15

Izzy Reaches for Red

Nate picked Izzy up from theater camp. Luckily he was in one of his guitar music blaring moods and Izzy didn’t have to say anything other than “Hey” and “Okay” for the entire ride home. Nate dropped her at the garage apartment, then reversed down the driveway, off to see Tom, or stare at Simone, or whatever. Nate had tons of options. Izzy had a narrow staircase to climb all by herself.

As she walked up the creaky wooden stairs, Izzy heard Row’s paws scrambling across the floor and her mom yell, “No, Row!”

They were sounds Izzy had heard her entire life, as familiar as the dents in her butterfly tin. Izzy climbed a little faster. There was a good chance that she would get to the top of the stairs and find chocolate chip cookies baking in the toaster oven. Maybe her mom would sit with her at the folding table and Izzy would recount everything that had happened that day. And, just like when Izzy was little, her mom would know exactly what to do.

But when Izzy opened the door at the top of the staircase, there were no cookies. The folding table was pushed to the corner and her mom was standing on a chair with her fancy camera in her hands.

“Thank goodness you’re home,” she said. “Can you grab Row? He keeps ruining my shots and the lighting’s perfect right now. I only have a few minutes to get this.”

Izzy put her bag on the folding table and told Row to sit. Her mom’s camera lens was trained on Izzy’s sleeping space, which had been transformed. The polka dot curtain was tied back with a wide navy ribbon, and the air mattress was styled with funky patterned pillows that Izzy recognized from Phoebe’s basement. Her butterfly tin was in the center of the overturned wooden crate and a string of twinkle lights looped across the wall right below the ceiling. Below the lights, a dozen Polaroid-style photos of Izzy and Phoebe were taped to the wall with floral washi tape.

“I hope you don’t mind that I reprinted some old pictures,” said Izzy’s mom from behind the camera. “It hit me this morning that I could photograph the garage apartment for my website. I’m going to make a ‘glamping chic’ section as a way to show my range of styles. Here, look.”

Izzy looked into the camera’s square screen and a different world emerged. The sunlight pouring across the floor and the pictures on the wall made it look like some cool girl was about to belly flop onto the mattress to text her friends. She’d roll onto her back as she smiled about all the different group chats she had to juggle.

This cool space that her mom had created and the girl who belonged there were the opposite of Izzy. And suddenly, Izzy did not want to tell her mom what had happened at theater camp that afternoon. It was too embarrassing even to share with her mom.

“Looks awesome,” said Izzy.

Her mom smiled. “Thanks. It really does. Next up is Nate’s space. Wish me luck.”

But her mom didn’t need luck. She knew exactly how to fix problems. Money troubles? Rent your house. Stuck in an ugly situation? Some new throw pillows might help. Want to attract clients? Win them over with your wide range of cool styles.

And then there was Izzy, who was left peeling pictures of an ex-best friend off the wall, with nothing to put in their place.

That evening Row scratched at the garage apartment door. “No, Row,” said Izzy. “We’re not doing that again.” She stood up from the folding table where she’d been drawing and pulled Row’s collar until he collapsed on the floor next to her chair.

Her dad was still at work and her mom was at book club. Nate hung from a wooden beam doing pull-ups and grunting out numbers. “Five, four, three, two, one. Done.” Nate dropped to the floor.

“Do you want a medal?” asked Izzy. “Or a trophy?”

“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.