4

Geez, Wren

When Wren woke up on Sunday morning, her parents were sitting side by side at the kitchen counter. Her dad read from his open laptop. “Sixteen Westgate Road. Forty-nine Pierce Lane.” Her mom scribbled notes.

Wren opened a box of cereal. Her parents startled at the bag’s crinkling noise.

“Bird,” said her dad. “You okay?”

“Just getting breakfast. What’re you guys doing?”

“We’re looking for a place to stay,” said her dad. “While Hannah’s in the hospital.”

“You should find a hotel with a pool,” said Wren as she poured Cheerios into a bowl. “Hannah would love that.”

Neither of her parents answered. And Wren realized why. Hannah wasn’t going to be swimming. She was having surgery on her brain.

Wren was such an idiot.

“We’re not looking for hotels, honey,” said her mom. “The doctors need to get more information before they operate. Dr. Koffer’s nurse said it’s usually several days of monitoring in the hospital before the actual surgery. Then Hannah’s going to need to stay and recover for several days afterward. I haven’t figured out the details, but I think we’re going to rent a house near the hospital for at least a week. It’ll be helpful to have a home base. If we need to be there longer, then we might move into a hotel.”

“Oh,” said Wren. “That makes sense. You can make all of Hannah’s favorite foods and bring them to the hospital. And by all, I mean pasta with butter every single night.”

Her mom smiled. But her lips were pressed tight. “Wren, honey, you’re going to need to come with us, too.”

“Come with you? To the surgery?”

“To Boston. You can’t stay here alone. And it’s school vacation next week. You won’t miss any classes.”

Wren dropped her spoon into the cereal bowl. “I can’t leave. I’m doing extra lessons with Nancy all week to get ready for sectionals, remember? I want to stay here. With Dad.”

Wren’s dad looked down at the keyboard and shook his head. “I’m going to Boston, too, Bird. It’s hard timing being the middle of the season and all. But I’m going to Skype with my assistant coaches while they run practice. We all need to prioritize what matters most right now.”

Wren couldn’t believe it. All of them were going? With sectionals so close?

The only reason she’d slept late was because Sunday was her rest day from training. Otherwise she would have been up early stretching or working on her off-ice ballet at the barre in her bedroom.

Every day mattered. That’s why she’d begged for extra sessions with Nancy during school vacation week. She was going to train extra hard and nail her double lutz.

“No,” said Wren. “No way. I’m not going. I’ll stay with Nora. Or somebody else.”

Wren’s mom shook her head. “It’s too much. Asking for all that help when there’s not even school. Having to worry about where you are, who you’re with. Please, Wren, don’t make this any harder. We’ll find a rink in Boston once we know exactly where we’re staying. I’ll make sure you get your double lutz.”

“Yeah, right,” said Wren, rolling her eyes. “You’re not even a real coach.”

Her mom froze, the tip of her pen suspended above her notepad. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that, at least not in such an accusing tone. But whatever, it was true. Her mom might memorize technique tips from Skating Magazine and watch YouTube videos posted by famous coaches, but she wasn’t a figure skater herself.

She didn’t understand. Neither of her parents did.

After lunch Wren grabbed her skating bag from the mudroom and left. She needed fresh air. She needed to move.

She stomped from stepping-stone to stepping-stone as she made her way along the wooded path that led from her house to Occom Pond. Wren paused to kick a frozen pine cone with the toe of her winter boot. It didn’t budge.

When she got to the pond, her friend Nora was sitting on the bench next to the pond’s warming hut. Nora stared out at the skaters—the little kids bundled like marshmallows in thick snowsuits, the hockey players hurtling themselves across center ice, the college students holding hands as they flailed around the edges.

Wren considered sitting somewhere else, but the only other option was the cold ground or the crowded warming hut. So Wren sat down next to Nora.

“You missed three major make-out sessions,” said Nora. “And I just got here. Like, literally, I just sat down.”

Wren shrugged. She pulled off her boots. Only the thin layer of her tights protected her toes from the cold air.

“And they were full-on make-out sessions,” continued Nora. “Not just holding hands. I saw tongue. I think I even saw drool.”

“Gross,” said Wren.

“I know,” said Nora. “Do you think drool freezes at the same temperature as water? Or do you think it’s too thick to freeze? Because how majorly insane would it be if you were kissing someone and your drool froze and you got stuck together?”

Wren didn’t answer.

“Wren? Did you hear me? I just asked a super-important question. About kissing.”

“More like a stupid one.”

“Geez,” said Nora. “Excuse me for trying to have fun. You don’t need to be so serious all the time.”

Nora was the only girl in Wren’s grade who loved skating as much as Wren did. They spent a lot of time together. There were many days that Wren thought Nora was her best friend.

