“Dude,” said Nate. “Cheer up. And also, respect the biceps.” Nate flexed his arm, showing off his muscles.
Izzy rolled her eyes and went back to her Draw Sweet tutorial of a dancing cupcake with a pink hair bow. After the day she’d had, Dori and her smiling objects were all it felt safe to draw. Following along, Izzy wrote, “Hope You Had a Yummy Day” in bubble letters underneath the cupcake.
The drawing was safe, but it was also babyish and stupid. Cupcakes didn’t do kick lines or wear hair bows. They didn’t have huge eyes with thick eyelashes. Izzy grabbed a black Sharpie from her butterfly tin. She crossed out “Yummy” and wrote “Horrible” instead.
And she felt a tiny bit better. Maybe Daphne and Phoebe had a point? Maybe Izzy was mean?
She was about to start a new drawing when Nate peered over her shoulder. He made a gross glug glug sound as he downed a glass of milk. “Interesting,” said Nate, wiping his mouth with his forearm. “You’ve got a dark side, Iz. Never would have guessed it.”
“Why? Because you think I’m little and stupid?”
“Hell, no,” said Nate. “I think you’re little and awesome. At least some of the time. But you’re not usually so bummed out. Spill it.”
Nate sat down at the folding table with a bowl of Raisin Bran and spooned overflowing loads of cereal into his mouth. Izzy stared at the metal spoon diving in and out of the milk. Did she want to tell Nate what had happened? Not really. But Nate was right; she was so bummed. More than bummed. She was terrified about what was going to happen next.
All afternoon Izzy had been replaying the image of Daphne folding the drawing into quarters and sliding it into her back pocket. Izzy’s name wasn’t on the drawing. She could always deny making it if she got in trouble with a teacher. But it wasn’t only the teachers Izzy was worried about. She was worried about the other kids. Girls like Serena who were totally on Team Daphne. Boys like Eli and Zach who loved to catch a whisper of someone else’s mistake and spread it around school. Even Otto, who was suddenly all friendly with Wren, would probably think she was a bully.
And then there was Wren herself. She would be leaving soon, of course. But Izzy cared what Wren thought about her. Last night, racing to Willoway Pond to catch Row, they’d laughed so hard, a kind of laugh where nothing else mattered in the world. And when they got back to the house and their parents were waiting for them in the driveway, Izzy had felt the same thing as when they’d sat with their legs dangling over the edge of the stage after two truths and a lie: hope that she’d made a new friend.
Izzy hadn’t meant to be so mean to Wren. But when Phoebe shoved that drawing in her face, the gray metal of the lockers and the linoleum floors closed in on her, and the only way Izzy could breathe again was to blame someone else for what had happened. Even if it wasn’t entirely Wren’s fault.
“Come on, Iz,” said Nate. “You can tell me.”
Izzy hesitated. Nate was in high school, and popular, but he was also her brother. Izzy remembered the chart on his wall where he would get a sticker for every night that he didn’t wet the bed, the speech therapist that he had to see for years because he couldn’t say his l’s, the time he knocked over an entire gallon of milk when he didn’t make the sixth-grade travel soccer team. So Izzy spilled it. Then she slid her stack of stick figure drawings out from under her air mattress and spread them on the folding table for Nate to see.
Nate looked through the first few with the spoon gripped between his lips, a serious look in his eyes. Then he dropped the spoon and started to laugh.
“What?” asked Izzy. “What’s so funny?”
She almost gathered the drawings back up. But Nate stopped her. “All of it is funny. The hair flips, the attitude. If I saw these stick figures in a dark alley, I’d probably run the other way and start crying for Mom.”
Nate turned his chair so that his arms leaned over the back. “Listen, Iz,” he continued. “Everything you just said about Phoebe and Wren and whoever else was all about what they did to you. They ditched you. They wear matching stuff. They didn’t invite you inside. You don’t have to just take it. If you can send stick figures hurtling down a spiked mountainside, you must have some fight in you. At least these drawings say something.”
“They do?”
