“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know, Iz. I don’t know what to think about a lot of things these days.”
It was an opening, a crack in the door. Izzy could kick the door open and ask her mom what she meant, or leave it closed. Izzy chose closed. She turned away from her mom and hugged a pillow in her arms.
Her mom kissed Izzy on the forehead and stood to leave. “We’re coming right back, Iz,” she said. “It’s not permanent. You know that, right?”
Izzy nodded. But she heard Phoebe’s voice in her head. What does that mean “not permanent”? That it doesn’t matter? That it’s no big deal?
Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to her parents, but to Izzy moving out of their house was one more thing changing. Her friendship with Phoebe was falling apart and there was nothing to take its place. And now someone else would be living in her house and sleeping in her bed. Izzy looked at her sticker door—the chaotic swirl of animals and objects and colors. Nothing on that door made sense together, but she loved the way it looked.
Real life was the opposite. In real life, things needed to fit together. Cool girls wanted to be friends with other cool girls. Kids wanted to sleep in their own beds.
In real life, things were supposed to make sense.
6
Izzy is Late to the Battle
On Friday morning, the last day of school before they moved into the garage apartment, Izzy stood in the kitchen and yelled, “Nate! Nate let’s go.”
“Coming,” said Nate as he yawned and ran his hand through his bedhead hair.
“We’re going to be late for school,” said Izzy.
Izzy was tired, too. It had been five days since their parents told them about the move, and Izzy hadn’t been sleeping well. As soon as she closed her eyes, she’d remember one more thing from her room that she needed to hide in the basement or put in the pile to carry over to the garage apartment. But she could still get ready for school on time. Nate, on the other hand, was standing in front of the open refrigerator staring blankly.
“Just pick something and let’s go!”
Nate huffed and pulled out a slice of leftover pizza. He folded it in half and held it between his teeth as he grabbed his backpack and the car keys. “Now who’s making us late?” he mumbled as he walked out the door.
Normally their mom drove them to school. Ever since starting ThinkText, their dad was rarely home during the week. He was either traveling to meet investors and computer programmers, or stuck in meetings until well after dinner. But their mom was staying home that morning to clean and pack, which meant Nate got to use the car and drop Izzy off on his way to high school. Izzy looked out the car window as Nate drove down the familiar streets of their neighborhood, coming to an abrupt stop at an intersection that had huge holes in two of the four corner lots, empty spaces where old houses had been torn down so they could be replaced with giant new ones. “Why do they knock down houses?” Izzy had asked her mom years ago when they drove past a home that was being torn in half by a bulldozer.
“There’s no market for old homes anymore,” her mom had said. “People around here want everything shiny and perfect.”
“Like a princess castle?”
“Exactly. Everyone in this town wants to look like they live in a fairy tale.”
Back then, Izzy thought that made perfect sense. She, too, wanted to live in a princess castle. Visions of sparkling ball gowns and diamond tiaras floated in her mind. Now, though, Izzy wondered about the families who had lived in the bulldozed houses. Why did they move? Where did they go? Was it their choice? Or did they have no other option?
Her parents had promised that they were only renting their house for one week, but what if ThinkText never made any money and her mom never got any clients? Was the next step selling their house? Would her yard be one of those empty holes of dirt someday?
Izzy was about to ask Nate what he thought when Nate put on his blinker and turned from the normal route to school. “Need to make a pit stop,” he said. “For coffee.”
“Please, Nate,” said Izzy. “Not today.” School started in five minutes. They did not have time for coffee.
“Today is all we’ve got, Iz. And today, I need caffeine.”
Izzy sighed. The front window of Starbucks was decorated with evergreen trees and smiling snowmen holding hands made of twigs. Large silver snowflakes fell in a random pattern. As she walked through the door, Izzy wondered whose job it was to decorate the huge panes of glass. It was the kind of job she wanted when she was older—to take a fresh marker to an empty pane of glass and create seasonal scenes. Maybe by then she would be just like Dori, drawing only cheery pictures of suns rocking big sunglasses and bunnies hopping among tulips.
