Frannie and Tru by Karen Hattrup Page A

intelligent to ask, but could only nod, impressed.
    She told us we could go on downstairs, and as we headed in that direction I heard a guitar being plucked, a cymbal shimmering. Tru went first and I followed. We walked slowly downcreaky steps into a half-finished basement. The walls were rough stone, the floor painted an industrial gray. One half of it was filled with a soaring set of shelves stuffed to the bursting point with textbooks. There was a desk with a computer and papers stacked to dangerous heights. A photo on the wall showed Regina somewhere stark and dusty. She stood next to a well and was surrounded by children with big smiles and dingy clothes.
    In the other half of the basement was the band.
    I had expected a minicrowd that I could disappear into, but it looked like we were the crowd. Or rather, us and Sparrow. She bounded over and greeted both of us with hugs. Her hair was under a handkerchief and she wore thick black glasses, yoga pants, and a too-big T-shirt that hung off her shoulder. Looking at her, I could imagine for a moment what it would be like to be in love—to be bewitched by someone in all their forms.
    Sparrow led us over to the other side of the basement. A busted couch and pilled carpet sat in front of the band’s practice space: a ten-foot-by-ten-foot square that was a tangle of microphones, amps, instruments, and boys.
    There were three of them. Sparrow introduced each with a flourish.
    Winston was the drummer, a pudgy beanbag of a kid with a shaved head and glasses, sweet brown eyes, and light brown skin. His gaze tended downward, shyly. He was the one who went to my school.
    On bass was P.J. Tall and gawky and white, with overly styled emo hair, twitchy fingers, and a manic grin. I felt his eyes onme, assessing. His hands began to work more nervously on the strings.
    And then finally Sparrow’s cousin, Devon. Oh my god, Devon. Yes, he was kind of short, shorter than me for sure, but he had this white, white smile against dark, dark skin, set inside a perfect face. The kind of face that belonged on the front of a college brochure. Fresh and all-American. His hair was done in those little twisty things that probably had a name, but one I didn’t know. What I did know was that he was cool . I could tell just by the way he was standing, the easy way his instrument hung down from his shoulders. He played guitar and was the singer, too, of course.
    â€œSo this is definitely a dry run, you know?” Devon told us. “We’re not, like, ready ready yet.”
    â€œDevon,” Sparrow said. “They don’t mind.”
    â€œWe don’t mind,” Tru echoed and elbowed me.
    â€œWe don’t mind,” I agreed, voice squeaking.
    P.J. was still looking at me, and his grin was now practically exploding.
    Tru took a seat in the middle of the couch and patted either side. Sparrow and I squeezed in. It was more of a love seat, not really big enough, and the three of us wove ourselves into a cocoon, bare arms warm against one another. I huddled down, feeling heated and alive as Winston beat a four count with his drumsticks and the music began.

NINE
    As we walked with the boys to a nearby park, my ears were still ringing from the hour we’d spent in the basement. Their set wasn’t at all what I’d expected. They played a bunch of old songs converted into throbbing, happy pop-punk. They did the Beatles and a bunch of Motown, but they played everything fast, hard, hopped up with energy, beat pounding. Winston’s pudgy arms flew in the background, almost a blur. P.J. ran all over the place, climbing speakers, dropping to his knees. Devon stayed planted under the microphone, belting from somewhere deep down inside. . . .
    I loved it. I loved every single song.
    We walked down a gravel path that ran through the trees, passing a fancy playground. The equipment was bright and looked brand-new, the ground covered with some kind of high-tech, cushiony