“No, Iz. You made a commitment.”
“You’re the one who signed me up,” said Izzy. “I didn’t even want to do theater camp.”
“Come on, Iz. It’s the second-to-last day. Aren’t you getting costumes today and blocking the scene? Mr. Blair needs his Amy.”
“What about his Townsperson Three?”
Her mom didn’t respond. They’d read through the script last night. Her mom knew Wren only had a few lines, and it was obvious that Mr. Blair had added them just so there would be enough parts for everyone.
Someone else might have been disappointed. But yesterday Wren had read her lines as if she couldn’t have cared less. And even though Izzy had initially been excited to get the part of Amy, it didn’t last long. Daphne’s comment about Izzy just wanting to be popular had cut through Izzy like a knife, slicing away her pride at being cast as both an artist and the lead role. Then Wren had read her lines like a monotone zombie, reminding everyone of just how pointless theater camp was in the first place.
When they did a second read-through, a lot of kids followed Wren’s lead, their performances getting worse and worse. Daphne and Phoebe seemed to mess up their lines on purpose, laughing like it was a hilarious coincidence. Eli, who was playing Mr. Davis, spoke with such fake exaggerated anger that his spit globs landed on Izzy’s cheek. Only Otto seemed to be trying hard, mostly because he’d convinced Mr. Blair to let him do a tap routine for the grand finale instead of singing.
“Please, Mom,” said Izzy. “It’s just theater camp. It’s so stupid.”
“That attitude is going to get you nowhere, Iz. And please stop whining. You’re way too old for it.”
Izzy dumped her bowl of cereal into the sink even though it was half full and the soggy Cheerios would clog the drain. “I’m old enough to decide that I’m. Not. Going.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Izzy realized that she didn’t stand a chance of getting her way. Sometimes it felt like twelve wasn’t even a real age, but more of a joke.
Too old to stomp your feet and whine. Too young to actually decide anything important.
Mr. Blair had raided the costume closet and found a cardboard box full of bonnets and cloaks. Izzy stood in the hallway with Phoebe, Daphne, and Serena sorting through the pile. The wrinkled costumes smelled like mothballs.
“Here,” said Phoebe, pinching a white bonnet patterned with tiny rosebuds between her fingers and passing it to Daphne. “This would be great for you, Beth.”
“Ugh,” said Daphne. “I hate being Beth. She’s such a loser scaredy-cat.”
“Not really,” said Serena, who was playing Mrs. March.
Daphne froze, her hand with the stack of bracelets gripping the bonnet. “Yes, she is. She doesn’t even go to regular school.”
Serena looked down at her shoes. “Beth is scared of things. But it’s because she cares about everyone and really watches over them, you know? She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to her family.”
Yes, thought Izzy. You’re right. Even though Daphne was doing a terrible job playing Beth, it was obvious from the written lines how much Beth loved her family. But Izzy didn’t say anything. As far as Izzy knew, neither Daphne nor Phoebe had mentioned the drawing to Serena, or anyone else. Maybe they’d forgotten about it, or maybe they were waiting for the right moment. Either way, it was safest to stay quiet and not risk finding out.
“She also doesn’t want anything bad to happen to Laurie!” said Otto. He jumped out from behind a row of lockers, wearing a top hat and a velvet coat with brass buttons. He bowed, unfurled his arms in tight circles, and did a fast tap dance move with his feet. “At your service.”
“Whatever,” said Daphne. She tried to tie the bonnet under her chin and accidentally hit herself in the face with her cast. She threw the bonnet to the ground. “This is so annoying. Let’s talk about something way more important.”
“Like the epic sleepover Saturday night?” said Phoebe.
“Yep,” said Daphne. “I went to the mall and made these.”
Daphne walked over to her bag and pulled out four blue envelopes, almost the exact color of Izzy’s techno blue Sharpie. The envelopes were sealed shut, but there was something bulky inside that made them wrinkle. Daphne handed one to Phoebe and, after hesitating for a second, one to Serena. There was a third envelope in her hand.
Izzy knew the envelope wasn’t for her, but she couldn’t help hoping that it was.
