How to be Cool Like Frankie

One, talk in Spanish.
Doormen, delivery guys, and nannies call out to Frankie in Spanish when we walk over to the playground in Washington Square. Guapo is the one word I can always make out. Handsome. Grown-ups notice him. He smiles, says something back to them in Spanish, which makes them laugh. Frankie’s skin is brown and smooth like the acorns we collect, his eyes and hair are black and shiny like my church shoes. I mean, I guess he’s handsome, like Aladdin. My skin isn’t brown, but I have some freckles on my nose. We’re eight and best friends.

Two, keep flipping pages.
One day after school, we’re in the library looking at Where the Wild Things Are, and some lady comes up – not the librarian or anything –  shooting death rays at Frankie. She says, Don’t you go messing up that book. Okay, Frankie says, turning the page. He doesn’t say anything to her in Spanish to make her laugh. And put it on the cart when you’re done. Don’t leave it just anywhere. Like I’m invisible. Like Frankie might do something to the book trying to find out whether Max makes it home safe. Like she knows him. Okay, he says again. He goes to the next page.

Three, ask somebody when you don’t understand.
Last Friday, Frankie’s mom gives him two dollars to buy candy, so we go to the store way over on Hudson Street because they have every kind of M&M’s you can think of. It takes a while, but we finally agree on the Fudge Brownie. As we get to the counter, I grab the pack from Frankie, run back and get Caramel instead. Frankie takes the Caramel and swaps it for Cookie Crunch. I run after him. Now it’s a game. Then this man comes over. Hey kid. he says to Frankie, Stop messing with my candy. He takes the pack from Frankie. In fact, get out of my store. Go back to where you came from. I’m confused because Frankie and I live in the same building, but he’s not looking at me. I don’t say anything because I’m scared. Frankie says, Where I come from? I don’t understand. He tilts his head to the side like a question mark. The man stands over us, quiet, ready to explode, like the Incredible Hulk. Let’s go, Frankie says to me. I start to run. Frankie walks.

Four, answer quick when you know.
Saturday morning, after watching Road Runner chase the coyote around, Frankie goes back downstairs to his apartment to change because today’s Graham Fletcher’s birthday party. There’s going to be a magician and chocolate cake. Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

When the party’s over, Graham’s mom hands out goody bags and my dad comes to get us. He’s in gym shorts and a t-shirt sweating like he ran all the way from our apartment, which he probably did. His blond hair sticks to his pink forehead and he has big dark circles on either side of the blue swoosh on his chest. Like a giant superhero bathtub toy filling up the doorway. Frankie and I race each other to the door, charging and cheering, Daddy! Falling all over ourselves, goofing around. Graham’s mom looks at Frankie and then at my dad. Back and forth, back and forth like Dad’s eyes when he watches tennis on ESPN. She says to Frankie, I guess you must look like your mommy. I’m about to tell her she’s being silly, this is my dad, not Frankie’s.

Instead I say, Yes, but she has green eyes.