Frannie and Tru

by Karen Hattrup

  “His name was Spencer Todd. He grew up one town over from me, so I’d seen him at other competitions, before the big ones, kind of got to know him. He was a savant, really amazing. Memorized people’s birthdays, did math without a calculator, that kind of thing. Before we competed, when all the other kids were pacing around or cramming at the last minute, like that was going to help, I’d just sit next to him and feed him equations. You know, something to pass the time.”

  He started to twirl more spaghetti, then paused.

  “And, yes, I realize I just outed myself.” He sent the faintest wink in my direction. “As a kid who did spelling bees.”

  My fork clattered against my plate. The wink had been a thing of beauty, the faintest of movements. So swift it was deniable.

  “Oh, dude,” Jimmy said, head down, consumed by eating, “we already knew about the spelling bees.”

  “Well, of course we knew!” Mom said. “We all watched you on TV. Oh my gosh, we were so excited. When you finally missed one, poor Frannie! I thought she was going to cry.”

  This time my fork fell all the way to the floor, and I was able to disappear beneath the table. When I came back up I shot her a death stare that she didn’t even notice, but Tru—Tru was looking at me with a kind of delight.

  “Well,” he said, turning to address the whole table, “blame my dad for all of it. He had this dream of me as a chess champion, but when I wasn’t so hot at that, he turned to spelling. Because apparently it was also his dream for me to be socially crippled.”

  At the mention of Uncle Richard, my father broke his quiet spell with a giggle.

  It was a long, loud giggle, one that he tried to but could not restrain.

  That night Jimmy and Kieran asked Tru if he wanted to head over to Michael Donovan’s place again, to his backyard pool, but Tru begged off. I couldn’t stop wondering why—if it was because he was mad at the twins, or Jimmy at least, or if he was just starting to think that their friends and their parties weren’t that cool.

  I tried to imagine what his life was like at home in Connecticut, with his prep school friends and his rich, angry parents. All I could conjure was a ridiculous picture of him and Sparrow, drinking cocktails in fancy clothes while a disco ball twirled overhead.

  Agitated, I went downstairs to see him. Ever since our day and night hanging out with the band, I didn’t feel so bad bothering him. Tonight his door was open, and he was sitting on the bed with Gatsby, which apparently he’d started again.

  “Hey, sport,” he said, resting the book in his lap but not closing it.

  For once I didn’t fumble around for words. I just asked him what I wanted to know.

  “Why didn’t you want to go out to Michael’s? I mean . . . I was just wondering. If it was because you don’t feel like hanging out with the twins. Or just Jimmy or whatever.”

  Now he set the book aside.

  “Well, Frannie. Here’s the thing. My mom and Richard wanted me kept on a pretty tight leash this summer. Sort of semigrounded. Very little fraternizing. And that’s a lot to ask of Barb and Pat, don’t you think? The responsibility of keeping me caged up? Anyway, I try to lie low here and there, because your mom’s let me out way more than she’s supposed to. She’s not so bad, you know. You’re lucky.”

  I felt a little bad then, remembering how I’d kind of snapped at her. I was still annoyed with her, but I also realized that I’d never bothered to wonder what she’d been going through this summer, how she felt about having Tru here and what it might mean for her relationship with her sister. There was too much there to think about right now, and I pushed those worries aside, not wanting to deal with them yet. Besides, I was confused by what Tru had just said.

  “But why are you grounded?” I asked. “For being . . . ? You know. For that?”

  He sighed, picking the book back up and flipping through it, shutting me off. I was afraid I might not be welcome much longer, so I changed the subject as quickly as I could.

  “Did you decide yet, if it’s romantic?” I asked. “When Gatsby’s looking at the water?”

  He looked at me like he was the teacher, and I was his smartest student.

  “You’re a very good listener, Frannie. I’m still thinking about it. I’ll let you know.”

  “Is that why you’re reading it again? To figure it out?”

