TRACK ONE:
FREIGHT TRAIN

❝ freight train, freight train, run so fast
freight train, freight train, run so fast
please don't tell what train i'm on
they won't know what route i'm going ❞
— elizabeth cotten

.•° ✿ °•.

Born in 1948, Francesca Vestri grew up in Waterbury, Connecticut as the youngest and only girl of five children. Her father, Giovanni Vestri, was an Italian immigrant and her mother, Irene Vestri, was a half-Mexican native of New York. Francesca's childhood was filled with a breadth of musical influences.

INTERVIEWER: I guess just... start with your childhood, and how you got into music.

FRANCESCA: We're going right back to the beginning? Wow, okay...

Well, before anything, you have to understand my family was big and loud, and that's how it was all the time growing up. Just with the folks living in our house, you could never get a quiet moment. After my parents, there were four boys before you finally got to me, and you can bet that was a joy growing up with [Laughs] Then my dad's parents eventually moved over from Italy in '59 and stayed with us. So you can imagine it, right? All of this noise, all of this life.

When I was really young, my dad would sometimes get his mandolin or a guitar out, and he'd just start playing it. The rest of us would either play or sing along. And so we'd all just jam out in the living room, whatever songs that came to mind — folk, jazz, country, blues... and probably a lot of Sinatra and Dean Martin on my dad's part. I think that's how I learned that music could be salvation. I saw how much joy it could bring...

... So when that tradition kind of died between us, I was a little lost. Times got harder and my family got more stressed. There didn't seem to be time to sit around and share that anymore. And... kids can sense that more than people give them credit for. I still wanted that escape.

INTERVIEWER: So was that around the time you first picked up a guitar?

FRANCESCA: [Smiles] Yeah. Yeah, it was. I must've been about eleven or twelve...

.•° ✿ °•.

If the Vestri household could be boxed into a portrait, it would be painted with the boldest of colours, even if looks were deceiving. There were no velvet curtains, no lavish ceiling decorations or plush rugs. There was always something broken, shower had a mind of its own when it came to the temperature or pressure, and the evenings they sat in candlelight thanks to power outages were numerous. This one is no exception — but the brightest colours would still be used, even in the darkness.

     It's the people who bring it to life. A father, loud and proud as he talks with his work-worn hands. A mother, juggling the screaming demands of her children while she collects the dishes in the sink. An eldest son, Bruno, a few years into adulthood but still tied to his family out of dedication; he keeps a watchful eye on his younger brother, Tony, fourteen and turbulent with passion. There are the boisterous screams of twins and partners-in-crime, Elias and Sergio, wrestling for the umpteenth time to the point their parents have given up trying to stop them. Better to get it out of their system, they justify. A set of grandparents sit huddled on a couch, exchanging judgements in mumbled Italian.

And then there is Francesca.

     The quiet girl of eleven years sits at the kitchen table, legs dangling over the chair as she watches her mother at the sink. Her hands cling to the fabric of her hand-me-down dress from a cousin — forever a nuisance, since her brothers had no pretty frocks to lend her. Two tight braids of espresso brown hair sit on her shoulder blades, plaited quickly by her mother in the school rush that morning. Francesca bears witness to the endearing chaos around her like she does everyday, as though sitting at a pool's edge and dipping her toes in... not quite in the depths of it yet. She meanwhile feels surrounded by stronger, bolder personalities with booming voices and room-shaking laughs.

She swivels around to look at her mother, Irene, her shape small and squat in front of the sink as she piles tonight's dishes into the sink. Every now and then, there is a weary sigh that wrings her out, then re-calibrates the woman into scrubbing harder again. So, she gets the sense that now isn't the time to ask her question... nevertheless, she does.

     "Mom?" Francesca asks; then when her mother barely responds, she asks it louder this time: "Mom, can we all play music tonight?"

     "Honey, no, I'm busy here... I'm sorry," Irene sighs, dabbing her forehead with her wrist.

There's always an excuse — I'm busy, it's a school night, we're all too tired. By now, the youngest child has learned that she won't always be the centre of attention. There is simply too much else to focus on... even if she doesn't know exactly what it all means yet. Francesca doesn't mind that, not really.

