Finding Audrey

So Frank’s basically not speaking any more. To anyone.

Actually, I quite like a silent Frank. It’s peaceful around the place. But it’s stressing Mum out. She even spoke to his teacher at school, who was, according to her, ‘Useless! Worse than useless! He said Frank seemed “fine” to him and we should “let him alone”. “Let him alone” – can you believe it?’ (I know this because I was outside Mum’s room while she was sounding off to Dad.)

Tonight he’s sitting at supper, eating his enchiladas without looking at anyone, staring ahead like a zombie. When Mum or Dad ask him anything, like, ‘Have you got much homework?’ or ‘What happened today at school?’ he just answers with a ‘Phrrrmph’ noise, or rolls his eyes, or ignores them.

I’m not feeling Ms Chatty either tonight, so it’s not the liveliest dinner table. In fact, we all look up in relief when Felix comes in from the playroom in his tractor pyjamas.

‘I didn’t do my homework,’ he says, looking worried. ‘My homework, Mummy.’ He’s holding out some kind of transparent folder with a sheet in it.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Mum.

‘Homework?’ says Dad. ‘For a four-year-old?’

‘I know.’ Mum sighs. ‘It’s nuts.’ She pulls out the sheet, and it’s a big photocopied page entitled Why We Love Each Other. Under the heading, Felix has drawn what I assume is a picture of us. At least, there are five figures. Mum looks pregnant and Dad looks like a gnome. I have a head the size of a pin and twenty very large circular fingers. But, you know, apart from that it’s pretty accurate.

‘“Fill in the box with help from your family”,’ Mum reads. ‘For example, “We love each other because we give each other cuddles”.’ She reaches for a pen. ‘OK. What shall I put? Felix, what do you love about our family?’

‘Pizza,’ says Felix promptly.

‘We can’t put pizza.’

‘Pizza!’ wails Felix. ‘I love pizza!’

‘I can’t put, “We love each other because of pizza”.’

‘I think that’s a pretty good answer,’ says Dad, shrugging.

‘I’ll do it,’ says Frank, grabbing the page, and we all look up in shock. Frank spoke! He takes a black Sharpie from his pocket and reads aloud as he writes: ‘“We love each other because we respect each other’s choices and understand when a person has a hobby that they love, and would never deliberately damage their property—” Oh, wait.’

‘Frank, you can’t write that!’ says Mum sharply.

It’s a bit late to say that, since he’s already written it. In permanent ink.

‘Great!’ Mum glares at Frank. ‘So now you’ve ruined your brother’s homework sheet.’

‘I’ve spoken the truth.’ Frank glowers back at her. ‘You can’t handle the truth.’

‘A Few Good Men,’ says Dad promptly. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen that.’

‘YouTube.’ Frank gets to his feet and heads over to the dishwasher.

‘Well, marvellous,’ says Mum, looking totally pissed off. ‘Now we can’t send this in. I’ll have to write a note in his link book. “Dear Mrs Lacy, Unfortunately Felix’s homework was . . .” what?’

‘Chewed by rats,’ I suggest.

‘“Inapplicable to the Turner family as they do not understand the concept of love beyond their own self-serving version”,’ comes Frank’s sonorous voice from the sink.

As he slouches out of the kitchen, Mum and Dad exchange glances.

‘That boy needs a hobby,’ mutters Mum. ‘We should never have let him give up the cello.’

‘Please, not the cello again,’ says Dad, looking alarmed. ‘I think he’s beyond the cello.’

‘I’m not saying the cello!’ snaps Mum. ‘But something. What do teenagers do these days?’

‘All sorts of things.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Win Olympic medals, get into Harvard, create internet companies, star in blockbuster films . . .’ As he trails off, he looks a bit depressed.

‘He doesn’t need to win a medal,’ says Mum firmly. ‘He just needs an interest. What about the guitar?’ Her face brightens. ‘Can he still play that? Why don’t you two jam together in the garage?’

‘We tried that once,’ says Dad, pulling a face. ‘Remember? It wasn’t a success . . . but we can try again!’ he amends quickly, at Mum’s expression. ‘Good idea! We’ll have a bit of a jamming session. Father and son. We’ll play some tracks, get in the beers—I mean, not the beers,’ he adds hastily as Mum opens her mouth. ‘No beers.’

‘And he should volunteer,’ says Mum with sudden determination. ‘Yes! That’s what Frank can do. Volunteer.’

I’m sitting in the kitchen later that evening, fiddling with the playback on my camera, when Frank shuffles in.

‘Oh, hi.’ I raise my head, remembering something. ‘Listen, I haven’t interviewed you yet. Can we do it?’

‘I don’t want to be interviewed.’

Frank looks like he hates everyone and everything. His face is pale. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks less healthy than when he was gaming all the time.

‘OK.’ I shrug. I reach for a Dorito from the bowl still sitting on the table. We had Tex-Mex for supper tonight, which is the only time Mum buys crisps. It’s, like, if they’re Doritos and scooping up guacamole then they don’t count as junk food. ‘So . . .’ I try to speak casually. ‘I was wondering . . .’

My voice is letting me down. It doesn’t sound casual, it sounds over-alert. On the other hand, I don’t think Frank is in a noticing mood.

‘Is Linus coming over?’ It comes out in a hurry and I sound the opposite of casual, but there you go. I’ve asked.

Frank turns his head to give me a murderous glare. ‘Why would Linus come over?’

‘Well . . . because . . .’ I’m confused. ‘Have you had a fight?’

‘No, I haven’t had a fight.’ His eyes are so bleak and full of anger, I flinch. ‘I’ve been dropped from the team.’

‘Dropped from the team?’ I stare at him in shock. ‘But it was your team.’

‘Well, I can hardly play now, can I?’

His voice is all muffled and low. I have a horrible feeling he wants to cry. I haven’t seen Frank cry since he was about ten.

‘Frank.’ I feel a huge wave of sorrow for him. In fact I think I might cry for him instead. ‘Have you told Mum?’

‘Told Mum?’ he lashes out. ‘What, so she can stand there and cheer?’

‘She wouldn’t!’ I say. But actually I’m not sure.

The thing about Mum is, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just, no adults do. They’re totally ignorant, but they’re in control. It’s nuts. The parents are in charge of all the stuff like technology in the house and time on screens and hours on social media, but then their computer goes wrong and they’re like a baby, going, ‘What happened to my document?’ ‘I can’t get Facebook.’ ‘How do I load a picture? Double-click what? What does that mean?’

And we have to sort it out for them.

So Mum probably would cheer if she heard Frank wasn’t on the team any more. And then in the next breath she’d say, ‘Darling, why don’t you take up a hobby and join a team?’

‘I’m really sorry, Frank,’ I say, but he doesn’t react. The next minute he’s shuffled out of the kitchen and I’m left alone with the Doritos.