The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks Read Online Free PDF Page B

now, too. She rubbed her legs with a towel.
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the guy at the beach knew you went to Alabaster, yes? So if this is the same guy, then he knows you’re the same girl.”
“I know.” They walked into the sauna and lay down in the hot, cedar smell.
“Are you upset?” asked Trish. “Do you like him?”
“I would . . .” Frankie considered. “I might . . . But I was with Matthew Livingston.”
Trish stood and rearranged her towel. “That’s why the Alpha guy pretended he didn’t remember,” she finally said, stretching back out.
“Why?” “Because you were with Matthew.” “So?” “So Matthew was talking to the Ladies, and when Matthew talks to the Ladies, all the competition might as well retire.” “Grodie.” “I’m just saying.” “That Alpha backed down to defer to Matthew?” “Matthew’s . . . well, let me put it this way,” said Trish. “If I didn’t have Artie, I wouldn’t say no. There isn’t a girl at Alabaster who’d say no. He’s Matthew Livingston. So the Alpha guy had prior claim, but he backed off when Matthew got hold of you.”
“You’re making me sound like a piece of meat.” “No, of course you’re not. I’m living vicariously.” “How?” “It would be fun to have guys fighting over me. I’m not even sixteen and already I’m, like, married.” “It’s not even clear if he likes me,” said Frankie. “Which one?” “Either one. Matthew.”
“I don’t think Alpha was talking to you to get your custard.”
Frankie stretched herself. “Maybe he’s not so alpha after all, if he backed off like that.”
“Is what I’m saying,” said Trish.

THE PANOPTICON

Frankie saw Matthew in the caf several times the next week at a table full of senior boys; but it was impossible for a sophomore to walk over to a senior table and just say hello in front of everyone. Once, he passed her outside, running in his soccer practice clothes—a pair of cleats swinging in one hand. “Late!” he’d grinned in explanation, looking over his shoulder and loping off in the direction of the playing fields.
Oh, he had great legs.
Had he not been interested, after all? Frankie wondered as she watched him go. Was she too young for him?
Had he stopped liking her when she’d talked back to Dean about the Pirates of the Caribbean ride?
All week she tried not to think of him, and actually studied for her classes. On the weekend she went to town with Trish and Artie, and played an ultimate Frisbee game.
At the start of the second week of classes, however, Frankie switched out of Latin and into an elective called Cities, Art, and Protest that sounded like more fun. The class was taught by a teacher named Ms. Jensson. She was new to Alabaster and wore beaded cardigan sweaters and unusual skirts. She had a master’s from Columbia in art history and told everyone she’d come to Alabaster to escape New York City—but then here she was, spending all her time discussing it in class. So ironic.
It was the first time Frankie had ever taken a course that couldn’t be described in a single word: French. Biology. Latin. History. Ms. Jensson explained various ways of conceptualizing cities and how organically developing cities contrasted with smaller, more deliberately planned environments such as Alabaster’s own campus. The students read architecture criticism, a history of Paris, and studied the panopticon—a kind of prison designed by late eighteenth/early nineteenth-century philosopher Jeremy Bentham, which was never actually built.
The architecture of Bentham’s panopticon was created to allow a watchman to look at all his prisoners without the prisoners knowing whether or not they were being observed—making them feel as if they were constantly being watched by an omniscient being.
In other words, everyone in the panopticon knew they could be watched at all times, so in the end, only minimal watching actually needed to happen. The