Suddenly Elia and Sergio rush into the kitchen, chasing each other in a mad fit of giggles as their mother yells after them to calm down. The latter twin gives one of Francesca's braids a little tug on his way past, earning a pained yelp from her. After a stern look from Irene Vestri, though, the boys apologise almost instantaneously. If looks could kill... Still massaging the bit of scalp where she'd been shocked with pain, Francesca gets up off her chair and walks up to the sink. Her mother's face is creased with lines like she is in deep concentration... or discomfort. Sometimes she can't tell which.

"Can I help?" she asks tentatively.

Irene turns to her daughter, this time softened a little more by her gesture. "I'm fine here, sweetheart. Why don't you go play in your room?"

But my room is my brothers' free property, Francesca thinks, recounting how many times her brothers like to ransack it. She never truly has a quiet moment alone in her bedroom. Then again, when does she ever have a quiet moment in this house? In the living room, her father is chipper as usual as he climbs up a ladder with his toolbox — the ceiling light needs fixing, and his mother (or Francesca's Nonna) is not holding back with her interrogation in fast-paced Italian.

"Quanto costerà?" Nonna asks, gesturing to the ceiling light.

Giovanni Vestri just shakes his head and replies, "Lo aggiusterò da solo."

"Con le tue mani goffe? Tutte le luci saranno rotte!"

Francesca observes the ensuing wildfire of a conversation, still completely lost on what they're saying — her grandparents still have yet to grasp the English language, and vice versa for the rest of the family. Their arguing, along with her brothers shouting and the clatter of dishes in the kitchen creates a cacophony that soon rattles her brain.

This isn't music, she thinks. This is just noise.

With her whole family distracted, Francesca does her best to slip away unnoticed. She opts for the basement, opening the door and quietly tip-toeing down the stairs. Her skin prickles with goosebumps as she adjusts to the cool air creeping up from the floor. The white noise now muffled by the closed door, the girl reaches for a light; soon a dim light bulb splashes light with a buzz of static. Like a holy light from above, she is immediately drawn to the small record player standing in the corner — they moved it downstairs a year ago to make room for her grandparents' sleeping quarters, and now it sits here being played occasionally...

     Curiosity getting the better of her, she wanders over to the boxes of records tucked in a shelf. Her fingerprints are soon stained with the dust between the sleeves as she flicks through. Francesca eventually settles for a record at the back — Elizabeth Cotten, a familiar one. She kneels in front of the record player and carefully removes the record from it sleeve, just like she was taught to do. When she lowers the needle, the acoustic finger-picking of 'Freight Train' fills the room, rolling a wave of calm through Francesca's body. Suddenly she is back in the living room with her family, the music flowing from them all like an exhaled breath. It feels like home.

"Please don't tell what train I'm on, they won't know what route I'm going..." the record croons, before being silenced with a small crackle. Francesca sits in the silence, sighing as she hears the muffled chatter of her family upstairs once more. The feeling of being in her own little bubble has been popped abruptly, and she does not like it one bit.

     That's when she spots it in the corner — her dad's guitar. Albeit collecting dust, the wooden instrument calls out to her from the shadows, begging to be played. The girl gets to her feet and carefully wraps her fingers around the guitar's neck, the strings coarse against her skin. It's a little big in Francesca's hands and against her smaller body, but she manages to cradle it comfortably and try to remember now her father used to play.

     She places the needle on the record again, starting the song from the beginning. Once the first few seconds of 'Freight Train' play, she lifts the needle again and hums the melody to herself. From there it's a search party for the right notes, learning through trial and error how she can mimic the guitar-playing on the record. With time, Francesca has a very simple version of the melody, plucking four notes very slowly — the burst of pride that washes over her is immense.

     It's the beginning of a great love story.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: I'd held a guitar and played a few chords before, but this was different. I really felt it for the first time. After that, I started sneaking down to the basement most nights to play a little. I taught myself that song — or, you know, a very watered-down version of it — over the next few months, until I was able to play it and sing it pretty well.

Time went on, and I didn't make it as much of a secret anymore. I basically adopted my dad's guitar and kept it in my room instead. I went through the record shelf and played anything I could. Then I practically had to barricade the door from some of my brothers while I was practicing, just to get some peace and quiet [Laughs] But it was like... finally, I had this thing that was mine, you know?

The really formative music came about a few years later though, with The Beatles... I was about thirteen when they first appeared on Ed Sullivan. Beatlemania. [Smiles] It was mind-blowing. I don't know what to tell you. I'd heard rock music before, but this was just... I mean, you get it, they were The Beatles! It definitely planted a seed in me that day, like, "Oh, maybe I could do this."

