They weren’t, though. Charlie was not like Starrla. He tugged at his shirt collar beneath his gown and glanced at his watch. The ceremony had to be almost over, didn’t it?
As the speaker droned on, Charlie told himself not to look at Wren—don’t, don’t, don’t, not with Starrla still on your mind—but his eyes sought her out of their own accord, and the sight of her made him feel calmer. She was in a white gown like the other girls—the boys wore black; the girls wore white—and her hair spilled in waves over her shoulders. She looked beautiful. And, unlike the girl next to her, who was yawning but trying to hide it, she looked … hopeful.
No. That wasn’t it. Well, yes, hopeful, but …
Alive.
Except that wasn’t it, either. Of course she looked alive. How else would she look?
Her lips were slightly parted. Her chin was raised. Earlier he couldn’t read her expression, but now it seemed she was interested in what the speaker was saying, which made Charlie wonder if maybe the speaker was saying something interesting after all. Not as interesting as Wren, but surely more interesting than the endless loop of crap playing in his own mind.
He would go with Ammon to the graduation party, he decided. He’d go to the party at P.G.’s house, and if Wren was there, he would approach her. Talk to her. Something. He swore to himself that he would.
He had a past with Starrla. He regretted it, but the past was the past.
Imagining a future with Wren, on the other hand …
No. Stop, he told himself firmly.
But he could spend time with Wren, maybe. Was there any reason he couldn’t stand next to her at P.G.’s party? Share a laugh, offer to get her a drink? His pulse grew stronger.
There was rustling, and excited energy wafted off his classmates as they stood and formed a line. It was time to receive their diplomas, or rather their fake diplomas. They’d get their real ones after the ceremony, pressed flat in commemorative leather folders that cost twenty dollars apiece.
Charlie joined his classmates, but as he walked across the makeshift stage, he didn’t think about the end of high school, or graduating, or diplomas, genuine or fake. His thoughts were occupied by the one real thing he knew: Wren.
photos with family, photos with friends, and hugs and hugs—so many hugs. Wren’s parents bragged about Wren to other parents, and it made Wren uncomfortable, but at least it took the burden of conversation off her. She still hadn’t broken the news about Project Unity. She needed to, and she would, but not yet. Not with so many people around.
Wren’s father put his arm around her as he talked with Bob Hammond, her friend Delaney’s dad, about colleges and financial-aid packages. Two feet away, her mom listened patiently as another mom went on and on about thank-you notes and where to buy the best-quality embossed envelopes. She glanced over, and Wren saw her share a private smile with Wren’s dad.
Wren’s parents weren’t perfect, but she told herself that no one’s were. Anyway, she loved them, and she wouldn’t be here without them, and one thing she was proud of was how solid they were. She thought it sweet how they always checked in with each other at events like this, whether through a quick glance or a light brushing together of their fingertips.
A few years back, a slew of her parents’ friends had split up—four or five divorces, all in a row—and Wren’s parents had talked with her about how much work relationships required.
“Oh, Wren, just wait till you’re in your thirties before you even consider getting married, will you?” her mom had said.
“Forget marriage,” her dad added. “How about you wait till you’re thirty before you have a boyfriend.”
“Dad,” Wren said. She was fourteen at the time, a freshman, and thirty seemed impossibly far away. Being a senior seemed impossibly far away.
“I mean it,” her dad said. “If you wait to have a boyfriend until after high school, we’ll get you a car when you graduate. How does that sound?”
Wren wanted to think he was joking, but she wasn’t sure. Just by saying something, just by throwing out an expectation, her father and her mother both had an amazing ability to make Wren shift around her own expectations.
Later, her mom came to her room and said, “Honey, just so you know, we’re not trying to bribe you. We just hope you’ll show good judgment.”