  “You could say that. This is the great American novel, you know. I’ve decided it’s all I’ll read this summer, until I know it inside and out. F. Scott Fitzgerald and I are becoming very good friends.”

  I shuffled my feet a bit, thinking about what I’d Googled that week.

  “I, um, I was reading about it online? Some people think that the main character is gay? The Nick Carraway guy?”

  I could tell right away this was not the right thing to say. Not because it was off-limits, just because it was dumb.

  “Right, and that must be why I’m so into it!” Tru gave a girly little shrug. “I love things that are gay. Like me.”

  A week ago I would’ve been completely embarrassed, but now I could read him a little better. I knew he was just screwing with me.

  “But is it true?” I asked.

  He laughed, gave another shrug. A real one this time. “Actually, I don’t know. He might be. It’s definitely possible. But I don’t know how important that is. I’m still figuring out what’s really important. What Fitzgerald is trying to say. I haven’t looked up anything about it. I don’t want to know what Wikipedia or SparkNotes says. I want to figure it out for myself. And it’s pretty damn complicated.”

  “But you always seem happy when you’re reading it. Why does it make you so happy if you don’t even know what it’s about?”

  He scoffed. “Jesus, Frannie, you make me sound like a moron. I get it on some level. It’s about power and greed and money and secrets. And dreams. Stupid, stupid dreams. But I don’t want to know the themes or whatever. Any idiot can figure those out. I want to know it more deeply. I want to know what it says about the human condition. Then someday I can speak of it very eloquently at a pretentious party or in a college lecture hall, and lots of attractive people will want to sleep with me. The men and the women, of course.”

  I tried to kill my laugh and ended up snorting, which pleased him to no end.

  “Besides, that’s not why I like reading it. The words make me happy. The way it sounds. All of it sounds so beautiful.”

  He tossed me the book.

  “Read something out loud,” he said.

  I opened to a random page.

  “‘Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have known.’”

  I looked up. “I didn’t know there were cardinal virtues. I’ve only heard of cardinal sins.”

  He laughed at this, not his normal short snickers or self-satisfied chuckles, but a real laugh, long and loud.

  “Well, that’s the Catholic in you. Always focused on the guilt. I was raised that way, too, but I’ve tried very hard to reject it.”

  He motioned for me to toss the book back, and I did.

  “It’s true, by the way,” he said. “There aren’t many honest people. I think you might be one of them.”

  At first I felt warmed by the compliment, but then it gave me pause. It was a compliment, wasn’t it? Being honest was a good thing; everyone thought so.

  Or did they?

  Maybe Tru thought honesty was boring. Maybe he thought my “good temperament” was boring.

  I searched for a way to break the silence.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” I finally asked.

  He interlocked his fingers, furrowed his brow.

  “Well, not this weekend, but next weekend—assuming you’re free, of course—you and I are going to see Suck It, Sparrow at the South City Rec Center. It’s their big debut. Part of some high school battle of the bands.”

  “Oh!” My body tensed and warmed. “That’s . . . wow.�
�

  “Did you have something better in mind?” he asked. “Because if you do, I can be persuaded. More field hockey charity events?”

  “No, I . . . No.”

  “Well, this weekend I’m not sure about Friday or Saturday, but Sparrow wants us to go to a baseball game with her and whoever is around tomorrow. Speaking of honesty, I should say that I think her whole sporty side is a bit of an act she puts on, because it’s so very cute and unexpected. The hot, arty girl likes sports! Isn’t she just the best? But whatever. We can try to have fun. Fresh air, hot dogs made from spare animal parts. Overpriced beer we can’t even buy. Why the hell not?”

  I picked at my nails, looked down at the stained carpet. “So who’s going exactly?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “But I can text her and tell her you need to know.”

  He whipped out his phone and scrolled around for a minute, while I stood there praying this was a bluff.

  “I have the boys’ numbers in here, too. It would probably be easier to ask them directly.”

  Now he was genuinely typing. He was typing something long. I tried to wait it out, but then I caved.