And as it turns out, I wasn't the only one in our family bitten by that bug.

.•° ✿ °•.

     Francesca knows she is in deep shit.

... Or she could be, if she doesn't evacuate her brother's room in time.

For months, the fifteen year-old has been curious about Tony — he disappears mysteriously, comes back with a suspiciously vinyl-shaped bag that he dispenses into his room, before shutting himself inside with his music. But the songs she hears through his walls... they're mesmerising. They are definitely some of the same ones she's heard on the radio lately, insatiably exciting to her. So naturally, she became curious. Why should he gate-keep all the good music from her? (Especially now he's taken up ownership of the record player from the basement, now sitting proudly in his room).

She crouches cautiously by his shelf of records, running her fingertips along the spines. Each record sleeve she pulls out feels like a crime. But each time, she sees something new, names like The Beatles and The Beach Boys jumping out at her. She turns each sleeve over in her hands, as if wondering what secrets are held inside.

"What're you doing?"

Francesca lurches up like she's been electrocuted, tossing the record in her hands to the side. She swivels around to face her brother like a deer in headlights — Tony, stood in the doorway, wears the same knitted-brow stare he always uses with his siblings, as if he is always questioning them. In Francesca's mind, this is a red flag for him imminently chewing her out for going through his things. Not that it wouldn't make sense... but she knows she is toast.

     "I'm sorry, I wasn't looking through your stuff, I'm leaving right now—" She starts to retreat, but her brother blocks the door. Here we go...

     "Were you looking through my records?"

     Francesca sighs, fidgeting under the pressure to produce a good lie. But to her surprise, Tony still doesn't seem mad. In fact, he smiles with a shake of his head.

     "Well, looking through my records isn't any use unless you're gonna play some of them. They're just not sittin' there to look pretty," Tony says. He crouches down to pick up the record she has discarded in a panic, examining it in his own hands; the album cover depicts five guys in suits holding a giant surfboard... admittedly the first thing that drew Francesca to it. Emitting a small hum, he looks up at his sister. "The Beach Boys, huh? Good choice... I love their experimental sound. And their harmonies? It really sets them apart, you know?"

He gestures for her to sit, already putting the record on. Francesca cautiously kneels down next to Tony... this is new for her. The two of them hardly bond like this these days — the last time they hung out just the two of them, her brother still hadn't hit puberty. A boyish grin, not that of a nineteen year-old takes over Tony's face as he lowers the needle onto the record. Lush harmonies fill the room, swaying him and Francesca like they're caught in Californian waves.

"You like it?" he asks, like he's testing her.

Francesca nods. "I love it. It's so... different."

     "I know. That's what makes it so great."

     "So this is what you're blowing all your money on?"

     She hadn't meant it out of spite. Their father has just always lectured them on the importance of saving up money, and all she'd ever seen this brother do was buy music with it, earning plenty of arguments with their parents. But Tony scoffs incredulously, looking into her eyes as if he's been wounded. "Blowing money? I'm not blowing any money! I'm buying these records because I want to, 'cause– because..." he holds up two or three record sleeves and shakes them in front of her. "These are sacred. Music is sacred. Alright?"

     "Yeah, I got it. Sacred," Francesca mumbles, suddenly finding a Beatles album thrust into her hands.

     "And I know how much you love it too... I've seen you sneaking down to the basement." Noticing how his sister's eyes widen, Tony scoffs. "C'mon, you weren't subtle. And I've heard you play and sing too... you're good. Really good. But you need to open your eyes to what else is out there. Which is why you can have this... I bought it for myself, but consider it yours."

     Tony reaches into his shelf and pulls out an album, handing it gently to Francesca as though it's a fragile specimen. She reads the title: The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. When they put on the record, it turns out he's spot-on — she adores it. Francesca finds herself swept away by the folk elements she's always loved, weaved with thoughtful lyrics that she envies being able to create. The two of them spend the rest of the afternoon listening to music, somehow lucky enough to not be interrupted by Elia and Sergio's antics.

