13

Izzy in Parenthesis

“Quick pit stop,” said Nate on Tuesday morning as they turned down the street toward Starbucks.

Izzy glanced at Wren, who was sitting next to her in the backseat. “He wants to see a girl,” she said.

“What was that?” asked Nate. He turned down the music that was blaring a never-ending guitar medley. “You’re in awe of my superior driving skills and my refined taste in caffeine?”

“Not exactly,” said Izzy.

Nate turned the music back up. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging. “Can’t hear you.”

Izzy smiled. Izzy was glad that Phoebe was driving separately for the rest of the week. Apparently Phoebe convinced her mom that she deserved every last minute of sleep since it was technically vacation week. And she glad that Nate was driving to theater camp instead of Izzy’s mom. Even though Nate was making them stop at Starbucks and they’d probably be late, things were easier with Nate around. If Izzy’s mom were driving, she’d be glancing at Izzy and Wren through the rearview mirror, her eyes searching for clues. Were Izzy and Wren talking? Were they becoming friends? Was that a laugh she heard?

When Nate looked in the rearview mirror, it was to yell at a car that was driving too close. And he played the music so loudly that Izzy and Wren could barely talk. After all her recent carpools with Phoebe, feeling like she was always on the verge of saying the wrong thing or not knowing the answer to an impossible question, it was a relief just to sit next to Wren, their bags on the seat between them, and look out the window.

“Arrived,” said Nate as he parked in front of Starbucks. “You guys wait in the car.”

“No way,” said Izzy. “That’s not fair.”

Nate huffed. “Fine. Come in. But be cool, okay?”

Izzy and Wren waited by the door while Nate walked up to the counter. He snapped his wallet, open and shut. Open and shut.

“He’s got a crush on that girl, Simone,” said Izzy. “The one with the gray yarn on her apron and all the earrings. I think she’s in college.”

“Is he going to talk to her?” asked Wren.

Izzy shook her head. “He just orders, does this smile thing, and leaves.”

“Then how do you know he has a crush?”

Because it’s obvious, thought Izzy. It’s in the way his cheeks flush and he fiddles with his hair. The snapping of his wallet. How he saves all the money he makes from refereeing youth soccer except for the twenty dollars a week that he calls his “crucial coffee fund.”

Izzy had done doodles of Nate holding a Starbucks coffee cup with two big red hearts in the place of eyes. But she’d never shown the drawings to him. Nate’s crush wasn’t like the crushes at school, where the whole point was to get the other person to know you like them and then deny the crush as soon as that other person found out.

Nate’s crush was something that he wanted to keep secret, even from his friends. A few weeks ago, Izzy and Nate had been out for pizza with Nate’s friend Tom when Izzy spotted Simone walking with three other girls, all of them carrying bags with the Wellesley College logo. The bags were tan with blue straps and the Wellesley College girls always carried them around town. The bags weren’t all that pretty, but the way the girls carried them over their shoulders, stuffed full of laptops and notebooks, made Izzy jealous, and a little worried. Bracelets, headbands, bags. Maybe it never ended?

Nate and Tom had been debating whether the referee from last week’s indoor soccer game had it in for them when Izzy elbowed Nate in the side, nodding toward Simone. Nate froze.

“Dude, you good?” asked Tom.

Nate nodded. He began walking again, at a faster pace. “Totally. Thought I had something in my shoe. My bad.”

Izzy was tempted to tell Tom about Simone. To point Simone out with an ooh-la-la tone to her voice. When she didn’t, the look of relief in Nate’s eyes was worth her silence. Nate was normally the one who looked out for her, especially in public. He let Izzy tag along to get pizza with his friends and sit in the front seat of the car when he picked her up from school.

Even now, telling Wren about Nate’s crush, Izzy worried that she was betraying Nate. But Wren was not Tom. Wren was not Phoebe. Wren had popped into Izzy’s life and would pop right back out in four more days.

Surprisingly, the thought made Izzy a little sad. But also grateful. Wren was safe.

Mr. Blair made a trumpeting noise with his hands circling his mouth. “Warriors, gather with me on the stage. The time is drawing near for today’s theatrical battle. We know the players, we know the location, but do we know how it will all unfold? No! We do not!”

“Do we care?” whispered Wren. “No! We do not!”

Izzy laughed and followed Wren up the risers to the stage. Daphne and Phoebe walked up the opposite risers, with Serena behind them. Daphne held her blue cast and glared at Wren.

Once again, the look made Izzy nervous, but Wren didn’t seem to care. They reached the stage and sat down. Wren spread her legs wide and stretched her chest to the floor. Izzy picked at some dirt that was wedged between the wood planks. When Izzy looked up, Phoebe was fiddling with the stack of bracelets on her wrist and staring at her. There was a hint of warning in Phoebe’s dark brown eyes.

Izzy wanted to shrug it off, like Wren would. Instead, the opposite happened.

Phoebe’s gaze seeped deep into Izzy’s body.

“Now, warriors,” said Mr. Blair. “Sadly, one week does not give us enough time to perform an entire production. My deepest apologies to the theater gods. What I am handing out now is a scene from the classic novel Little Women, which I have taken the liberty of altering to fit the needs of our esteemed group. We will be working on this scene for the remainder of the week. I would like everyone to read it through, then write down on an index card the part that you would most like to play. I can’t promise you’ll get your first choice. But I will do my best.”