So Wren had focused on her schoolwork instead of boys. Her parents’ approval felt so very good—and not only good, but necessary. As a child, Wren had felt vaguely like a toy that was paraded out in front of her parents’ friends, there to be shown off. At the graduation luncheon, standing beneath the weight of her father’s arm, she wondered how far she’d come. She felt young all of a sudden, and lonely.
Her dad squeezed her shoulders. “Isn’t that right, Wren?” he said.
Both he and Bob Hammond gazed at her expectantly. Past them, the entire Cherokee Club ballroom, where Wren and her set of friends were celebrating, was filled with boys in suits and girls in white dresses. Her mom held up her slender hand, waving a “no thanks” at the platter of bacon-wrapped dates a caterer offered.
“Yes?” Wren said. She had no idea what she was agreeing to, but certain habits were deeply ingrained.
Bob Hammond laughed and gestured at the caterer. “Well, that’s fine,” he said, “and I’ll take one of those.” He put three on a cocktail napkin. “John? Wren? They’re good. Want one?”
“Yes,” Wren said more firmly. “I mean, please. Yes, please.”
She filled her mouth so she could go back to not talking.
You’re no longer the same innocent fourteen-year-old you once were, she told herself.
How sad it would be if she were.
How sad it was that she wasn’t.
After the luncheon, Wren and her parents headed home. When they were within a few blocks of their house, her parents told Wren to close her eyes.
“And keep them closed until we say so,” her mom said.
Oh dear, Wren thought. What now?
The car slowed. There was a small bump, and Wren knew her dad had pulled into their driveway. He cut the motor. Her mom helped Wren out of the car, and, for good measure, she placed her own hand over Wren’s eyes.
She guided Wren a few feet forward.
“Is it time?” her mom said, presumably to her dad.
“I think so,” her dad replied.
She removed her hand, and Wren opened her eyes. Before her was a white Toyota Prius.
“Well?” her mom exclaimed, practically humming with delight. “Go see. Don’t you want to go see?”
Oh shit, Wren thought. The car. For good grades and no boys. They really meant it, and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
She walked to the Prius. She placed her palm on its side, which was warm from the sun. She looked back at her parents.
“It has a moonroof,” her dad said.
“And we picked white because white cars are the least likely to be involved in accidents,” her mom said. “White and silver.”
“Safe drivers are even less likely to be involved in accidents,” her dad said in a dad-tone.
“Wren is already a very safe driver,” her mom said.
“Of course she is,” her dad replied.
Wren’s throat tightened. She felt insanely guilty. Her parents were giving her a car when she was about to disappoint them more than she ever had. She also felt confused. Her parents had actually given her a car as a reward for good behavior. It felt icky for some reason.
“I—I love it,” she told them.
“How about that moonroof?” her dad said.
“I love the moonroof. Thank you so much.”
“Check the glove compartment,” her dad said.
“The glove compartment?” Wren said. She didn’t want to check the glove compartment. “Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Wren went to the driver’s side door, opened it, and slid into the seat. She peeked at her parents, who stood with their arms around each other. Th
en she leaned over the console and opened the glove compartment. An envelope lay on top of a thick booklet that was probably the owner’s manual. Her fingers hovered over it.
“There should be a letter,” her dad called. “Read it.”
It was a notice, printed on Emory University letterhead, stating that Wren had been granted the privilege of having a car on campus. A parking permit would arrive with her orientation materials, and the Provost’s Office as well as the College of Liberal Arts would happily address any questions or concerns Wren might have. They looked forward to Wren becoming part of the Emory family.
Her mom and dad came up to the car door.
“We’ll still drive you to your dorm and help you unpack,” her dad said. “We’ll take two cars.”
“I pulled some big strings for you,” her mom said. “Most freshmen won’t have cars. You’re going to be pretty popular, I imagine—not that you wouldn’t be anyway.”
“Wow,” Wren said.
Her dad leaned over the open door. “Hey. You lived up to your end of the deal; we lived up to ours. And we couldn’t very well give you a car and then make you leave it here, could we?”
