'If I had a brother like that, I wouldn't want anyone to know either,'

English class had long ended, but Frankie still thought about it. Ezra was fine the entire class- didn't talk to him at all, and that was fine with Frankie.

It was Jenner he was thinking about.

What he said this time was mild compared to some of what he'd said to Frankie before, yet it hurt more. It was unlike the name-calling, or the horrible things they said about the way he looked- words that he could grow used to with time.

What Jenner said was mild. It was the type of sentence that wouldn't have hurt him, if it hadn't been true.

Frankie pushed through a hoard of people who had no intention of moving for him and every intention of ignoring him, then finally got to the cafeteria. He glanced at the long lunch line, which stretched from one end of the cafeteria to the other, and decided against food. He'd just go hungry.

He was relieved at not having to struggle to find a space to sit on the round table for once. While the six of them sat at the same table every day, some of his friends liked to bring people over with them, and they'd end up sitting at the seat he always sat at- which apparently wasn't his seat. He'd end up awkwardly standing until they left, or they didn't and he'd stand for ages.

"Hi," Frankie said, while sitting.

Emery waved at him, while Libby said 'Hi' back. The other three on the table- Delilah, Lucy, and Finley- didn't pause their conversation for a second.

Emery was a nerd, a mysterious one. He seemed to have given away nothing about himself, and liked it that way. Frankie couldn't tell you his hobbies, his address, his birthday, or even his last name before he got an award for 100% attendance at the end of Junior year. He seemed suited for loneliness, but still managed to have better interactions with their friends than Frankie ever had, and was a decent friend himself.

Libby Thomas was different. Short, chatty, pleasant to be around, but didn't seem to like Frankie much. It felt like she was just accepting his existence, whether he was gone or not wouldn't matter much to her.

"What are you guys eating?" Frankie said. Starting dry conversation as always.

"Just a salad for me,"- She pushed the salad towards Frankie for him to see- "Looking to lose some."

Another day another diet. Frankie stopped being surprised by her constant reliance on them ages ago. Libby didn't have much of a personality from what he saw, didn't have a 'favourite' anything, and didn't like anything in particular. But there was something she loved, dieting.

She was never not on some kind of diet, and, never looked much different either.

If weight loss really was her goal, she was failing at it. 

Emery turned his phone face down on the table, and sighed.

"Not my business," He started, while putting his hands up, "But you know those 'diets' don't work right?"

Libby raised an eyebrow, put down her fork, and scoffed.

"You say this every time, and I don't care what you have to say. My momma lost weight this way, and my meemaw lost weight this way too,"

Emery crossed his arms, and cocked an eyebrow before speaking, "Did they keep the weight off?"

Libby scrunched her nose up, "You-"

"She can lose weight however she wants to," Finley said, interrupting. He was sitting next to Libby as he pitched in, while Frankie was sandwiched between Libby, Emery, and their mini-argument. "Leave her alone. It's not your weight to lose, is it?" he joked.

Finley Truman was the glue that put them all together. Finley, Lucy, and Delilah had been friends since middle school, and they stayed friends. He was drawn to Libby on the first day of Highschool so they'd become friends as well. He 'liked the way Emery looked' so he'd coaxed him into his friend group, and Frankie was the 'stubborn piece of chewing gum that stuck to Emery's shoe since the first day of Freshman year and that just wouldn't get the hint'.

Finely explained what all of them meant to him after Frankie got on his nerves once- he'd asked Finely's friend to move from his seat.

"Fine," Emery said. He shifted his headphones over his right ear, he normally kept that one off.

"You should try a Juice cleanse," Finley said while scrolling through his phone.

"I already tried that, I can't really do with no food at all," She explained, sadly.

"Try a charcoal cleanse then," He said as he pushed his phone into her face

"What is that?" She questioned.

"It's perfect," He said, "You don't even have to change the way you eat,"

Frankie watched them from the corner of his eyes, only to catch Finley's eye by accident. He moved his attention elsewhere, but still caught the pure disgust of Finley's face.

Finely Truman did not dislike him, but hate him.

Frankie had once thought they'd get along quite well. They both looked quite similar, same brown hair and brown eyes, they both had moles as well. It was only that Finley's eyelashes were longer, and his face sharper. Delilah had once pointed it out, and Finley had corrected her saying that Frankie looked like him, not the other way around.

***

Frankie woke up to noise, something that sounded like a TV.

The walls in his house were thin, so he could hear everything from Foster's footsteps right before he's about to burst into Frankie's room, to Foster decimating the kitchen by trying his hand at cooking for the fiftieth time.

Whatever the noise was, it always started with Foster Stahl.

He said he couldn't help it, Frankie wasn't convinced.

Frankie got up out of his bed, groggily. While he was woken up abruptly, he wasn't too annoyed since he was supposed to wake up from his nap in about 30 minutes anyway.

He thought about making his bed for a moment, before deciding against it. It matched the mess of his room, and if he started cleaning he wouldn't stop. There were empty bottles of water on his windowsill, assignments on the floor, and clothes strewn all over the floor. Practically his whole wardrobe was on the grown, but Frankie didn't remember buying any of those clothes at all. Even the shirt he was wearing was too big for him, and he couldn't imagine buying it for himself, he didn't like oversized clothes much.

