The Infinite Moment of Us (8 page)

When Starrla registered his response, she rolled her

eyes. “For fuck’s sake. Was I supposed to go all mushy?
Walk
into your pain, Charlie. I’ll be right here, holding your hand.
Is that what you wanted me to say?”

She was mocking their guidance counselor.

Charlie felt numb.

“Go on, then. Walk into your fucking sob story.” She

shoved his shoulder. “Will there be a unicorn on the other

side and nothing bad will
ever
happen
ever
again? Because, oh boy, I want to go to that land!”

Charlie moved to stand up. Starrla sighed and pulled

him back. She seemed so angry, and yet she reached over,

grabbed his hand, and shoved it under her shirt. “There. Is

that better? Jesus, Charlie.”

She scooched closer. Her skin was warm, and she held

his hand against her. In a low, tight voice, she said, “I won’t tell anyone about any of that. The garage, and your mom.

All right?”

After that, but only when she was drunk, Starrla whis-

pered stories to Charlie. Her stories were about men who

were violent, men like the ones on Dave’s DVDs, and they

made Charlie want to punch walls. But Charlie couldn’t

save her. No one could. So Starrla moved on to other warm

bodies.

She always came back to Charlie, but as eighth grade

turned into ninth, and ninth into tenth, he began to wish

she wouldn’t. He tried to put distance between them.

She wiggled her way back in, like the time she showed

up at Dev’s Science Olympiad competition in a too-tight

shirt, cheering loudly and making Dev blush with eleven-

year-old pride. Starrla made Dev look good in front of his

buddies—because Starrla was pretty despite the clothes

and makeup she hid behind—and so what if she was actu-

ally there for Charlie and not Dev? Charlie would never say

anything, and Starrla knew it.

Or Starrla would compliment Chris on the beveled legs

of a chair he was working on (“That looks so hard, Mr.

DeLucco. You’re so talented!”). Or she’d bring Pamela a

Toffee Nut Iced Latte (Pamela’s favorite) from Starbucks

and comment on how tiring it must be for Pamela to run

her at-home day care business while at the same time raising two boys.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Pamela said to Charlie after one

such coffee delivery.

“Uh-huh,” Charlie replied. He didn’t say, “Sure, Pamela,

only, after she gave you your coffee, she gave me a blow

job behind the workshop. And, afterward, she said, ‘Oh,

Charlie, just think how disappointed Pamela would be if

she knew. Should we confess? What do you think?’”

Charlie shifted on the plastic chair. The graduation cer-

emony went on and on, full of words like
hope
and
promise
, and Charlie felt ashamed. His relationship with Starrla

hadn’t held either of those, and finally, last year, he called it off for real.

She laughed. “You’re breaking up with me?” she said

after his stilted, overly rehearsed speech. She reached to

stroke his hair. He grabbed her wrist to stop her, and she

laughed again, because she’d made him do that. Grab her.

“Charlie,” she said, regarding him as if he were a child

who would never, ever grow up. “You can’t break up with

me. We were never together.”

Exactly, Charlie thought.

She tilted her head and touched her lower lip. “There’s

another reason you can’t break up with me. You want to

know why? Because I will always be here for you.
Always
.

Do you hear me, Charlie?”

Charlie felt uneasy. That was an alarmingly intimate

thing for Starrla to say, never mind that it was in direct

contradiction to her earlier proclamation. Still, he held his

ground and took nothing back.

“Hmm,” she said. Then she made two kissy sounds,

winked at him, and sashayed off. Her parting words were

bright and cruel. “Just remember—we’re the same, you

and me!”

They weren’t, though. Charlie was not like Starrla. He

tugged at his shirt collar beneath his graduation gown and

glanced at his watch. The ceremony had to be almost over,

didn’t it?

As the speaker droned on, Charlie told himself not to

look at Wren—don’t, don’t, don’t, not with Starrla still

on your mind—but his eyes sought her out of their own

accord, and the sight of her made him feel calmer. She was

in a white gown like the other girls—the boys wore black;

the girls wore white—and her hair spilled in waves over

her shoulders. She looked beautiful. And, unlike the girl

next to her, who was yawning but trying to hide it, she

looked . . . hopeful.

No. That wasn’t it. Well,
yes
, hopeful, but . . .

Alive.

Except that wasn’t it, either. Of course she looked alive.

How else would she look?

Her lips were slightly parted. Her chin was raised. Earlier he couldn’t read her expression, but now it seemed she

was interested in what the speaker was saying, which made

Charlie wonder if maybe the speaker was saying something

interesting after all. Not as interesting as Wren, but surely

more interesting than the endless loop of crap playing in

his own mind.

He would go with Ammon to the graduation party, he

decided. He’d go to the party at P.G.’s house, and if Wren

was there, he would approach her. Talk to her. Something.

