The Infamous Frankie Lorde 2, page 11
“Ollie, who lives here?” I asked him again.
The car stopped and Ollie paused a second, purposely not looking over at me, and then opened his door.
“I do.”
Entry Twenty-One
“You live here.”
I said it like I didn’t believe it. Because it was unbelievable.
Ollie just nodded.
“But—” I said, not sure what to say next. I shook my head. “I don’t get it, Ollie.”
“Let me show you,” Ollie said carefully. “And then maybe it’ll make more sense.”
He started to walk up to the house so I followed.
Ollie pulled up a panel to the right of the door that was practically hidden since it blended in with the house, and then keyed in a few buttons. He didn’t bother trying to shield the code from me, which I took as a sign that he definitely trusted me not to rob him later.
And I wouldn’t. I promise.
“Mama!” Ollie called out as we walked into the massive foyer. “Papa, I’m home!”
There was no immediate answer, but Ollie acted like this was normal. He sat down on a nearby bench and took off his shoes. Then he motioned for me to do the same.
“Mom is crazy about dirt in the house,” he explained with a shrug. He sounded almost embarrassed, but still held his hand out to take the shoes that I’d slipped off my feet.
Once I was barefoot, we walked between a set of pillars that signaled the end of the foyer and continued on into an even larger entryway.
Yes, there was a foyer and an entryway. Where was I?
As we walked further inside, I looked up in awe to see that the ceiling was three stories high, and had a five-foot-wide crystal chandelier hanging from the middle. There were dual black staircases that split the room and led to the floor above. Everything else was a pristine white, with the exception of the dozens of enormous hand-painted portraits that hung on each side of the room like a museum.
“Wow,” I said, not able to stop myself as I looked around.
“I know,” Ollie said with a sigh.
Each picture was around five feet in length and consisted of a different member of Ollie’s family. Hand-painted in muted colors, each person was posed stiffly and seriously, like the ones displayed in royal families’ homes. Or haunted houses.
There were old people, and then even older people, as well as kids and babies all featured on the walls. And there, in the middle of it all, was Ollie. He sat ramrod straight in a chair that I swear could’ve been in Game of Thrones. He was holding a white fluffy cat in his lap, appearing like he was midpet. In the photo, he wore a frown.
I looked over at him and saw the same frown on his face now.
“That’s you,” I said in shock.
“Yeah,” he said.
“With a cat in your lap,” I continued.
“Now can you see why I’m not a fan?” Ollie muttered. “My mom forced me to hold that stupid cat for nine hours. It wasn’t even our cat. And it peed on my McQueen.”
I stifled a laugh.
“Come on,” Ollie said, clearly still not happy about the experience.
I trailed behind him as we made our way through the room toward the back, and noticed how all of Ollie’s family members’ portraits seemed to follow us creepily as we went.
“Does it sort of look like—” I began.
“Like their eyes are following us?” Ollie finished for me. “Yep.”
“Okay,” I said, and just kept walking.
As we continued through the entryway, past the staircases and into the room at the back of the house, I began to hear sounds. More specifically, the sound of people talking.
Loudly.
And animatedly.
“They can’t always hear me from back here,” Ollie explained as we got closer.
I was about to ask who, when we stepped into a large and open kitchen. It was the thing of chefs, with nearly two of everything. Two ranges, two ovens, two fridges—one was clear and just for drinks—and a massive island in the middle.
An island, which was completely covered with plates of food.
Beyond the island was an equally large dining area with a grand, twelve-person table in the middle, as well as a little breakfast nook that looked like it could seat six.
A cozy fireplace sat in the middle of the far wall and had already been fired up with the gas it took to run it. On the other side of that were a few couches, an oversized ottoman, and a flat-screen TV.
There was a lot going on in here.
And not just in the way of furniture.
Because we’d just walked into a dinner that was obviously already in full swing.
A woman around the same age as Uncle Scotty was standing nearby and I watched as she piled her plate high with food and then turned to grab some tortillas. It was midgrab that she saw us.
“Aye, Sobrino!” she said, holding her hand to her chest in surprise. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“I called out when I walked in the front, Auntie,” Ollie said. “Nobody responded.”
“Well, don’t just lurk! You made it for dinner—come in and grab a plate,” she said, motioning us over. Then she turned her head over her shoulder and yelled to everyone, “Oliver’s home! And he’s brought a girl!”
“Oliver’s got a girlfriend, Oliver’s got a girlfriend!” a little boy around the age of six said over and over again from the nook in the corner.
A woman disentangled herself from the group of grazers and came right up to us, taking both of my hands in hers before leaning in and giving me a kiss on my cheek.
It was sloppy and she nearly smothered me when she stuck my face into her chest. But it was warm and genuine.
“So wonderful to meet you…,” she started.
“Frankie,” I supplied with a smile.
She pulled back, holding my arms out and looked at me.
