The Infamous Frankie Lorde 2, page 1
CHECK OUT ALL OF FRANKIE’S “MARKS”
Book 1: STEALING GREENWICH
Text copyright © 2021 by Brittany Geragotelis
All rights reserved
Pixel+Ink is a division of TGM Development Corp.
Cover and interior design by Steve Scott
www.pixelandinkbooks.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020944065
Hardcover ISBN 9781645950578
Ebook ISBN 9781645950738
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To every kid out there who’s ever stood up for someone
who couldn’t stand up for themselves.
Frankie would be proud.
And so am I.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Entry One
Entry Two
Entry Three
Entry Four
Entry Five
Entry Six
Entry Seven
Entry Eight
Entry Nine
Entry Ten
Entry Eleven
Entry Twelve
Entry Thirteen
Entry Fourteen
Entry Fifteen
Entry Sixteen
Entry Seventeen
Entry Eighteen
Entry Nineteen
Entry Twenty
Entry Twenty-one
Entry Twenty-two
Entry Twenty-three
Entry Twenty-four
Entry Twenty-five
Entry One
Entry Twenty-six
Entry Twenty-seven
Entry Twenty-eight
Entry Twenty-nine
Entry Thirty
Entry Thirty-one
Entry Thirty-two
Entry Thirty-three
Entry Thirty-four
Entry Thirty-five
Entry Thirty-six
Entry Thirty-seven
Acknowledgments
Join Frankie’s Squad
Entry One
I’m a thief.
No joke.
And not the cute kind of thief that steals a lipstick or toy at the corner store. You know, like you might’ve done that one time on a dare. For me, that’s child’s play.
Nope. I’m the kind of thief that studies the layout to a billionaire’s mansion and then steals his four-million-dollar suit of armor. Or sneaks in through the window of a factory to take a two-pound European white truffle worth over $300,000.
I’m that kind of thief.
And so is my dad—
Was.
Is?
Can he still be considered a thief if he’s in prison?
Never mind. I suppose that doesn’t matter.
What matters is that my dad is Tom Lorde: the most notorious international thief the modern world has ever seen. Before the FBI caught him and threw him behind bars, my dad had pulled over forty jobs, stolen around $57 million, and conned some of the smartest people on the planet out of their hard-earned treasures.
And I, Frankie Lorde, helped him do it.
See, I was his right-hand gal.
His coconspirator.
His partner in crime.
His student.
And now, with Dad locked up, and me on my own, the student has become the teacher.
Sort of.
Because what I’ve learned these past few months while living my new life is that some things you just don’t grow out of. They’re a part of you, like having a crooked smile or a cowlick. No matter how many times you try to get rid of it, it always creeps back.
So, yeah.
Like I said before: I’m Frankie Lorde, and I’m a thief.
Entry Two
This is my confession.
Well, not so much a confession. More like a memoir? My government-appointed therapist, Dr. Deerchuck, calls it a journal. Which I suppose is accurate, though there’s something about that term that makes me all prickly. I think it’s because it reminds me of the overly happy girls in commercials who are laughing as they write in their glittery pink diaries about their crushes.
I am so not a pink, glittery kind of girl.
The truth is, the only reason I’m writing in this journal at all is because I was forced to. Dr. Deerchuck swears that the more honest I am about my past, the quicker I can let go of it. AKA, the quicker I can be reformed.
The only thing I believe is the sooner I do what she says, the sooner I can let go of her.
But back to the journal thing. The problem with her logic in letting go of my past is…I’m not sure I want to.
See, I don’t exactly view my life before getting caught as being, well, bad. Sure, Dad and I broke a few (hundred) rules. Took some stuff that didn’t exactly belong to us. But because of our lifestyle, we got to travel to incredible places, like Paris, Greece, and India. I got to light a candle at Notre Dame. Touch monuments in the Acropolis. Eat sushi while climbing Mount Fuji.
What other middle schooler can say that?
None that I know, that’s for sure.
So, when the courts sent me to live with my closest relative—my dad’s younger brother, Uncle Scotty—in the quasi-perfect Greenwich, Connecticut, I sort of freaked.
Greenwich is like Pleasantville. Only, with mansions and money. Not exactly my style.
And being stuck here for the foreseeable future felt a little like being locked away myself.
It still does, sometimes.
There are a few things that make living here suck a little less, though.
One is my uncle Scotty.
Which is a surprise, because he’s a cop.
That’s right.
We’re literally playing Cops and Robbers here.
But for whatever reason, it works for us. We even have fun. Like this morning, for instance.
