The 10 P.M. Question Read Online Free Page A

said Gigs, staring straight ahead at the bus ticket quills. (Lordy, she’s a talker.)
    “Good
scheme,
” said Sydney, pointing to the quills. “A bus installation. I like it. Urban art.” She leaned into the seat, examining the quills. Then she sat back and rolled up her own ticket, correctly fashioning the point in the particular way Frankie and Gigs had pioneered years ago. She wormed the new quill carefully into the seat gap and smiled around at Frankie.
    “Nozdoreeshna!” said Gigs. (Oh, my
God
!) His voice had a distinct tone of outrage.
    Frankie looked at Sydney and back at Gigs.
    “Glasnostov aginwia plovik?” (Are you going to answer me, or what?)
    “Is he actually speaking Russian or just being an idiot?” asked Sydney. She pulled a shuffle and earphones from her bag. Her bag, Frankie noticed, was covered in drawings and words. It looked old and well worn and loved. He looked up at the bag’s owner.
    “So,” she said. “He’s speaking Russian or something and you’re completely mute. Once again, I hit the jackpot. Why is it I never end up at schools with
normal
people? Could you even tell me your name?” She bulged her eyes at Frankie. They were black eyes, with dark lashes. Her raised eyebrows were thick half-moons.
    “Frankie Parsons,” he said, and surprised himself by holding out his hand. He could feel Gigs stiffen beside him.
    “Frankie Parsons,” repeated Sydney, taking his hand. She gave him the trademark wide smile. “Sounds like a country and western singer. Or a mafia boss. Or a famous tennis player.”
    “Nozdoreeshna!” said Gigs again.
    Frankie let go of Sydney’s hand and tried a small smile. He felt suddenly and inexplicably cheerful.
    “So,” he said, and picked up Sydney’s shuffle, surprising himself once more. “Nice machine. Wouldn’t mind one of these. My brother’s got one, too. Are you planning to stay very long at this school?”
    “A fruitcake,” was Gigs’s judgment as they walked into school.
    He had been heavily silent for the remainder of the bus ride, his silence louder and louder, it seemed to Frankie, the more he and Sydney had chatted. Silence was the major indicator of Gigs’s fury, Frankie had found over the years. Though Gigs Fury was, in fact, a rare thing and Frankie himself had seldom earned it. Gigs reserved fury almost exclusively for his siblings. He’d been silent for more than a week a couple of years back, when Dr. Pete and Chris had announced that they were having another baby.
    Frankie threw the cricket ball toward the ceiling of the locker room and caught it one-handed.
    “Throw downs?” he said.
    Gigs walked toward the door, cupping a hand behind him. Frankie threw.
    “Let’s hope she’s not in our class,” said Gigs, taking the ball expertly.
    But of course she was. When Frankie and Gigs came into room 11, Sydney was standing beside Mr. A at the front of the classroom, surveying her surroundings with open interest, smiling broadly at kids as they came through the door.
    Frankie was rather admiring. Most kids would have been restless and nervous on their first day in a new school. Most kids would have looked a little pinched and shy. Most kids would have been staring at the floor, or at a vague point in the distance, avoiding the eye of anyone in particular.
    “Okay, friends and Romans,” said Mr. A in his customary way, when everyone was more or less seated and the noise was subsiding. “Lend me your ears, please. Shut up and listen up. This is Sydney Vickerman. Please make her welcome. Show her the ropes. Ask her sympathetic questions. Tell her about yourselves —”
    “If you can get a word in edgewise,” muttered Gigs.
    “Sorry, what was that, Gigs?”
    “Nada,” said Gigs.
    “Try not to interrupt the teacher when he’s in full flow, there’s a good fellow. As I was saying — tell Sydney about yourselves, share your books where necessary, and your lunch if you feel so disposed . . .”
    He thrust his hand