Free The Infinite Moment of Us by Lauren Myracle

opened her eyes. Before
    her was a white Toyota Prius.
    “Well?” her mom exclaimed, practically humming with
    delight. “Go see. Don’t you want to go see?”
    Oh shit, Wren thought. The car. For good grades and
    no boys. They really meant it, and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
    She walked to the Prius. She placed her palm on its side,
    which was warm from the sun. She looked back at her
    parents.
    “It has a moon roof,” her dad said.
    “And we picked white because white cars are the least
    likely to be involved in accidents,” her mom said. “White
    and silver.”
    “Safe drivers are even less likely to be involved in acci-
    dents,” her dad said in a dad-tone.
    “Wren is already a very safe driver,” her mom said.
    “Of course she is,” her dad replied.
    Wren’s throat tightened. She felt insanely guilty. Her
    parents were giving her a car when she was about to disap-
    point them more than she ever had. She also felt confused.
    Her parents had actual y given her a car as a reward for
    good behavior. It felt icky for some reason.
    “I—I love it,” she told them.
    “How about that moonroof?” her dad said.
    “I love the moonroof. Thank you so much.”
    “Check the glove compartment,” her dad said.
    “The glove compartment?” Wren said. She didn’t want
    to check the glove compartment. “Why?”
    “You’ll see.”

    Wren went to the driver’s side door, opened it, and slid
    into the seat. She peeked at her parents, who stood with
    their arms around each other. Then she leaned over the
    console and opened the glove compartment. An envelope
    lay on top of a thick booklet that was probably the owner’s
    manual. Her fingers hovered over it.
    “There should be a letter,” her dad called. “Read it.”
    It was a notice, printed on Emory University letter-
    head, stating that Wren had been granted the privilege of
    having a car on campus. A parking permit would arrive
    with her orientation materials, and the Provost’s Office as
    well as the College of Liberal Arts would happily address
    any questions or concerns Wren might have. They looked
    forward to Wren becoming part of the Emory family.
    Her mom and dad came up to the car door.
    “We’ll still drive you to your dorm and help you
    unpack,” her dad said. “We’ll take two cars.”
    “I pulled some big strings for you,” her mom said. “Most
    freshmen won’t have cars. You’re going to be pretty popu-
    lar, I imagine—not that you wouldn’t be anyway.”
    “Wow,” Wren said.
    Her dad leaned over the open door. “Hey. You lived
    up to your end of the deal; we lived up to ours. And we
    couldn’t very well give you a car and then make you leave
    it here, could we?”
    Wren’s mom took in Wren’s expression and frowned.

    “Sweetheart, what on earth is wrong?”
    Wren put the letter from Emory back inside the glove
    compartment, climbed out of the car, and carefully shut
    the door. “Can we go inside?” she asked her parents. “I sort
    of need to tell you something.”
    In the family room, Wren sat balled up on one side of the
    corner sofa. Her parents sat across from her. They didn’t
    yell. Her parents weren’t yellers. They didn’t respond the
    way Charlie had, though.
    He’d said she was wonderful.
    Her parents said nothing about “wonderful.”
    “You made a commitment,” her dad said. “You applied
    for early admission. You got in. By agreeing to attend, you
    took away a slot that could have gone to some other stu-
    dent.”
    “There’s a wait list,” Wren said. Her mouth was dry.
    “The spot will go to someone.”
    “But what about your spot?” her mom asked. “And what
    will I tell everyone? I work with these people, Wren. I see
    them every day!”
    “Um, I asked if I could defer?”
    “And?”
    “And . . . they said it will probably work out.”
    Her mom shook her head. “‘Probably’? You didn’t give
    up your spot, did you? You would never do something that
    foolish, Wren.”
    But I did, Wren