Nate nodded. “More than a cupcake wearing a hair bow. Keep going. But add in some kind of superhero. He could be devastatingly handsome with ripped abs. You might want to call him Nate. Just a suggestion.”
Izzy flipped through her drawings. The turned backs, the eye rolls, all the judgment. Izzy drew those stick figures saying mean things because she didn’t want what they represented stuck inside her head.
But what if Nate had a point? What if she reworked the drawings? Added a superhero? Someone to fight back? Would she feel even better?
Izzy picked a red Sharpie from the butterfly tin. Izzy didn’t draw with red very often. She used it mostly for flower petals and eyes in the shape of hearts, but it felt like the right color for a superhero cape. The point was crisp, the color strong. But as Izzy brought the Sharpie to a clean piece of paper, she couldn’t decide what the superhero should look like.
Not Nate. She was sure about that. But should it be a person? Or maybe an animal? Row could make a great superhero. Izzy could turn his floppy ears into wings and send him flying through the land. Or maybe she should create some kind of masked girl wearing all black with a flowing red cape?
Izzy tapped the Sharpie against the folding table. Row perked up at the noise, thumping his tail as if he might get to go out for a walk. It was around this time last night that Row took off for Willoway Pond. Izzy remembered hesitating, unsure of what to do. Yell for her mom? Chase after Row? But then Wren had pulled her arm with a we’ve-got-this sparkle in her eye.
Izzy put down the red Sharpie. She picked up a pencil that her mom had left behind. With a light grip, Izzy began to sketch the rectangular shapes of her driveway and house, a few round hydrangea bushes and the large maple tree with its bare branches. She drew Row, his tail wagging, and Wren right behind him, her arms pumping. She placed Row and Wren close to the street, so they were more outlines than detailed people. Then she began to draw herself. But how? From what angle?
Izzy was never great at drawing bodies; that’s why she liked the stick figures. But even if Izzy made herself a stick figure, how would she draw her own face? Would she make herself super pretty with long, Draw Sweet lashes and perfectly round eyes? Or would she add the bumps on her forehead and her way-too-thick eyebrows? The last time she’d drawn her own face was for a self-portrait assignment in second grade. Everyone loved her drawing, oohing and aahing over her oval face when most kids drew circles, and the slope of her nose when most drew harsh triangles.
Izzy wanted the oohs and aahs. But she wanted something else: to be proud of what she drew. Not because it looked realistic, but because it reflected the girl she wanted to be.
Someone with friends, who knew what to do next.
16
Wren’s Long List
The good thing about Wednesday morning was Wren didn’t have to get a ride with Izzy. Her dad dropped her off at theater camp on his way to the hospital.
The bad thing was she still had to go to theater camp. She had to see Izzy. And Daphne and Phoebe. And Otto.
The list of people who Wren did not want to spend time with was long.
But as she opened the auditorium doors, her eyes searched for one of them in particular: Izzy. She sat a few rows back from the stage, drawing on the sole of her shoe with a pen. What was she drawing? Hearts? Stars? Arrows dripping blood?
Before Wren could get close enough to tell, the lights in the auditorium switched off and on. Off and on. Mr Blair’s voice boomed over the sound system. “Theatrical warriors, please gather on the stage to receive your parts and scripts. We will then embark on a full cast read-through of our very own, very special Little Women scene. I don’t expect you to memorize your lines, but I do expect you
to absorb them. To embody them. To make each and every word count.”
Wren had written “Townsperson 3” on her blank index card. She’d figured a character unworthy of a unique name probably had the least amount of lines. She hoped Mr. Blair wasn’t going to punish her by giving her an actual part. With an actual name.
The auditorium now fully illuminated, Wren hung back as the other kids walked up the risers and settled across the stage.
Daphne, Phoebe, and Serena wandered off to the left side. Daphne sat slowly, holding her blue cast in the air as she sank down. Phoebe and Serena sat on either side of her.
Zach and Eli walked to center stage. They laid on their backs like dead snow angels.
Izzy sat crisscross on the right side of the stage. Otto crossed one leg over the other, did a full spin, and then plopped down next to her.