But there were some days that Wren wished Nora would leave her alone.

Today was one of those days.

Wren pulled her skate laces tight, double knotting the ties. She slid her hands into her gloves and zipped her fleece jacket up to her chin. Balancing on her toe picks to protect her blades, Wren walked to the edge of the frozen pond.

She stepped onto the ice.

One stroke. Two.

She inhaled the fresh outdoor air. It was different from the air inside the ice rink. It was tinged with the scent of evergreen trees and dirt.

Wren stretched her fingers in her gloves. The muscles in her legs contracted.

“Hey!” called Nora. “Wren! Wait up!”

Wren glanced over her shoulder. Her blades rocked over a bump in the ice caused by the natural freezing of the pond water. Her body wobbled and Wren slowed. She almost stopped. But then she changed her mind.

She was not in the mood to wait for anyone.

“Geez,” called Nora, out of breath. “Can’t you just wait up? What’s your problem?”

Wren hockey-stopped. Ice shavings shot from her blades like sparks. Nora couldn’t stop in time. She glided past Wren and had to turn around.

As Nora skated back, Wren was tempted to tell her everything. About the surgery. The unicorn code name. Renting a house. Even her stupid comment about the swimming pool.

Most of all, Wren wanted to tell Nora how worried she was about the skating practices she’d miss. Hannah’s health was more important. Of course it was. But Wren’s parents, the doctors and nurses, even the therapy dogs and clowns with rubber noses, they had Hannah covered.

No one was worried about Wren. Not in the same way. Wren had seen the distracted clicking of her mom’s pen top when she’d promised to find a rink in Boston.

It was one more thing to add to the very bottom of the list.

But then Nora stepped into a mini footwork section from her program. It was a fast-paced series of three turns that ended in a lunge. Nora loved it. She practiced it all the time.

Nora was the competition. She also wanted to medal at sectionals and qualify for nationals. Nora would probably take Wren’s missed lesson times with Nancy.

Part of Nora would be sympathetic. But part of her would be relieved.

And Wren couldn’t bear to see it.

“My problem,” called Wren when Nora skated past her, “is you.”

Nora stopped. “Me?”

Wren almost took it back. But then she saw her mom and dad walking down the path. Hannah was in between them holding their hands, her body bundled in Wren’s old purple snowsuit. They paused to talk to their neighbor, Mr. Morris. He bent down and gave Hannah a hug.

They looked so happy. Even as they were ruining everything.

And it made Wren furious.

She turned to Nora. “Yes, you,” she said. “I’m tired of you following me everywhere. I just want to skate by myself.”

“I’m not following you, Wren. For the record, I got to the pond first.”

Nora was right. But Wren couldn’t admit that. Instead, she turned and skated toward the center of the pond where a group of college students were playing hockey.

Wren stopped at the edge of the game and grabbed a hockey stick that lay in a pile.

Normally hockey players wore helmets and pads. But on Occom Pond, the hockey players barely knew how to skate. So Wren wasn’t surprised when one of the players nodded at her. “Want to sub in?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Wren.

He nodded at the toe picks on her blades. “Just watch those picks.”

Wren had played pickup hockey before, but she had forgotten how heavy the stick was. She removed her thin gloves to get a better grip.

“Game on,” said one of the hockey players.

“Bring it,” said another.

It was hard to tell which players were on which team, but no one was taking the game seriously. Wren got passed the puck a few times. She was gripping the hockey stick too tight, and her return passes were sloppy.

Still, she was a better skater than anyone else in the game.

And she was determined to prove it.

Wren relaxed her grip. Out of the corner of her eye, Wren saw her dad turn away from Mr. Morris and jog down the path. Every time they came to Occom Pond, Wren’s dad said that skaters who played hockey without helmets were idiots who were asking for trouble.

So she was not surprised when he yelled, “Wren! Be careful!”

Puh-lease. These players could hardly stay upright. Nothing was going to happen.

Wren got a pass. She slid the puck to a boy who fell flat on his stomach. The other team took control. Wren skated backward, her stick on the ice, ready for defense.

Whoosh.

The puck flew past her cheek, close enough that she felt its force through the air. Wren fell back onto the ice, too startled to catch herself.

Her butt hit first.

Then her head.

Pain shot through her entire body, but Wren pushed herself back up. She ignored the offers of help and skated to the bench next to the warming hut.

Her dad was only a few feet away. She could hear the crunch of his steps on the frozen snow. Wren hung her head between her knees, pretending to retie her perfectly secure laces.

Wren fell a lot during practice, her body hitting the ice at all sorts of angles. A knee bruised. A hip banged. A palm scratched.

Wren didn’t cry then, and she wouldn’t cry now.

She knew how to hold back tears.