by Sakurapu
His fingers tightened on her hand, smiling tauntingly at her as he positioned in front of her, tilting his head until he was eye level. "Let's skip this school intro thing and see the town instead. Show me around. I never been here before."
She was still looking into his eyes, caught in a stare that seemed deeper than black in their ultramarine-green depths, until she realized he'd moved her hand to rest on his jeans and his hand was sliding under her arm, snakelike to her elbow. Her mouth gaped as she saw her fingers close instinctively on his belt loop at his hip.
A shadow fell over them and a taller body was suddenly between them. "Going up." A hand whisked Ivy's arm away from Dred's belt loop and elbowed him into locker 418. He said to Dred through gritted teeth, "Don't handle the help."
Ivy looked far up.
Vohn Lugori was taller, a junior, and had been Camille's crush until two weeks ago. His moppish black hair fell over his brow, his quick dark eyes locked on Dred's fuming face as his shoulder brushed the shorter boy against the lockers again with a metallic scrunch.
"Hey," Dred said as Vohn's sleeve wiped the word from his mouth. Dred sidestepped and shoved Vohn's shoulder as the junior passed. "Get out of the way, man."
Ivy stepped back as a second round of lethal looks were exchanged. The hall fell quieter and the freshmen within six lockers made room for a potential confrontation.
Instead, Vohn tripped Dred's ankles out from him with a swift swoop of one Nike. There was a crash of flesh on metal and then a thud of Dred on the hardwood floor.
He leaped to his feet. "Hey!"
"Hands off."
Ivy watched Vohn continue on down the row of lockers.
"Hey!" Dred screamed at him.
"We're past that," Vohn said over his shoulder, not looking back.
A few girls giggled, a few boys laughed. Dred fumed a shade of angry red, glaring at Vohn's back until he was out of sight.
Ivy looked meekly back to him as the milling voices rose again in the hall. Her eyes narrowed. "My locker's around the corner. I'm not skipping school, Dred. I don't do that. Now, do you want help finding your class or not?"
Some of the color faded from his face as he fought for composure. "Who the hell does he think he is?"
She shrugged, picking the class schedule from his fist. "Vohn Lugori. Junior. Kind of quiet, but seems okay. If you want the full info dump on him, you'll have to ask Camille Anderson." She shot him a scowl. "But you have to be nice to her and no handy-pocket stuff, Dred. Whatever that was, we don't do it here." She shook the incident from her mind. She found his class schedule was firmly creased from his clench. "We've blown through first hour already. It's a short class anyway. You've got World History with Mrs. Reardon. We can walk together." She saw him wind up for a pun. "Don't fool with her name, Dred. Her husband is the wrestling coach."
He looked somewhat deflated, and then turned to the locker. "What's the cipher?"
She giggled. "No one calls them ciphers. Is that what they're called in Canada?"
He glanced at her. "Huh?"
"Canada. Is that what you call locker coms there?"
He nodded, turning back to the door. "Eh, yeah. Okay, go."
She leaned against the locker beside his, facing him, her voice dropping. "Ready?"
"Show me around town later."
She lowered the paper. "I'm with the Welcome Wagon, Dred. That's school."
He grinned, and she felt something trip in her mind.
"All right. School first." He gave the lock dial a whirl. "Fire away, Ivybelle."
* * * * *
Maeve looked to the two juniors at the urinals and jerked a thumb at the restroom door. "Beat it."
"You can't be in here," one snapped, zipping his fly.
The other turned his back to her. "Yeah, this is—"
"Beat it." She pulled a can of mace spray from her purse. "Now."
Both boys finished zipping up and headed for the doorway.
Maeve's violet eyes found the only stall with a shut door. She swiftly kicked it open.
"Hey!" Dred yelped.
The door slammed into the stall wall and then shut again. Maeve pushed through it, confronting Dred standing before the toilet, puffing on the cigarette shaking in his hand.
"You can't come in here!"
She pushed him to the side wall. He choked out a smoke ring as his back hit. She blew the ring away and slapped the butt out of his fingers. "Got something to show me, stud?"
He grinned, then took a nervous half-step to nearly wedge himself at the toilet paper holder. "Yeah, I got a big show, if you wanna—"
"I've seen it all, bud. This is my school. You're supposed to check in at the house before you show up for class." She sized up his attempt at freshman masculinity. "Geez, give the aftershave a breather. What'd you do? A second dose since this morning?"
