Wren rolled her eyes.
“Can I get a picture of you girls?” asked Wren’s mom once they were seated at a table. “Just a quick one.”
Wren sighed and put her arm around Hannah, posing for the stupid picture. But the flash from the phone reflected off the window behind them and they had to shift over so their mom could try again.
This time Hannah grabbed a breadstick and stuck it up her nose.
“That will not be going on next year’s holiday card,” said their mom, looking at the image on her phone and laughing. Then she cleared her throat. Put the phone down.
Wren expected her mom to leave the table. To take a minute. Instead, she reached for Wren’s hand. “Wren,” she said. “We want to talk to you about something.”
“It’s something good, Bird,” said her dad. “Don’t look so worried.”
“The schools here are closed this week for February break, just like at home,” said her mom. “Julie mentioned that there’s a theater camp being held at the middle school. It’s open to all sixth and seventh graders.”
“Yeah,” said Wren. “So?”
“Julie’s daughter is attending the camp,” said Wren’s mom. “I thought it might be fun for you. It’ll give you something to do during the day. You’ll meet some kids your age.”
“I don’t want to meet kids my age,” said Wren. “I don’t want to meet anyone here. I just want to skate as much as I can and leave as soon as possible.”
Hannah looked down at the breadstick crumbs scattered across the table. Wren didn’t want to make Hannah feel bad, but theater camp?
Wren’s mom reached for her hand. “I already e-mailed the principal and explained our situation. She responded right away. There’s plenty of room in the camp and they’d love to have you.”
“No way,” said Wren. She wanted to throw something. Or hit someone. But she wasn’t little like Hannah. No one would joke about a holiday card picture if Wren poured her glass of water on her mom’s head.
Wren looked at her dad. He had to help her.
Instead, he frowned. “I checked online,” he said. “That rink we were at is running a hockey camp all week. There’s no daytime ice.”
“I knew this would happen,” said Wren.
Her mom and dad locked eyes. There was an entire silent conversation in their gaze. But it wasn’t a conversation about solutions or alternate plans.
Theater camp was the plan. Just like renting the house was the plan.
And there was nothing Wren could do about any of it.
10
Wren Contemplates a Crunch
Monday morning. Wren woke to the sound of footsteps on the creaky rental house floors. The sky was still dark, and it took her a moment to remember that Hannah had to be at the hospital early that morning.
But as soon as she remembered, Wren sprang out of bed. She needed to give Hannah one last hug before she left.
Hannah was in the kitchen holding her stuffed unicorn by its pink glittery mane. Their dad sat on a red stool drinking coffee. Their mom stared out the front window, her arms wrapped tight around her body.
“Neigh,” said Wren.
“Neigh,” said Hannah.
“I’m going to come visit you at the hospital this afternoon,” said Wren. “I want to meet all your new unicorn friends.”
“Okay,” said Hannah. “You can.”
Wren’s mom came over and kissed Wren on the head. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” said Wren.
Wren was furious at her parents. For dragging her here. For signing her up for theater camp. For messing up her training.
But on top of her anger, covering it like a thin pair of skating tights, was something else: a desire to lean into her mom’s arms and stay there forever.
Instead, Wren hugged Hannah, only letting go when headlights shone through the kitchen window.
“The car’s here,” said her mom. “Time to go, Hannah.”
Wren nodded. She gave Hannah one last squeeze. She petted Hannah’s unicorn and kissed it good-bye.
Then she walked upstairs to her new old room and got back into bed.
She couldn’t stand to watch Hannah leave.
Traffic. Wren’s dad didn’t think there’d be this much traffic getting to theater camp.
“I should have taken Julie up on her offer to give you a ride,” he said.
“Thanks a lot,” said Wren.
“Sorry, Bird. Of course I want to take you on your first day. It’s just . . .” He dropped his head to the steering wheel. “I kind of want to body check someone. Just slam someone or something, nice and hard.”
“So do it,” said Wren.
“I’m too old.”
“I can do it for you. Will that help?”
