“I don’t mean to interrupt this spiritual baptism for you,” Arthur said. “But…what did the slip of paper say, exactly?”
“It said ‘Have a Birthday Party at Chuck E. Cheese.’ ”
“And you’re sure you didn’t mean have achild’sbirthday party? Because that, I think, we can do.”
Wren supposed that, to him, this all seemed ridiculous. That maybe she owed him at least a brief explanation.
“We can do it, and we will. But it won’t be for me,” she said bluntly. “Look, I can’t wait to be the mom handing out floppy plates of pizza and leading the chorus of ‘Happy Birthday,’ really. But is it so bad to want to be the star? To be the birthday girl, one last time?”
Last time, first time. Who was counting? Family had done their best when she was young; she remembered a few Funfetti cakes with cheap numbered candles, a handful ofpresents unwrapped at kitchen tables. But never the big party all the other kids at school seemed to be having—and not inviting her to. And why would they? She was never in one place long enough to make good friends, birthday party friends, Chuck E. Cheese friends.
Except there had been one girl in fifth grade, Emma. She and Wren had become close pretty quickly, close enough for Wren to get the coveted invite to Emma’s Chuck E. Cheese birthday. It was everything she had ever wanted, and it was all finally happening. But her uncle had an unexpected work trip come up and sent Wren away for a couple of weeks to stay with his sister, who lived far on the other side of town, and she wasn’t able to go. Worse, everyone who went brought in all their winnings from the Rat Casino the next day, to show off: little plastic army men, slap bracelets, candy necklaces. Flaunting all of it right in front of Wren. Those traitors.
Arthur smiled, understanding, and took her hands. “No, no, it’s not so bad.”
He looked like he wanted to kiss her, but she had her sights set on something else.
“I see Skee-Ball, get out of my way!”
And she was off.
After a dozen rounds of Skee-Ball and three sweaty, profanity-laced games of air hockey and a down-to-the-buzzer basketball shootout, Arthur and Wren’s party room was ready.
The influencer led them to the Yellow room, where they were seated next to each other at one of several long, cafeteria-style tables draped in cheap confetti tablecloths.
There were two paper plates in front of them and a piping-hot, golden-brown pepperoni pizza sitting on a silver stand.
“Happy birthday,” the teen deadpanned. “Do you want a cake? It’s an extra charge.”
“Yes,” Arthur chimed in. “We’ll take your finest cake.”
“There’s only one kind.”
“Then that’s the one we’ll take.”
The girl rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but Wren stopped her.
“Sorry, no chance the costume guy decided to come in early, is there?”
“Not yet, but I’ll page him. Let him know there’s an emergency.”
“Really?”
“Oh sure, right away.” And then she left.
“You know.” Wren frowned, donning a cone-shaped party hat from a stack on the table. “I’m beginning to think these people aren’t taking their job seriously enough.” She blew loudly into a paper party horn.
“So,” Arthur said, ignoring her and serving them each a slice of pizza. “Is it everything you dreamed of? I’m sorry you won’t get to meet Chuck.”
“Yeah, that part is a bummer,” she said, a little embarrassed by how disappointed she was. “But, on the plus side, we haveso manytickets!”
“Wait, we do? From Skee-Ball and basketball?”
“When you were in the bathroom Imighthave played a few ticket games. What took you so long, by the way?”
“I accidentally wandered into an employees-only area, took forever to actually find the bathroom. This place is a maze.”
“Well, you being gone was obviously my good luck charm,because I hit it big, babe,” she said. No jackpot, unfortunately, but she had gone on a hot streak on the Stop the Light game and racked up some big numbers. “We might even have enough tickets to get a Chinese finger trap.”