  “Don’t! Okay? Just don’t. Please.”

  He giggled almost like my dad as he put the phone away. Then he picked his book back up, and I took the hint. I closed the door behind me and was just starting back upstairs when he called my name. Turning back, I poked my head inside his room. He had somehow produced a notebook and pen without seeming to move.

  “So you’re a science person and all. I was just wondering—do you, by any chance, know how to spell corpuscle? I can’t seem to remember.”

  I told him to shut up, then turned and pounded up the stairs, listening to him laugh behind me.

  TWELVE

  Before the game I lingered in the kitchen, nothing to do but will the clock to move, while stuffing Oreos into my mouth and trying to eavesdrop on Tru and Dad in the backyard. They were drinking coffee together, and Dad asked if Tru rooted for the Yankees.

  “God, no,” Tru said. “The only thing worse than the Yankees are people who like the Yankees.”

  My dad giggled, and I marveled that Tru could make him laugh. For the past few months, his quiet side had won over his jolly side again and again, but Tru always seemed to bring out the scheming glint in his eye. I hardly ever did, which made me wonder if I ever tried.

  Tru came inside then, and I went to the backyard, brought my dad the cookies. His face lit up, and I suddenly felt awful, hollow, thinking of everything I hadn’t done these last long months.

  “Did you take the price tag off that yet?”

  Tru flicked the bill of Sparrow’s Orioles hat, which did look brand-new. It was perched, adorably and perfectly, on top of her hair, so he almost knocked it off. She caught it, adjusted it, gave him a look.

  He’d already made fun of my giant, faded O’s T-shirt, which had once belonged to the twins. Sparrow told him that oversized tops hung perfectly on my frame, to which he said, “I’m sure that’s what she was going for,” to which she’d told him to shove it. At first I thought they were actually kind of fighting, but this was just how they talked to each other. Already, they were laughing again, leaning over a program together, saying yes, no, or maybe to all of the players.

  “Yummy,” Sparrow said, pointing to the perfect-looking one with the jaw and the long hair.

  “Boring,” Tru said, then raised his eyebrows and tapped his finger on someone else—I couldn’t quite see who.

  “Eh,” Sparrow said, flipping the page. “Oooh. That one. I saw him on TV last night.”

  “Well, yeah,” Tru said. “Everyone likes that one.”

  “That one” was the guy with the scruff and the smile and the attitude. Left fielder. He said ridiculous things in interviews, never really answered the questions he was asked. He wasn’t a superstar, but he made big plays. He was fast as hell. And he definitely wasn’t handsome.

  “Do you like him, Frannie?” She turned the program in my direction, and I looked at his face, trying to understand what it was about him that got everybody going. I wrinkled my nose and shrugged.

  “Yeah, it doesn’t really make sense,” Sparrow said, holding the page out in front of her, turning it this way and that. “I mean, why? What is it?”

  “Self-possession,” Tru said.

  “Self-possession,” Sparrow echoed. “You mean confidence? Sure, confidence is sexy. Everyone knows that.”

  “Nah,” Tru said. “This is different. Confidence is an attitude. Self-possession is deeper. More complete. It’s owning yourself.” He grabbed my box of Cracker Jack, dumped a huge pile into this hand.

  Sparrow shook her head in disgust. “You could ask first, pig.”

  “What?” he said. “Frannie only wants the toy anyway.”

  I snatched the box back and he grinned at me, cramming a fistful of popcorn into his face, spilling some on his shirt. I was starting to notice that he was different around Sparrow. A little sillier. Not quite so perfectly smooth.

  Sparrow was on her phone, texting and scanning the stands around us. We’d been hoping to find some empty seats together where we could sit with P.J. and Devon, but it was beautiful out, and the O’s were doing well this season. The stadium was packed. The only free seat around us was a lone one next to me.

  “Nothing’s clear near them either,” she reported. “I told them they can pop over one at a time and say hi, if they want. They can get down here without a ticket, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” Tru said, gesturing at the distant field. “These seats aren’t exactly worth policing.”