     It soon becomes their own ritual. After school, Francesca walks straight up to her brother's room and stretches out onto the carpet, bobbing her head to his records. If he's not there already, Tony will arrive later and perhaps do some work while they listen to music comfortably in each other's presence. Their catalogue gets even better as time goes on too. The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Who — it is a never-ending stream. Francesca finds herself enamoured with Simon & Garfunkel's music when they arrive on the scene, taking it upon herself to learn as many of their songs as humanly possible. Meanwhile, Tony still wants to be one of The Beatles...

     And Francesca doesn't realise how literally he means it until one summer morning in 1965.

     Now school's out, she has more time than ever to listen to and learn music. But on this particular day, Tony seems to have other plans — he bursts into his room to find her strumming away to Simon & Garfunkel's 'The Sound Of Silence' when he announces that he has something to show her.

     "You're the first person I'm telling about this," he prefaces excitedly.

     "Alright?" she raises an eyebrow at him. What could it possibly be? His Frankenstein? A secret art gallery?

.•° ✿ °•.

     As fate would have it, Tony Vestri has been a rockstar all along — because he has his own band. Formed with three of his friends who didn't shoot straight off to college, The Avons have been practicing in a garage for a little over a year now. Francesca is just baffled that she didn't spot all of this happening right under her nose. But with hindsight, it does explain Tony's mysterious disappearances every now and then.

     Just like The Beatles, who they clearly try to emulate, there are four of them — her brother on lead guitar, often duetting with his charming friend Glenn on lead vocals. The pasty-faced Marty is on bass, and the tall, broad-shouldered Bruce on drums. Francesca has known all of these guys growing up, and they know her, having often crossed paths as they'd come to hang out at the Vestris' house. But seeing them all with their instruments in hand creates a whole different impression... like they're a cohesive group. She didn't even know these guys could play any music.

"How long have you guys been doing this?" Francesca asks, still bewildered.

    "Coming up to a year and a half, I'd say," Tony boasts proudly. "We've started writing some original songs as well. Now we're just trying to book our first gigs — we might've bagged something in New Haven next week. You wanna come?"

     "Yeah, come see our gig, pip-squeak!" Glenn emphasises cheerfully, the nickname making her flush in embarrassment. He's been calling her that ever since he first came over to play football in the back yard with Tony as kids — not to mention the secretly-harboured butterflies she'd had for him in her childhood...

     Francesca finds herself agreeing, not entirely sure what she's getting herself into. A week later, the five of them drive down to New Haven for one of the band's first gigs. The bar they've booked is hazy with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer, every tabletop slightly sticky with rings of the drinks. She takes up residence on a bar stool near the stage, trying to hide the fact she's clearly underage as The Avons take the stage. Francesca makes sure to cheer extra loud, even if the crowd is only a small handful of people at this point. Their hair kicks out a little at the back, all dressed in turtlenecks and blazers.

"Hey everybody, thanks for being here tonight," Glenn takes the mic, wearing an irresistible smile paired with his twinkling eyes — he was frontman material, alright.. "We're The Avons. We'll start off with something a little upbeat for you guys. This is 'In A Rut'..."

     Francesca has never heard any of Tony's music — but instantly, she finds herself captivated by the song that explodes through the bar. Glenn's voice is perceptively unique and mesmerising as he presses his lips to the microphone, the scratchier and gravelly voice of Tony coming in at the chorus. Bruce and Marty keeps the heartbeat of the song quick and tense as the song builds and builds, lyrics about hometown frustration spilling out into a big climax ("She's in a rut, got nothin' to lose / And she's screamin' and kickin' these homesick blues" launches into Tony's guitar solo at the end). Their influences are clear, but Francesca is astonished by how original their sound feels. There's an edginess to The Avons, a cynicism and alternative sound instantly translated to her.

     She didn't even know her brother could do that.

     But as it turns out, Tony Vestri always finds new ways to surprise her.

     The rest of their set is somewhat toned down, none of the songs kicking up just as much enthusiasm as 'In A Rut', but the reaction is overall positive. Francesca gets to her feet whooping and cheering for them, and this time she isn't the only one either. Tony and the others are buzzing by the time they get off the stage. When she goes to greet them, their face all glisten with a thin sheen of sweat.

     "That was insane!" she blurts out, her mind blown. "I mean, I– I didn't even know you could... I'm so..."

"Speechless?" Bruce, the drummer suggests. Francesca shrugs in agreement.

"It was a pretty good crowd, pip-squeak... no thanks to you," Glenn jokes, and she desperately tries to hide herself blushing.

