Frannie and Tru (22 page)

“Drove
where
?” Kieran suddenly looked very tall and very angry.

“I don't know,” Sparrow said, her voice still quiet. “A couple of times he met me at parties or whatever. But sometimes I think he just . . . drove.”

The three of us stood there, lost. The streets here were wide, the yards big, and empty space echoed all around us. Bugs made soulless music. I felt as though I were falling, even as I stood there on the ground. I didn't know where Tru was because I didn't even know
who
he was.

He was a ghost.

A liar.

Truman the Destroyer.

Apparently a fucking car thief, too.

Sparrow and Kieran must have called Tru ten times between the two of them. No answer. We got into Sparrow's car and sat there for a few minutes, radio turned low, waiting for him to reappear.
Kieran jogged back to the house and went inside, checking to see if Tru had returned and parked somewhere we couldn't see. He came back alone, climbed into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. Said nothing.

Nausea rose in my throat. Scenarios kept running through my head: Us going home without the van. Having to tell my mother. Her calling my father.

In the front seat, Sparrow and Kieran were debating. He was a mess and thought we should call Mom now. She was sure Tru would come home before there was trouble, swore he was a master of sneaking around and not getting caught.

From the backseat, I cleared my throat. “He was different tonight.”

They turned around to look at me.

“What was that?” Kieran asked.

“He was different tonight. He was . . . I don't know. All keyed up. Jumpy. Sad and then happy and then sad again. He's not acting as cool as he usually does.”

“So you don't think he's going to show up at the house?” Sparrow asked. “Before your mom?”

I paused, unsure.

“I don't know. I think . . . I think he just doesn't want to go back to his parents'.”

It was eleven thirty. We had an hour before Mom would be back. We decided to check Siren first. We didn't really know where else to try, and when I suggested it, the other two reluctantly
agreed that he might be crazy enough to go back there—to try and drink, to heckle singers, to look for the guy he had punched. Who knew.

Sparrow was driving nervously and carefully, so it took some time to creep out from where we were parked, in a back corner of the neighborhood. My fantasies were running wild: every time we rounded a corner, I imagined him there in the van, remorseful.

Truman, remorseful?
I knew it was ridiculous even as I kept picturing it, over and over again.

As we pulled out of the neighborhood, back onto the main road, Sparrow and Kieran were fuming, cursing, boiling mad. Totally disgusted with him. The heat of their anger wilted my own. I was still mad, but I was worried, too.

“I know this is bad,” I said, leaning forward and cutting off their back-and-forth. “But he's afraid of his parents. He doesn't want to go home to them.”

“Yeah, well, he pissed them off pretty good,” Sparrow said.

I leaned back, shocked that she would say that. Now I was angry.

“That's not right!” I said. “It's not like it's his fault or something.”

“How is it not his fault?” she asked, sounding annoyed with me for the first time ever. “His mother . . . She obviously screwed up on a whole different level, but that doesn't excuse what he did. The whole damn school knows. The whole town.”

I looked at her. Kieran looked at her. I felt like I was swimming in a pool that was slowly draining, sucking me down, down,
down. There must be some mistake. We just weren't understanding each other.

“Tru is here because . . . because he's gay,” I said. “Because his parents found out and sent him away.”

Sparrow's eyes looked up sharply, meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

And then I knew. I had the story very, very wrong.

At first I just curled up as small as I could and said nothing. Then I asked how long his parents had known.

“He told them a year ago. No, more than a year ago. They weren't . . . Don't get me wrong, it wasn't easy. They weren't happy. Especially his dad. But he wasn't nearly as awful as I thought he would be. I mean, he didn't try to send him to an insane psychiatrist to fix him or anything. It's more like he put up a wall instead, just doesn't want to think or talk about it. I actually think his mom is okay with it now.”

I waited for Sparrow to go on. She stayed quiet. I was afraid to ask any more, but Kieran was not.

“So I don't understand. What do you mean that he screwed up? And Aunt Debbie screwed up?
Why is he here?
”

For a moment she stalled and hedged, stammered, sounding almost as confused as we were.

“I thought . . . goddammit. He told me you knew. He told me you all knew what happened and why he was here. He asked me not to talk about it with you, and I . . . I didn't question it. I thought it made sense, because, well, shit. Because it's a subject better left alone.”

“Okay, okay,” Kieran said. “I'm sorry—I'm not pissed at you, of course. I believe you. But whatever it is, you should tell us now. You need to tell us.”

For a moment there was only silence, Sparrow shifting in her seat.

“I don't know if it's my place,” she said. “It's about your family.”

Kieran looked at her, while she kept her eyes on the road.

“Exactly,” Kieran said. “It's our family. Whatever it is, I think it's time we fucking knew.”

Her shoulders slumped, and I could tell she was fed up, exhausted. She gave in.

“His mother,” Sparrow said. “She had an affair.”

The word bristled in the air, seemed unreal. Something from soap operas or romance novels, not real life. At first, she said nothing more, but then Kieran whispered her name. She said the rest in a fevered rush.

