Free The Infinite Moment of Us by Lauren Myracle Page B

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    is my plan or yours.”
    “And I think you need to figure out why you made such
    an impulsive decision without consulting us,” her dad said.
    “I don’t just kind of think it, either. I know it.”
    Wren made herself smaller.
    “This isn’t like you, Wren,” he went on. “Am I to under-
    stand from the half answer you gave your mother that
    Emory was unable to guarantee deferred admission?”
    “They said it would most likely work out,” Wren whis-
    pered. “But it will depend on next fall’s numbers.”
    “So they were unable to guarantee deferred admission,”
    he said.
    “Yes, Dad. Yes! God!” She didn’t want to cry, but it was
    happening anyway. She sniffled and dragged a hand under
    her nose. “And maybe it was a mistake, but maybe I need to not be perfect for once!”
    “We never needed you to be perfect!” her dad said in a
    raised voice, while at the same time her mom cried, “But
    you are perfect!”
    The three of them fell silent. Wren gulped. She blinked
    back her tears.
    “Wren,” her mom said. “You know we love you.”
    “And I love you.” She refused to make eye contact with
    either of them. “But you need to know . . . I’m doing this.”
    Her dad stood abruptly. He left the room.
    Her mom stayed but didn’t speak. Wren wrapped her
    arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees.
    “I’m sad, Mom,” Wren said at last.
    “I am, too,” her mom said.
    But later, when Tessa beeped her horn from Wren’s drive-
    way, Wren strode out of her house and didn’t look back.
    She needed out, and she was getting out. She’d done the
    horrible, awful thing, and yes, her parents were disap-
    pointed in her, and yes, it was terrible. It was also terribly liberating, especially with dusk coming on and a party right
    around the corner.
    Thank goodness her parents had always approved
    of Tessa, and thank goodness Wren had told them about
    the party—with Tessa standing next to her—earlier in
    the day. Her parents, and especially her mom, had always
    thought it was important that Wren “be a part of things”
    socially. If the other kids in her class were going to a party, then Wren’s mom wanted Wren to go, too.
    “Whoa,” Tessa said when she saw Wren’s outfit. She let
    out a wolf whistle.
    “Don’t say a word,” Wren begged her, climbing into the
    passenger seat. “I’m self-conscious enough already.”
    “But—”
    “No.”
    “But, Wren, you look—”
    “No! Shh!” Wren put her hands over her ears and
    hummed.
    For three blocks, Tessa kept her mouth shut, but she kept
    sneaking appreciative peeks at Wren. It was absurd, since
    Tessa, in her black skirt and silver tank top, was the one
    who looked fancy. Wren had taken the opposite approach,
    pairing a T-shirt with low-slung jeans as soft as butter. The
    jeans came from Tessa; she’d given them to Wren a month
    or so ago, claiming she’d found them on sale. “Just try them
    on,” Tessa had pleaded, making praying hands.
    Wren never did, because Wren was a “preppy J.Crew
    girl,” according to Tessa. Wren wasn’t sure about the
    “preppy” and “J.Crew” parts, but she’d never been much of
    a jeans girl. Or maybe it was her mom who wasn’t much
    of a jeans girl? In elementary school and halfway through
    junior high, her mom had picked out Wren’s outfit each
    morning. By eighth grade, Wren had convinced her mom
    that she could actually pick out her own clothes, and her
    mom had capitulated with surprisingly little resistance.
    Maybe, in retrospect, because Wren’s own choices had so
    closely mirrored her mother’s.
    Tonight, she’d decided not to think. Not about her parents or Guatemala or her new car, and not about what kind
    of girl she was, jeans-wearing or otherwise.
    “Hey, Wren?” Tessa said. She tapped Wren’s shoulder.
    “Can I say one teeny-tiny thing?” She tapped Wren’s shoul-
    der again. “Please? Pretty please? Just one teensy-weensy
    little thing?”
    “What?” Wren