by Sakurapu
Lornie smiled. "Hey, Bow-Maker 500 videos on YouTube. It was the only thing I did two years ago when I broke both legs. Damn roller derby. So much for frustration busting."
"Some safe alternative to field hockey, I know." Ivy laid the corset on the bed, the panels and channels already sewn in. The linen color coutil was already reinforced and she'd allowed for the spiral and steel boning. She wanted it film-accurate, with no buckling or flipping.
Lornie frowned at the design. "Why so many channels? I thought you only needed twenty."
"I went with thirty." Ivy's face took on a defensive look. "What if I eat too much and pop out? I want it to keep me in, rolls and all."
"You don't have rolls, Ivy." Lornie giggled. "And even if you did, the corset would push them up into cleavage."
"And down into peplum hips." Ivy pulled the material to her and placed the facing over it, then gathered the metal boning to insert. "You ever hear of that old house on Oaks Lane being used for a Carrie movie float? Like, a long time ago."
Lornie was intent on the velvet ribbon in her hands, stretching it out to arm's length. "No. Was it?"
"Not for the real movie, but for a school float photo. My dad said it was from his high school time."
"That old? No, never heard . . . of that." Lornie let the ribbon slip through her fingers. "But I think my mom might know. She's about the same age as your dad." Her voice lowered despite the door being closed. "I'll get her old yearbook. She won't mind. It'll be better than asking her to find it for us. You know, in case Dad's in any of them."
Ivy nodded. "Good thinking."
"You've been heading that way after school, I noticed." Lornie raised an eyebrow, resuming her bow making.
Ivy ignored the pink threatening her cheeks. "Yeah, well . . . Dred lives in that old house now."
Lornie chortled a bolt of laughter. "No . . . Really?" When Ivy nodded slowly, Lornie shook her head. "I didn't think that place was even livable. Condemned or something. You've been there?"
"A few times."
"A few times?" Lornie squealed a giggle. "What's it like? It looks haunted."
Ivy felt a sudden surge of protectionism for the odd lot of people she'd only recently met. "It does look haunted, but really, it's nice, in an old, damaged way. I mean, the house isn't damaged, just . . . full of character."
"Sounds like something your dad would say."
Ivy watched a complicated bow form of the green velvet in her friend's hands. "I think I'd like to find out its history."
Lornie nodded. "Probably has a lot. Those old fuddy-duddies at the Historical Society would know."
Ivy nodded, intent on slipping the metal stays into the corset. "Probably."
It wasn't until after dark and dinner that Ivy and Lornie had time to look at her mother's old yearbook. They blew past the student photos, most with far too much hair and shot in dull gray and white from the 1970s. It was in the back, past the sports and club sections, that the extracurricular photos of homecoming and talent contests made a menagerie of collections on six pages.
Two pages were paper-clipped together, and Lornie carefully removed the clip. She pulled the pages open, bracing. On the left page were photos of prom couples, among them her mom and dad. She resisted a cringe.
"You okay?" Ivy asked, watching Lornie's face carefully.
"Yeah. They just looked so happy there. Married young, had kids later in life." The photo was old, dull in black-and-white, of two full-haired seniors in a tacky pastel suit and flowery polyester off-shoulder prom dress. Their smiles were real, even if the setting seemed like a movie still for a '70s sitcom. "Look at those clothes."
"Well, the short skirts came back; good thing those suits didn't." Ivy didn't see any parade floats on either page. "Try the next page."
Lornie turned the page.
They had moved to the window seat built into the wall in her room after dinner, Ivy's dress hanging to one side on a wooden peg. It was a warm place to sit, since the living room below had a fireplace on the wall and Lornie's mom had built a fire in the hearth to get the chill out of the air, so she termed it.