"Have you told Mom and Dad yet?" she asks Tony.

To this, the smile falls from his face slightly. "They found out... and they weren't pleased," he says. Then, with a grin, he adds, "But with enough persuasion and not-listening, they've just accepted this is who I am."

Francesca laughs, buzzing with inspiration. Her brother notices her wide-eyed gaze and softens a little.

"Hey, why don't you come along for a few more of these?" Tony asks. "You can see some live music, and for free. Unless, you know, you wanna chip in a buck or two..."

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: The Avons started to become pretty well-known in the surrounding cities. "Homegrown in Waterbury" was the tagline one of the guys liked to use. And I tagged along with them for a bunch of their gigs, just to get a feel for live music. Sometimes my brother even dragged me onstage to sing backing vocals, which was mortifying. But I mean, it was like shadowing the start of a rock and roll band — I saw how they first recorded their demos, then did gigs to try and get noticed... it rubbed off on me.

I didn't have many original songs at that point. The only one I didn't think was total garbage was one I wrote when I was sixteen, called 'The Green' — it was a pretty simple tune, and I think I was just channeling my inner Dylan or Joan Baez [Chuckles] I remember it started off like: "I walked down to the green tonight, on a moonlit Tuesday eve / Some kid was running for his life, when he had nothin' yet to grieve." I'm sure I've got the rest written down somewhere, I didn't throw it away or anything. But the rest of my songs I just absolutely hated. I just didn't have any inspiration to write, not back then... it was stagnant in my hometown, like a mental blockage.

But I did tons of cover songs, and so I started recording some demos on my brother's tape recorder. At first it was just like a project — something to fill out my time after I'd graduated, between the waitressing job I'd taken up. It soon became something a lot deeper, a really... burning desire to see where I could go with this. Music was my salvation as it had always been.

I didn't know who I was yet, and I knew I wouldn't be finding her by staying in Waterbury — and that wasn't an easy decision to make.

.•° ✿ °•.

     The door slams shut tiredly, Francesca instantly cringing at the scolding she's bound to get from one of her parents... but to her surprise, it never comes. She dabs the summer sweat from her brow and removes the apron from her torso — in today's heatwave, her shift at a local café has finally finished, leaving her sluggish and bathing in her own perspiration. Francesca weaves through the corridor and into the kitchen for a refreshment.

     She's just filled herself a glass, taking a sip when she turns and sees Tony standing in the doorways. Her brows fly up in surprise and she almost choked on her water. "Jesus, do you always creep up on people like that?" Francesca sighs, unable to fathom how light-footed her brother is.

     "Fine, I'll bang some pots next time..." Tony shrugs. His eyes are narrowed, watching her curiously as she sips away. "How's that tape recorder treating you? Still putting songs on there?"

     "Uh, yeah, I guess... why?"

     "You recorded over one of our demos."

     "I did?" Remorse instantly slaps her around the face. "Crap, I'm so sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you—"

     "And I'd be mad at you if you weren't so good."

     Francesca's panic instantly thaws, allowing herself a hopeful smile. "You really think so?"

Tony shrugs one of his shoulders, feigning apathy, but there's a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm not saying David Bowie would be as proud of that cover as his own but, you know... it ain't too bad. Have you considered doing this for real?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, you know what I mean."

Of course she does. Francesca sighs, bowing her head. "I've... been thinking about travelling," she admits quietly. "I wanna see places that inspire me, 'cause Waterbury... this isn't it. I can't create anything of my own here, I'm just stuck in this... this place. Any creativity just isn't there." She re-experiences her frustrations all over again, boiling over with them — how can she write anything meaningful, if she hasn't felt anything outside of this version of herself?

     Tony nods as though he understands, his expression hardened.

     "... I don't know what to do."

     Without missing a beat, he replies, "Tell the family tonight."

     "What? No! I can't tell them now, Pepe just died," Francesca exclaims incredulously. Giuseppe Vestri, or 'Pepe' as everyone called her late grandfather, had peacefully passed in his sleep a week ago. She'd liked Pepe for his calmer demeanour and his sweetness... even if he learned most of his English from cartoons. Now would certainly be the wrong time to ask about this bright idea of hers. Francesca can see it now — Pepe barely in the ground, the big announcement either gets lost between the condolences cards, or it blows up in her face and is never spoken of again.

