9

Wren Minus Two

“All right, Bird,” said her dad as he stood up in his hockey skates. “It’s you and me and the ice. Nothing else matters.”

“And about one hundred other people,” said Wren. Her dad had found a rink near the rental house with Saturday afternoon public skating. They’d rushed to get there. But so had tons of other people. The ice was crowded.

“Forget about them,” said her dad. “Block them out. What do I always tell my players?”

“Grind and grit,” said Wren.

“That’s right. The two magic G’s. You have to work through the daily grind to find your inner grit. That’s how the magic happens.”

Wren nodded. Her dad’s sayings played in her head like a catchy radio song.

Grind and grit.

Head and heart.

Train your brain and your body will follow.

But as Wren took her first strokes, she wanted to tell her dad to wake up and look around. There was no space here for any magic.

The ice was choppy with tracks and dense with people. Some skaters pushed milk crates; others hung on to the boards. Loud music played from a staticky overhead sound system.

“Time to represent,” said her dad. He had a proud look on his face, like he was patting himself on the back for sounding young and cool.

Wren didn’t want to ruin his mood.

She dodged a dad holding a little kid between his legs.

She veered to the left as two boys pushed off the boards without looking.

She stopped abruptly when a small girl lost her balance and fell right in front of her.

Then she heard a loud voice behind her. “Yikes.”

“Wipeout,” sang another voice.

“Big-time,” said the first voice.

Two girls her age skated by wearing black leggings and tight athletic shirts, stacks of colorful beaded bracelets on their wrists. One of them noticed Wren staring.

“Who’s that girl?” Wren heard her ask.

“No idea,” answered the other. “And who cares?”

Who cares? thought Wren. Watch this.

Wren skated past the bracelet girls. They wobbled as they turned to watch.

Their eyes both fed Wren and made her hungry. She pushed even faster toward center ice.

“Bird,” called her dad. “Be careful. This is public skating ice.”

Wren nodded. She turned backward into a deep inside edge. Then she stepped into a layback spin, arms overhead in an open circle, her back deeply arched.

The ceilings lights spun into tight circles.

Wren knew those girls were watching. She exited the spin and smiled right at them.

“Whatever,” said one of the girls. “I can do that.”

“Really?” asked her friend.

“Of course. It’s not that hard. She’s just showing off.”

The bracelet girl turned backward and tried to find her balance. Her arms wiggled. Her body tilted. But her lips were pressed tight in concentration. She stepped forward on an inside edge and tried to spin.

Wren almost called out for her to stop. Spinning on an inside edge was difficult under the best of circumstances. It was physically impossible the way the girl’s body was tilted.

The girl went down. Hard.

“Daphne!” screamed her friend.

Wren stood back as several adults surrounded Daphne, the fallen girl. She was crying and clutching her wrist.

A man wearing a red skate patrol uniform helped her off the ice. Daphne’s friend followed behind. Wren’s dad came up next to Wren and put his hands on his waist.

“Poor girl,” he said.

“She was showing off,” said Wren.

“She was the one showing off?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you see? That girl had no idea what she was doing.”

“Wren,” said her dad, “you can tell yourself whatever story you want. But we both know what happened out there.”

A tickle of guilt crept into her mind. Maybe it was a little bit her fault.

Or maybe not.

Wren remembered what her dad had said last weekend when she’d landed a double axel. You make it look like a piece of cake.

It only looked easy because Wren worked so hard. Because she trained every day, even when her head throbbed from a hard fall or her legs were exhausted from an earlier workout. It wasn’t her fault if people didn’t understand that.

Wren skated away and pushed into another layback spin.

Two fewer people on the ice meant more room for her.

That night Wren’s family drove into town for dinner. The main street was lined with brightly lit stores and restaurants.

“There it is,” said Wren’s mom, pointing to a restaurant with funky light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. “That’s the place Julie recommended.”

“Who’s Julie?” asked Wren.

“The woman whose house we’re renting. She left us a list of all her favorite places in town.”

“That was thoughtful,” said Wren’s dad.

Wren rolled her eyes.

“Can I get a picture of you girls?” asked Wren’s mom once they were seated at a table. “Just a quick one.”

Wren sighed and put her arm around Hannah, posing for the stupid picture. But the flash from the phone reflected off the window behind them and they had to shift over so their mom could try again.

This time Hannah grabbed a breadstick and stuck it up her nose.

“That will not be going on next year’s holiday card,” said their mom, looking at the image on her phone and laughing. Then she cleared her throat. Put the phone down.

Wren expected her mom to leave the table. To take a minute. Instead, she reached for Wren’s hand. “Wren,” she said. “We want to talk to you about something.”

“It’s something good, Bird,” said her dad. “Don’t look so worried.”

“The schools here are closed this week for February break, just like at home,” said her mom. “Julie mentioned that there’s a theater camp being held at the middle school. It’s open to all sixth and seventh graders.”

“Yeah,” said Wren. “So?”

“Julie’s daughter is attending the camp,” said Wren’s mom. “I thought it might be fun for you. It’ll give you something to do during the day. You’ll meet some kids your age.”

“I don’t want to meet kids my age,” said Wren. “I don’t want to meet anyone here. I just want to skate as much as I can and leave as soon as possible.”

Hannah looked down at the breadstick crumbs scattered across the table. Wren didn’t want to make Hannah feel bad, but theater camp?

Wren’s mom reached for her hand. “I already e-mailed the principal and explained our situation. She responded right away. There’s plenty of room in the camp and they’d love to have you.”

“No way,” said Wren. She wanted to throw something. Or hit someone. But she wasn’t little like Hannah. No one would joke about a holiday card picture if Wren poured her glass of water on her mom’s head.

Wren looked at her dad. He had to help her.

Instead, he frowned. “I checked online,” he said. “That rink we were at is running a hockey camp all week. There’s no daytime ice.”

“I knew this would happen,” said Wren.

Her mom and dad locked eyes. There was an entire silent conversation in their gaze. But it wasn’t a conversation about solutions or alternate plans.

Theater camp was the plan. Just like renting the house was the plan.

And there was nothing Wren could do about any of it.