  I tried to focus on the game, willing myself not to chew my fingernails, not to turn around every five seconds to see who might be coming down the steps. It was the third inning. Two outs, batter up. The Os’ biggest hitter. A burly guy who had elicited a firm “no” from both Sparrow and Tru. On the first pitch a crack split the air and the ball went back, back, back. Some people were on their feet, watching, stretching, hoping . . . but it came down just short of the back wall, landing soft and harmless in a glove. Groans all around, both teams still scoreless.

  A trivia game popped up on the Jumbotron as the players jogged back to the dugout, and the crowd was shouting and laughing. Concession guys screamed about cotton candy, Miller Lite. In the chaos of it all, Sparrow and Tru were having their own little conversation, not private exactly, but certainly not including me.

  “But have you talked to them much?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes. You can get off my ass. I talked to Richard this morning. He wants us to start emailing each other in Latin, to see how I’m doing. You’re laughing, but that’s not a joke. As if he remembers any of that shit. He’s so full of it.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And what?”

  “Your mom?”

  He shrugged. “We text. Basic stuff. Nothing heavy. I’m not you, okay? I don’t chitchat with my mommy every day.”

  Sparrow pouted. “Don’t insult my mommy. She loves you.”

  I was poking around in my Cracker Jack box with one finger, pretending not to listen, dying to hear more, when P.J. slid in beside me, smiling like crazy, hair gelled every which way, reeking of that horrible body spray the twins used to use.

  “Lovely day for a ball game,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

  Sparrow gave a little wave, while Tru tented his fingers and stared deliberately at P.J.’s spiky head. Meanwhile I tried to sort out whether he was completely ridiculous or kind of adorable.

  “I see you did your hair extraspecial for your date,” Tru said. “Is it hard for you two boys to balance your relationship with your music?”

  P.J. patted his head, unfazed. “It’s hard, but it’s worth it. He’s such a handsome little bastard. But actually, it’s not just us. Some of the groupies came, too. They’re in the row behind us.”

  “The groupies?” Tru asked, incredulous.

  Sparrow made a little noise of disgust. �
��That’s what they call the girls they hang out with. Their friends. Their friends, I might add, who go to the arts school with them, and are just as talented as they are.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” P.J. said, hands raised in the air. “I know, I know! It’s a joke! We just like to mess with them. They’re total rock stars. Hot chick rock stars. No doubt.”

  Hot chick rock stars. I felt completely crushed. I’d actually thought tonight was about me and Tru and Sparrow and the band. More than that, I’d dreamed that the whole summer could be, which I suddenly realized was ridiculous. As if they wouldn’t have other friends. As if they wouldn’t know other girls.

  Still, P.J. was here. Next to me. Smiling that oversized smile and drumming his fingers on his thighs.

  “So, ah. What have you been up to?” he asked. “Since our jaunt to the park?”

  Tru mumbled, “Jaunt. Sweet Jesus,” under his breath, and I ignored him, trying to think of something, anything to say, not wanting to talk about Prettyboy, not able to think of another thing, finally just giving a little shrug.

  “Not much,” I told him. Cardinal honesty.

  “But you’re coming to the battle of the bands next weekend? Because we officially signed up as Suck It, Sparrow, so you have to be there.”

  Now I laughed, and Sparrow leaned over to high-five P.J., while Tru acted like we were a bunch of idiots who were distracting him from the game.

  “We’ll be there,” I told P.J. “I’ll be there.”

  He started to say more, but his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he had to squirm to get it out.

  “Shit, it’s Devon. He’s on his way. I just freaking got here, but whatever. Make sure you watch when he tries to come down. We’re doing Black Guy, White Guy.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Tru asked.

  Sparrow sighed, very loudly and pointedly.

  “What?” P.J. said. “What? What’s the problem? Why do you have to ruin our fun?”

  “It’s not fun,” she said. “It’s depressing. It depresses me, and I don’t know why you like doing it.”