doctor
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