Frannie and Tru (25 page)

Or Tru.

But the fact that I'd been so mistaken and had still managed to know them better . . . that gave me hope. At least I could go try to move forward with a more open heart, whether it was in
school next year or whatever came beyond. Being a nice, quiet girl wasn't enough, I knew that now. Trying to see people for who they were—once I started trying, I wasn't sure the work would ever stop. It meant looking inside, deep inside, and not always liking what was there.

I couldn't imagine a graceful way to do it—fumbling would have to be enough.

Devon had walked back closer to the others, leaving me to linger apart and alone. I almost edged away from him, closer to the girls. But instead I stepped forward, grabbed his hand lightly, pulled him back toward me.

“I just wanted to say . . . I wish that I understood better,” I told him. “I want to.”

His fingers gave mine a light squeeze, and this time he hung on for a moment. That touch gave me some small rush of relief, of joy, and I tried to live there, in those seconds when we were palm to palm. I tried to forget all my tangled and intricate failings.

Our hands drifted apart, and we found a place to stand in the tight circle that was forming. P.J. was busy chatting up the girls, wearing a full-on silly grin, speaking in a pretend-suave voice and tipping a pretend hat as he liked to do. They were sent into fits of happy laughter. In that moment, I added P.J. to the list of people that I hadn't seen clearly. The way he owned himself, his goofiness—it was something to admire.

We opened the vodka and mixed it into the iced teas, pouring until the bottle was bone-dry and then hiding it in a bush. Sitting on the concrete, the seven of us passed the drinks around,
sipping slowly and talking softly. I couldn't forget what the girls had said, I didn't want to, but even as it hung over my head, I tried to just be here in this moment, imperfect as it might be.

Devon wanted me to tell everyone about what had happened with Tru, and so they all listened as I spun the story of his last night in Baltimore. I didn't tell everything—nothing about the man at Siren. Someday, I could talk about it, the way Tru could talk about the rock, the police station. But I wasn't there yet. I left out the part about Aunt Debbie, too, kept Tru's motivations murky. Without all that, the story had a kind of mad, pure beauty. Already, I could feel it growing and changing, becoming a legend.

Split among us all, the vodka wasn't much. Just enough to give the last light of day an extra sheen. Just enough that we had an excuse to be here together, shaping this twilight into something that mattered, something worth remembering.

That night, after I crawled under my sheets, a knock came at my door. I sat up as Mom walked in, and I was sure she was here to grill me, to ask me where I'd been tonight, if I'd stayed in the park later than I should.

But then I saw that she had something in her hand. A book.

Not just a book. A worn-out paperback with a broken spine, pages roughed.
The Great Gatsby.

“I forgot that this was in my purse. Tru gave it to me before he left. Said he wanted you to have it.”

She handed it to me with a sad smile, then turned around and left.

Tears came to my eyes as I opened it, and I was sure that he had written me a note. The inside cover and first page were full of pencil scrawls, but not for me. They were just words. Big words from the book that he'd looked up, copying down their definitions. I sat there and read through them again and again, reading them for their beauty, not for their meaning, reciting them to myself like a prayer.
Wan, garrulous, hauteur, meretricious, caterwauling, affectations.
On and on they went.

The last one made me blush:
orgastic
.

Tru still loved words, still studied them. Here they were in all their beauty. And like he said, somehow that beauty made things better.

The whole book, in fact, was covered in soft pencil scratches. Sloppy and half-finished, his thoughts were there on nearly every page—little missives that I was sure I'd never fully understand, like an excavator trying to make sense of some lost civilization.

I turned the lights off and dug out my flashlight, the one I'd used when we went camping. Under the safety of my covers, I flipped through the pages swiftly but carefully. I went two times through before I found what I was looking for: the part I'd read out loud to him that night. The part about honesty. Cardinal virtues. Underneath those sentences, he had drawn the faintest line, almost invisible. Just below that, he'd made a mark.

It could have been almost anything, perhaps just a slip of a pencil. But the longer I looked, the more I felt sure it was an
F
,
drawn with some measure of tenderness.

A year would pass before I made the leap from the jump-off.

It was the end of the summer after my sophomore year. There were five of us who went in the middle of the night. We hadn't planned to do this, had come here on a whim, and we didn't have swimsuits. I was the last one to get undressed, and I noticed that the other girls, already walking toward the rope, were down to their bras. I had an extra layer tonight, a little tank top, and I left it on. It was too thin and white to be much of a shield, but I still felt better that way. Less exposed. More like me.