Frankie walked to his bedroom door, and practically ran past it for fear of catching a glimpse of the assignments on the desk.

The stairs would creak as he walked down them, something loud, and something obnoxious, but the sound of the TV somehow managed to cover it. He glimpsed at the photos next to the stairs as he went down them. There was one from the day Foster graduated middle school, one from the first football game he played, then another from the first season he played, the final photo was one of him at a summer camp.

But then there was another photo. It didn't have a frame, and didn't look proper next to the row of framed smiling Foster's. It was right at the bottom of the stairs, and you had to bend to see it. It was a photo of him.

Five-year-old Frankie, missing teeth while smiling at the photo. He held a pear tightly in his right hand, his favourite.

After his Mum and Dad divorced, his dad's mum took it upon herself to redecorate the new house he bought after moving out to add a 'Woman's touch' as she'd called it.. They used to have all of Frankie's photos not just Foster's, but they were gone now. Frankie did wonder where his photos had gone, until he realised his grandmother hated him, and that she probably got rid of them- probably burned them.

She made it very clear she hated him, before she died, and made sure Frankie's Dad promised to not give him any money from her will. Frankie knew why she didn't like him, but it wasn't his fault.

"We already play so much football," someone said, "Do we have to watch it as well?"

Frankie stood in the doorway of the living room. The first thing he saw was the huge flatscreen TV his Dad bought so he and Foster could watch Football together. It was playing football.

"Yes," Someone else said.

"Guys, Come on,"

When he turned around, Frankie saw his face a bit- Colt Kennedy.

One of Foster's friends. They weren't as close as, Foster and Ezra but they were close enough. Frankie hadn't expected Fosters's Friends to be at his house. While they came over quite a lot, this was the fifth time in half a month.

I should leave, Frankie thought.

He normally didn't come downstairs when he knew Foster's friends were around.

"Stahl Junior?" Colt said. Frankie knew it was Colt because he was the only person who called him that. The rest didn't hear what he said, but then Colt turned around and they turned around as well. He knew their faces, but could only but a name to Colt's, and Ezra's.

Someone paused the TV.

" 'You been standing there for long?" He asked, his brows furrowing in concern.

"Not...really," Frankie said, lightly. He fiddled with the growing hole in the side of the shorts, they were far too small for him- baggy then in middle school, and tight now- but still strangely comforting. The shirt he was wearing was huge though, and he couldn't remember where he got it from.

"You were having a nap, weren't you?... Did we wake you up?" Colt said, frowning slightly.

Colt Kennedy was a swimmer, often mistaken for a football player, not cause he particularly looked like one but because he was only friends with football players. He had black corkscrew curls, two-toned lips, and really straight white teeth. He made Frankie feel self-conscious by just looking at him, especially since he smiled so much. He looked like he took care of himself, more than any other guy he'd seen, and Frankie looked scruffy. He had really nice teeth, and Frankie didn't.

"Did we?" Colt asked again.

"...What?" Frankie asked.

"Did we wake you up from your nap?" Colt asked smiling. He had dimples as well.

"No, I, wake up at this time all the time," said Frankie.

"Come join us then," He said, moving up to make space for Frankie, squishing Ezra to the side. "Stahl's supposed to be sitting there, but you can fit in easy,"

Frankie waved him off, frantically, "It's fine, really."

"No, Come on, we never get to hang out with you,"

"I-"

"Fran?" Foster spoke out. He was standing at the doorway to the kitchen, checking the phone in his hand. "You're awake early,"

Foster was wearing a top that was noticeably a bit too tight for him, as if he were wearing a compression shirt- it was strangely familiar to Frankie- while his trousers were baggy. He had a hand in his pocket, and a plastic bag was in the other one. Foster chewed on a popsicle stick in the corner of his mouth.

Frankie recognised it as a fudgesicle Foster made last week as one of his food experiments. He'd told Frankie, unprompted, that he estimated each fudgesicle to have 35g of protein each. His eyes had been shining, and he'd looked deeply proud of himself.

'That's nice,' Frankie had said to him.

"I think we woke him up," Colt said while pitching in.

Foster frowned, "I told you to turn that shit down," He said. Displeasure made itself evident in his tone. Despite the golden strands of hair hanging over his eyes, Frankie guessed he was probably squinting- as he always did lately- he also guessed that Foster probably needed glasses.

"...You didn't wake me up," Frankie said. It came out quieter than he wanted it to.

"Speak up Fran, can't hear you," He said.

"...Nothing," Frankie replied. 

Foster looked at him strangely as he spoke.

He turned around, to go up the stairs.

"You're not gonna stay?" Foster said while holding the bag up, "I've got fudgesicles. There's one for you,"

"I don't want any," Frankie said.

"Oh, that's...fine. Going back to bed then?" Foster asked, as he scratched the back of his head and pulled at the hem of his shirt.

"Yeah,"