Her dad laughed. “I know you’re kidding, Bird. But just so we’re clear, the last phone call Mom needs right now is that you got kicked out of theater camp. Or that I got arrested.”
“I know,” said Wren.
Then her dad winked and said, “But thanks for offering.”
They didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. Wren looked out the window as they drove past large houses with long paved driveways. She missed the rink, of course. But also the wooded path that led to Occom Pond. Lou’s and its cinnamon bun scent. The college kids who threw Frisbees on the main green.
The roads here were crowded, but the sidewalks were empty.
There were too many houses and not enough trees.
And then it got even worse.
They arrived at theater camp.
The middle school was a low brick building, separated from the road by a huge empty parking lot. It was all straight lines and hard surfaces. Wren gave it one last try. “Please, Dad. Please let me come to the hospital with you. I’ll sit in a corner and read all day. I won’t eat. I won’t talk. I won’t ask to use your phone. Not even once.”
“Bird,” said her dad. “I need you to be a team player this week. And we both know . . .”
“There’s no I in team,” muttered Wren.
“Exactly.”
The front door was locked. For a second Wren thought she might be saved. But then her dad pushed a silver button on an intercom and the lock released. A small woman wearing gray sweatpants and a baseball cap popped out of a nearby office.
“Hello there,” she said. “You must be Wren and company.”
“In the flesh,” said her dad.
“Wonderful!” said the woman. “I’m Principal Carr. And like I always tell my students, please don’t judge a book by its cover. If you’ve got to work while everyone else is on vacation, you might as well be comfortable doing it.”
Wren’s dad laughed, like it was some great joke.
In addition to the sweatpants and baseball hat, Principal Carr was not wearing shoes. Her toes pressed through her thin white cotton socks.
What would happen if I accidentally stepped on them? wondered Wren. Would there be a crunching sound? Or would they just squish under my boots?
Then Principal Carr extended her hand. “It’s such a pleasure to have you here for the week, Wren,” she said.
Principal Carr’s fingers were long and frail, like the lead in refillable pencils. The kind that breaks when you push down too hard.
Crunch, decided Wren. Not squish.
“How about I show Wren to the auditorium?” said Principal Carr, looking at Wren’s dad. “And allow you to get on with your day.”
There it was. The head tilt. The tight smile. The sympathetic eyes. Of course her mom told Principal Carr all about Hannah. Her mom told everyone about Hannah.
Wren’s dad nodded and pulled Wren close. “Love you, Bird,” he whispered. “You’ve got this, right?”
“Yeah,” said Wren. “I’ve got this.”
She didn’t want him to let go.
Being alone on the ice felt like power and freedom. Being alone in this unknown school felt like punishment.
> Wren pulled away.
“Okay,” said her dad. “See you this afternoon.”
Wren followed Principal Carr. The hallways were lined with metal lockers and the linoleum floors were gray with a million tiny specks. Lights buzzed in their plastic covers.
“Now, Wren,” said Principal Carr. “I hear you’re staying at Izzy’s house. What a nice girl Izzy is. You two must be good friends already.”
Or not, thought Wren.
Yesterday Wren had seen Izzy leave the garage apartment and walk her dog down the driveway. Izzy had paused at the end of the driveway and looked up at the window where Wren was standing.
Instead of waving, Wren ducked.
She had no idea if Izzy saw her.
She wasn’t even sure why she ducked. It was a split-second decision. Her body reacted before her brain had time to think the action through.
“Here we are,” said Principal Carr, pausing in front of a set of doors. “You’re in for a treat, Wren. Mr. Blair is one of our finest teachers, and he’s got a real passion for drama. It’s going to be a great week.”
As Principal Carr pushed open one of the doors, its handle releasing a metal-on-metal click, Wren was tempted to run. Down the hall. Into the parking lot.
And then what? Where would she go next? She had no way to get to the hospital and she didn’t even know the rental house address.
Wren was trapped.