Wren’s mom took in Wren’s expression and frowned. “Sweetheart, what on earth is wrong?”
Wren put the letter from Emory back inside the glove compartment, climbed out of the car, and carefully shut the door. “Can we go inside?” she asked her parents. “I sort of need to tell you something.”
In the family room, Wren sat balled up on one side of the corner sofa. Her parents sat across from her. They didn’t yell. Her parents weren’t yellers. They didn’t respond the way Charlie had, though.
He’d said she was wonderful.
Her parents said nothing about “wonderful.”
“You made a commitment,” her dad said. “You applied for early admission. You got in. By agreeing to attend, you took away a slot that could have gone to some other student.”
“There’s a wait list,” Wren said. Her mouth was dry. “The spot will go to someone.”
“But what about your spot?” her mom asked. “And what will I tell everyone? I work with these people, Wren. I see them every day!”
“Um, I asked if I could defer?”
“And?”
“And … they said it will probably work out.”
Her mom shook her head. “‘Probably’? You didn’t give up your spot, did you? You would never do something that foolish, Wren.”
But I did, Wren thought. “It just, um, feels like the right thing for me.”
“For myself,” her dad said.
Wren looked at him.
His jaw was tense. “‘It feels like the right thing for myself.’”
“You’re correcting my grammar?”
“I’ll always correct your grammar, just as I’ll always love you,” he said, managing to make it sound like a threat.
But myself, the way you used it, isn’t correct, Wren was tempted to say. She stuffed her hands under her legs.
“You’re being very selfish, Wren,” he went on. “You’re showing extremely poor judgment.”
Wren pulled her hands from beneath her and drew her shins toward her chest.
“Please be still and stop wriggling,” he said.
She lowered her legs.
“We put down a five-hundred-dollar deposit when you accepted,” Wren’s mom said. She swiped beneath her eyes. “Wren, sweetheart, you withdrew all your other applications because you knew what you wanted, and what you wanted was to go to Emory.”
“I’ll pay back the money.”
Her mom held out her hands. “When we visited the campus—when I brought you in to meet everyone—you loved it. What changed?”
I changed, she thought. But that wasn’t an acceptable answer.
Selfish. Foolish. Bad judgment.
“Nothing changed,” Wren said to her knees. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Use your words,” her dad said.
She shook her head. “You took me to that TED Talk, remember?”
“The talk Professor Tremblay told us about?” her dad said. “Professor Tremblay, who wrote a letter of reference for you?”
Yes, that Professor Tremblay, whom her mom knew from her job at Emory, and, yes, Wren felt guilty. He’d gone to so much trouble. Everyone had gone to so much trouble. She was so much trouble.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, she thought, and miraculously, it gave her strength.
“What talk?” her mom said.
“It was called ‘The Road Not Taken,’” Wren said. “All these people talked about their lives, and how they chose unconventional paths, and how that made all the difference. Like in the Robert Frost poem.”
“Yes? And?” her mom said. “You don’t even like that poem.”
“Mom, I do,” Wren said. How in the world would her mother know what poems she liked? “I guess it made me think about things. Like, one woman was a lawyer, but she gave up her job to go help people in developing countries have clean water. Another guy was in an accident and ended up in a coma, and when he came out of it, he could suddenly play the piano, and he became a concert pianist.”
“So your plan is to fall into a coma and wake up a musical prodigy,” her dad said. “Terrific.”
Wren pressed her lips together. She loved her dad, but right now, she hated him.
Her mom cleared her throat. “I wonder, Wren, if maybe you don’t know enough yet to make this decision. You can always do … something like this … after you get your college degree, can’t you? You don’t know what you’re throwing away.”
Wren dug her fingernails into her palms.
“I’m sorry you’re upset,” she said. Her voice quavered. “And maybe it wasn’t the talk, and even if it was, that wasn’t the only thing. And you’re right that I don’t know enough. I kind of think I need to rethink everything.”