"I did check in."
She grabbed his collar and pulled it out, then grabbed the pack of cigarettes he had rolled under one T-shirt sleeve at his shoulder. "What is this? Grease, the Revenge?" She broke the pack in half and dropped it in the toilet. "Flush it."
He pushed the lever down and watched the cigarettes and pack plunge into the toilet drain.
"Who'd you check in with?"
"Some fidgety guy named Evandis." He chuckled. "Damn, that guy's queer."
"In the exact sense, yes." She raised an eyebrow. "Your vernacular sucks. You need help on it." She beckoned with her hand. "Give me your phone."
Reluctantly, he reached into his back jeans pocket and gave her his cell phone.
"First, get up to speed on the regional slang. You're off a few decades." Her fingers flew over the buttons. "Queer means, in most circles, alternative lifestyle-slash-sexual choices. So does gay."
"So he is queer." He grinned until she gave him a shrewd look.
"Evandis is flamboyant, lively, and ridiculous. Talented and time pro, too, but a dandy. He's a Willow; what do you expect?" She handed his phone back. "That's a good urban dictionary to get your vocabulary adjusted. This is my school. I don't have five-year students in my school. Two years and out. No repeats. You want to take your time and screw up in all the most vital places, you go back to square one. Got it?"
He frowned at the phone screen. "What happened to my wallpaper?"
"Now," she said, leaning close enough to bite him as his eyes rose to hers, "are you going to show me, Dred, or do I have to examine you inch by inch?"
Chapter Two
Ivy opened her locker door, ready to dodge a stray book threatening to tumble down on her from the top shelf. Instead, a small gray-white envelope drifted down. She caught it immediately, even as Lornie gasped and reached for it.
"So soon?" Lornie said.
Ivy tore open the envelope. It already had a singed design in black and brown decorating the top, with a spatter of red at one corner. "I love the stationery she chose," she said with a giggle. She pulled out the card inside. It was smoky gray, with frantic red printing. "Come to my Halloween party—If you dare . . ." she read. "November First, eight 'til midnight. Costumes a must."
"Ugh, opening night is messing up all the events." Lornie spun to look past the dozen of students between her and her locker. "I wonder if got mine—"
A girl's shriek echoed from the midst of the jock crowd down the hall, followed by a few more girls' screaming in delight and several boys laughing.
Lornie looked back to Ivy. "Looks like she invited a lot of the school."
"Go grab yours." Ivy felt more than saw Dred's eyes boring holes in her invitation.
"Right back." Lornie pushed her way through the students waving their invitations.
"Halloween party?" Dred's hair nearly eclipsed Ivy's view of her invitation. "Who's Camille?"
"Camille. Our friend. She's got a boyfriend now, so we don't see much of her." She stuffed the invite and envelope into her bag and zipped it shut as he reached for it. "Don't you have Halloween in Canada?"
"Huh? Oh. Yeah
, eh. But on October Thirty-First."
"So do we; it's just Camille's party is a day late because our school play opens on the Thirty-first. Conflict of interests, you know. Besides, the whole town will be at the play."
"Got it." He grinned, crowding her until the locker door pinned to the one beside it. "What're you going to be for the party?"
She edged out from his nearness and pulled her book bag between them. "A Southern belle. In fact, I have to pick up some notions today after class."
"Yeah? Where?"
"In town."
"Show me where."
"You don't look like the sewing type, Dred."
But there he was, the third shadow with her and Lornie after school as they entered Pins & Bobbins. A new line of knitting needles in funky colors lined the wall behind the counter. Ivy stopped, staring at the foot-plus-long needles. They always brought back a bout of pain, those needles, and in her mind's eye, she saw again her mother's hands deftly working a pair of knitting needles with a skein of soft yarn. The baby blue strand of yarn was a fuzzy blur as her mother whisked the thread into a pair of baby-booties.
It was supposed to be for Ivy's baby brother, but that baby was never born. With two months left before little brother was to enter their world, Ivy's mother had been rushed to the hospital with complications. At age six, Ivy didn't understand at the time.