11
Izzy and the Super-tragic Tragedy
From the corner of her eye, Izzy noticed a rectangle of light as the auditorium doors opened. She sank down in her seat and glanced at Phoebe, who had chosen a spot at the far end of Izzy’s row. Phoebe’s eyes would tell Izzy who was walking in the door: Wren or Daphne. They were the only two people who hadn’t been checked off Mr. Blair’s attendance list.
If it was Daphne walking through the doors, Phoebe’s eyes would flicker with joy. Daphne had broken her wrist ice skating on Saturday and her parents cancelled their ski trip.
“Daphne’s super bummed,” Phoebe explained that morning when Izzy’s mom drove them to theater camp. “But honestly, I’m kind of glad. This week will be so much more fun now. But don’t tell Daphne I said that. ’Kay? Promise?”
Izzy promised. And then she’d looked out the car window and thought that having Daphne at theater camp was going to be the opposite of more fun. It was going to be miserable.
If it was Wren walking through the doors, Phoebe’s eyes would squint in examination mode. Phoebe had asked Izzy tons of questions about Wren. What did she look like? What was she into? Did she even do theater? But Izzy had no answers. Just yesterday Izzy had seen Wren in the window and waved. And Wren had ducked out of sight.
Izzy’s mom had described Wren as quiet and slow to warm up. But Izzy disagreed. A quiet, slow-to-warm-up girl would at least wave back.
The auditorium doors closed. Phoebe turned and squinted. It was Wren.
Izzy sank lower in her seat. She worried that Wren was actually more mean than quiet.
Mr. Blair jumped off the stage where he’d been sitting flipping through pages on his clipboard. “Ah,” he said. “A new warrior. Welcome, welcome. You must be Wren. Please join us on the theatrical battlefield.”
Wren chose a spot in the back of the auditorium. Izzy glanced at her over the seats. Wren was looking at her lap, her hair hanging loose on either side of her face. When the doors opened again a minute later, Wren didn’t move one bit. But Phoebe squealed and clapped her hands. It was Daphne, a blue cast on her left wrist, a stack of beaded bracelets on her right wrist. Next to her was Serena.
“Serena,” said Mr. Blair. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company? I don’t see you on my list.”
Serena froze. She looked behind her at the closed auditorium doors, as if they might provide an answer. Serena’s expression reminded Izzy of Snow Stepper being ripped from Serena’s cradled arms, confusion mixed with anger. “My mom signed me up,” said Serena. “She said she signed me up?”
Mr. Blair stuck his pen behind his ear. He flipped a page on his clipboard. “Hmm. Well, fear not. Take a seat and you and I will get this all sorted at break time.”
Serena sat next to Daphne and Phoebe. But instead of joining in their conversation, she stared straight ahead, her body stiff, her eyes fixed on the black curtain backdrop.
“Okay then,” said Mr. Blair as he walked to the exact center of the stage. “All warriors are now present and accounted for, which means that we can commence with the grand theatrical tradition of the first day icebreaker. And for this morning’s festivities, we will be playing two truths and a lie.”
Someone behind Izzy groaned, probably Eli or Zach. They groaned about most things. In a row toward the front, Otto bounced happily in his seat. Wren was still way in the back by herself. Other kids were scattered throughout the auditorium in groups of twos and threes, some with their feet pressed against the seat backs in front of them, others with their legs tucked into their chests.
“What was that?” asked Mr. Blair. “Battle cries of excitement? Excellent! Now, the way this works is that I will assign everyone a partner. Please tell your partner two truths and one lie, then your partner will present what they heard to the rest of the group, who will then have to determine what is fact and what is fiction. Are we ready?”
“Ready!” said Otto.
“Wonderful,” said Mr. Blair. “Now, for partners may I please have . . .” Mr. Blair paused and drummed on his thighs. Then he started walking up the center aisle, assigning partners from different sections of the auditorium.
Please not Wren, thought Izzy as Mr. Blair stepped closer, calling out name pairs. Please not Wren.
“Next I would like Otto and Daphne. Phoebe and Eli. Serena and Zach. And last but not least, Izzy and Wren.”
