Frannie and Tru by Karen Hattrup

yesterday were looping through my head. The train station. The sculpture. Sparrow. Siren. Coming back home.
    It was almost midnight when we’d climbed the porch steps. As I’d fumbled for my key, Tru had told me to wait a second. He’d coached me in a soothing whisper.
    â€œIf they have questions about tonight, just roll your eyes and act like whatever they asked is stupid and you don’t feel like answering. That’s what grown-ups expect from teenagers anyway. And the less you say, the less likely you’ll be caught in a lie.”
    I’d gone inside and done exactly that. We’d hardly had to say a word to anyone.
    Watching Tru get into our rusty old minivan was strange. He was cheerful this morning, popping into one of the middle seats and buckling up with a little too much enthusiasm. He looked like a kid at the fair, amused by a ride he’d grown too big for.
    Kieran grabbed the seat next to him, so Jimmy and I took theback. As the van grumbled to life, Dad told Truman he was in charge of the music. The van was beyond ancient, no hookup for an iPod or phone or whatever, so he gave Tru the only three choices he ever gave anyone, the only CDs he kept in the car: U2, The Rolling Stones, or Bruce Springsteen.
    Tru surprised me by picking Bruce.
    â€œUm, have we explained to Tru where we’re going?” Jimmy asked, leaning forward to yell over the first strains of “Born in the U.S.A.” “Because if he’s expecting, you know, an actual beach , he’s going to be pretty pissed.”
    Kieran snorted. “C’mon, man. A crappy swimming hole in a crappy park is almost like the real beach!”
    Jimmy leaned forward farther, straining his seat belt, putting a hand on Tru’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. The people are cool. It’s all, like, rednecks swimming in jean shorts and insane packs of wild children from the nature camp.”
    Dad told them to shut up. Mom yelled at them for exaggerating. Angry shouts filled the car until Tru broke in.
    â€œLook, I’m just happy that I’m not in the car with my mother and father, sitting in hours of stop-and-go traffic so we can go to the Hamptons along with half the social-climbing assholes in New York City.”
    Next to me, Jimmy tried to stifle a laugh and practically choked. Mom turned around and glared at him, which made him explode, setting off Kieran, who set off me. Tru was wearing his best attempt at a sheepish grin, but I was pretty sure he was pleased with himself.
    â€œUncle Pat, Aunt Barb, I’m sorry. Really I am,” he said, hands clasped in a kind of mock prayer. “But you have to believe me. There’s no other way to describe the place. It’s just a total asshole convention.”
    Mom cried out Truman’s name in admonishment, but she didn’t really sound that mad, and besides, Dad was giggling now—and Tru was still going.
    â€œI don’t know what’s worse, the ten-year-old girls texting in their bikinis or the moms all Botoxed to hell. No, wait, scratch that. The dads are the worst by far,” Tru said, and now he adjusted his voice, taking it down a notch, talking in a baritone that was somehow how both peevish and gruff. “Coming here is a privilege, boy! This is what success looks like. These are some of the most expensive residential properties in the nation.”
    Jimmy and Kieran kept snickering, but I sensed an undercurrent of nervousness from Mom and Dad. The car grew quiet after that. For most of the remaining ride, we disappeared into our own worlds, watching the landscape rush by, listening to Bruce’s rasp.
    Huddled in the backseat, I nursed a suspicion. As the houses and strip malls and billboards passed, I became more and more sure of it, for Tru’s little bit of showmanship had shaken loose some old, vague memories I had of his family. What he’d just done was not the voice of some random social-climbing