“Can I open it now?” asked Phoebe. She held the envelope in her palms, like it was a delicate robin’s egg.
“Sure,” said Daphne. “Go for it.”
Phoebe carefully slid her finger under the seal. It was not how Phoebe normally did things. She wasn’t the person who made a careful slit in a pack of Skittles and gently poured the candy into her open palm. Phoebe was the person who tore the pack open so fast that Skittles exploded into the air. But with this envelope, Phoebe was slow. And gentle. She reached her hand inside and pulled out a beaded bracelet.
Another matching bracelet. Izzy would have turned away, but the bracelet was different from any other beaded bracelet that Izzy had ever seen. The beads looked tie-dyed in bright colors—fuchsia, tangerine, violet—all swirled together on each individual bead.
“OMG,” said Phoebe, sliding it onto her wrist. “It’s an ultra rare. With real stones.”
“Of course,” said Daphne. She held out her wrist, where the exact same bracelet rested on top of her stack.
“So this is my ticket?” asked Phoebe. She pulled out a techno blue piece of paper from the envelope and held it far enough away that Izzy could easily read every word.
Congrats!
You’ve been invited to Daphne’s Epic Sleepover on Saturday night!
Only people with this exact bracelet will be allowed to enter!
Absolutely Positively No Exceptions!
See you then!
XOXO Daphne
“Yep,” said Daphne. “No one can get into the sleepover without one.”
Serena examined her identical tie-dye bracelet, then slid it on. Daphne walked toward Izzy, the third envelope in her hand.
And Izzy couldn’t help it. Her heart beat faster. It made no sense that Daphne would give her a bracelet.
It was the opposite of what should happen. But that didn’t stop Izzy from desperately wishing it would.
Daphne held out the techno blue envelope to Izzy. “Hey, Izzy,” said Daphne. “Since Wren’s not here would you mind giving this to her? Tell her to open it ASAP.”
As Izzy held the envelope in her hand, she noticed Wren’s name written in capital letters.
The envelope was never meant for her.
That afternoon, Izzy did a horrible job in the dress rehearsal of their scene. She was supposed to be heartbroken to throw away her pickled limes, but she could barely remember how many limes she was supposed to throw, or where she was supposed to throw them.
Why? Why would Daphne invite Wren to the sleepover?
It was all Izzy could think about. Finally the rehearsal ended. Izzy was stuffing her cloak back into the cardboard box when Otto appeared. “She’s trying to make you upset.”
“Who?” asked Izzy.
“Daphne. She’s trying to make you angry.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” said Otto. “It’s her specialty. Everybody has one thing they’re really good at. Mine is tap dancing; yours is drawing. And Daphne’s is making other people feel bad. She’s the queen of mean.” Otto crossed one foot in front of the other, did a full turn, and shook his hands as if to say, Ta-da!
“It’s not the same thing,” said Izzy. She agreed with the general idea, but being mean wasn’t a specialty. It was just who Daphne was.
“Why not?” asked Otto. “She practices all the time and she’s really good at it. I don’t see the difference.”
Otto had obviously been thinking about this. Kids at school mimicked Otto behind his back. They followed him
down the hallway doing exaggerated tap dance moves. But Otto always ignored them. He tacked flyers about his tap dancing recitals on the bulletin board next to the library and handed out personal invitations to his favorite teachers with a big smile and a firm handshake. So Izzy assumed that he didn’t care. But maybe he did, more than he let on.
“If you let her bother you, she’ll win,” said Otto. “Then you’ll be just like everyone else. Congratulations. Victory to Daphne!”
Otto walked off, shaking an imaginary trophy in his hands, Daphne’s name echoing in Izzy’s ears.
18
Make Them Proud, Wren
Hannah’s surgery was a success.
Wren’s mom was so relieved that she agreed to switch places with Wren’s dad. He would spend the night in the hospital, and she would go back to the house with Wren to sleep in a real bed.
They would order pizza and watch a movie. Or at least some puppy videos on YouTube.
