“This area is gentrifying,” I added.
That was something I’d heard my mom say. I didn’t really know what it meant, and had no idea why I’d repeated it, except as some lame attempt to sound smart. I prayed that Tru wouldn’t ask me more, and he didn’t, we just moved quietly down the block past the fancy shoe store and the antique gallery. We began to see packs of young people. Young people with tattoos, young people wearing boxy glasses, young people in tight jeans and band T-shirts. Tru whistled.
“Didn’t know you lived so close to hipsterville,” he said, giving me a side-eye.
I struggled to say something clever, settled on the simple truth.
“You told me to take you to Siren. It’s hipster ground zero.”
Tru laughed. “Touché. I didn’t realize it was that kind of place, but I’ll take your word for it.”
I looked away, not wanting him to see me smile.
We arrived at Siren, a brick building with a black awning and big windows littered with fliers. Half a dozen people were taking a smoke break out front. I felt about eight years old, but Tru looked as cool and calm as could be. He took out his phone and texted his friend to come get us. I peeked in the windows and saw a small stage. A girl with a blunt, purple bob was singing while a nerdy-looking guy hunched over the keyboard behind her.
It was madness, the idea of trying to get in there. Total madness.
Tru tapped one of the fliers, an advertisement for tonight’s show. The photo showed the two people on stage, sitting in a pile of black feathers. Their band was called Nevermore.
“Get it, Frannie? Like what the raven says in the Edgar Allan Poe poem? It’s very subtle, right?”
“Very.” I tried to sound casual while desperately hoping that none of the people around us were friends with the band.
Tru turned around to lean against the window. “Baltimore is really into its Poe references.”
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “he lived here.”
“Mostly he died here. In a gutter. Probably from syphilis.”
To this I had nothing to say, but I was saved, because right then the door opened and a girl came out—a girl so beautiful I may have actually sucked in my breath. She put her arms around Tru and kissed him on the cheek and I could actually see guys on the sidewalk turning jealously in our direction.
“Frannie,” Tru said. “This is my friend Sparrow. Sparrow Jones.”
He hadn’t said her name until this moment, a delay I could tell was on purpose. A little game of surprise he was playing with me, revealing her all at once.
Sparrow was tall and elegant. We met each other exactly eye to eye, and for some reason that made me happy, as if we were two kids who’d met on the playground and realized that we were the same age. Her hair flared out into a little afro, like a halo around her face. She wore bright pink eye shadow and a black-and-white-striped dress, perfect and simple.
“Did you know,” Tru asked me in a whisper, “that we have black people in Connecticut, too?”
Sparrow covered his face with her hand, pushing him away, inspiring him to fake-stumble backward. He somehow looked cool when he did this, falling with a kind of grace.
She stepped toward me then, and gave me a hug, a vanilla scent radiating so strongly from her skin I could almost taste cookies. Pulling back, she kept an arm around me and fingered the ends of my hair.
“Gorgeous. Isn’t this gorgeous, Tru? You can always tell a natural redhead.”
Tru rolled his eyes and asked when we could go in. She did a come-hither gesture with her fingers, and we followed her through the front doors.
Inside the skinny entryway to Siren there was a bouncer waiting on a chair. He had a sad blond mustache and scrawny arms. My whole body stiffened at the sight of him.
“Cool?” Sparrow asked him, indicating Tru and me.
He shrugged and nodded, but I could tell by the way he was shifting around that it wasn’t cool at all. I knew, too, that he couldn’t say no to this girl.
“We’ll stand in the back,” she promised, gliding past him. “No booze.”
“Actually, I would like booze,” Tru said, but she yanked on his arm, whispering to sad-mustache man that her friend was only joking.
I ducked my head as I walked by, letting my hair shield my face.
And that was it. Like a miracle, we were inside.
