The Infinite Moment of Us (2 page)

like caramels. “Not in a stalker way. I just wanted to tell

you that you’ve always been my role model, kind of.”

“Your role model?” Wren said. “Why?”

Paige’s eyes widened. “Um . . . you know. Because you

have such a sense of purpose. You know yourself.”

“I do?”

“You do, yes.”
And the moon tugs on the earth, and that’s how
tides are formed
, her tone suggested.
The earth circles the sun,
and that’s why we have night and day, and, yes, you know yourself.

Are you playing with me?

Wren didn’t understand. Paige was awkward but smart.

In fifth grade, she and Wren had done an after-school activ-

ity together called Odyssey of the Mind, and for their final

competition, they’d put on a skit. Something about pirates?

Part of the skit had involved remote-controlled boats and

cars, and one of the cars hit a tunnel, but Paige calmly

repositioned it and tried again. Their team won first place.

It was one of Wren’s early tastes of how fun excelling

could be.

“Oh,” Wren said. “Um, thanks.”

Paige pulled her long sleeves over her hands, nodding

as she backed away. “Okay, well, I just wanted to tell you

that. Anyway. Bye!”

Paige darted off, leaving Wren feeling like a phony.

Once upon a time Wren
might have been certain of herself, like maybe back in fifth grade, but now she went one way

and then another when it came to what she wanted to do

with her life. First she was going to go to Emory, then she

decided not to go to Emory. She wanted to please her par-

ents, but she was sick of pleasing her parents. She yearned

to be her own person, not an extension of her mom and

dad, and she longed to do something brave, something that

mattered, something that helped others in an immediate

and tangible way.

Her desire to escape her color-within-the-lines life
was

as strong as the pull of the moon, even if the lines them-

selves were muzzy. Was that what Paige saw as her sense of

purpose?

She stood there, lost in her thoughts, until a boy from

her AP biology class gave her a tentative half wave from

across the parking lot, bringing her back to the here and

now. A breeze batted at her skirt, flipping it high, and her

cheeks grew hot as she clamped it down. Not only because

the boy—his name was Charlie—had no doubt glimpsed

more of Wren than either he or she expected, but because

she realized that in her zoned-out state, she’d been ran-

domly staring at him, possibly for quite a while.

Embarrassment coursed through her. Wren liked Char-

lie, but she didn’t know him that well. He was in a couple

of her honors classes. He had a lean, muscular frame, and

Wren, on occasion, had caught herself enjoying the play

of muscles beneath his shirt. His fingernails were often

rimmed with oil, or maybe paint. He rarely talked, and

some kids thought he was arrogant. But Wren had watched

him interact with his small group of friends, and around

them he seemed looser. More relaxed.

Once, Wren had spotted Charlie helping a freshman

with his locker. The freshman was scrawny, one of those

unfortunate boys who wouldn’t hit his growth spurt for

another year or two, if ever. He’d looked close to tears.

Charlie hadn’t made eye contact with the kid but had

twisted the combination lock with deft, sure movements,

banged the metal door, and nodded with satisfaction when

it sprang open.

Now, yards away in the senior parking lot, Charlie

dropped his hand. Now he was the self-conscious one.

She waved back at him and smiled, and relief rippled

across his features. Immediately he smoothed his expres-

sion, but she’d seen, for a second, what he really felt. She

had the strangest urge to go to him and say,
No. Please. Sometimes the things we hide—aren’t they the parts of us that matter
most?

Tessa called out to her, and Wren blinked. She started

walking, slowly at first, and then faster. She reached Tessa,

who hip-bumped her.

“I saw you wave at Charlie,” Tessa teased. “Were you

two having a moment, nudge-nudge, wink-wink?”

“Yeah, right,” Wren said.

“Sweet!” Tessa said. “Is that a yes?”

Tessa had suggested on several occasions that Charlie

had a thing for Wren, and she wondered if maybe he did.

Her heart beat a little faster.

But no, she was being stupid. Wren was pretty sure

Charlie had a girlfriend, and plus . . . whatever. It was

impossible, and not in the good sort of way.

“Let’s talk about something more interesting,” Wren

said. “Don’t you think you should go steal P.G. from that

freshman—or save that freshman from P.G.?”

That did the trick. Tessa looked where Wren was indi-

cating and scowled at P.G. and the freshman girl. Wren

couldn’t see P.G.’s face, just the back of his pale blue button-down. He leaned closer to the freshman—his cheek almost

brushing hers—and said something that made her turn

bright red.

“Really?” Tessa muttered.

The freshman squeaked out another giggle, and P.G.

eased back. He turned and saw Tessa and Wren, and his

face broke into a grin.

He strode toward them, owning the courtyard. Owning

everything. Reeking of entitlement and cologne, which,

thanks to his Facebook page, Wren knew was called Czar.

“Tessa Haviland,” he said, stretching out her name. “You.

Look. Hot.”

“Why, thank you,” Tessa said. She practically curtsied.

Wren snorted, and P.G. glanced at her. Whoops. He

gave her a much quicker once-over than Tessa and nodded.

“You look good, too. I approve.”

“Oh,” Wren said. “Then I guess I can die in peace?”

Tessa hip-bumped her. “
Wren
.”

“And I’ll leave you to it,” Wren said, stepping back to let Tessa loop her arm through P.G.’s. They led the way

toward the school, bantering easily, and Wren followed.

When they reached the set of double doors at the

building’s entrance, Wren paused to fish a Coke out of her

backpack for Mr. Cameron, a math teacher who’d been

stuck with foot-traffic control all semester. Mr. Cameron

was a big guy, and he sweated profusely even when it was

chilly out, so one day Wren offered him her drink. She’d

planned on having it during her free period, but she could

get another.