Wren let everyone else fill in the gaps while she tried to decide on the right place to sit. She ended up near Izzy. Not close enough that it seemed like she wanted to sit next to Izzy, but not far enough that it seemed like she wanted to sit next to Daphne and Phoebe.
It turned out there was no right place to sit. There was only a least-wrong place.
Mr. Blair stood in the middle of the stage holding a pile of scripts. He cleared his throat and handed the top script to Izzy. “Congratulations to our Amy,” he said. “May your love of pickled limes flourish forever.”
Izzy smiled and blushed. She put the script in her lap and immediately began to flip through the pages.
Wren smiled, too. But Izzy didn’t look in her direction to notice.
Phoebe recrossed her legs. “Pickled limes,” she said, puckering her lips and shuddering. “Disgusting.”
“Amy just wants the popular girls to like her,” said Daphne, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s the perfect role for Izzy.”
Izzy stopped flipping. Her cheeks reddened.
Mr. Blair flicked his head toward Daphne. Daphne dropped her gaze, but she bit her lower lip to hide a smile.
Wren’s hands clenched into a fist. She thought of her dad’s hockey players and how they sometimes had to be held back from throwing punches during intense games. Wren wasn’t going to punch Daphne. But she understood the urge.
Mr. Blair walked over to Daphne, planting his feet firmly in front of her. He held out Daphne’s script. “And here we have our shy, humble, sweet Beth. Someone who thinks of others first and herself last. I trust that you will be able to do the part justice, Daphne?” Daphne reached up for the script, but Mr. Blair did not release his grip on the pages until Daphne nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
Wren was cast as Townsperson 3. She flipped through her script, pretending to focus on her irrelevant lines about the recent cold spell and the town’s supply of fresh bread.
She was actually scanning Izzy’s and Daphne’s lines. Wren hadn’t read the scene when Mr. Blair handed it out yesterday, and she’d snuck out of the movie. She kept hoping that Beth would have to get down on her hands and knees and beg Amy for help. Or advice. Or, best of all, forgiveness.
But the scene ended with all four March sisters sitting around the kitchen table, happy as Laurie sang and a gentle snow fell outside the window.
Daphne begging for anything was as unlikely as craving pickled limes.
Wren wanted to tear the script in half.
Instead, she spent the rest of the day listening to lines about “tender hearts” and “grave countenances.”
She rolled her eyes as Mr. Blair encouraged her to “Breathe some life into Townsperson Three’s words. Make them soar.”
Wren wanted to soar. Just not with words.
By the time her dad pulled into the parking lot at the end of the day, Wren was bursting with energy. She’d been so careful all day. Careful to avoid eye contact with Izzy, to keep her distance from Daphne, to not smile when Otto begged Mr. Blair to end the scene with a tap dance number.
Her body was stiff from the effort. It craved movement.
Wren flung the car door open, buckled her seat belt, and asked, “Can we skip the hospital today? Please. Can you check your phone for a rink?”
“Whoa, Bird,” said her dad. “How about a hello?”
“Hello,” said Wren in the same flat tone she’d used for Townsperson 3.
“Hello to you, too,” said her dad. “How was your day?”
“Dad, quit it. Just answer my question.”
He sighed. There was defeat in his exhale and the slow way he shook his head. “Not today, Bird.”
“Is Hannah okay?” Wren shifted nervously in her seat, the seat belt tightening against her chest. She hadn’t thought about Hannah all day. What if something happened?
“Hannah’s okay,” said her dad. “The therapy dogs came today, which was fun. And they’re getting some good reads on her brain activity. Looks like they might operate soon. Maybe even tomorrow.”
These were all positive things—therapy dogs, seizures that sent signals, even scheduling the brain surgery. Wren shifted to face her dad. “So why can’t we try to find a rink?”
“Oh man, Bird. I wish we could. But Mom wants to sleep at the house tonight. She’s desperate for a full night’s rest and a decent shower. We were planning to have dinner in the cafeteria. Then you and Mom would go back to the house.”
Wren looked out the window. She pressed her palms against her thighs.