Over the past few months, we’ve taken to doing a sort of music roulette in the morning. Whoever gets to the kitchen first chooses whatever song they want to listen to. Then the other picks the next song and so on and so forth. But after a few rounds of listening to some pretty great songs, we switched to choosing awful songs for some reason. Sort of like finding the best of the worst to torture each other with. It had become a game of trying to out-annoy each other, until there was a clear winner.
Which was usually me, since I had a plethora of current cringe-worthy pop music to choose from.
This morning Uncle Scotty was already in the kitchen drinking an espresso when I trudged in, which meant he got first pick.
I yawned as I plopped down into what had become my chair.
“Pick your poison, Detective,” I said, pulling the container of cereal over to my bowl and pouring until it was full.
“I think today’s my day, Frankie,” Uncle Scotty said, leaning against the counter in the same lazy way my dad always had.
A sudden wave of sadness rushed over me as I thought of him, and I tried to shake it off. It was far too early for nostalgia.
“You say that every morning,” I answered, pointing at him with my spoon.
“Today it’s true,” Uncle Scotty replied.
“Doubt it,” I said, my mouth full of crispy cereal. “But go ahead and give it a shot.”
He just looked at me and raised a determined eyebrow. “Google, play ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 miles).’ ”
The rhythmic strumming of a guitar filled the room and I immediately felt the urge to start nodding along. This was almost always the case. The songs tricked you by starting out sounding normal. But then once the lyrics came into play, it usually went downhill—fast.
A few chords into this one and I could already tell there was something about it that was off.
Or rather, awful.
One thing was sure, Uncle Scotty had definitely brought his A-game this particular morning.
“Oh, yeah!” he said loudly over the beginning of the song. “When I wake up…”
Then to my surprise, my very professional uncle suddenly leaped from his place at the counter into the middle of the kitchen, and struck a crazy pose while holding a spoon up to his mouth like it was a microphone. When the chorus finally hit, he began to march around me while singing the lyrics at the top of his lungs and wiggling his butt back and forth.
“Oh. My. God,” I said, momentarily frozen in place. “What is happening?”
This was not the uncle Scotty I knew. The uncle Scotty I knew wore a serious expression most of the time, jeans and a button-down shirt all of the time, and a silly side…well, none of the time.
Until now. This uncle Scotty was new.
“Say it,” he demanded, a smile creeping onto his face.
“No way,” I said.
“Say it or I’ll keep singing,” he added, jumping around again. “I might even make it your ringtone.”
“Fine!” I said, giving in. “You win!”
“What was that?” Uncle Scotty said, putting his hand to his ear like he hadn’t heard me.
“You win!” I yelled, with a little laugh. Then I added, “This round.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually liked that monstrosity,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
He smiled, unashamed. “Correction: I loved it.”
“But we’re choosing awful songs,” I said, confused.
“I said I loved it,” he explained. “I knew you’d hate it. Your generation could never appreciate its greatness.”
I shook my head at him. “Who are you even?”
“I’m your blood, kiddo,” he answered, slightly out of breath. “And this—” he said, motioning to his crazy display of dancing, “—is hereditary.”
“What’s hereditary?” someone chimed in from behind me. “And what in the name of all things Gucci are you guys listening to?”
I recognized the voice right away and didn’t bother turning around. Instead, I grabbed one of the danishes we’d picked up from our favorite yummy bakery in town, Black Forest Pastry Shop, and held it up in the air as an offering.
It quickly disappeared from my hand as my friend Ollie collapsed down into the chair next to me.
Entry Three
“Apparently, questionable taste and bad dancing run in the family,” I answered him, taking another bite of cereal. “And you’ll have to ask Uncle Scotty about the tunes. He’s the one who picked this winner.”
We both turned to look at Uncle Scotty expectantly.
“Seriously?” Uncle Scotty asked us as we waited for an answer. “ ‘Five Hundred Miles’? The Proclaimers?”
We continued to stare at him blankly.
“The theme song from Benny & Joon?” he asked, starting to sound exasperated.
“Are they like, Bonnie and Clyde?” I asked.
“Or Thelma and Louise?” Ollie chimed in, miming driving in a car.
“No,” Uncle Scotty said. Then he added, hopefully, “It stars Johnny Depp?”
“This is Johnny Depp singing?” Ollie exclaimed, perking up.
This time it was Uncle Scotty’s turn to stare at us.
When he finally spoke, it was with zero enthusiasm.
“Words cannot express how disappointed I am right now,” Uncle Scotty said, placing his mug in the sink. “Your punishment will be to watch the movie with me tomorrow night.”
“I could get behind some movie-theater popcorn,” Ollie said looking at me for confirmation.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s not in theaters!” Uncle Scotty bellowed, throwing his arms up in the air. “It’s a classic.”
I leaned toward Ollie. “That’s code for old.”
Ollie grimaced.
“Are we being punished?” Ollie asked Uncle Scotty, confused.
