Frannie and Tru by Karen Hattrup Page B

foam. It was mostly empty, probably since dinnertimewas fast approaching. There was just one dad with his two toddlers and a big, woolly dog.
    Devon was in front, and he took us farther down the path, to a shadier corner of the park, where the old, unused equipment lingered. A rusty graveyard of abandoned playthings. This was apparently where the band came after practice to smoke their cigarettes.
    The three of them took seats on a group of rocking animals: a sea horse, a dolphin, and a killer whale. The springs were squeaky and the dolphin was missing a fin. I leaned against the ladder for the monkey bars. Tru and Sparrow took side-by-side swings.
    I was keenly aware of being the youngest person there, having discovered on the walk that the three boys were all a year ahead of me. Meanwhile, my fear of being the new white girl at school had temporarily vanished, pounded into oblivion by the music in the basement, by watching Devon and P.J. and Winston. I told myself that Jimmy was wrong. Mary Beth and the other girls were wrong. They were backward and behind, stuck at small-minded St. Sebastian’s, where everyone was alike. I started to think that next year, among the smart and sophisticated, things would be different. Come September I’d be laughing that I ever did that Google search. I’d scoff that I’d spent nights worrying.
    When the pack of cigarettes came to me, I passed it on without taking one, too afraid of coughing and looking like a loser. With nothing to occupy my hands, I looked nervously down at my feet, tracing circles in the wood chips with the tips of my sneakers.
    â€œSo why haven’t you told us your band name?” Tru asked.
    Sparrow laughed. “Probably because they don’t have one yet.”
    â€œWhoa, now!” P.J. said. “We have ideas. Good ideas.” He started an antsy rocking on the sea horse. His fingers tapped nonstop against the handles.
    Tru leaned forward expectantly. “And those ideas are . . . ?”
    P.J. took a deep breath and his eyes got wide, but Devon, looking slightly embarrassed, jumped in first.
    â€œWell, we have three that we’re thinking about. The first one is The Penny Dreadfuls. The second one is Chuck Darwin. The third one is Thunderface.”
    Tru choked on a puff of smoke.
    â€œThe last one,” he said. “You gotta go with the last one.”
    Sparrow pushed her swing to the side, knocking into Tru’s.
    â€œDon’t listen to him,” she said. “He’s too cool to like anything.”
    â€œHey, hey,” Tru said, acting offended. “I was impressed. Look, I know music, and you guys are good musicians.”
    Devon gave a little nod in thanks, while P.J. performed an exaggerated and awkward bow from where he sat hunched over on the sea horse.
    â€œTru does know music,” Sparrow chimed in. “He sings like an angel.”
    â€œAn angel?” Tru almost choked again. “No one has ever, ever said that. Ever. But these guys are good. I like them.”
    He hopped out of the swing, took a drag, exhaled dramatically.
    â€œSo,” he said with a smile, “I’m not too cool to like anything. Suck it, Sparrow.”
    The boys snickered, and Sparrow stuck out her tongue. As it grew quiet, Tru’s words echoed in my mind.
    â€œThat would be an okay band name,” I said.
    Now everyone was looking at me. The monkey-bar ladder pressed hard stripes into my back, and I grabbed one of the rungs until my hands hurt. I hadn’t really meant to say that. It just tumbled out.
    â€œWhat would?” Tru asked, crossing his arms, looking amused.
    My face burned. Why had I opened my mouth? Saying nothing was safe, and safe was always better. Always. But everyone was still staring at me, so I had to explain.
    â€œSuck It, Sparrow?” I said it lamely, like a question.
    P.J.’s mindless rocking on the sea horse stopped. He looked at Devon. Devon grinned and looked at