The opposite of stick figures falling down sharp-edged mountains and landing in slush puddles.
Izzy stood next to Nate in line. Nate snapped his leather wallet open and shut. Open and shut. He unzipped his coat and ran his hand through his hair.
“Are you okay?” asked Izzy.
“Shh,” said Nate. “Be cool.” There was only one person in line ahead of them and Nate squinted up at the menu board, like he was trying to decide what he wanted even though he always ordered the same thing.
“Can I help you?” asked the girl behind the register. She had a row of silver hoops going all the way up her left ear. Around her neck was an oval-shaped pearl on a leather string. She’d woven gray yarn around the neck strap of her green Starbucks apron and her name, Simone, was written in thick capital letters on her nametag.
“Yeah, um, hey,” said Nate. “Can I get a venti iced latte with an extra shot of espresso?”
Simone took a plastic cup from the stack and began to write Nate’s order.
“You forgot the vanilla,” said Izzy. Nate always got a venti iced latte with three pumps of vanilla syrup.
“Shut up,” said Nate, elbowing Izzy in the side. Then he rolled his eyes and smiled at Simone.
Nate was acting the way Phoebe wished Zach would act around her. The way a lot of boys acted around Daphne. Her brother had a crush.
And by the time he dropped her at school, Izzy was officially late. She had to stop at Ms. Perry’s desk and sign the tardy sheet. But the tardy sheet was nothing compared to walking into class. Izzy dreaded opening the classroom door knowing that class had already started. She did not want all those eyes staring up at her, wondering what had happened.
As Izzy pushed open the door to Mr. Blair’s English classroom, she wished she could project the story of her morning on her forehead, the way Mr. Blair projected his writing on his beloved SMART Board.
My brother has a crush! It’s his fault we’re late! Not mine!
Izzy pictured the letters in red marker. Not the crisp Sharpie kind, but something wide and flat like Simone had used on her Starbucks apron. Mr. Blair’s markers were always dry and his handwriting was messy, but he never seemed to care. He called his classroom his castle and his students his academic warriors. He expected them to fight their way toward excellence. No matter the cost! No matter how fierce the battle! No matter how challenging the foe! Seriously, that was the way Mr. Blair talked.
“Ah, Izzy,” said Mr. Blair as she handed him the late slip.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“It happens to the best of warriors. We were just gathering around the hearth of knowledge. Take a seat.”
The hearth of knowledge was a black plastic cauldron with a long cord that plugged into the wall. Izzy had seen one just like it at Party City. Mr. Blair kept the cauldron in the center of the room and, when he switched it on, orange streamers blew out like fake flames. When the year started, Izzy thought that Mr. Blair’s class, with its special props and flags with inspirational quotes, would be different. Or maybe, that she would be different in it. But she’d been wrong. Mr. Blair may have thought he was teaching in a castle, but it wasn’t a magical one. School was still school. And Izzy still had to do all the normal school thing
s, like walk across the room to her normal spot near the bookshelves.
Phoebe and Daphne were on the far side of the room next to Serena and Prithi. Like Phoebe, Serena seemed to have forgotten about Daphne ripping tiny Snow Stepper from her arms and holding the kitten up high like a trophy. Serena wasn’t on the lacrosse team, so she didn’t wear her hair smoothed back with a navy elastic headband, and she didn’t have a stack of beaded bracelets on her wrist, but she was still part of their group. She could do things like fiddle with the side zipper on Prithi’s hightops or stick her tongue out at Daphne, and everyone would understand that Serena wasn’t judging Prithi’s style or teasing Daphne. She was just being herself.
On the other side of the circle Zach, Leo, and Eli were staring at piece of red gum stuck to the ceiling. In between them, a row of kids sat knee to knee. The only person with space next to them was Otto. He waved Izzy over.
“You’re late,” said Otto.
Sometimes it was hard to know how to respond to Otto. He said things that could be mean in a confusingly nice way. Like the way he said late made Izzy wonder if he was worried that something bad had happened to her.