He swore to himself that he would.

He had a past with Starrla. He regretted it, but the past

was the past.

Imagining a future with Wren, on the other hand . . .

No. Stop, he told himself firmly.

But he could spend time with Wren, maybe. Was there

any reason he couldn’t stand next to her at P.G.’s party?

Share a laugh, offer to get her a drink? His pulse grew

stronger.

There was rustling, and excited energy wafted off his

classmates as they stood and formed a line. It was time

to receive their diplomas, or rather their fake diplomas.

They’d get their real ones after the ceremony, pressed flat

in commemorative leather folders that cost twenty dollars

apiece.

Charlie joined his classmates, but as he walked across

the makeshift stage, he didn’t think about the end of high

school, or graduating, or diplomas, genuine or fake. His

thoughts were occupied by the one real thing he knew:

Wren.

c h a p t e r f i v e

Wren’s graduation luncheon was a chaotic swirl of

photos with family, photos with friends, and hugs and

hugs—so many hugs. Wren’s parents bragged about Wren

to other parents, and it made Wren uncomfortable, but at

least it took the burden of conversation off her. She still

hadn’t broken the news about Project Unity. She needed

to, and she would, but not yet. Not with so many people

around.

Wren’s father put his arm around her as he talked with

Bob Hammond, her friend Delaney’s dad, about colleges

and financial-aid packages. Two feet away, her mom listened

patiently as another mom went on and on about thank-you

notes and where to buy the best-quality embossed enve-

lopes. She glanced over, and Wren saw her share a private

smile with Wren’s dad.

Wren’s parents weren’t perfect, but she told herself that

no one’s were. Anyway, she loved them, and she wouldn’t

be here without them, and one thing she was proud of was

how solid they were. She thought it sweet how they always

checked in with each other at events like this, whether

through a quick glance or a light brushing together of their

fingertips.

A few years back, a slew of her parents’ friends had

split up—four or five divorces, all in a row—and Wren’s

parents had talked with her about how much work rela-

tionships required.

“Oh, Wren, just wait till you’re in your thirties before

you even consider getting married, will you?” her mom

had said.

“Forget marriage,” her dad added. “How about you wait

till you’re thirty before you have a boyfriend.”

“
Dad
,” Wren said. She was fourteen at the time, a freshman, and thirty seemed impossibly far away. Being a senior

seemed impossibly far away.

“I mean it,” her dad said. “If you wait to have a boyfriend

until after high school, we’ll get you a car when you grad-

uate. How does that sound?”

Wren wanted to think he was joking, but she wasn’t

sure. Just by saying something, just by throwing out an

expectation, her father and her mother both had an amazing

ability to make Wren shift around her own expectations.

Later, her mom came to her room and said, “Honey, just

so you know, we’re not trying to
bribe
you. We just hope you’ll show good judgment.”

So Wren had focused on her schoolwork instead of

boys. Her parents’ approval felt so very good—and not

only good, but necessary. As a child, Wren had felt vaguely

like a toy that was paraded out in front of her parents’

friends, there to be shown off. At the graduation luncheon,

standing beneath the weight of her father’s arm, she won-

dered how far she’d come. She felt young all of a sudden,

and lonely.

Her dad squeezed her shoulders. “Isn’t that right,

Wren?” he said.

Both he and Bob Hammond gazed at her expectantly.

Past them, the entire Cherokee Club ballroom, where

Wren and her set of friends were celebrating, was filled

with boys in suits and girls in white dresses. Her mom held

up her slender hand, waving a “no thanks” at the platter of

bacon-wrapped dates a caterer offered.

“Yes?” Wren said. She had no idea what she was agree-

ing to, but certain habits were deeply ingrained.

Bob Hammond laughed and gestured at the caterer.

“Well, that’s fine,” he said, “and I’ll take one of those.” He put three on a cocktail napkin. “John? Wren? They’re good.

Want one?”

“Yes,” Wren said more firmly. “I mean, please. Yes,

please.”

She filled her mouth so she could go back to not talking.

You’re no longer the same innocent fourteen-year-old

you once were, she told herself.

How sad it would be if she were.

How sad it was that she wasn’t.

After the luncheon, Wren and her parents headed home.

When they were within a few blocks of their house, her

parents told Wren to close her eyes.

“And keep them closed until we say so,” her mom said.

Oh dear, Wren thought. What now?

The car slowed. There was a small bump, and Wren

knew her dad had pulled into their driveway. He cut the

motor. Her mom helped Wren out of the car, and, for good

measure, she placed her own hand over Wren’s eyes.

She guided Wren a few feet forward.

“Is it time?” her mom said, presumably to her dad.

“I think so,” her dad replied.

She moved her hand, and Wren 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