      "How long are you gonna keep waiting, Francesca?" Tony emphasises with wild hand gestures. "I mean, you're twenty years old, and you're still living with your parents."

     "Then what the hell are you still doing here, apart from pushing thirty?" she retorts.

     Initially stammering for an excuse, he raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, touché, you got me there. But do you hear me? You need to go. You're not like Bruno, alright? I could never see you settling down here before you're twenty-five. And you're not gonna go into the family business like Elia and Sergio, either. You need to carve your own path. You know... you have a voice, Francesca. A great one. Use it."

     With a little huff, Tony starts bounding up the stairs, leaving Francesca alone in the kitchen with her thoughts. The elephant in the room now crushes the ceiling and cracks the floorboards.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: So one night a couple weeks later, I tried using my voice. I decided to tell my family that I wanted to travel, and find places to create my own music. But... it didn't go down all that well, to begin with.

.•° ✿ °•.

     "Are you insane?!" is the first thing that leaves Irene Vestri's lips.

     "Mom, I want this, it's all I want," Francesca pleads with her, pained by the stinging disapproval in her voice. "All I know is I want to make music. I don't know what kind yet, or how, but I'll—"

     "Oh God, are you hearing this, Gio? She doesn't even have a plan!"

     "Do you have enough money for this? Can you make enough money?" her father asks, inquisitive but firm.

     Her voice faltering, Francesca fails to find a more solid response other than, "I– I don't know..."

     "What does she say?" Nonna interjects in English, too busy tucking into the dinner she'd forcefully taken over making from Irene. Her mind is still elsewhere after Pepe died, either way.

     "She's gonna be a rockstar, she won't have to worry about money!" Elia proclaims, with the teasing sarcasm he always uses.

     "There's nothing wrong with this town, why can't you just stay here and make music?" asks Bruno, her eldest brother who seems perfectly happy being settled in Waterbury — naturally he would say it, married with a kid already and another on the way. But Francesca can't turn into the kind of girl he's married; the one who slips on a wedding ring out of convenience, and stays in her hometown for the rest of her life.

     "Because I've never been anywhere else," she replies desperately. "I can't just stay in North End forever. I want to see things, I want to do things."

     "Francesca's really talented," Tony speaks up for her. "I'll bet that in a few years, you'll be hearing her on the radio. Just you wait and see."

     Half of her wants to thank her brother, but the other one is kicking herself for her shaking voice that lets Tony fight her battle. She can't help feel dejected — for years, she accepted that she wasn't the priority in her family, loved deeply but never receiving the same attention her older siblings got. And she was okay with that. But the first time Francesca really wants something, desires it so deeply in her core, it is met with instant opposition from almost every quarter... it hurts.

     "Why do you even want to be like these rock and rollers, anyway?" Irene disputes. "You want to be on the road all the time, taking LSD and never calling us?"

"Mom, I'm not gonna take LSD—"

"Well, you saw what happened to The Beatles! You wanna be like them?"

     "I don't want to be like them," Francesca raises her voice a little, "I want to be me."

Even if she doesn't know who that is yet.

     "Look, Francesca, that world is just not made for you..."

     "How come you never ask Tony these questions?" she challenges her mother now.

     "It's not the same—"

     "What? Because I'm a girl?"

     Irene's eyes speak louder than the words that die on her lips. It's all Francesca needs to hear — they never ask Tony these questions, having eventually let him commit to his band even if it was with a glare of scepticism. But even her mere suggestion of a career in music has some of her relatives up in arms. Her mother stares back at her, slightly lost for words as if she isn't used to her daughter snapping back like this. Something sad reflects in her gaze too, something Francesca can't quite pin down. She looks around at her family, who all wear equally perplexed or sheepish stares. Only Nonna stares unabashedly, still slightly lost on the conversation.

     "I can't..." she whispers, pushing her chair back with a deafening screech on the floorboards. Against her parents' protests, she heads for the stairs and bounds up them as her skin crackles with heartbroken adrenaline. Francesca swings her door shut behind her, climbing onto her bed and lying with her pillow hugged to her chest. She finds herself staring at the peeling paint on her wall; the thought crosses her mind that she'll wake up looking at this wall for eternity.