I took another minute folding my shirt and shorts and probably looked like I was stalling. Really I just wanted a moment alone to take this all in. The dark, the smell of water, the sound of cicadas. Our laughter, echoing. As I watched everyone else walk over toward the edge—tugging on the rope, issuing challenges,
deciding who would go first—I was happy to kneel there alone, grass tickling my legs, just watching and thinking.

Right before I went to join them, I pulled my phone from my purse, sent a quick text.

               
At Prettyboy. About to jump.

I waited for a moment, even though I didn't necessarily expect a reply. I hadn't been in touch with Tru for a while, after all, too busy and distracted with other things. Besides, he didn't always respond, and when he did, it sometimes took a while.

But this time my phone buzzed right away.

               
Guess my invitation got lost in the mail? Unbelievable. Don't tell me everyone else is there without me.

My mouth screwed into a smile. Someone called my name, and I told them I'd be just a second.

               
Nah. Different people. New friends from school.

A moment passed without Tru answering, so I followed up with a question.

               
What are you doing tonight?

The silence from him continued, so I tucked the phone back into my clothes and made a move to leave.

Then came another buzz.

               
In with the boyfriend. Don't worry, I'm breaking up with him before I leave. Only the most shameful and pathetic of optimists show up to college attached.

The phone gave one more little shake.

               
Swing high and fall fast. If you don't make it, I'll speak beautifully at your wake.

As I put my cell away, I smiled. I walked over to where everyone waited, feeling braver than I would have guessed, half-naked in the veil of the night. The ground roughed my bare feet, a night breeze chilled my skin. But none of that mattered now. Looking up at my friends, I was filled with a giddy, silly kind of love for them, all of them, but especially the one I'd lately fallen for—the boy who right now was holding the rope, inclining it in my direction.

I went and stood right next to him, looked out. Spread before us was the dark horizon of the reservoir. I took the rope from him. At first he looked surprised, but then he smiled, backing up to give me room. Before I could look down, before I could think too hard, I ran. I ran and tossed myself toward the glassy, black abyss.

There was a moment, just a moment, of suspension, when I had absolutely no control, and I could only fall, fall, fall. . . .

I hit with a hard splash, and Prettyboy was as chilled and dark and deep as I'd thought it would be. I came up for air and waved my hands to show I was safe, not sure if anyone could even see me. Whipping my legs, feverishly treading to stay above water, I heard a splash to my left. Then one to my right. Then someone came down so close to me, I actually yelped, the impact sending a ripple of waves washing over my face. There was a pause, and then the final jumper came down with a whoop and a crash.

We called to each other, laughing, stroking over until we could see each other's faces, until we could see that all of us were okay.

The boy is looking at me. I can just barely see his expression in the dark, but it's enough that I know. I know that something's going to happen. I duck down below the water, then burst back out, brushing the hair back from my eyes.

I'm ready for anything.

Thank you. . . .

To all those who were kind enough to offer advice and encouragement on early drafts, including Elisabeth Dahl, Elissa Weissman, Maggie Master, and, of course, Jennifer Fortin, an amazing writer and best friend.

To my agent, Steven Chudney, who has been such a stellar advocate for this book. From the very beginning you saw both what was good and what was missing. The chapters I added with your help are some of the best and most important.

To my editor, Andrew Harwell, who delivered brilliant insight with enthusiasm and key criticism with diplomacy. Working with you is a privilege. Thank you from me and thank you from Frannie, who was able to grow so much more with your help.

To all those who contributed at HarperCollins. From cover
design to copy editing, I've always felt I was in the very best hands. I'm thankful to everyone there who believed in a story about a quiet girl from Baltimore.

To the Rivers and Hattrup families, I am incredibly lucky to have you and forever grateful for all that you do for me. Thank you especially to my parents, who are wonderful in every way. Thank you to my mom, who made me love reading, and to my dad, who always thought it was cool that I did.

To Kevin, who, for years, remained irritatingly insistent that this book would be published. Thank you for being optimistic when I was not. Thank you for making me think and laugh every day and for helping me to build a life that's everything I could want. More important, thank you for your incredible ability to come up with fake band names. I still think the boys should have picked Thunderface.

To Nora. Being your mom changed my life in so many ways. It's made me want to do something big. It made me want to keep trying.

To Liam. In the midst of all the nerves and excitement that came with watching this book come together, you were a ray of light, putting everything in perspective.

Marly Hernández Cortés

KAREN HATTRUP
is a former newspaper reporter and studied writing at Johns Hopkins University. She lives with her family in Baltimore City.

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