“Sorry?” she said.
“It’s okay,” said Otto.
Otto started to tap the floor with his feet. Otto was always moving. His feet. His head. His fingers. He was a tap dancer, and his body behaved like there was music playing in his head all day long.
“Hey, Izzy,” whispered Otto. “Think fast. What’s one thing that’s actually two things?”
Izzy didn’t answer. She was trying to look at Phoebe, but also not to look at Phoebe. Izzy was certain that Phoebe knew about her house situation. Their moms had been texting all week, and Phoebe always stole her mom’s phone to play games and take selfies. But whenever Izzy passed Phoebe in the hall, Phoebe only said vague things like, “Hey” and “See ya.” Izzy kept hoping that Phoebe would pull her aside somewhere private and ask how she was feeling about having a stranger sleeping in her bed or staring at the sticker door that they’d created together.
Izzy was even up for discussing what it meant. But Phoebe either didn’t care or didn’t want to talk about it. And Izzy was left debating which of those options was worse.
Otto tapped Izzy on the shoulder. “Come on, Izzy,” he said. “You’ve got this. What’s one thing that’s actually two things?” Otto held up one finger, then two. One, then two. He was wearing his favorite T-shirt. It was black and said “iTap” in large white letters. Izzy had once made the mistake of doodling the shirt in her notebook. When Otto saw it, he asked if she’d draw the same thing on the cover of his own notebook and then sign her name underneath.
Izzy had done it. But only when no one was watching.
“Come on, Izzy,” said Otto. “Think!”
“I don’t know,” said Izzy. Her words were sharp and mean. But Otto didn’t seem to notice.
“Fine,” said Otto. “I’ll tell you. Tap dancing. It’s dance and music. Dance and music. Cool, right?”
“Cool,” said Izzy. She just wanted Otto to stop talking. Daphne had finished whispering something to Serena and was now talking to Phoebe. If Otto would just be quiet, there was a chance that Izzy could hear what Daphne was saying.
Luckily Daphne’s loud voice drifted across the classroom. “Eight more hours,” said Daphne. “Then it’s a whole week of freedom.”
“For you,” said Phoebe. “Theater camp is not freedom.”
Daphne shook her head. “I still cannot believe that your mom is making you spend your one week of vacation at theater camp.”
“I can,” said Phoebe. She looked right at Izzy. Vacation week theater camp had been Izzy’s mom’s idea. She’d been all excited when Principal Carr had sent an e-mail announcing that Mr. Blair would be running a week-long theater camp that would end with a performance of a scene from Little Women. It was the perfect solution to the problem of what to do with Izzy during school vacation week. Nate was signed up for indoor soccer training, and her mom assumed she’d be busy with work. When she’d texted Phoebe’s mom and convinced her to sign Phoebe up as well, it seemed that everything had fallen into place. Except for the fact that neither Izzy nor Phoebe had any interest in going.
Mr. Blair leaned over the hearth of knowledge and clicked it on. Over the whirr of the hearth’s internal fan, Izzy heard Daphne say, “When is Izzy going to get her own life and leave you alone?”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Probably never.”
The orange streamers on the hearth wiggled and danced, trapped in their plastic cage. And Izzy’s body grew hot with embarrassment, her cheeks flushing. The fire was fake, but it may as well have been real.
7
Wren and the Pile of Peas
Saturday morning. Wren rested her head in her hand. She stared out the car window as her family drove down the highway to Boston.
Her parents had packed the car while Wren was at the rink, and her cheeks were still warm from her intense lesson with Nancy.
Wren had landed ten perfect double lutzes. One. Two. Three. Four . . . She’d done them right in a row, with Nancy clapping her hands after each one and yelling, “Again!”
When Wren reached ten, Nancy placed her hands on Wren’s shoulders and said, “Your body will remember. I’ll see you in one week, and we’ll do ten in a row again.”
Wren wanted to believe Nancy. But she was full of doubt.