But as soon as they got back to rental house, Wren’s mom laid down on the couch. Within seconds, she fell asleep.
Wren placed a blanket over her mom, folding it under her chin. Then Wren did something she hadn’t done in a long time: she kissed her mom’s cheek.
For years, kissing her mom made Wren feel babyish. Immature.
But that evening, when her lips pressed against her mom’s cheek, Wren felt older. And responsible.
She checked the time. Six o’clock. She could skate for an hour and still be back in time to warm the lasagna that Izzy’s mom had left by the back door with cooking instructions taped to the top.
Wren would wake her mom to a fully prepared dinner. Her mom would be so happy. And proud.
Over dinner Wren could tell her mom about Daphne and the debacle with Izzy’s drawing. Or they could talk about next week. What Wren needed to focus on in preparation for sectionals.
But first, she was going out to skate.
Wren closed the back door behind her. She rolled her skating bag down the sidewalk. There were more cars on the street than last night and headlights shone in her eyes.
Maybe one of the kids from theater camp would drive by and see her walking in the dark. Maybe they’d wonder where she was going.
But no one would pull over to ask.
Well, Otto might. Even after Wren told him to get a life, he still smiled and clapped silently after she spoke her pathetic play lines.
But no one else would. Not even Izzy. She’d barely looked at Wren since the horrible thing Wren said in the hallway.
Wren reached the Willoway Pond sign. She turned down the path. The moon was not as bright as the night before and Wren stumbled on a tree root. Her skating bag slammed against her leg.
But she made it to the end of the path. The low moon cleared the treetops and shone on the pond. And the entire world lightened.
Wren laced her skates and balanced on her toe picks as she stepped onto the frozen surface.
She took a few slow strokes, her legs adjusting from the forward motion of walking to the sideways sliding of her pushes against the ice.
When she’d skated last night, Wren didn’t try to jump. The surface was too uneven, and she wasn’t sure how thick the ice was. It had been enough just to stroke and spin.
But now, Wren couldn’t resist. Hannah’s surgery was over. She’d be going home with her dad in two days.
Home to the ice rink. To Nancy. To Nora. And all the other girls she’d be competing against at sectionals in just over two weeks.
Wren turned backward.
She would start with a toe loop. A simple half turn rotation that was part of her warm-up routine. If that went well, she’d move on.
To salchows and axels and maybe, just maybe, a double lutz.
Wren reached her left toe pick into the ice.
It dug deeper than she’d expected.
Wren hockey-stopped. Looked down.
The crack ran from the entry point of her toe pick to a few feet away.
She froze.
Groan. Groooaaan.
More cracks. The lines were delicate. Alive. They spread like branches on a tree, growing outward from a central base.
Wren’s heart beat was so strong in her chest that she wondered if its vibration was making the ice shift. Because otherwise, her body was as still as it could possibly be.
She was terrified to move.
Wren thought about the Polar Bear Plunge at the Dartmouth Winter Carnival. The college kids carved a circular hole in the ice at Occom Pond and stripped down to their bathing suits to jump in. They wrapped ropes around their waists before jumping, and someone on firm land held on to the other end. When Wren had asked her dad why the jumpers needed the ropes, he explained that falling into water that cold can shock the system and cause someone’s heart to stop beating. The rope was to pull people up in case that happens.
“It’s the definition of youthful stupidity,” her dad had continued as a girl in a bikini jumped into the hole. “Flirting with death for fun. She must be from California.”
“Why California?” Wren had asked.
“Because no one from New Hampshire would ever be that stupid.”
That was the worst part.
Wren had known skating on an unmarked pond was stupid.
But she’d done it anyway. With no rope. No one waiting on firm land.
19
Izzy Leaps
Izzy lay on her air mattress, the techno blue envelope with Wren’s name resting on her stomach. She ran one corner of the envelope under her fingernail. Then she flicked the envelope toward the ceiling, hoping it would float through the air like a feather. Instead, it landed smack on Izzy’s face. If she threw the envelope in the trash underneath the kitchen sink, it would probably still find its way back to her.
There was only one way to get rid of this thing: Izzy had to give it to Wren.
