the blank sheet of paper being handed to him. Staring at it to avoid the assumed leers from the older kids in the class, Frankie forced himself to listen to the teacher’s instructions on the next essay due the following Friday.    

“…And there will be no re-dos.”

Frankie sat still for a moment and slowly turned his attention towards Ms. Melons. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”  

When she dismissed class, Frankie saw that she watched everyone exit the classroom and then leaned down to tell Frankie she needed to see him. He nodded without meeting her eye and gathered his backpack after getting out of his chair.      

“Frankie.” Ms. Melons sat in her boring, black teacher’s chair while Frankie stood before her desk with his headphones now around his neck. “I noticed you tuned out during the most important part of the next essay’s instructions.” She looked at him importantly. “Do you know what they are?”

“Uh…” Frankie thought and then answered, “Well, the first thing was…to write an outline… and then we have to dig deep into the story we just read.” But Ms. Melons was shaking her cute bob.

“No.”

“Uh…I do know.” Frankie fibbed, explaining he knew exactly what he was doing. Ms. Melons looked long at him and then nodded sad. “Okay, Mr. Tents. You can go now.” She ended softly.

“K.” Frankie walked out of class rolling his eyes. He didn’t know. The whole thing was a made-up story just to… what?

Listen to my music and think of ways to convince Trey to actually leave me alone. Frankie walked arrogantly, his chin out and his head held high, his hands putting his headphones on to continue listening to Michael Jackson. To get that weirdo, loser and freak not coming at me 24/7 with a fake obsession.

Frankie waited, twirling his thumbs and bouncing his knees under his desk. Finally, the name Frankie Tents showed up in his line of sight as he almost ripped the paper from Ms. Melons’ hand that following Monday morning. But he had another idea. Instead of stare at the perfect grade he’d shove in Trey’s face today at lunch because it was about the 80’s music, he started thinking about the party last Saturday. How he sat on Brent’s shoulders as Kyle came towards him, Steven moving awkwardly through the indoor pool’s water as he managed to get Kyle closer to best Frankie at the game Chicken. Frankie won twice—while promising he’d buy everyone 80’s music T-shirts if he lost—but Steven vowed he’d get him back now that he was thirteen and going into eighth grade next year. “Slice and dice you next summer!” he gloated, and Frankie smiled. Nodded.   

Whatever.

He won twice. This time at lunch, he’d win twice—maybe threefold—at Trey’s game of let’s-recount-history. He’d tell how he managed to write all about the 80’s—why it fascinated him, how it was made to be listened to music-wise and that it woke him up and sent him to sleep every night. How it was worth obsessing over rather than the Revolutionary War.

He was sure of it.

Frankie walked into the cafeteria that day with his chest puffed out, his shoulders back and headphones on. He swung off his backpack and was already pulling the zipper even before he got to the lunch line. Dug into it while laughing a little at another student’s joke about rotten bananas and collected it, then wore it until he set his tray down on the circular table, grinning like he just won the lottery and was going to illuminate with rays of pride towards his monetary accomplishment. In fact, he told everyone as he kicked a chair around and slid right into it, “I’m Mr. 80’s!”

Everyone stared, and some frowned. A couple clapped hands over their full mouths with salsa circling their lips, and even a couple studied and grimaced as they slowly peeled their Hershey’s chocolate bars, the wrappers crinkling over their confused verbalizations about Frankie’s pride versus his paper result. When Frankie thrust the paper into his side pocket (one without any zippers), he stretched a sly smile and asked the nearest lunch eater, “So whatcha think? All my wall-plastered posters and closet’s T-shirts with Michael Jackson and other 80’s pop singers would agree if they could. Even my bedspread with its huge microphone on it and 80’s in gold would sing of this amazing assignment choice!”

“Uh…” She looked down. Then she said, “Um… I don’t think your parents will appreciate it.” Then she whispered to someone looking at her, “And I thought Trey was obsessed!”  

“Yeah.” A kid from across the table piped up. “Don’t think anyone will want to see that nightmare of an essay again.”

Some kids bobbed their heads. This reaction heightened Frankie’s confusion even more, so when he puckered his lips and furrowed his eyebrows, he only received solemn nods and whispered agreements all around. “Whatever!” He got up roughly, shoving his chair back and telling everyone he’d sit somewhere where there weren’t anyone to betray him.  

“But we weren’t—” One kid protested, but Frankie waltzed away, replacing a table full of who he said weren’t getting it with a table full of kids who seemed much different. People who were pretty cool—but not cooler than the 80’s.