     A couple of hours later, a gentle knock on the door stops Francesca mid-strum of her guitar. She places it at the side, sitting cross-legged on her bed as the figure walks in — her father. Inviting himself in, he sits at the end of her bed and rests his hands on his knees. "If you're here to lecture me about the financial risks of it all, I know, but I just..." she sighs, not even sure what she was going to say.

Giovanni shakes his head. "I came here, because... I believe you and I are the same."

Francesca blinks at him, not quite following. He points to her chest; the heart that is beating inside of it, with a more fervent wanderlust than most of her family.

"I see it in Antonio too. You both have that romance in your eyes, that– that curiosity about the world," her father explains passionately. "I was the same when I was your age. When I told my parents I wanted to go to America, they said I was crazy... and I was! But I had a dream of a better life. I came to America with just a dollar in my pocket, no idea where I would begin. I was just like a baby bird, yes? I couldn't fly yet, sure, but how could I learn if I never left the nest?"

Francesca considers this, nodding slowly. "And... did you get your dream?"

"I have your mother, your brothers... I have you." Giovanni smiles, pinching her cheek. She can't help but grin. "I'm sure your mother will give you her blessing. She just needs time. Because if this is what you really want... then who are we to stop you?" he says, gesturing for her to come into his embrace. Francesca does so, resting her head on his shoulder and absorbing her father's warmth. "Chase your dreams, piccolina."

FRANCESCA: It took a while for my mom to come around. I think it was around a week or two, until she finally spoke about it again.

     Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, the kitchen is filled with nothing but the squeak of Francesca and her mother cleaning dishes. Irene washes them, her skin cracking from the soap, before handing them to her daughter to dry. Apart from the occasional comment correcting her on how to stand the dishes on the rack, the conversation between the two women is non-existent.

     Irene places a plate down with pursed lips. "You're not going on the road," she says suddenly.

     Francesca whips her head up to look at her mother, alarmed. She's still staring down at the sink, muscles tensed and her face contemplative as she carefully chooses her words.

     "I don't want you driving around the country aimlessly," Irene clarifies. "I have an old friend in New York, who I could arrange to take you in for a little while. I... heard you say there's been good music there. That's the only way I will accept this. Alright?"

     "Yeah, Mom, totally," she nods quickly.

     She turns around then, taking her daughter's shoulders and looking up at her. The mother's eyes glisten with unshed tears, ones that started years ago. "I just... don't want you to be disappointed," she sighs.

     "I know," Francesca swallows thickly and caresses her arms. "But I won't be disappointed. I won't disappoint you."

     Irene pulls her closer, in one of the tightest embraces they have shared in a long time. Her breath is warm and shaky against Francesca's collarbone, a little too short to reach above her shoulder. She squeezes her mother back, skin tickled by the baby hairs falling from her pinned-up hair.

     "You're my favourite daughter," Irene mumbles.

     "I'm your only daughter—"

     "Shush."

     Francesca giggles, the smile staying a while after it subsides. They keep holding each other close, soap suds dripping from their hands onto the floor... neither of them knowing who should let go first.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: I think my mother knew how hard it might be for me. She didn't tell me this until a few years ago, but she had so many dreams she never got to pursue. So many that fell flat, or were held back from here. I think maybe she was scared I'd burn myself out... and I understand why now. I understand a lot more than I did then.

[Clears throat] Anyway, my parents arranged for me to stay with a 'family friend' in New York — where I'd had my eye on going, since I knew some of my heroes got their start there — and before I knew it, I was packing my bags and leaving the nest...

.•° ✿ °•.

     Francesca spreads her wings on a sunny September day in '68.

     Stood outside the door, the whole Vestri family are huddled together and watching her pack her last things into Tony's van. Her mother presses a handkerchief to her face, while her father glows with hesitant pride. As for the girl herself, she keeps finding herself battling waves of anxious nausea — both nerves and excitement. The onslaught is stronger than ever when she loads her final bag into the back.

"Well, that's everything," she announces quietly. As Francesca looks at all of her family lined up, all those faces she has grown up with, never known anything different, she has no idea where to begin. How does she say goodbye?

It turns out she doesn't need to choose. Nonna shuffles forward, wrinkled and petit, but endeared determination in her eyes as she takes Francesca's soft hands in her bonier ones. "You... go now," she tells her granddaughter simply. Somehow it's all that needs to be said. Along with a tub of homemade potato gnocchi, she sends her on her way.

"Va bene," Francesca smiles back and presses a kiss to Nonna's cheek.

