That got her attention. The girl looked at Wren, looked at Arthur, looked around, looked at Wren again.
“You usually have to book in advance.”
“Usually, OK. But maybe you could make an exception?”
“Sorry, it’s policy.”
“Come on,” Wren pleaded. “The place is dead. I promise you can go right back to posting TikToks for your twelve followers.”
“I’m actually an influencer.”
“And I’m an artist. Now, what do you say?”
It was true, the placewasdead. There wasn’t another paying customer in the place at midday on a weekday, except for maybe one sad-looking child playing on an iPad in the corner. Probably an employee’s kid, Wren guessed.
“How many in your party?” The girl sighed. “We offer an all-inclusive six-child package for ninety-nine dollars.”
“Just two adults—wait, ninety-nine dollars?” Arthur said, aghast. “Are you kidding?”
“If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go down the road and try your hand at Boing Trampoline Park. Their party packagesstartat four hundred dollars.”
“That’s completely unreasonable! When I was a kid—” Wren shot him a look, signaling to get on with it. He promptly bit his tongue.
“Whatever, fine. Just two adults,” Wren said.
The teen groaned, looked at the ceiling likeCome on, lady. “I don’t have a button on my computer for that.”
That’s when Arthur stepped back in.
“Look, we’ll pay the”—he swallowed hard—“ninety-nine dollars. Can you just give us a pizza and some game cards and get the mouse guy to sing to my girlfriend?”
In that moment, Wren could not recall ever loving him more.
“Girlfriend?” The teen couldn’t help but eye Wren’s belly.
“Hey, up here,” Wren snapped, pointing to her eyes. Arthur put a hand on her shoulder,Down, girl.
“So can you help us out?” Arthur asked.
The employee sucked her lips, then hit a few buttons on the screen. A moment later, she handed over a few game cards.
“These are loaded up. Your pizza will be in the party room in about twenty minutes. What’s the name and age of the birthday boy or girl?”
“Wren, that’sW-R-E-N, and…twenty-nine,” Wren answered.
“This is amazing, thank you,” Arthur said, grabbing the cards before the employee could change her mind. “And what about the mouse?”
“No one sees the big man without an appointment,” she replied, stone serious. For some reason, Wren gulped. “I mean the guy that plays him doesn’t get here until five. Now, if you had booked ahead, like you’re supposed to…”
Wren, light on her feet with glee, grabbed Arthur by thearm and dragged him toward the games. “Come on, let’s go!” she said, before yelling back, “Thanks again!”
“Hey,” Arthur said, “you’re sure Ferdie will be all right if we’re gone a few hours?”
“He’s nine thousand years old and totally housebroken, what’s he gonna do? Have a kegger? Now, hand over the game card.”
They reached the center of the establishment, arcade and midway games and ball pits and trampolines surrounding them. Wren took a moment just to soak it all in. The lights, the sounds. The stale odor of pitchers of Coke spilled many years ago. It was pure extract of childhood, and she let it wash over her, trying to absorb it into her soul like a witch trying to stay young.
“Charles Cheese, you magnificent bastard,” she said. He really was the best celebrity mouse. “Mickey Mouse can eat shit.”