For some reason I’d expected punk music, maybe because of the purple hair, but this was nothing like that. This was dreamy water music, the girl’s voice the voice of a fairy, light and tender over the waving, bubbling sound of the keyboard. Still, though, it was loud, loud, loud. Fifty people or so were gathered around the stage, swaying and clinging to cocktails and wineglasses and pints of beer, plus some college-age-looking kids with sodas and these cones full of fries. Sparrow herded us to the back where we leaned against the wall, and I knew it would be almost impossible to talk, which was perfect, because I had nothing interesting or smart or relevant to say. I wanted only to stand against this wall with Truman and Sparrow, drowning in the sound of the music.
I got my wish. Soon after we settled in, Tru rolled his eyes toward the stage and I knew that he hated the band. He leaned over toward Sparrow, speaking directly into her ear, which was the only way they could possibly have a conversation. She was doing lots of head shaking and eye widening and kept mouthing, Oh my god. More than once she looked at him with disapproval.
I tried not to watch too closely, not wanting to seem like a spy. A new fantasy formed in my mind. Sparrow would drop me off on my first day of school and everyone would see me get out of her car. She would yell, Bye, Frannie, you be good now, and we would laugh and wink at each other and everyone would love me because everyone would love her because how could you not?
With this beautiful, completely illogical picture in my head, I watched the purple-haired singer. Her voice swallowed me whole, but I couldn’t hear the actual words—it was all just a sweet, pretty mumble run together with the underwater melody. At the end of the song she began to chant, and finally I caught something she was saying.
“I am here now, waiting.”
She sang that line again and again.
“Hey there, Ginger.”
I looked up and felt sick, physically sick. The man was gross, and he was ancient. Ten years older than me at least. The beginnings of a beer belly pushed against his thin T-shirt, and his dirty hair was shoved into a ponytail. An unidentifiable tattoo crept from his collar up his neck.
In a single instant I was filled with regret, deep and paralyzing. I shouldn’t be here. I’d done something very bad by coming to this place, and now I was paying for it.
It was intermission and the room was quieter, music from the radio playing faintly out of a distant speaker. Tru had wandered off. Sparrow was talking to her coworker, some guy who was messing with the sound equipment. I was parked against the back wall, alone.
The man tried again.
“You look awfully young to be in here, but I won’t tell anybody.”
I refused to look at him. I was sure if I said nothing, he would creep away, go back to whatever hole he’d crawled out of.
“I love redheads, you know. Always have.”
He leaned against the wall next to me and lifted a strand of my hair. My face and palms got hot and sweaty. I thought the word help, over and over again, but couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say a thing, my voice paralyzed. The strand of hair was still in his grip, and he started to wind it around his finger, tighter and tighter.
“You live around here, right? I feel like I’ve seen you. Walking around. Maybe by the park?”
And then Tru was there, suddenly, fiercely. He put his hand against the wall, so that his arm was between me and the man, who dropped my hair. A beer sloshed in Tru’s other hand, and anger radiated from his whole body. I sensed it from the strain in his neck, the thrust of his chin.
“Seriously?” he asked, and I flinched at how loud his voice was. “Thanks bu
t no thanks, pervert.”
The guy put his hands in the air like Tru had waved a gun, then slowly backed away. Tru held his position, and I held mine, tucked behind him, Tru’s eyes trailing the man as he snaked away through the crowd. He seemed ready to yell something after him, but then Sparrow was there, looking angry and grabbing us each by a wrist. She pulled us toward the back door.
“That’s it for tonight. No scenes allowed. I do work here, you know.”
As we hurried toward the exit, she let go of us and plucked the beer from Tru’s hand. None of us had the little plastic bracelets for people over twenty-one, of course, so where and how he’d gotten the drink I had no idea, but now Sparrow left it on the bar as we hustled out the back entrance and into the alley.
The door shut with a slam, and the three of us were left in the stagnant summer air, the streetlamp giving off a dim light. We stood in a circle and looked at one another.