If you let her bother you, she’ll win. That’s what Otto had said.
Wren would be gone in two days, but Daphne wasn’t going anywhere. Izzy did not want to let her win.
Izzy walked into the kitchen area where her mom was making a salad. “Can I go see if Wren’s back from the hospital?” she asked. “To check how she’s doing?”
Her mom smiled. “That’s a wonderful idea, Iz. Want me to come with you? I want to make sure they saw the instructions for the lasagna.”
“It’s okay,” said Izzy. “I’ll ask.”
“Just come back soon. Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
The driveway stretched before her, as if it had somehow gotten longer. Izzy hoped Wren’s dad would answer the door. Izzy wanted to hand off the envelope and run back to the garage apartment. She did not want to talk to Wren.
Ding-dong.
It was strange to ring the back doorbell to her own house knowing that her family wasn’t inside, that Row’s scampering feet would not be charging across the hardwood floors.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
Izzy was about to walk to the front door and slide the envelope through the brass mail slot when Wren’s mom appeared. Izzy hadn’t seen her since the day Wren’s family arrived, and was surprised by how tired she looked.
“Can I help you?” asked Wren’s mom. She kept the door half closed, as if Izzy was a kid selling cookies for a school fundraiser.
“Is Wren home? I have something for her.”
“Something for Wren?”
“From theater camp today.”
Wren’s mom raised her hand to her forehead. “Oh, you must be Izzy. Of course. Come in, please. Wren’s inside.”
Izzy stepped into the house. Her house. So many things were different. The teakettle was on the wrong half of the stove, the red stools were covered with crumbs, and wrinkled hand towels were shoved in a corner of the counter.
“I know it’s a mess,” said Wren’s mom. “The whole week has been a whirlwind. I promise we’ll clean everything up before we leave. Let me just get Wren.” She walked toward the stairs to the second floor. “Wren! W
ren! Izzy’s here to see you!”
They waited ten seconds. Thirty seconds. Wren was obviously ignoring them.
“It’s okay,” said Izzy. “I just wanted to give this to Wren. I don’t need to talk to her.” Izzy tried to hand the envelope to Wren’s mom, but she had started walking up the stairs.
“It’s just . . . I know she’s here somewhere,” said Wren’s mom. “Where else would she be? Come on, let’s check her room.”
You mean my room, thought Izzy as she followed, the wooden stairway railing so familiar in her hand. They walked down the hallway with the clean white walls, past Nate’s room with its row of soccer trophies, and into her own room. The bed was made and the desk clean. A pile of Wren’s clothes was folded on top of the dresser.
Deep inside, under all the hurt and confusion, Izzy was grateful that at least Wren had taken good care of her room.
Wren’s mom turned in a circle. She opened the closet door. She patted the pockets of her jeans, as if she was feeling for her phone. “Oh my God, Wren! Wren! Where is she? Did she go out? She doesn’t know anyone here. Does she?”
Izzy gripped the envelope in her hand. Had Wren actually had become friends with Daphne and Phoebe? Had Wren actually given them the drawing? Had they bonded in the school bathroom, or hung out after theater camp yesterday without Izzy knowing? It was highly unlikely, but possible. And it would explain the invitation with Wren’s name on it. Daphne and Phoebe knew Wren was renting Izzy’s house. Maybe they’d stopped by and told Wren about the epic sleepover in person? Maybe Wren had gone to one of their houses to hang out?
“I’ll go get my mom,” said Izzy. “She has a school directory. Maybe she can call around.”
Wren’s mom sat down on Izzy’s bed, nodded, and started to sob.
Izzy barely noticed the pounding of her legs or the cold against her cheeks as she ran through her house, down the driveway, and up to the garage apartment. It was only when Row jumped on her, his paws digging into her thighs, that Izzy realized how fast she’d sprinted up the stairs. “Mom, Wren’s missing!”
“Missing?”
“Her mom doesn’t know where she is. She’s not at the house. Maybe she went to Daphne’s house. Or Phoebe’s. Can you help?”
Stick With Me Page 11