She’d spent the past week training harder than ever, ignoring the tender bump on the back of her head from her fall on Occom Pond.
And now she was being forced to leave.
Hannah was sound asleep in her car seat, her favorite stuffed unicorn lying diagonally across her lap. Wren’s parents sat in the front seats, each silent and looking straight ahead.
Wren shifted positions. She usually loved this drive. Boston meant seeing the Nutcracker ballet at a fancy theater with a domed ceiling accented in gold. It meant flights out of Logan Airport to fun vacations. One year it meant going with her mom to watch the Figure Skating World Championships.
Wren could still remember sitting next to her mom on the hard plastic seats way up in the highest level of the stadium. She remembered looking down at the skaters on the ice and the moment that her mom placed her hand on Wren’s cheek and said, “Each skater out there was once a little girl with a big dream, just like you.”
Her mom’s hand was cold from the soda that she’d been holding, but to Wren it had felt like the warmest of touches.
As her dad changed lanes, Wren pressed her feet against her skating bag. The rest of her stuff was in the trunk. But she wanted to keep her skates close.
She didn’t have the Dartmouth College rink. Or Occom Pond. Or Nancy.
But she still had her skates.
“Okay, team,” said Wren’s dad as he pulled into a driveway. “Home sweet temporary home.”
The rental house had a bright red front door and a historical plaque with the numbers “1911.” The bare branches of a huge maple tree spread over the front yard. At the end of the driveway was a two-story garage with a matching red door.
It was cute. Homey.
In a movie it would be where the happy family lived.
Wren hated it.
They’d barely parked the car when a woman wearing a cream sweater appeared in the driveway. She smiled and waved, matching the happy vibe of the house.
“Hello!” she said. “Welcome! You must be the family renting our house.”
Wren’s dad nodded and shook her hand. Wren’s mom did the same.
Hannah pushed against the straps of her car seat, trying to get out. Her stuffed unicorn fell to the ground.
Wren did not lean over to pick it up. She sat frozen in the car, her feet pressing against her skating bag.
Moving made it real. Getting out of the car made it real. Even though the drive had taken over two hours, Wren could smell the ice rink on her skating jacket. The muscles in her legs were still tired from her lesson with Nancy.
>
Once she stepped into the fresh air and stretched her body, all of that would disappear.
“Come on, girls,” said Wren’s dad as he picked up Hannah’s stuffed unicorn and unbuckled her car seat. “Let’s go inside and get a tour.”
He caught Wren’s eye. There was so much fake energy in his gaze that Wren had to look away. But she unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car.
Wren didn’t take a deep breath of the cold February air. She didn’t stretch her arms over her head or shake out her legs. But none of that mattered.
The scents and surroundings of her normal life were gone. Instead, there was this long narrow driveway. This cluster of dry bushes. This house that was not her house.
This place was her life for the next week.
She was stuck.
“How old are you?” asked the woman in the cream sweater as she opened the door to the house.
“Twelve,” said Wren.
“Twelve! I have a daughter who’s twelve! We’ll be in the apartment over the garage for the week you’re here. Right at the end of the driveway. Maybe you two could play together sometime?”
Maybe not, thought Wren.
As her family followed the woman into the house and through the first floor, Wren sat on a red kitchen stool. Wren was curious about the house, but she didn’t want to give the woman any babyish playdate ideas. Better to stay out of sight.
Finally, the woman and Wren’s family gathered back in the kitchen. The woman placed a set of keys and an envelope in the middle of the island. “Please call if you need anything,” she said. “My phone number’s written on the sheet and I’m only ten seconds away!”
Her hand lingered on the island. Wren could tell by the way she looked at Hannah that she knew about the surgery. The woman had the same look as Maggie, the waitress from Lou’s. And Mr. Morris, their neighbor. A thin glaze of hope covering up a deep sadness.
Then, finally, she left.
Wren’s dad turned to her mom. “The house is perfect,” he said. “This is all going to work out.”
Stick With Me Page 5