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 were 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.

As the friendship lunch girls walked back to class, laughing about how if anybody told a fart joke about any one of them the others would totally have her back, Izzy wondered if maybe this was the beginning. Maybe she didn’t have to worry so much about Phoebe drifting toward Daphne and leaving her behind. Maybe some girl in friendship lunch would fill the void.

But that hopeful feeling had never lasted very long. Eventually there would be a Monday morning when Izzy learned that she hadn’t been invited to a movie or a sleepover. She’d walk through school seeing all the groups that she didn’t belong to: the lacrosse team wearing their navy elastic headbands, the orchestra kids practicing to perform at morning assembly, the ballet dancers who’d leave early dismissal slips at Ms. Perry’s front desk every Friday in December so they could get to Boston in time to perform in the Nutcracker.

At the end of friendship lunch, Dr. Forte loved to say: “Friendships are complicated, girls. Think of them like an ocean wave. They’re always changing, rising and falling, but the movement can be beautiful.”

One whispered conversation on the edge of the stage didn’t count as a friendship. And anyway, if Wren were a wave, Izzy suspected she’d be the really strong kind that can knock you right over.

But as Izzy sat on the auditorium stage scrambling to make up two truths and one lie about Wren, a hard task because they’d been so busy laughing that they’d forgotten the point of the game, she felt a flicker of hope.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to spend this week all alone.