“Like being a doctor?” her dad said. “Wren. You’ve wanted to be a doctor since you were ten.”
No. When she was ten, Wren had wanted to work with animals. She’d had a book about a hospital for cats, and she’d carried it around everywhere until it mysteriously disappeared. When Wren asked about it, her father had said, “What book? Wren, I have no idea what you’re carrying on about, but for the record, you can do better than becoming a veterinarian.”
But she didn’t go there. She said—and it was awful, because disagreeing with him felt like saying she didn’t love him—“I kind of think I need to figure out if being a doctor is my plan or yours.”
“And I think you need to figure out why you made such an impulsive decision without consulting us,” her dad said. “I don’t just kind of think it, either. I know it.”
Wren made herself smaller.
“This isn’t like you, Wren,” he went on. “Am I to understand from the half answer you gave your mother that Emory was unable to guarantee deferred admission?”
“They said it would most likely work out,” Wren whispered. “But it will depend on next fall’s numbers.”
“So they were unable to guarantee deferred admission,” he said.
“Yes, Dad. Yes! God!” She didn’t want to cry, but it was happening anyway. She sniffled and dragged a hand under her nose. “And maybe it was a mistake, but maybe I need to not be perfect for once!”
“We never needed you to be perfect!” her dad said in a raised voice, while at the same time her mom cried, “But you are perfect!”
The three of them fell silent. Wren gulped. She blinked back her tears.
“Wren,” her mom said. “You know we love you.”
“And I love you.” She refused to make eye contact with either of them. “But you need to know … I’m doing this.”
Her dad stood abruptly. He left the room.
Her mom stayed but didn’t speak. Wren wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees.
“I’m sad, Mom,” Wren said at last.
“I am, too,” her mom said.
But later, when Tessa beeped her horn from Wren’s driveway, Wren strode out of her house and didn’t look back. She needed out, and she was getting out. She’d done the horrible, awful thing, and yes, her parents were disappointed in her, and yes, it was terrible. It was also terribly liberating, especially with dusk coming on and a party right around the corner.
Thank goodness her parents had always approved of Tessa, and thank goodness Wren had told them about the party—with Tessa standing next to her—earlier in the day. Her parents, and especially her mom, had always thought it was important that Wren “be a part of things” socially. If the other kids in her class were going to a party, then Wren’s mom wanted Wren to go, too.
“Whoa,” Tessa said when she saw Wren’s outfit. She let out a wolf whistle.
“Don’t say a word,” Wren begged her, climbing into the passenger seat. “I’m self-conscious enough already.”
“But—”
“No.”
“But, Wren, you look—”
“No! Shh!” Wren put her hands over her ears and hummed.
For three blocks, Tessa kept her mouth shut, but she kept sneaking appreciative peeks at Wren. It was absurd, since Tessa, in her black skirt and silver tank top, was the one who looked fancy. Wren had taken the opposite approach, pairing a T-shirt with low-slung jeans as soft as butter. The jeans came from Tessa; she’d given them to Wren a month or so ago, claiming she’d found them on sale. “Just try them on,” Tessa had pleaded, making praying hands.
Wren never did, because Wren was a “preppy J.Crew girl,” according to Tessa. Wren wasn’t sure about the “preppy” and “J.Crew” parts, but she’d never been much of a jeans girl. Or maybe it was her mom who wasn’t much of a jeans girl? In elementary school and halfway through junior high, her mom had picked out Wren’s outfit each morning. By eighth grade, Wren had convinced her mom that she could actually pick out her own clothes, and her mom had capitulated with surprisingly little resistance. Maybe, in retrospect, because Wren’s own choices had so closely mirrored her mother’s.
Tonight, she’d decided not to think. Not about her parents or Guatemala or her new car, and not about what kind of girl she was, jeans-wearing or otherwise.
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