Frannie and Tru Read Online Free

said empty words to each other— hello s and how are you s and “How was the train ride?” and “Thank you, Uncle Patrick, for picking me up.”
    My father towered over him, as he towered over almost everyone. He was absolutely enormous—a great big man with the last name Little, which always made people laugh. His hand was a paw, and it swallowed Tru’s hand whole when the two of them shook. His grip could crush, but I noticed that Tru didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to even blink, and I wasn’t sure if Dad was going easy on him or if Truman simply wasn’t rattled by it.
    I told myself it was stupid to be nervous, but I couldn’t help the blush that rose to my cheeks. I hated that I had to stand here, on display for someone who hadn’t seen me in years. He turned to me, and I was ready for all the obvious comments about how tall I was, how he barely recognized me. I realized too late that I should have been prepared, should have thought of something clever to say. . . .
    â€œHi, Frannie.”
    His face was expressionless. He hardly seemed to see me at all.
    I started to say hello back to him, but my mouth was dry, and I practically choked on the words. He looked at me like I was some sort of unfamiliar creature, a bug that he was not particularly happy to have stumbled upon. After that he clucked his tongue. Checked his watch.
    Dad shifted his feet and cleared his throat in a way that seemed loud and unnecessary. He asked about carrying Tru’s bags. There was a pause, and Tru shrugged. It was pretty clear he didn’t need our help.
    We left the train station through the fancy glass doors, heading toward the garage where our car was parked. My mind was a jumble of thoughts, stray puzzle pieces that I couldn’t make fit together. Shit-eating grins. Corpuscles. Boy toys. An echo of Kieran’s voice: Truman is kind of a dick .
    Why had I ever thought he would make my summer better?
    We walked in a straight line: Dad, then me, then Tru. I could hear his suitcase rolling behind him, hitting a seam in the sidewalk every few feet. Then the sound stopped. I turned to see what had happened, and there was Tru, paused in his tracks, caught in a streetlamp’s glow as distant skyscrapers sparkled behind him. He was looking straight up into the air.
    â€œWhat is that?” he asked no one in particular.
    The question caught Dad, who glanced back, too. He followed Tru’s gaze and began to giggle.
    My father looked like he should have some deep, echoing belly laugh, but no. He had a high-pitched little giggle. Like a girl,really. I’d seen people jump at the sound, it was so unexpected. Right then he couldn’t seem to stop. He was going like a motor.
    When he’d gotten control, he crossed his arms over the expanse of his chest and looked at Tru. “It’s art!” he said. “Fine art. Can’t you tell?”
    Tru looked again at the object in question, neck craned to see it in full. Seconds passed and then he laughed, too.
    â€œNo, actually. I’m not sure that I can.”
    Dad and I had seen the sculpture a million times, but we came to stand beside Tru so we could look along with him. Two colossal figures, one a man and one a woman, were towering up from the roundabout in front of the train station. Their stiff, paper-doll-like bodies intersected to form an X. They were silver, constructed of shiny, rippling aluminum, and where their chests met, they shared a single heart made of soft lights that changed colors. They were fifty feet tall, a part of the skyline, and the bulbs at their center acted as a strange lighthouse that glowed gently over the city.
    People hated the thing.
    The sculpture had been up for years, and everyone still complained about it—how much it’d cost, the way it clashed with all the old buildings around it. Just last year the newspaper had printed a letter to the editor about how even with some time