The Adventures of Frankie – 10 – Dear John

“Great practice coach,” Frankie said as he slid his baseball glove over the end of his handlebars. His dad would kill him if he wasn't polite to the coach. Respecting your elders was probably his number one rule. Especially when that elder was doing something out of the kindness of his heart, like coaching Little League for free.

Frankie tapped his favorite baseball bat on the handlebars in time with the tune he hummed as he tipped a water bottle back for the last drop. No hands, down the hill and around the corner. That's when he would grab the brakes to start slowing down. Besides, his mom would go absolutely berserk if she caught him riding with no hands again.

He let off the brakes and peddled a few times when he saw Paulette sticking something in his mailbox. Calling out to her, she seemed to ignore him. He leaned down to lessen the wind resistance. Closing the box, she quickly turned and darted back across the street then up the steps. The front door of her house closed just as Frankie came to a stop at the mailbox.

Inside, he found a letter with Francis scrolled across the front in Paulette's beautiful penmanship. He dropped his bike and bat in the grass and opened the letter as he sauntered the distance up to his own front door.

“What the ...?!”

His mother instantly barked, “You watch your mouth young man!”

Frankie's eyes met hers. She watched his fill with tears. He took off up the stairs, not wanting her to see him lose it. Racing after him, she dropped a spatula on the counter. The bedroom door slammed before she could stop it. Respect for others' privacy. A family rule that Frankie's father loved to preach and his parents taught by example. Standing with her nose nearly touching the closed door, she took a cleansing breath, dried her hands across her apron then asked, “Honey, are you okay? Can I come in?”

By now she could hear him in full wail, something was terribly wrong.

“Frankie, what happened at practice? Did you get hurt?”

“Go away!”

Glancing out the window, she saw Frankie's father at the end of the driveway talking with Paulette's dad. No sign of a problem there, the two old friends were smiling and laughing. Leaning to the window, she scanned the front yard. Frankie's bat and bike both seemed to be in one piece.

A low-pitched, heavy sounding smash of something ceramic hit the floor and her attention was back at his door. With the privacy rule trumped by the rank of mom, she burst into his room. She wasn't sure if he was more shocked by her entrance or by the handmade cup laying in pieces all over his bedroom floor. He twisted around then drove his head into the pillow sobbing again. She dashed across the room on the balls of her feet, missing every little shard of coffee cup.

Paulette made that cup especially for Francis. That's what Paulette always called him, Francis, except when they were in diapers. As soon as she could talk she started calling him France. Even today, every now and then she would slip and ask for France when calling on the phone.

“Honey, what's wrong?” his mom sat on the edge of his bed, gently rubbing his back.

With face still buried, his muffled cry told all. “She broke up with me. Paulette doesn't want to be my girlfriend!”

Mom and son were both startled by the screen door slamming downstairs.

“Francis Eugene Dwyer! Do you have any idea how much that baseball bat and glove cost? Get your butt down here right now and put these things away properly!”

He must have turned to face the stairs because his rant boomed even louder, “FRANCIS!”

“Not now Floyd,” mom replied with a slightly elevated but still calm voice, “not now.”

By the time he made it to the doorway, she was reading the note written by the pretty little girl from across the street. When she finally looked up, her husband's curious eyes begged an answer.  “Paulette just wants to be friends,” she said.

“Wait a minute, let me get this straight. Frankie got his first Dear John letter? Not a text, not an email, but an actual letter? Handwritten? Let me see that.”

Snatching the note from her outstretched hand, “Nice handwriting. Ha! Now that's too funny. Relax kid; you're only twelve years old."

Waving the paper at his son, he said, "There's lots more of these in your future. Besides," he continued with a touch more sensitivity, "that little girl isn't going anywhere. You two have been inseparable since swapping binkies in the back yard.”

He inspected the note closer then brought it to his nose, smirking at the slight hint of young girls' perfume permeating the paper.  “Give her time kiddo.” He leaned down to let Frankie sniff her letter. “Give'r time.”