“You’re too skinny,” she said. “Oliver, your girlfriend needs to eat.”
“Maaaammmaaaa,” Ollie whined quietly. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just my friend. And you can’t say things like that to people.”
“What?” Ollie’s mom asked, looking confused. “But it’s true.”
“But it’s rude,” Ollie pointed out.
“It’s okay,” I said politely.
“See, Oliver?” his mom argued. “It’s not rude. Rude would be telling her she’d look so much more feminine if she grew out her hair.”
“Mom!” Ollie yelled, his cheeks burning red.
“Lucia, novia, leave the girl alone,” an older man said appearing from behind us. Though Ollie was practically the spitting image of his mom, all the way down to her roundness and attitude, I knew right away that the man was Ollie’s dad.
There was something about his eyes.
They were kind but also there was so much excitement there. A joy of life that was hard to find in people these days.
But Ollie’s dad had it. And Ollie did too.
“I’m not doing anything!” Ollie’s mom exclaimed, raising her hands defensively. “Just getting to know Ollie’s girlfriend here.”
“And giving her some unsolicited advice at the same time?” Ollie’s dad added, flashing me a friendly smile. “Hello, amiga. I am Oliver’s father.”
I reached out and shook his hand.
“Well, maybe if more people listened to my unsolicited advice, the world wouldn’t be quite so loco, Hugo,” Lucia argued. “Ever think of that?”
“It’s all I think about, amor,” Ollie’s dad said, and winked at us before steering his wife to a seat at the table.
“This is why we hang out at your house,” Ollie muttered as he handed me a plate and began to fill his own.
“I don’t know why,” I said with a laugh. “This is incredible.”
Ollie looked at me like I had two heads.
“Really!” I insisted. “All this energy and excitement. It’s nice to be a part of it. I grew up with it being just Dad and me. And now it’s just Uncle Scotty and me. I mean, it’s fine. I like being on my own. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a big family.”
“Um, chaotic,” Ollie offered. “Annoying. Loud.”
I laughed again.
“It’s not that bad,” I said, following him to the table and sitting down in an empty seat. I quickly texted Scotty to let him know I wouldn’t be home for dinner, but that I was fine.
“What is that you’re wearing, Oliver?” the man sitting next to his aunt asked while shoveling food into his mouth.
Ollie looked down.
“Um, a shirt,” he replied.
“But it’s all…” His uncle gestured wildly to the design on the button-down. “Flowery.”
Ollie sighed loudly.
“Yes,” Ollie said plainly. “It does have flowers on it.”
I had a feeling this was a conversation they had on the regular.
“Why do you have to dress all fancy all of the time? Why don’t you wear things like Nike or Abercrombie like the other kids?”
Before Ollie could answer—or lose his cool—I jumped in.
“Obviously, Ollie needs clothes as fabulous as he is,” I countered, giving him a supportive grin.
“You live in Greenwich, though,” his uncle said. “Who are you trying to be fabulous for?”
I could see Ollie tense up beside me and I lightly brushed my shoulder against his in a show of solidarity.
As everyone finished their meals, they began to get up and say their goodbyes.
“See you mañana,” Ollie’s aunt said, gathering up the three boys and girl who’d been sitting in the booth table. “I’ll come round eight to pick up Papa for his appointment.”
Ollie’s mom nodded.
Then, instead of heading in the direction of the front door, Ollie’s aunt, uncle, and cousins piled out the sliding doors leading to the backyard. I watched in confusion as they walked around the large pool and then entered a smaller house about a hundred feet away from the main house.
“My aunt and uncle live in the guest house,” Ollie explained, following my gaze. “And my grandparents live in their own section of this house on the first floor. They have their own little kitchen and everything.”
“It’s nice you’re all so close,” I said.
“A little too close sometimes,” Ollie answered, still smarting about his uncle’s comments from earlier.
“Most of the time when families have money, they grow apart. Or fight over it,” I said.
“Oh, don’t get it twisted,” Ollie answered, as his mom and dad began to put away the leftover food. “The Santiagos don’t have money.”
I looked around the room slowly.
“Um, I would beg to differ,” I countered.
“I mean, we don’t come from money. We hit the lottery, Frankie.”
“You are pretty fortunate—” I said.
“No,” he cut in. “We literally won the lottery. I’m talking, my dad buying lotto tickets for thirty-seven years and finally hitting the jackpot rich.”
My eyes widened.
“No way!” I exclaimed, fascinated by what he was saying.
I’d never met anyone in real life who’d won the lotto. I’d even questioned whether the whole thing was a hoax. But now here was Ollie and his family.
Rich overnight.
Ollie nodded.
“BTL—Before the Lotto—my mom cleaned other people’s houses for a living and my dad was the head groundskeeper at an estate in the area. When we won, my folks quit their jobs, moved us to this house, brought along my grandparents, and aunt and uncle and their kids, and we all moved in here together.”