Since then, however, she understood. Most of the tears were gone by now, but Ivy still felt that twinge of loss every time she saw that shade of blue.
"Okay, Ivy?" Lornie asked in a sing-song tone.
"All good," came Ivy's standard reply. As much as being in the sewing and needlecraft shop piqued at her memories, the pull of being close to her mother's favorite hobby also brought back some good feelings when Ivy faced the threads, needles, and fabric in the shop. The wave of loss passed, to be replaced by an emotional warmth that also followed.
Dred leaned to her. "What's up? Something wrong, Ivy?"
The shopkeeper, Mrs. Dreyhaupt, smiled a wrinkly smile at the girls, giving a less sure one to Dred. She was an older, plump, knowledgeable woman who spent most of her time knitting or sewing and finding even the most elusive of sewing notions for her patrons. "Hello, Ivy, Lornie. How're the tryouts going?"
Lornie beamed, making a beeline to the counter where Mrs. Dreyhaupt was sorting embroidery floss. "Still in the running, yes. I'll find out soon."
"Mmm, I have something you might be interested in." The shopkeeper pulled a tray out of the counter back side. She held up a spool of thread that gleamed a bright burnt brass color in the overhead lights. "Industrial Punk BronzeLight, just off the mill. I thought you'd want the first spool."
Ivy watched Lornie take the spool of metal-colored thread in both hands like it was a holy relic. To Lornie, and anyone trying out for the school's steampunk version of the play Romeo and Juliet, it was a holy relic. Lornie held the spool in awe, then up to the light where the bulbs caught the color like a roll of burnished bronze.
Mrs. Dreyhaupt wedged herself between the counter exit and the bolts of cloth standing up near the back wall. "Your order came in, Ivy. Looks good, too."
Ivy nearly skipped to the back wall. "A whole bolt? The sample was perfect!"
Dred trailed, uncertain. "A what?"
"You wanted to come along," she reminded him, her gaze fastened on the white and green bolt the shopkeeper pulled from behind the other rolls of cloth. She held her breath as the green on white printed cloth emerged. "Oh, it's lovely."
The shopkeeper placed the bolt on the counter and unrolled two yards.
Ivy cupped the cloth tenderly, eyes moving over the design. It was an exact replica of the green leafy pattern on a white background from Scarlett O'Hara's barbecue dress from the film Gone with the Wind. She'd meticulously reconstructed it from a pattern she'd seen online, blown it up, made a template from a block of foam, and fashioned a sample to send through Pins & Bobbins to a custom print shop. She couldn't use the standard online submission form with her cloth sample, but Mrs. Dreyhaupt had come to her rescue for that. She'd wanted to buy the reconstructed ready-to-use print available online, but since its release in the 1990s, it was always sold out.
The foam print result was perfect.
Ivy held up the cloth edge, smiling at the brilliant green sprigged design printed on the white organza. "Just like her dress at the barbecue at Twelve Oaks."
"It's not even a dress," Dred said, scowling at the fabric.
"It will be once Ivy gets done with it," Mrs. Dreyhaupt said stiffly. "Who is this young man, Ivy? Your beau?"
Lornie broke out into a guffawing laugh until Ivy shot her a dark look.
"No," Ivy snapped, mostly to Lornie. "He's new in town. Mrs. Dreyhaupt, this is Dred. From Canada."
"Eh," Dred said with a nod to the shopkeeper.
Mrs. Dreyhaupt raised an eyebrow and mumbled, "Mm-hmm."
"I've already finished the taffeta petticoat, and velvet sash," Ivy said, nearly in a dreamlike state as she let the silk organza fall through her hand. "The bodice is nearly done, and most of the ruffles are done. I just have to attach the blouse to the skirt and thread the green ribbon through."
Dred seemed to have put a few pieces together on his own. "A costume? You're making this all," he gestured to the full bolt of twenty yards of cloth, "into one dress?"
"Yes." Ivy nearly flinched at the amused disbelief in his face. "If you don't like it, then . . . then just go now, Dred."
The humor flicked from his face as he gauged her reaction. "Okay. Yeah. A big dress. From . . . you said a movie?"
"Gone with the Wind," Ivy said. "How can you not have heard of it? Even in Canada?"
"Oh, yeah, I have. Lots of it." He sent a quick look to Lornie, who was clasping her thread spool like brass knuckles, and then back to Ivy. "Can I see you in it?"