“The man . . . He was someone Tru's family has known forever. He's the father of one of our friends, a kid we went to school with. Skip. He's in Truman's year. And Truman knew about . . .
you know. About his mother and this man. He wouldn't tell me how he found out. And I don't know what, if anything, he planned to do about it. Maybe nothing. You have to understand, his father . . . I don't even know if he really blames his mother. But then Skip had a party one night, when his parents were supposed to be out late.”

Sparrow stopped at a red light, rolled down her window, lit another cigarette. A million little details from this summer were tumbling through my mind. Tru's vague responses to my questions about home and coming out. The look on his face when he took a call or a text from his parents. Skip and his dad that day at the police station in Tru's story.
Gatsby
and its affairs.

When the light turned green, Sparrow started talking again.

“They came home early. Skip's parents. His father and mother. Caught Tru and Skip and all these kids drinking. Skip's dad is, like . . . he's a hard-ass. An attorney. He flipped out. Screaming at them. Really awful stuff, belittling them. Taking it way too far.”

We were almost there. I could see our turn just up ahead. Sparrow still drove slowly, like she didn't really want to get where we were going.

“This is all secondhand. From Tru. So I can't, you know, vouch for it exactly. But he told everyone. Right there. And I just know that it was bad.”

Sparrow left it at that, but I could see the rest of it unfolding perfectly, all the details filled in like some scene in a movie. It was set in the drawing room of a beautiful mansion in Connecticut, with lush rugs and leather sofas and cabinets full of fine
liquor. The man was in a tux, the woman in a spangled dress with shining jewelry. They were back from the symphony because she didn't feel well. There were kids everywhere, drunk and draped on furniture, then leaping up, trying to hide their cups and cans. He yelled and threatened and told them to sit their asses down in a row and they did. All of them did except for Tru.

Tru was standing up, the glass in his hand shining with some amber liquid. He would have been looking dapper in a T-shirt and jeans. And then he would have opened his mouth and done the unthinkable, letting loose what he knew, being beautiful and awful all at once. Hurting many.

He said I was the honest one. I wasn't so sure. For all his lies and his bullshit, part of me thought that the honest one was him. But a different kind of honesty. Not the cardinal kind.

Sometimes honesty was a darker thing. Maybe even selfish. Maybe even cruel.

Sparrow and Kieran sat in the car outside Siren for a minute, arguing about whether Kieran should come in, too. She said there was no way she was sneaking in more underage people after what happened earlier, and Kieran finally relented. Sparrow disappeared inside, alone. Kieran turned around to look at me, and I could tell that he thought he should ask me more about what happened with the me and the creep. I stared back at him and shook my head.

“I don't want to talk about it. Not now. Please.”

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry.”

He turned around and looked at his phone, mumbling something about texting Jimmy to see if Tru had reappeared. I leaned my head against the window, watching the crowds filter by. Ice-cream cones tilted in their hands. Cigarettes hung from their lips. Couples walked hand in hand. Everyone seemed to be laughing, happy, clinging to this last bit of summer, giving an extra buzz to the air. The sidewalks were packed, almost every parking space full.

And then suddenly there was our minivan, screeching headfirst into the last empty spot on the block.

I jumped a little at the sight of it, but Kieran was still busy on his phone and didn't notice. Some instinct kept me quiet for a moment. I just waited and watched, sure that Tru would get out and walk toward Siren any second, and then I'd have to give a yell, make sure we stopped him.

But if I craned my neck I could see that the van's lights were still on. He hadn't moved.

I should tell Kieran. I knew that I should. But I wanted to talk to Tru, and I knew that if we confronted him now, it would be chaos, a shouting match. Sparrow and Kieran fighting with him, while I was shut out on the sidelines.

Quietly, I readied myself to run.

“I'll be right back.”

I said it so fast, I doubt Kieran could even understand me, and then I was out of the car, not even bothering to shut the door, just racing down the sidewalk. I reached the van, opened the passenger side, leaped onto the seat, and shut myself in with a slam.

Tru looked only mildly surprised to see me.

“I keep forgetting I'm not in Connecticut anymore. I really need to keep this thing locked. God knows who might get inside.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, the party at the Mack's was really kind of a drag. I thought maybe I'd come back here and listen to more half-assed karaoke. Or finish kicking someone's ass. You know, whatever.”

Before I could respond to that, Tru clicked his tongue and said, “Oh my.”

He was looking down the sidewalk, watching Kieran sprint toward the car. The engine was still running, so it only took him a second to throw the van in reverse and speed off down the road. He was driving way too fast, almost clipping the bumpers of the cars on our right.

“Where the hell are we going?”

“Right now, just away from your brother. And Sparrow, I presume. I didn't see her, but I'm sure she's rounding out the little Hardy Boys crew that's on the hunt for me. How mad is she? She used my full name, so that's never a good sign. Did she smoke a million cigarettes on the drive over? That's another one of her tells.”