“Let’s just get through today,” continued her dad. “Then we’ll see if we can find someplace to skate. Maybe on Friday.”
He lifted one hand off the steering wheel and held out his pinky finger, expecting Wren to link her pinky in his. Wren kept her hands on her thighs. If Hannah had her surgery tomorrow, there was no way they’d find a rink the day after. And they both knew it.
Pinky promises were weak, just like the fingers they were named after.
After dinner in the hospital cafeteria, as Wren’s mom was kissing Hannah good-bye, Hannah had a seizure. Her arms flailed, her legs went rigid. The machines in the corner of her room lit up with electric numbers. A nurse stepped into the room. She gave Wren’s family a tight-lipped smile of sympathy.
There was nothing to do but wait it out.
Wren held Hannah’s hand. Her mom knelt at the edge of the bed. Her dad stroked Hannah’s leg.
Then, almost as quickly as the seizure came, it ended.
And Wren’s mom needed a minute.
The result? She just couldn’t leave Hannah.
So Wren and her dad walked back to the car, carrying a pile of her mom’s dirty laundry. On the ride back to Izzy’s house, Wren thought about sectionals. The podium. Her double lutz.
As soon as they got to the house, Wren’s dad went into the living room to Skype with his assistant coaches. And Wren saw her chance.
She grabbed her skating bag. It was still right where she’d left it days ago at the mudroom door.
She didn’t ask permission to leave. Wren knew what her dad would say, and she did not want to hear the answer.
Slowly, quietly, she opened the back door. After days of following everyone else’s plan, Wren was making her own plan.
The air wasn’t as cold as the night before, but it felt just as biting.
The first steps were the hardest. The plastic wheels of her skating bag ground against the driveway and Wren worried that Row might hear and come sprinting out again.
That was the last thing Wren needed.
She kept her head down, her shoulders hunched.
When Wren made it to the end of the driveway, she looked back. The lights were on over the garage. Maybe Izzy was somewhere inside practicing her lines? Maybe she was thinking about the drawing? Or Daphne’s mean comment that day about her play part?
But there was nothing Wren could do about that.
She turned left at the sidewalk. Through a window she saw her dad talking at his computer screen, his hands clamped behind his head. He would be like that for hours. Wren was free.
As she walked, W
ren looked into the windows of other houses. They were full of families doing regular family things.
No one noticed her. No one even knew her.
She paused. Maybe she should turn back? But turn back to what? Izzy’s room with her door of stickers? Her dad focused only on his computer? Her script crumpled at the bottom of her bag?
No. Wren had to keep going.
Finally Wren saw the wooden post and sign for Willoway Pond. The path. As she stepped from pavement to ground, Wren’s confidence returned.
The cold air. The dirt path. The skates in her bag. The fire in her belly. This was who Wren was.
Down she walked until the frozen ice spread before her, lit by moonlight. Wren was ready.
With her feet still in her boots, Wren tested the ice. It had been a particularly cold winter and Occom Pond had been frozen since the end of December. But it was a few degrees warmer here, and Wren knew to be extra careful.
She listened for shifting. She felt for any give in the surface.
She heard and felt nothing.
Wren slid off her boots and put on her skates.
The surface was rough, probably not great for her blades.
But once she got moving, none of that mattered.
Wren was finally skating again.
17
Izzy Sees Swirls
Izzy was eating breakfast on Thursday morning when her mom got a text.
“Wren’s not going to theater camp today,” said Izzy’s mom, reading from her phone. “They just scheduled her sister’s surgery for this afternoon, and Wren wants to be there.” She exhaled. “I hope everything goes okay. Maybe there’s something we can do to help. Load up the fridge or leave a lasagna.”
Izzy looked down at her bowl of cereal.
“Let me text Phoebe’s mom,” continued her mom. “I bet she can swing by and pick you up today so I have time to hit the grocery store.”
Phoebe. Ugh. Izzy was relieved that Wren wouldn’t be at theater camp, but that still left Phoebe and Daphne.
“If Wren’s not going, can I skip camp, too?” asked Izzy. “Please.”
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