Read Online Frankie by Shivaun Plozza - Free Book Online

gang of Vietnamese ladies as we cross the street, the wheels of their trolleys bashing into my ankles as we jostle for space. Old-lady-trolley-racing is a blood sport.
    The second we’re under the market’s corrugated tin roof, I’m immersed in noise – kids screaming, old ladies haggling over the price of bananas, stallholders shouting over the top of one another, pigeons cooing from the beams and the off-key wailing of the busker who sings Korean love songs even though he’s Croatian.
    And it stinks.
    Nothing beats the stench of rotting fruit, Spanish donuts, pigeon poo, baby vomit and hairy-guy body odour.
    â€˜This way,’ says Vinnie, tucking her handbag under her arm. She butts out her cigarette on a post before we enter the fruit and veg. ‘Remind me to grab some pet mince for my baby.’
    Baby. Yeah. Baby dragon more like.
    Buttons is a fussy eater. He’ll eat my socks (and piss in my shoes) but won’t go near tinned cat food.
    I ram the trolley into the back of a slow guy’s legs. When he turns I look the other way. This is a contact sport, mate. If you can’t handle it, quit.
    Saturday morning is the worst time to come to the market. Vinnie says coming on a Saturday is tradition. I say it’s child abuse.
    But not today I don’t. Today I smile and pretend I’m loving it.
    The only reason Vinnie is still talking to me is because I’ve got another chance to stay at school. In two weeks’ time the board are meeting to decide whether or not to expel me and I have to front up and explain why I should be allowed to stay. She’s got the date circled in the calendar, the one with cats dressed up in scenes from silent-era films. Every time I look at the dreaded date I see a Persian tied to a railway track.
    Irony’s a bitch.
    So basically I have two weeks to catch up in all my classes, earn back Vinnie’s trust and write a stirring speech to present to the board – I have a dream, ask not what Collingwood can do for you but what you can do for Collingwood, we shall fight them on the tram lines, blah, blah, blah.
    Too easy.
    I don’t know how she does it, but Vinnie carves a path through the mass of heaving, sweating people, even in six-inch heels. Me and my combat boots have to elbow our way through, never once coming out the other side without a stomped-on foot, a bruised rib, a finger caught in a trolley or the slimy feeling of having been gawked at by a bunch of hairy, apron-clad middle-aged men.
    The call goes up around us: ‘Get your tomatoes! Granny Smith apples! Two ninety-nine a kilo! Potatoes! Get your potatoes here!’
    â€˜
Bella
!’ calls Sergei as Vinnie marches up to his stall. He reaches down and brings up a box of vine tomatoes. ‘I keep these aside. Just for you, my
bella
.’
    She doesn’t even look at the fruit. ‘Half price, I assume.’
    Sergei looks at her like she just flopped a dead rat on his table. ‘No, no, no. How I live?’ he asks, hands imploring. ‘How I feed my son?’
    â€˜I’ve seen your son,’ says Vinnie. ‘He could skip a meal or two.’
    Sergei sighs loudly. ‘Is true.’ He leans forward, pushing the box into Vinnie’s arms. ‘Half price for my
bella
.’ He winks.
    Somehow Vinnie always manages to strike the perfect balance between flirting – ‘Why, you have the biggest plums, Sergei’ – and haggling – ‘Who would pay full price for these? They look like they’ve already been eaten’.
    So much I need to learn. Teach me, oh masterful one.
    â€˜Now,’ says Vinnie, eyeing off the other veggies. ‘How about those cucumbers? They look a little limp.’
    I stand to the side, tighten my scarf around my neck and people-watch.
    There’s an older woman wearing pearls and a powder-blue cardigan. She’s stuffing a bag of something red into her trolley with her face scrunched up.