Frannie and Tru (9 page)

“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.

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.”

“It's an important sociological experiment to identify racist authority figures. And I didn't come up with it, Devon did!” P.J. spun around in his seat, scanned the stands behind us, pointing to the security guard who stood at the top of our stairs to the section. “Pudgy bald white dude. He didn't stop me when I came down. Keep an eye out!”

He patted my knee and then loped away, taking the steps two at a time, while Tru and I turned back to Sparrow.

“So I'm pretty sure I can figure it out, but explain, please?” Tru said.

She crossed her arms, huffed a bit. “Black Guy, White Guy is a game they play. They want to see if the guy who didn't stop P.J. stops Devon and asks for his ticket. They do this shit all the time. In stores, at restaurants, wherever. They think it's hilarious.”

Tru was laughing. “And you don't?”

“No, I don't.”

“I'm guessing that a lot of people fail Black Guy, White Guy?”

“Why, yes they do, Truman,” she said. “How insightful of you.”

“So then what happens?” Tru asked, already turning around and waiting for Devon to appear. “I hope they have a sticker or a button or something to pin on the person's chest. Just, like, a big red circle that says
RACIST
.”

“No, Devon usually does this comically overly polite act to whoever the person is, and then the two of them laugh their asses off about it later.”

Tru bit his lip, thought for a second. “I still like the idea of stickers. Maybe I'll make them stickers. Oh, shit, here he comes!”

Now we were all watching, joined in tense anticipation as Devon emerged from the tunnel doing a casual saunter and pulling his O's visor a little farther over his eyes. As he grabbed the railing and hit the first step, I exhaled, positive that everything was going to be fine. . . .

Then the guard leaned forward, tapped his shoulder, beckoned him back.

“Oh, what an asshole!” Tru said in delight, while Sparrow gave an angry little hiss. We all watched as Devon hopped back up to the landing and turned around, a bright, innocent smile on his face. The two of them spoke briefly to each other, and then Devon started scanning the crowd for us. We waved our arms, and he waved back. The guard gave an awkward minisalute, gesturing at him to go ahead.

A minute later, he was sliding into the seat beside me.

“Hey there,” he said.

“Hey,” I said back.

He leaned over, met eyes with Tru and Sparrow, who were elated and angry, respectively.

“What a world we live in, my brother,” Tru said.

“Oh, did P.J. give you the heads-up?” Devon asked. “Just doing my part. Keeping tabs on the man. Don't look at me like that, Sparrow.”

“I just don't understand why it's amusing to you. Do you watch the news? Do you know what happens to black kids because of the way people look at them? It seems like just this quiet, subtle thing to you, and a lot of times it is. But that's why it's so insidious.”

“All right, all right,” Devon said, tugging at his shorts, adjusting his visor again. “Don't break out the SAT words on me. I hear you. I feel you.”

“I don't know if you do feel me,” Sparrow said.

“Listen, I know. I get it. I live it. Excuse me if I need to laugh about it every once in a while, okay? You're a girl and everyone thinks you're perfect-looking, so trust me when I say the situation is not quite the same.”

She wanted to say more, I could tell, but instead she gave him a dismissive little wave, mumbled something about having her own shit to deal with, and sat back in her seat. Tru rolled his eyes and leaned over my lap, asking Devon about his Blondie T-shirt, which got them going about a million bands I'd never even heard of. They kept talking about New Wave, which Tru said he thought of as poetic, intellectual punk, and Devon said, “Exactly, which makes no sense, which is why it's so perfect and great.” At first I tried to mentally note everything they were saying, so I could steal the songs from Tru's collection later, but then I got distracted thinking about Black Guy, White Guy. I was cataloging my family members, my old friends, my old teachers, deciding who would pass. By the time I got to myself, I really didn't want to play anymore. I was reminded of searching for the racial breakdown of my new school and was newly ashamed. Then I remembered watching the band practice, how that somehow had made me think everything would be magically fine, and now suddenly that seemed naive and embarrassing, too. My mind was a jumble, and I tried to clear it by focusing instead on Devon's hands. His
palms looked soft and were the rosy pink color of a seashell. He had calluses everywhere from the strings of his instruments, and I kept wanting to touch them with the tips of my fingers, to see how they would feel.

After half an inning, Devon got up to leave, annoyed with Sparrow and ready to go back to P.J. and the groupies. Before he left, he made sure Tru and I were coming to the battle of the bands. I felt myself blushing when I told him yes.

The whole time he was there, I'd been clutching the Cracker Jack box so tightly it was practically crushed to oblivion. Tru snatched it from me again, shook out the final crumbs. The prize landed in the middle of his hand, and he feigned excitement, telling me, “I win again. I always win, Frannie.” He held the little treasure up to the evening light—a stupid fake tattoo. Still, he kept it aloft for a moment, bending it carefully between his thumb and index finger, seemingly deep in thought.