Next up are Elia and Sergio, partners-in-crime as they saunter up to their little sister. "So, now you're gonna be a famous rockstar, can I have your room?" Sergio asks.

"No."

"Eh, it was worth a try," he shrugs, before pulling her into a hug, which Elia latches onto as well. It wouldn't be complete without a ceremonial tug-on-her-ponytail, which they're lucky isn't met with a kick-in-the-nuts. Her eldest brother, Bruno, doesn't have much to say to Francesca — he was eleven when she was born, and the age gap has always separated them somewhat. He just wishes her well and gives her a pat on the back.

When she gets around to her father, Francesca is swallowed in Giovanni's embrace. "Good luck, little one," he says, pinching her chin. She laughs, and with a light pat on the back, he sends her on her way to Irene standing tearfully. Her mother reaches out for her hands and squeezes them tight, lips trembling but forcing a smile.

     "Remember... you will always have a place here," she says.

     "Thank you, Mom," Francesca whispers back. Her eyes flutter shut as her mother cradles her face.

     "I love you."

     "I love you too."

     They share one more embrace, before Irene smacks her shoulder lightly with a dishcloth. Francesca takes it as her signal to go, chuckling with tears in her eyes as she descends down the steps to Tony's idling van. She gets into the passenger seat with him, glancing his way.

     "So... this is it, huh?" Tony says.

     "I guess so."

     "Look, I know we're not saying goodbye yet, but... I'm glad you're leaving Waterbury. I thought you never would."

     "Well, I'm here now," Francesca chuckles.

     Tony adds, with a hint of deep-rooted jealousy, "And I hope I never see you back here again."

     With that, he starts the van going down the road. Francesca sticks her head out and waves until her arm aches, and even then she refuses to stop. She feels her cheeks dampened with tears, but she's smiling from ear to ear. Her family shrink into dots in the distance, her mother waving her embroidered handkerchief in the air. Francesca can hear the teasing of her brothers, the passionate good wishes of her father, until they all fade into quiet around the corner... one chapter closed.

     From there, it's just the road ahead, and whatever it holds for her. It's the start of something new.

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: But I know what you really wanna hear about, right? The Six. Daisy Jones. All of that stuff.

Trust me, I'm getting there. Just stay with me.

.•° ✿ °•.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

well, this chapter certainly came sooner than expected! i wasn't planning to write it so soon, but something happened yesterday to put me in a really bad mood, and somehow it just pushed me to write this chapter? turning my bitterness into productivity, i guess... and it has ended up making me feel better, so that's awesome.

i'm aware that a lot was packed into this first chapter, and a lot was actually cut out too, but i just wanted to get the story going — because while francesca's backstory is important, i don't want her to be stuck in her hometown for too long. the first few chapters might be a little rushed like this, but afterwards the pace should be more steady, so don't worry. i'm also still trying to find the balance between interview parts and normal prose. some interview parts are used as transitions or to fill out exposition, but other times they kind of interject/commentate whatever is going on — i thought doing it that way wouldn't break the flow of the scene as much. how did you find this chapter? constructive feedback is greatly appreciated!

for the little bits of italian in this story, i used a translator so i apologise if it's a bit wonky. please, anyone who speaks or knows italian, do correct me if these are wrong:

"Quanto costerà?" = "How much will it cost?"
"Lo aggiusterò da solo." = "I will fix it myself."
"Con le tue mani goffe? Tutte le luci saranno rotte!" = "With your clumsy hands? All the lights will be broken!"
"piccolina" = "little one"
"Va bene." = "Alright."

also! timeline-wise, this fic starts out closer to the books, in that the characters are "older" than in the show. for example, in the books billy is born in 1947 and graham is born in 1949, whereas in the show they're both born in the early 1950s. i stuck to the book's timeline to give francesca and solstice more time to be developed the way i wanted!

in the next chapter, francesca's out to see the world, and perhaps finally meet the dunne brothers? as well as the love of her life? 👀 i'm so excited to write that, you have no idea!

EDIT: some small changes were made in this chapter, in that i swapped nonna for pepe as the grandparent who died at some point in the chapter. it's not a huge change or anything, but it's just because i want to allow room for some nice scenes with nonna. that's all! rip to pepe and all the in-line comments that were there before...

Published: April 10th, 2023
Edited: April 29th, 2023