“Bless you, you are an angel, you have my permission

to ditch your classes and go to the movies,” Mr. Cameron

had said, and a tradition had been born. Every morning,

instead of skipping school, Wren tossed Mr. Cameron a

Coke, and every morning, Mr. Cameron caught the can

neatly and popped it open.

“Thanks,” he said now. He took a swig. “I assume you’ll

swing by tomorrow and Friday? Keep your old buddy caf-

feinated?”

The underclassmen had to finish up the school week,

but not the seniors. After today, the seniors wouldn’t

return until the graduation ceremony on Saturday.

“Ooh, sorry,” Wren said, hating to disappoint him even

though she knew he was teasing.

He clasped his free hand to his chest. “So this is it? This

is how it ends?”

She winced. “Sorry!”

She was halfway through the doors when he called her

name. She turned back.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re a great kid, Wren Gray. You’re

going to do great things with your life. Understood?”

There were so many people in the world. Some were

jerks, but most were kind. Wren had to clear her throat

before she could speak. “Understood.”

Ahead of her in the crowded hallway, Tessa bounced

from friend to friend. She truly was like a hummingbird,

all bright flashes and quick movements. Wren moved to

join her, then changed her mind and retreated, leaning

against the glass-paned wall of the front office. She closed

her eyes. She focused on breathing.

All kinds of big things waited for her right around

the corner, all kinds of chances and risks and huge, crazy

changes. She was supposed to let the thrill of it all sweep

her away. But she was scared.

What happened with Charlie—what passed between

them when their guards were down—that scared her, too.

The idea of a person’s hidden parts mattering most, when

she was the one keeping a secret.

In AP English, she’d read a myth about the vastness of

the universe. In it, an old woman told her grandson that

the world rested on the back of a giant turtle. “It does?

Well, what does the turtle rest on?” the grandson asked, and Wren had read faster, naïvely hoping she was about to

be given the answer to life.

But no. The old woman laughed and said, “That’s the

best part. It’s turtles all the way down!”

c h a p t e r t w o

Wren Gray was the most beautiful girl Charlie

Parker had ever seen, and the most brilliant. She didn’t

seem to realize she was either, which was crazy. But Char-

lie had eyes. Charlie knew the truth.

When she smiled, Charlie wanted in on the joke. When

she pushed her dark hair behind her ears, Charlie thought,

Yes, that is how you do it. When she walked down the halls

in her collared shirts and knee-length skirts, he saw with

absolute clarity how much classier she was than the other

girls in their tight jeans and peekaboo thongs. Charlie had

had some experience with girls in tight jeans and peeka-

boo thongs, or with one particular girl in tight jeans and a

thong. She hadn’t left a great impression.

But Wren wasn’t like that girl, or any girl, even though

she was clearly and definitely a girl. Once, on the senior

patio during lunch, she’d lifted her arm to call over her

friend Tessa, and her blouse hugged her curves. He drank

her in for as long as he decently could.

On Wednesday, Charlie drifted through the last day of

classes as if he were in a fog. Everyone else was wired at

the prospect of summer, but Charlie didn’t want sum-

mer. He wanted Wren. But unless he manned up and took

action—like exchanging more than half a dozen words

with her—he was doomed. Wren would go her own way

after Saturday’s graduation ceremony, and Charlie might

never see her again.

On Thursday, which was his first official day of no

school, Charlie worked alongside his foster dad at the

woodworking shop his foster dad owned. He clamped

a slab of cream-colored birch onto the workbench and

switched on the router, shaping the wood to fit an oddly

shaped nook in a client’s bathroom. His thoughts stayed on

Wren as he rounded the corner of the plank. Her sweet

smile. Her shiny hair. The way her brown eyes grew pen-

sive when the end of her pen found its way to the corner of

her mouth, suggesting that she was contemplating some-

thing important.

One day in AP biology, Wren had argued with Ms.

Atkinson about free will in the face of cellular determin-

ism. It was at the beginning of the semester, but already

most of the seniors were starting to tune out their teach-

ers’ lectures, and Charlie wondered if that was why Ms.

Atkinson had tossed out the sensationally termed “para-

site gene,” a gene that supposedly triggered a propensity

toward exploitive behavior in those who carried it. She

encouraged the class to consider what the existence of such

a gene might imply—“Is that what drives the president of

a company to embezzle funds, or an addict to steal from a

family member?”—and while Charlie drew into himself,

Wren shook her head in frustration.

“Humans are too complicated to be explained by unrav-

eling their DNA,” Wren said. “Aren’t they? Otherwise

wouldn’t our lives have no meaning?”

“Why do you say that?” Ms. Atkinson said.

“Because, okay, say a kid is born with the
‘parasite gene,’

if there is such a thing. Are you saying he has no choice but

to grow up and mooch off others? He’ll never contribute

anything to society?”

“Nice job of assuming it’s a guy,” Thad Lundeen had said.

Wren had blushed. “Fine. Sorry. But what if a boy or a

girl is born with . . . whatever. A fear-of-flying gene. Does

that mean he or she can’t grow up to be a pilot? No matter

what, end of story?”

Different kids jumped in. The conversation grew loud

and off-track, and Charlie wondered if he was the only one

to hear her last comment.

“And what about souls?” she said, bowing her head and

addressing her desk. “Don’t souls count for anything?”

Her downcast eyes, her pink cheeks—he saw them in

his mind still. He held in his brain an entire store of the

amazing things she’d done and said. He loved the whole

package.

And then, yesterday, when she waved at him outside the

school . . .

Something had passed between them. Something he

couldn’t explain, and it had made him forget that he didn’t

believe in souls. Anyway, who was he kidding? He didn’t

believe in love, either, but this he knew: He loved Wren

Gray. He’d loved her forever, it seemed.