“Okay. So, why wouldn’t you want to tell me about this, Ollie?” I asked, confused. “Did you think I’d look at you differently?”
And then an upsetting thought popped into my mind again.
“Or did you think I’d rob you?”
I hated the thought that Ollie would worry I’d steal from him and his family. I thought he knew that now I only went after those who didn’t deserve their wealth in the first place.
Ollie snorted.
“Please,” he said. “We might have this great, big house, but it’s not like we have anything in it for you to steal. Except for those creepy family portraits out there, which you’re totally welcome to, I might add.”
“No thanks,” I said, shuddering. “If you weren’t afraid I’d rob you and you didn’t think I’d judge, then why wouldn’t you tell me who you really are?”
“That’s the thing…this,” he said, gesturing widely around the room. “This isn’t me. We may have money but we’re not rich.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head.
“Nothing about us changed when we got the money. Yes, we moved. But we don’t have a maid or housekeeper or chef to cater to our every whim. My mom doesn’t believe in letting other people clean her house. Ironic, but she’s always like, ’We can clean our own house, thank you very much.’ So we do.
“Dad bought a piece of land nearby and turned it into a sort of community park where people can plant stuff. He’s out there every day, breaking his back to keep things looking good for all the strangers who come through. He says it gives him purpose. I think it gives him back problems.”
“So, you’re mad that…you have money?” I asked, still not getting it. “But you don’t get to spend it?”
“No,” Ollie said, sounding frustrated. “I don’t want people to know we have money, because they’ll look at me like we have money, when in reality, we live our lives like we don’t. Get it?”
“Uh,” I said, starting to understand what he was trying to say. “I think so.”
“All this money, and nothing’s changed,” he said. “I still live in this tiny little town, surrounded by people who think I’m weird and treat me differently because of the way I look. I have dreams of being a famous actor, but I still haven’t gone on a single audition. I have all the money in the world, but I can’t use it to become the person I know I’m meant to be.”
“Awww, Ollie,” I said, leaning over to hug him.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad for me,” Ollie answered, shrugging me off. “I know I’m privileged. I know these are just rich people problems. But I wanted to show you that I understand being stuck in a place that’s too small for you. That wants you to be someone you’re not, so you can fit into a mold they’ve constructed.”
Ollie’s voice was imploring now and his eyes showed more emotion than his voice could convey. My happy-go-lucky Ollie felt just as caged in as I did. And I was only discovering that now.
“So, I’m asking you, as my best friend, please don’t leave me here alone,” he asked seriously. “I know you’re bigger than this place. I know you feel stuck, because I do too. Just, please, for now, stay. And I promise, as soon as it’s the right time, you will get out.”
“How can you know that, Ollie?” I asked quietly.
He paused before putting his hand on my arm.
“Because I’ll be going with you.”
Entry Twenty-Two
The guards had looked at us suspiciously until we showed them our credentials.
Then they let us in through the gate, handed us the keys to our own golf cart and waved us off.
“These things are like golden tickets,” Ollie said as he rode shotgun in the cart. “Or all-access passes that get us backstage at a Jonas Brothers concert.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“These are better than a Jonas Brothers concert,” I said, making a face.
“I guess that’s a matter of opinion,” Ollie said, the wind whipping his shaggy wig around his face. I’d hated the hairpiece when I’d first seen it, but it had grown on me. Especially because Ollie looked nothing like himself in it. And that was sort of the point of our disguises.
“But it can’t be this easy, can it?” Ollie asked, gesturing around.
“When you lay a strong enough foundation, the rest builds itself,” I said, steering us along the long driveway toward the Brasko estate.
When we made it up to the main house, I parked our cart and we got out, gathered our things, and made our way inside.
Nobody came to greet us.
That’s not to say there was nobody there.
It was actually quite the opposite.
A couple dozen people milled around just inside the house, busily setting up lights, taping down wires, and strategically placing microphones around each room.
Nobody paid attention to the French woman dressed in a chic, princess-style jacket with two rows of buttons splitting the middle of her chest. I’d admired the coat while we were on a job once. I loved the way that it was fitted at the top, and then how the slippery black material billowed out like a dress from there.
It wasn’t until after I’d stolen it from the countess that I’d found out the frock was worth about $10,000.
I didn’t care.
It could’ve cost a dollar and I still would’ve kept it.
Because I actually liked it. It was chic and classy and could work with so many different personas. It made me feel fancy. Like I wasn’t just a common thief looking to steal a few bucks.
Besides, it was just smart to have a few nice things in your repertoire.
I brushed my own brown wig out of my face and then grumbled in annoyance as it fell back down over my eyes. It was the look I was going for: fine but unstyled. It was meant to blend in while my clothes stood out. I topped it all off with another pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses. The frames were so big, they nearly took up my whole face.
This was the idea, since it made it even more difficult to get a good look at my face and features, and made it almost impossible for anyone to describe me later.