“I’m sorry,” Tru said to Sparrow. “Seriously, I am. But some old guy was hitting on Frannie. He was touching her fucking hair.”
“Oh god,” Sparrow said. “I didn’t see! Are you okay?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer, because I wasn’t sure if I was okay. I didn’t want to overreact, but my hands were a little shaky. Everything had happened so fast. I hadn’t had time to think.
I almost told them all of it, but then I couldn’t imagine standing there and repeating the words he’d said. About how I looked young, how he liked redheads. There was a lump in my throat, but I forced it down.
“It’s fine,” I finally said, and my voice came out steady. I even managed a casual shrug.
“Are you sure?” Sparrow asked.
I nodded, and she patted me on the shoulder, mumbled something about how men were repulsive.
“Hey, hey,” Tru said with a grin. “Not all men. But I am sorry, Frannie. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
He turned ever so slightly away from us, and I heard a click and an inhale. The lighter was gone before I even saw it.
Sparrow smiled and motioned for us to walk down the dark alley. I stayed two steps behind, watching the two of them pass the joint back and forth as Sparrow told Tru and me about her summer plans.
She was staying with her aunt Regina and her cousin Devon, working at Siren for spending money and taking graphic design courses at MICA, prepping for when she’d start her undergrad at Carnegie Mellon in the fall. She said that Baltimore was smaller than she’d expected and so pedestrian, and I knew she was using that word in a way that I didn’t understand.
Sparrow sucked deeply on the joint and told Tru that despite it all she didn’t miss home, not one little bit. She was ready for something new.
Tru turned, walking backward to look at me.
“Sparrow’s mother is an ex–ballet dancer and her dad is a big shot at a credit card company,” he said. “That’s why she’s the perfect woman. Beautiful and rich.”
She shoved him again and he spun back around, kept sauntering along. She dropped back to walk beside me.
“Tru said you’re at a magnet school—is it the one for the arts? Devon’s at the one for the arts.”
I told her no, I was at the math and science one. She just smiled, so I stuttered out a little more. “I’m . . . I don’t know, into science I guess. I like science.”
Tru called to us over his shoulder. “Way to make her feel like a dork.”
Sparrow ignored him and told me that her aunt was a scientist of sorts, and that we should meet. Then she went on and on about Devon and how he played the violin all day and all night. She said I should meet him and his friends, too—she was pretty sure one of them went to my new school.
Sparrow handed the joint back to Tru, and asked for a piggyback ride. She was taller than him by about an inch, and the two of them arranged their bodies awkwardly, almost falling, laughing, then righting themselves at the last moment. He carried her for a couple of blocks, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. I trailed behind them quietly, wishing that someday I might have that kind of easy affection.
We dropped Sparrow at her car, which was sporty and red. Tru made promises to see her soon, and we headed for home.
I convinced Tru that we should stray at least to the outer edge of the lacrosse field, as if giving it a passing glance would somehow lend truth to our lie. We moved toward the lights and came just close enough to see the impression of the girls on the field. From where we stood, they were blurs of colors, nothing more than birds swooping and tittering in the distance. I said that was good enough and we turned around.
We walked quietly for a while side by side. As we came to the edge of the park by my house, Tru stopped and turned to me.
“I was trying to be good, Frannie. I was trying really hard. But if you want . . .”
He was extending the end of the joint in my direction.
I had tried a cigarette before. Three times. No—maybe four? But as I took this from him I felt right away that it was different. The paper was delicate. I handled it like a buttercup, the kind we used to hold under our chins to look for the yellow shadow. I did a quick scan and we were alone, still a couple of minutes’ walk from home. I stared at the nub and couldn’t quite bring it to my lips—it didn’t seem right. Not yet, at least. I’d been trying so hard to be cool, but there in the dark, I said the only thing I could think of. The truth.
“I haven’t even had a drink,” I said. “It seems wrong to do this first. Like I should do things in order?”
He laughed, and I tried to laugh, too.