Ivy's affront was replaced by a blush. "In, in the costume?"
"Yeah. This, and all the other things you said went with it." He shrugged, his fingers moving to the fabric near his hand, before withdrawing. "Ah, my hands might be dirty. So, you'll show me this big . . ." He glanced at the receipt the shopkeeper was writing up. The tiny image of Scarlett O'Hara in the green print dress was paperclipped to the invoice. "Wow. This enormous dress you're making, Ivy?"
Ivy couldn't stop the full-on flush that bloomed from her throat up over her cheeks. "Y-Yes. Sure. I guess so, Dred."
A throaty chuckle came from Mrs. Dreyhaupt. "It might be good to get a male opinion, Ivy. Your father not included, of course."
Ivy could almost feel the grin spread across Dred's face. Out of sight by the notions pegboard, Lornie giggled. Ivy briskly rolled the loose cloth back onto the bolt. "I guess so."
Three minutes later, they were out of the shop and back on the sidewalk. Lornie nearly tripped over an uneven section of sidewalk as she watched the later afternoon sun glint off the metallic thread spool she held up to the sun.
"I love this color. So bright. So metallic. So—" Lornie caught herself as her foot clipped another raised piece of concrete. "Ouch! Again! Why don't they fix this stuff?" She mumbled and looked back at the spool now clutched tight in her hand.
Ivy peeked out from behind the bundle of plastic-bagged bolt she carried. "Taxes. You know. Taxes for everything around here."
"So says my dad." Lornie suddenly tilted her wrist so that her gear-exposed watch faced her. "Oh, no! I'm almost late! I've gotta sit for the Marvin kids tonight. You're sure you can fill in for me for Halloween, right, Ivy?"
"Yeah," Ivy said, her voice muffled as the bolt of cloth fell over her collarbone at a different angle. She cinched her arms tighter around it. "Strange that the opening night for Romeo and Juliet is Halloween. No Trick-or-Treating mayhem for anyone in the cast."
Lornie put her spool of thread in her bag. "Guess not. 'Kay, I'm off. Catch you later, Ivy. Dred."
"Bye!" Ivy called as Lornie sprinted down the next alley they came to, disappearing among the store back de
livery lane entries.
"See ya!" Dred returned. He glanced to Ivy. "Let me carry that before you fall."
She shifted the bolt to the other side, away from him. "I got it."
"Sure?"
"Yup."
They walked in silence down the sidewalk, against the chill breeze upgrading to a wind as the shops fell away to be replaced by the more heavily treed stretch of sidewalk two blocks out of the town proper. Also, Ivy realized, much more broken. She stepped carefully over a giant hole in the concrete where water had collected in the earlier shower.
"You don't have to walk me," she told Dred when the quiet became too noticeable. "I always walk alone when Lornie is busy. No biggie."
"You shouldn't," he said, slinging an arm lightly across her shoulders. "Never know what lurks—"
"Off, please," she said, wriggling her shoulder nearest him.
His arm only clamped a little harder. "Just bracing you, Ivy."
"I don't need it." She felt the blush spike in her cheeks again.
The oak trees cleared and a dark shadow fell over them. Ivy nearly stopped as Brylinden Hall loomed several acres away. Even at the distance, the old blend of architectural styles made passersby pause. To Ivy, it was a mix of emotions that made her halt. "A blend of Romanesque Revival, Gothic Revival, and High Victorian styles, utilizing the stone and rustic ironwork rather than common stick style," her father had told her when they'd first seen the house in good daylight. To her, the four-story house was both imposing and mysteriously curious.
"Brylinden Hall," she murmured, eyes riveted to the house. "Dad said it's as complex as a Queen Anne, but solid as a fortress. Looks so gloomy and yet beautiful in the right lighting."
"You think so?" He shrugged, bringing her a few inches closer before relaxing the proximity. "You like it?"
"Well, I appreciate it," she said.
"You and your dad go house gazing together or something?"
"He's an architect. Mostly city planning stuff, but it's kind of fun to look at the different styles. Together." She watched him take in the Hall with a more thoughtful gaze. "You?" His fingers tightened on her shoulder and this time she sidestepped. "Don't get so—Ugh!"