“Besides,” one student thought aloud, “if I were you, I would do the same thing.”

“Yeah!” Another kid piped up.

Frankie looked over. He almost stared as he looked right at Trey. He looked long and hard at him and then cut his attention to the girl who had spoken first.

“Yeah, Ami.” Frankie continued his fries and ketchup and completely ignored Trey. But he couldn’t help noticing Trey shifting out of his seat and going over to Frankie’s former table. Suddenly, Frankie—not wanting Trey to say anything he knew would make Frankie look bad—hurled out of his seat and lunged for Trey. Shrieking that someone was yanking him to the ground while two trays of fries and ketchup whizzed and splattered all over people’s chairs and the backs of some shirts as well as the surrounding floor and nearby chairs, Trey whirled around after getting up and yelled, “What the fries, Frankie? I was just going over there to—”   

“Gossip about me!” Frankie collected himself pathetically after scrambling off the floor and resituating his headphones. “You—you were just going over—”

“No, I wasn’t!”

Frankie, completely stupefied by Trey’s roar, then relaxed and bored visual holes into Trey’s forehead after seeing that the whole cafeteria had been like an audience watching a movie. “Thanks.” He growled, and marched back to his other table, his screeching and clanging metal chair and him self-plopping into it and the crunching of fries the only noises. The lunchroom soon returned to normal but in a little while. Some girl stated that Trey was only moving to another table but went silent the instant Frankie jerked his eyes over at her. She muttered sorry, but Frankie was already bobbing to his music.

Then he rashly flipped his tray over, the remaining fries and ketchup meeting the ugly maroon metal. Grabbing his backpack and scampering out of the cafeteria, Frankie burst through the double doors nearest the playground and swings and headed straight for the train tracks in the distance behind the lines of thick trees. He ran and ran, never looking back. Sprinting now, Frankie could smell the ashy smoke, inhale the sootiness of the coals as he saw some sweaty men hurl loads of black rock-like stuff into the fiery furnace only to witness them turn red and orange and a little hint of white while the furnace cooked and burned them. Taking deep breaths as he was running, Frankie soon slammed down onto his knees, instantly curling up and rolling through the short grass until he eventually stopped. When he got up, he continued, sprinting towards a seemingly door less car. The stench of hay and manure ran right up his nose as he suddenly found himself aboard a train, but Frankie waved it away as if it would do so, and swung himself around, riding with the train. Where he was going, he had no idea.

But he’d be away from reputation-bombing Trey. And his stupid obsession about the Revolutionary War. He’d create his own music. As good as the 80’s was.   

The train chugged on, but Frankie saw it was growing dark outside. Then, it had started again, Frankie’s car having jerked a little, Frankie feeling this movement by crouching down somewhat and settling in some hay. Somehow, no one noticed a twelve-year-old, 80’s-obsessed boy suddenly hiding among the hay, even as someone called, “Anyone here?” Maybe they were too lazy. Then, fortunately for Frankie, they slammed his door shut.

Whatever, Frankie snapped mentally as he stayed huddled, the stench of poop reeking so badly he plugged his nose with a sleeve, his eyes watering to the brim. He tried to concentrate on his music but couldn’t and chose to just sit there, crouched, until morning. Taken aback, he inhaled—he was actually focusing on something other than Michael Jackson. Time crept like a sloth, but the sunrise did spread its lemon and rose colors throughout the horizon, causing a yawning, blinking Frankie to squint.

“Ugh!” He twisted his head towards the horses he now saw puffing frosty breath from their muzzles. They even pawed the straw-strewn floor, kicking some and nickering. They were also gazing back at him.

“Beat it!” Frankie snapped at them. “I don’t want to stare at your butts!”

“Hey!”

Frankie froze. He thought he was alone. Someone hid with him? Was it Trey? One of the kids staring at his awesome paper. He almost dug it out to admit it received a so-so grade just to get Trey off his back when he felt the train wheels grind, churn and then chug slowly—then stop, screeching almost deafeningly loud while he waited with bated breath.

“Hey—I’m talking to you.”

“Huh?” Frankie dared.

A clump of hay to the left moved, and Frankie stared in horror until a dirty-blond head proceeded to be connected to a whole body of a preteen-looking boy. Frankie almost spit an apology for attacking him in the cafeteria when the kid smiled widely and invited, “How ya doing?” He showed off chipped teeth, and a smell that made Frankie’s eyes and cheeks bulge hopefully didn’t also sizzle his brain cells.

Frankie stared and then mumbled that he wasn’t Trey. “Good.”

He didn’t lie—at least not to himself.