“Must be the scientist in you,” Tru said, and I was more embarrassed than ever, because I wasn’t a scientist. I just liked nature. I knew the names of trees and plants, and I’d aced freshman biology, winning a prize for my poster about photosynthesis. I guess it looked nice—a maze of green and brown, showing all the structures and systems, the parts that had to teem and whirl just to keep things alive. But it was a dumb science fair project that somehow became this thing that defined me, made me into someone in people’s minds. A science girl. I tried to find a way to say all that to Tru, but ended up keeping my mouth shut.
I waited for him to keep walking, but he was staring at the moon. I squinted into the darkness of the park and thought of my trip to the safe, imagining that one night we might drink the vodka with Sparrow and her cousin and his friends. I could tell Tru about it now, but I was worried it might seem weird and silly that I’d buried it in the woods. Instead, I kept quiet, thinking again that I would save it for something special, some big moment when I could produce it like magic. . . .
“Frannie?” He said my name cautiously. “Do you know why I’m here?”
Cicadas chirped. A distant roar came from the lacrosse field. I tried to gather myself, searching for the little speeches I’d been writing in my head all day, but I couldn’t remember the words that had seemed so right at the time. I wished I could just tell him in some simple, graceful way that I didn’t care, of course I didn’t care. I didn’t think it was wrong or weird and I wanted to him to know that, but I didn’t know how to say it. I managed to mumble something about having overheard my parents in the yard.
“I’m not supposed to know, I guess, but I do. I know that you’re . . . um . . .”
The rest got caught in my throat.
“You know that I’m . . . ?” Tru let the sentence trail off, just as I had. When I still said nothing, he saved me by filling in the blank.
“You know that I like boys?”
At first I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. Finally, I found some words.
“And I heard them say that your parents sent you here, because they needed some time—because they found out? And I think that it’s awful. Your mom and dad, I mean. I just think it’s awful. They shouldn’t care. No one should care.”
I’d said it all with my head down, but now I looked up and saw him hesitate. There was a flash of darkness that came over his face, quickly replaced by a smirk.
&nbs
p; “So you’re one of the more progressive Catholic schoolgirls, huh?”
I was afraid for a moment that I’d lost him for good, that I’d become a kid to him, like I’d been at the train station when he first saw me. But then his face resettled into a friendly look. I was still holding the end of the joint, and he motioned to me that I should drop it in the grass. I did, and he stepped on it, put an arm around me.
“Sorry, Frannie. Only kidding. I’m glad you said that. I really am. Now let’s go home.”
SIX
There was a loud snap, and I flinched awake.
Mom had opened the blinds and was hovering over my bed. As I blinked her into focus, the entirety of last night returned to me in a flash.
She’s here because of what you did. She knows everything.
Panic rang through me like an alarm. I squirmed and kicked the sheets, trying to sit up. Already, half-formed lies were perched and waiting on my lips. My eyes met hers.
“We’re going to the beach,” she said. “Be ready in twenty.”
Moments later she was down the hall, fist pounding against Jimmy and Kieran’s door as she told them what she’d just told me. I looked at the clock—nine thirty a.m.
Voices rose from the dining room below. Tru was talking to my father, and the two of them were laughing. I heard Dad ask Tru if he wanted the sports section. Creeping out of bed and toward my bedroom door, I hoped I might catch more, but then Mom was yelling from the hallway, telling me to move, move, move. I scrambled, yanking at drawers and digging out my swim clothes and flip-flops. I started to grab my chemistry workbook, which had arrived in the mail yesterday and was supposed to prepare me for next year. But then I thought about how ridiculous that was—what kind of loser brings homework to the beach? I shoved it under the bed and went in search of my sunglasses. Nothing was where I remembered, and I was completely distracted. Scenes from yesterday were looping through my head. The train station. The sculpture. Sparrow. Siren. Coming back home.
Frannie and Tru Page 4