Daphne sighed and threw her head against the back of her seat. Phoebe patted Daphne’s shoulder in consolation. Serena leaned over in the opposite direction, as if she was retrieving something from the next seat, but Izzy didn’t watch long enough to see what it was. She was too distracted by her pounding heart. Wren. She was partners with Wren.
Should she walk to Wren? Or let Wren walk to her? Or maybe they should meet somewhere neutral, like the stage?
Yes, thought Izzy. Neutral would be best. Izzy waited for Otto to tap dance up the aisle toward Daphne, his jazz hands waving. Then she slid between the seats and began to walk, not looking back until she reached the three wide risers that led to the stage.
Wren was a few feet behind, her eyes looking at the floor. Izzy continued up, choosing a spot at the edge of the stage where she could dangle her legs over the side. Wren sat next to her.
“Hi,” said Izzy.
“Hey,” said Wren.
Izzy was glad she’d chosen that spot. It was better than having to sit facing each other. The decision gave her a boost of confidence. But still, they sat in silence, Wren’s feet beating a steady rhythm against the base of the stage.
“I like your leggings,” said Izzy.
Wren’s leggings were a blue camo pattern, and Izzy really did like them. But mostly she was just looking for something to say. All the other pairs were already talking, sharing their two truths and one lie. When Wren didn’t respond, Izzy wished she could take the words back. There were a million more important things she could have said. Like, Sorry about your little sister. Or, Does this feel super weird to you, too?
But then Wren smiled. “Is that a truth or a lie?”
“A truth,” said Izzy.
Wren nodded. “I like your door of stickers.”
“Is that a truth or a lie?”
“A truth.”
“This is super weird,” said Izzy.
“Truth or lie?” asked Wren.
“Do you even need to ask?” said Izzy.
“Not really,” said Wren.
They both laughed. It was a laugh that was filled with so many awkward things—the stage lights shining in their eyes, that they we
re totally messing up the icebreaker game, that Wren had slept in Izzy’s bed the last two nights—so that the laughter grew from a quiet giggle to a full-on explosion.
Mr. Blair looked at them. And so did everyone else.
As Izzy tried to stop laughing, she noticed that Daphne was staring at Wren with a particularly angry look in her eyes. Daphne was usually fake sweet on the outside, especially in front of teachers. But she was glaring right at Wren.
Wren must have noticed, too. “It’s sort of my fault that girl broke her wrist,” whispered Wren.
“Truth or lie?” asked Izzy, confused.
“Truth,” said Wren.
Wren told Izzy about the skating rink and Daphne’s fall. Izzy didn’t want the story to end. She wasn’t happy that Daphne broke her wrist, but she loved being wrapped up in Wren’s tale, sitting there on the edge of the stage as part of a pair.
Last year Dr. Forte, the school counselor, had friendship lunches with the girls in Izzy’s class. Every Thursday, Dr. Forte picked ten girls to eat lunch together in her office. They sat in a circle on Dr. Forte’s pale green carpet and talked about what it meant to be a good friend, how words can have different meanings depending on how they’re said, and how actions that might not seem like a big deal to one person could be hurtful to someone else.
As Dr. Forte chewed on the ends of her tortoiseshell reading glasses and the girls slurped from juice boxes and crunched on chips, they shared stories about times they hadn’t been invited to birthday parties or had heard their names whispered from deep inside tight huddles on the playground at recess.
Izzy had been chosen for friendship lunch five times over the school year, and she loved every one of them. Sitting there, kneading a paper napkin between her fingers, the world outside Dr. Forte’s office disappeared. Phrases that often swirled in Izzy’s own mind—What did I do wrong? Why don’t they like me? Why does it have to be so hard?—were spoken by other girls.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch period, Izzy often felt dizzy, as if the air inside Dr. Forte’s office, with its inspirational posters and potted plants on top of tall metal filing cabinets, was more dense than the rest of the school building. She’d be slow to stand and end up at the back of the line to throw away her trash. But then she’d look up and someone—one time it was Grace, another time it was Serena—would be holding the door open, waiting for her.
Stick With Me Page 7