When he caught Uncle Scotty’s less-than-thrilled expression at that, he sat up straighter in his seat and swallowed hard.
“No offense, Detective Lorde, but based on this song, I’m not sure we can trust your judgment in movies,” Ollie said, choosing his words carefully.
Uncle Scotty let out a loud growl and stalked out of the room.
“I said, ’no offense,’ ” Ollie mumbled under his breath.
I chuckled.
“What was that all about, anyway?” Ollie asked, nodding his head in the direction of where Uncle Scotty had disappeared to.
“No clue,” I said, just as confused by the interaction as he was. “He’s been weird this whole morning.”
“I like to think that the Detective buys these just for me,” he said, using his nickname for Uncle Scotty, picking up another pastry and devouring it in one bite.
“Well, I don’t eat them,” I said, not exactly confirming his theory. “I’m a croissant girl myself.”
A large smile spread across his face.
“He likes me! He really likes me!” he exclaimed happily.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I responded with a snort.
“Neither would I,” Uncle Scotty said in what I could tell was a semiplayful tone, as he stalked back into the room. He was fully ready for work now. Gone was the goofy smile and old college track shirt he’d been wearing. He’d changed into a pair of fitted jeans and a blazer, and plastered on his signature furrowed brow. His hair was a bit longer than one would expect in his line of work, but it was styled, so it still managed to look professional.
If I squinted my eyes real tight, I could almost imagine what Dad would’ve looked like in his younger days. Handsome, fit, maybe a little intimidating in the right circumstances.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Uncle Scotty asked as he filled his travel mug with more coffee.
I released my squint and looked away.
“No reason,” I said, the image and thought dissolving almost immediately. “Um, don’t forget I have my call with Dad tonight at seven p.m.”
Uncle Scotty’s back was to me, but I could see him pause in the middle of gathering his things for work. It only lasted a second, but it was long enough for me to notice it. “I remember,” he said as he finished packing his leather messenger bag.
“We’re supposed to talk about when I can go visit,” I added, getting up and placing my bowl in the sink.
“Sounds good,” he added, swinging around to give me a smile. “Okay, kiddos. Gotta go. People to arrest, cases to solve.”
I cocked my head to the side curiously as I watched him cross the room.
“Make good choices today,” he added behind his shoulder.
As the door clicked shut, Ollie licked the sugar off his fingers and stood up.
“I still say he likes me,” Ollie said to himself. Then he turned to me. “Shall we go?”
“Mmmm,” I said, distracted. When Ollie’s words finally clicked, I shook my head and fixed my eyes on his. “Yeah. Let me just grab a sweater.”
As I got up to retrieve the fuzzy gray oversized cardigan I’d picked out for the day, Ollie followed me.
“Spill,” he said, in an almost accusatory tone.
“Huh?” I asked.
“What’s going on, Frankie?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, slipping the sweater on.
“Girl, I know you. And I know that look,” he said, placing his hands on his hips, wrists facing out. “You might not have noticed, but I’m a master of perception.”
I snorted at that.
“For real!” he insisted. “I can tell something’s on your mind.”
I rolled my eyes. Ollie insisting he was a master of perception was like a person who knows a simple card trick saying he’s a magician.
It was the overstatement of the year, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay,” I said, raising my eyebrow at him, challengingly. “Then tell me what’s bugging my uncle? If you’re such a master and all.”
Ollie’s face scrunched up in confusion. He hadn’t been ready for that.
“Uh, he was annoyed that we didn’t like his song?” he offered, obviously missing all the clues that Uncle Scotty had unknowingly put out there.
“Well, yes,” I answered, ushering him to the door. “But what had him running out of here so fast?”
“Work?” Ollie said quickly.
I shut the door behind us, and before we’d even stepped off the porch, I made a sound like a buzzer on a game show.
“Ehhhhh! Thanks for playing, though!” I said, faking enthusiasm before revealing why he was wrong. “First off, my uncle isn’t intimidated by anyone. Second, the thing that was bothering him had nothing to do with work.”
Ollie pulled the hood of his bright red wrap coat over his head and tried to block out the cold air of the morning. I hadn’t noticed it before, but Ollie’s outfit looked fairly reminiscent of Little Red Riding Hood. Not that this was exactly surprising for my fashionista friend. Ollie’s wardrobe was like a visual journal. He literally wore his heart and mood on his sleeve.
So, if he was channeling little Miss Hood, did that make me the big, bad wolf?
Some might say yes.
I wasn’t so sure. Lately I’d been feeling a bit more like a domesticated wolf cub who’d lost her growl than a wild dog on the prowl. That’s what happened to animals in captivity. They began to lose their true selves.
For a thief like me or my dad, that would be a fate worse than death.