Mr. Blair passed out stacks of stapled pages and blank index cards. The first page listed the cast, along with a description of the characters in parenthesis:

Amy March (artistic)

Jo March (spirited)

Meg March (gentle)

Beth March (shy)

Jenny Snow (meddling)

Laurie (friendly)

Mrs. March (nurturing)

Mr. Davis (strict)

Student 1, 2, 3

Townsperson 1, 2, 3

As Izzy looked at the list of names, she wondered what someone would write in parenthesis about her? Creative? Nice? Or would they describe her differently? Loner? Quiet? A part that no one would choose to play.

Izzy began to read. The scene started at the house of the four March sisters. Amy (artistic) is complaining because she doesn’t have money to buy pickled limes like all the other girls at school. Her sister Meg (gentle) takes pity on Amy and lends Amy money to buy the limes. When Amy gets to school, Jenny Snow (meddling) tells the teacher Mr. Davis (strict) that Amy is hiding forbidden limes in her desk. Mr. Davis punishes Amy by making Amy throw her precious limes out the window. Then he smacks Amy’s hands and tells her to stand in front of the class until recess. When Amy gets home, Mrs. March (nurturing) and Amy’s sisters provide comfort and Mrs. March tells Amy that she never has to go back to that school. Jo (spirited) goes to collect Amy’s things from Mr. Davis. The scene concludes with Laurie (friendly) and the March sisters gathered together singing and laughing.

Izzy was almost done reading when Otto tapped her on the shoulder. “You should go for Amy,” he whispered.

“Why?” asked Izzy.

“Because the script says she’s artistic and you’re the best artist in our grade. Everyone knows that. You’d be good at playing her.”

“Thanks,” said Izzy.

Otto nodded. “You’re welcome.” He drummed his hands against the stage and went back to reading.

The best artist in our grade. There was no art award at the end of year assembly or art team to try out for. They didn’t even get letter grades in art, just a simple pass or fail. But Otto wasn’t mocking her or trying to make it seem like kids were talking about Izzy behind her back. It was one of his Otto statements that passed from his mind to his lips in one straight line, not the swirls and zigzags that Izzy sometimes felt.

Izzy read the last few sentences and flipped back to the list of characters. She looked down at her blank index card. Pickled limes sounded tangy and gross. Just thinking about eating one made Izzy shiver. But Amy’s lines about wanting to keep up with the girls who brought pickled limes to school made Izzy think of beaded bracelets and lacrosse team headbands, even the matching Wellesley College bags. All the objects that separated those who were part of the group, from those who weren’t.

It wasn’t just Amy’s love of art that Izzy recognized; it was her longing to belong. After a moment of hesitation, Izzy wrote Amy in Dori’s favorite bubble letters. She added a heart off to the side for good luck.

Halfway through the morning, as Mr. Blair struggled in the dark to get his laptop to play the pickled lime scene from the movie version of Little Women, Izzy left the auditorium to use the bathroom. The lights in the hallway were bright, so at first Izzy didn’t notice that Daphne and Phoebe were standing next to the pile of bags, Daphne shaking her head, Phoebe with her hands stacked on one popped hip. By the time Izzy saw them, it was too late to turn around. She’d been spotted.

“OMG, Izzy,” said Phoebe. “What. Is. This?” Phoebe held a white piece of paper in her hand, her stack of bracelets on her wrist. The paper was worn, not crisp, so it bent in half.

Izzy shook her head, confused.

Phoebe straightened the page, pinching the top and bottom, and shoved it close to Izzy’s face. It was one of Izzy’s stick figure drawings. She’d drawn it after walking to Daphne’s to return Phoebe’s pink mitten, but she’d never finished it. She got distracted with a better drawing of a girl with one mitten falling into winter slush.

The last thing Izzy remembered was putting that drawing in her desk drawer. Except she’d moved all her drawings into the garage apartment. Had she left this one by accident? Still, how did Phoebe have it?

Izzy reached for the drawing, but Phoebe moved it away. “How could you do this to me?” said Phoebe.

“I didn’t do anything,” said Izzy.

“Oh, really?” said Daphne. “So those two girls with the bracelets aren’t supposed to be me and Phoebe? Because I know that’s Phoebe’s pink mitten and I know you’re the one who drew this. And just for the record, I would never ditch Phoebe even if she did catch your grossness. She’s one of my best friends ever.”

“God, Izzy,” said Phoebe, shaking her head. “When did you become such a bully?”

Izzy stepped back, leaning her back against a locker. A bully? It was just a drawing. It was her thoughts and feelings on a page. No one was supposed to see them, not ever.

“Where did you find that?” asked Izzy.

Phoebe shrugged. “Wren gave it to us.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Izzy.

“Why wouldn’t she?” asked Daphne. “Wren obviously knew it was a drawing of us and she thought we might want it.”

“No,” said Izzy. Wren barely looked at Phoebe and Daphne, and she certainly never spoke to them. Why would she give them the drawing?

“We could go talk to Mr. Blair about it,” said Phoebe. “If you want to. He’d probably love to see this.”

Daphne smiled. Then she shook her head. “Don’t worry, Izzy. We won’t tell anyone. Unlike you, we don’t enjoy being mean to other people. But I think I’ll keep this. Just in case we need it later.” With one wrist in a cast and the other wrist loaded with bracelets, Daphne folded the paper in quarters and slid the drawing into her back pocket.

Together, Daphne and Phoebe returned to the auditorium. Gentle music played through the open doors. Izzy sank down to the hallway floor and dropped her head to her knees. With that piece of paper in her back pocket, Daphne could easily make her into a mean girl.

Izzy (mean).

In her heart, Izzy knew she was the opposite of that. Her drawings were everything she felt but didn’t know how to explain, or even who to tell. Was she supposed to keep it all inside? Or be like Dori, drawing cute, cuddly things that only exist in some pretend, pastel world of joy?

A world totally different from the one Izzy actually lived in.