Fran has a tried-and-tested solution for dealing with her problems: run away.
And despite what the self-help books say, it's worked pretty well up until now. "Now" referring to her hiding in the seaside town of Seacombe until the end of summer, and...
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Fran jumped like she'd been scalded. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."
Her mother was weighted down by several giant shopping bags and took a moment to compose herself. She flashed Fran a broad smile, which she didn't return.
"You did – this'll only be a second. I brought something for you."
She extended the shopping bag. Fran cautiously took it from her hands, testing its weight.
It was a new statue.
For some bizarre reason laughter was the first emotion that came to mind – some kind of bitter, miserable laughter – but the lump in her throat was too tight to let anything out.
"You never listen to me," she said, her voice low and hoarse and surprisingly even. If she had brought her anything else – flowers, chocolates – Fran might have forgiven her. But this...this was like a slap in the face. This was hard, solid proof that her mum hadn't understood a word she'd said to her, perhaps ever.
"You always say that, darling, and I can't understand why."
"Then why did you buy me this?"
"I just thought it was really sad, seeing your old one broken like that. You used to love that thing. And when I had time to think about it, just piecing together the old thing wasn't good enough. You needed something more; you were so upset about it."
"This has nothing to do with the statue!" she shouted. "I don't give a shit about the statue! Why do you keep buying me stuff when I tell you I don't need it? Why don't you ever just ask me what I want?"
"Well...what do you want, Frannie?"
Understanding. A different, better mother. For her to leave and never come back. Fran bit the spite back before it could come rushing out. This was her chance. Her mum had opened the floor, at least – maybe if she could just get her to see what she'd been feeling for the last seven years...
A slow realisation started to descend on her. Maybe her mother had gotten things drastically wrong – but she'd tried, hadn't she? She'd come all the way to Seacombe to find her, she'd mended the figurine she'd broken and then thought about her in the superstore in St Erbin's. Maybe she didn't know what she was feeling, why she was upset, but was it wrong of her to assume she'd understand everything she was feeling without telling her?
Perhaps Rhodes was right: maybe she did make her own problems.
"I want things to go back to the way things used to be," she said, stumbling over the words. She wished she had had time to rehearse what she was going to say, so she could get her feelings out right. Now all she was feeling was a jumbled, nervous mess. "You used to be the best. But then – but then dad left, and you–"
Her mother's face pinched slightly. "That was a long time ago, Frannie."
"I know," she said quickly. "I know you're trying. And I appreciate that you took the time to buy me this, and to fix my statue, but I – I feel like you're trying to buy my approval because you don't really know how to make me feel better. When I was upset when I was younger, you knew exactly what to do. We'd go out for pizza and you'd tell me stories about your cousins and the stuff you'd get up to at school. We'd marathon Pretty Little Liars and make fun of all the plot holes. You'd come into my room when you couldn't sleep and we'd listen to Bon Jovi albums..."
She peered closely at her mother's face, trying to catch a glimmer of recognition, of – of some kind of nostalgia, anything to show she was getting through to her. But her face stayed the same: her eyebrows pinched together in some kind of pained confusion, tapping her foot against the floor.
"You..." Fran's voice started to falter. "You remember that, don't you?"
Her mother took a deep breath in.
"To be honest, Frannie, I don't really like talking about this–"
Fran had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out in frustration. "Please, just this once?"
Her mum shook her head, her curls bouncing across her face. "I understand what you're trying to say, baby. But this is who I am now."
"I get that. That was years ago. Neither of us are the same person we were back then. But now...you're – you go out with your friends all the time, or you're working, or you're watching TV and don't want to talk. We never spend time together anymore."
"This is what you wanted for me, wasn't it? You were the one who said I needed to get out and see my friends more."
"I said 'more'. Not 'all the time'."
"Well, would you rather I stayed at home?" her mum snapped. "You want me to spend twenty hours a day in bed like I 'used to'? You want me to go on being miserable and hopeless again to please you, is that it?"
"What? That's not what I meant–"
"Well, then what is it you want? You're always asking so much of me. All these lifts, and missing events to watch you play guitar. And now you want me to completely change who I am to suit you?"
"I don't want you to change," Fran said. "I just want to spend time with you without fighting. I want to be friends again."
"If you wanted us to be friends again you'd see things from my point of view. This is the happiest I've ever been in my life, Fran. I thought I'd never get over it when your dad left. I thought I'd be miserable forever. But now I'm up and at it again, I'm enjoying myself, and - and I'm happy again, don't you see?" There was a frantic undercurrent to her mother's words, a kind of panic. "But since then, you've just been acting up, haven't you? All you do is whine and throw unnecessary tantrums. I try to do something nice for you and you just keep being difficult. You're nearly an adult now, and I'm a busy woman. Making me chase you all over the country for attention is something I'd honestly expect from a ten-year-old, not someone your age..."
Fran flinched a step backwards, her words tearing at her. She felt that nausea rising up in her stomach, her throat.
"I never asked you to come here. You weren't supposed to be here at all."
"Well. Oh, for goodness sakes' Fran, stop crying," her mum huffed. "You're making a scene."
"I'm not – crying..." her voice choked with tears. Her throat was hot and tight. She took another step away from her, suddenly dimly aware of Darren and Darius watching. Hot shame fizzled, coupling with the thick, overwhelming sense of being slowly crushed from above. How had it come to this? All she'd wanted to say was that she wished they could talk like they'd used to. Where had this bitter blame, come from? Had she been asking too much of her this whole time? Was the whole thing her fault?
She could feel the confusion, the sadness and frustration and hope and loss that had been rising up in her pushing against her chest, threatening to break. She couldn't hold it in. "I – I'm sorry," she managed to say, and then she felt something fracture under the weight of her emotions, and the tears overwhelmed her.
