Read Online The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart - Free Book Online

Frankie told him, still turning over in her mind whether she wanted to go. Only seniors could leave without express permission or supervision.
“Who’s gonna know?” he asked her.
Alpha had a point. But such is the nature of the panopticon: most students at Alabaster didn’t leave campus—even though it was as simple as hopping over a low stone wall. “I don’t want to get caught,” Frankie said, wondering if her pajama top was see-through and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Matthew went to pick up his car in the lot,” Alpha told her. “He should be waiting for us at the gate in a couple minutes. He told me you’d be a sport.”
Oh. Alpha was here for Matthew. It was okay.
She didn’t have to choose.
“So. Are you gonna come get pizza?” Alpha asked. “Or are you gonna be a good little girl and stay on campus?”
“I’ll be down in five,” Frankie told him.
Matthew’s car was a navy Mini Cooper. It was already running when Frankie and Alpha arrived at the gate.
“Shotgun,” said Alpha.
Frankie felt a wave of annoyance, but it dissipated on seeing Matthew’s smile light up. “Hey there, Frankie. You ready for some serious pizza?”
She nodded and squeezed past Alpha’s bulk into the backseat. Matthew put the car in gear.
“I would like to state at the outset,” said Alpha, lighting a cigarette and rolling down his window, “that anything made outside Italy or the five boroughs of New York City has no legitimate claim to be called pizza.”
“What should we call it?” asked Matthew.
“Call it a disk of dough with tomato and cheese. But it is not a pizza.”
“A DOD,” said Matthew.
“If you must.” Alpha exhaled. “We’ll go have a rubbery, bready DOD. And it will be better than the food in the caf, and it will be nice to have a big pile of grease and salt first thing on a Sunday morning, but it won’t be pizza.”
“You are such a snob, dog.”
“I am not. Pizza is a food of the people. It’s cheap, you can get it on any street corner in the city. It’s categorically impossible to be snobby about pizza.”
“Do you remember that Russian diner we stopped at in Chicago where that lady with the hair growing out of her nose wouldn’t let you put ketchup on your steak?” asked Matthew.
“Yeah, so?”
“So it’s possible to be snobby about anything. That wasn’t even a good steak,” said Matthew. “And she was not going to let you put ketchup on it even if it killed her.”
“What’s your feeling about pineapple?” asked Frankie from the back.
“On a pizza?” said Alpha. “Unforgivable.”
“How come?”
“Because it’s fruit. There’s no fruit on a pizza.”
“A tomato’s a fruit.”
“That doesn’t count.” Alpha took a drag of his smoke. “A tomato may be a fruit, but it is a singular fruit. A savory fruit. A fruit that has ambitions far beyond the ambitions of other fruits.”
“Really.”
“Sure. It’s a staple ingredient in Italian cooking. You put it in sauces, you put it in salad with a little mozzarella and olive oil, you make ratatouille. And what do you do with your average fruit? Nothing. You just eat it. No one is going to found a whole cuisine on a grape.”
“What about wine?” asked Frankie.
“Okay, okay. But grapefruit? No. Or pineapple? No. Can you imagine founding a cuisine on blueberries? Everyone would be so sick of them within a week, they’d starve to death. The blueberry has no versatility. The country with a cuisine based on the blueberry would be a country of lunatics, turned mad by the unwavering sameness of their daily meals.”
“Okay,” said Frankie. “But have you actually tried pineapple pizza?”
“I don’t have to try it,” said Alpha. “It’s disgusting.”
“How can you write it off when you haven’t tried it?”
“She caught you, dog,” laughed Matthew. “Pizza snobbery is coming out of your pores right now.”
“Oh, bull.” Alpha threw his cigarette butt out the window and pouted.
“You’re not a pie