I buckled my seat belt, at a loss for words. A few quick turns and we were out of the neighborhood and heading south, where things quickly got dingier, dirtier. We stayed quiet for a few minutes, while outside my window, the city deteriorated, happy little row houses turning into busted-up row houses turning into abandoned row houses, their windows bricked over with crumbling mortar. A siren wailed.

“We should go home,” I said quietly. “Before we get in trouble. So we can still go to Prettyboy tomorrow.”

He scoffed.

“Oh, right. Our little adventure. I know it's a big deal and all, but I'm a little distracted at the moment. You know, preparing to go home and start my senior year. Everyone loves senior year! So many memories to make.”

I couldn't even picture Tru sitting at a desk, taking quizzes or whatever—and when I thought about it a little harder, I realized more fully what it would mean, to be back with all those kids he'd known forever.

“But . . . are you really going back to the same school?” I asked. “Even after everything?”

He shot me a look, taking in the fact that I knew. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Oh yes. I'm going back to the same school. With Skip and all my buddies. Richard insisted, which—I have to give it to him—is an amazing power move. Mom and I will be holed up in the house together, and he's gotten a place in the city, it sounds like. I'm sure that legal moves are imminent. So you'll have to pardon me if I'm not really focused on our big swim. Frankly, I don't think Jeremy will want to join, so I may just bow out completely.”

That brought back the image of Jeremy at the party, on the verge of tears, while Tru blew out the door like nothing had happened, nothing at all. Then I was angry. Really angry.

“You shouldn't have done that to Jeremy.”

I wanted to tell him that it was cruel, but I couldn't quite
form the stark edges of the word. Then he looked at me so hard I almost flinched.

“Jeremy? That's why you're mad at me?
For Jeremy?
”

I clenched my jaw. I wouldn't let this go.

“It's hard for him! He probably never kissed anyone before, and then you . . . you embarrassed him. You made him uncomfortable.”

Tru ran a red light as I gripped the seat. Horns blared in our wake.

“And what do you think life is like for me, back home? Just gorgeous young gay men everywhere I look? What exactly do you think my options are? Perhaps you don't realize this, but my school is almost exclusively populated by the future presidents of the Ivy League's douchiest frats.”

That wasn't something I'd ever thought about, and I tried to process it, but there was too much going on. I couldn't think straight.

“I didn't know.” My voice was small and bruised. “What about prom? What about Andy?”

“Andy?
Andy?
Andy is fifty pounds overweight. He's a fairy. He's a freak.”

He looked over at me then, and his eyes were empty. Nothing there at all. Tears pricked at the corners of my own.

“Oh Jesus, Frannie. C'mon.”

But I couldn't help it. They spilled over.

“Still,” I said. “You shouldn't have done that to him. It was wrong.”

“You feel sorry for Jeremy because you feel
like
Jeremy,” he said.
“You're quiet and you're shy and you're always afraid of what people will think. You don't want me to be mean to Jeremy because you don't want me to be mean to you.”

The tears just kept falling, and I couldn't make them stop.

“You lied to me,” I said. “About why you were here.”

He jerked back at that, just the slightest bit.

“Yeah, well, sorry. You came up with that story, not me.”

“But why? Why did you let me believe it?”

“I don't know, all right? I don't fucking know. Maybe because you're not my bestest friend who I tell all my secrets to? Maybe because if you felt bad for me, it was easier to make you do what I wanted? Take your pick.”

He came to a screeching stop at a stop sign, and we both flew forward, hitting hard against our seat belts. He slammed again on the gas, drove faster than ever, passing cars when there was barely room. The windows were still up, and it was hot and miserable inside the van.

“Screw you.” My voice was a whisper, but it was angry. “You didn't even care that I was always nice to you, that I wanted to be your friend from the beginning. I was always here for you. I accepted you.”

As soon as I said those last words they felt wrong, but it was too late. They were hanging there between us. He slowed down a little. He leaned his left arm against the door, while the fingers of his right hand rested more lightly on the wheel. His body had lost all its tension, but somehow that scared me more. He was lounging there like a panther, lazy before the pounce.

“
Accepted me?
Yes, you always accepted me. Your fag cousin. How big of you. How wonderful that I came to Baltimore, so you could throw me a pride parade and feel really good about yourself.”

My face went crimson, and I almost screamed at him, told him that he wasn't being fair. But at the same time, I knew that somewhere in that accusation was an inkling of truth.

I wanted to curl up, to hide my face in my hands, but I couldn't do that. Not yet. I had to stop this, stop him, before something bad happened. I looked out the window to see where we were. Somewhere in the middle of the city, still heading south. I searched for a sign on one of the cross streets we were passing, but then I realized I didn't need any signs.

Shining just ahead of us in the night was a soft pink glow. Now blue. Now yellow. The twin hearts sending out their wordless message over the city. We were almost to the train station. Another minute and we'd be there.

“Well, look at that,” he said. “Back to where we started.”

He chuckled a little, and the hollowness of it scared me more than anything yet.

“Please,” I said. “Can we just go home?”

“My god, Frannie. All right. You are entirely too concerned about your curfew, you know that? I thought you'd loosened up a little.”