Ivy sat back, pressing her back to the warm wall. She couldn't understand why Lornie's dad would leave such a welcome home. She'd always been a little jealous of Lornie Van Dormann, with all her younger siblings and both parents, when she was a child. The homey Van Dormann house, the noise of family, the delicious smells of cooking and baking—these were things Ivy wanted to come home to.
But that was when she was very young. Now, since Lornie's dad had left three years ago, everything was different. Different sounds and smells, no sports on the TV or pot roasts in the oven; different cars in the driveway as Lornie's mom sometimes struggled with bills and needs for four children. For two years it had been casseroles and limited TV stations, a very used car until last year. Then things had picked up for the household. Visitation schedules, child support caught up—according to Lornie—and more smiling from her mom.
Ivy couldn't count the times Lornie had let her grades slip, and worse. She'd always been there for her friend, as Lornie had offered an open ear to anything Ivy wanted to talk about.
Even with all that, Ivy didn't want to share what she knew of Brylinden Hall. Not yet.
"Is this it?" Lornie held up the yearbook to better light.
Ivy looked closer at the image on the page. It was the Hall in black-and-white, looking much the same, with a float made of tissue flowers. A scarecrow-like "Carrie" character was draped on a fake fence, her bloody dress hanging on her, with stuffed "bodies" arranged around the flatbed trailer. About twenty high school students were making peace sign Vs with their fingers, mugging for the camera.
"I think so."
"Lornie! Phone call!" her mother's voice hollered up the stairs.
Lornie groaned. "Probably Dad again. I told him not to call my cell."
"Oh."
"Back in a minute." Lornie pushed the yearbook to Ivy and left the room.
Ivy took the book in her lap and switched up the light setting on the snake-arm lamp hovering over the seat. She didn't find her dad in any of the float pictures. The Hall was simply a backdrop, as he had said, not really part of the float concept. She flipped back to the individual pictures by grade and found her dad.
He was geeky and nerdy—nearly everyone was—with a few big-haired boys and ironed-flat-haired girls. She found her mother a grade younger, and smiled at the image. She could see the resemblance every time she looked in a mirror, but there was no rush of familiarity. She hated to admit it, but she had few memories of her mother aside from crocheting or knitting; most were memories of what her mother would have been like.
She flipped through the pages, being careful, pausing on some of them to laugh at the school or a few names she recognized. She passed one on the juniors page, and then stopped and went back.
The girl was much like the others, with long, straight hair and a beaded necklace over her solid color turtleneck, but her eyes held Ivy's attention. She sat forward, pulling the lamp head closer.
Sure enough, Maeve's piercing eyes looked back at her. The girl's direct stare, her commanding poise, her ageless appearance despite the decades of time—there was no mistake.
She found the girl's name in the list of students on the page. "Mary Gretchens." She frowned, then looked up the name in the back student directory. There was only the one listing, with no extra curricular activity noted.
". . . the last time," Lornie grumbled as she returned, nearly slamming the door. "Doesn't he get it? I don't need him anymore." She plopped down beside Ivy and rested a napkin of warm brownies on her knee. "Have some. Comfort food."
Ivy closed the yearbook, her mind twisting with the old image of Maeve. "Thanks." She forced her thoughts to her friend's pensive face. "Everything all right, Lornie?"
"Yeah. I'm okay." She popped half the brownie into her mouth. "Everything's better with chocolate."
* * * * *
The year
book photo of Maeve was still on Ivy's mind that next day. She went through classes without seeing Maeve at school, and then through her crochet instruction at the library with a record seventeen students ages ten through twelve, and then stayed after to do research.
She just caught Mrs. Rinnhaldt, president of the Rasperville Historical Society in time for a few questions.
"Yes, I think we do," Mrs. Rinnhaldt said, pulling on her wool coat. She was tall and thin, and the coat looked more like it was on a hanger than a seventy-year-old woman. "They should be in the back, where the Genecology Group meets."
"Oh, of course," Ivy said, feigning only half ignorance. "That's right."
"Looking up family, dear?"
"Well, maybe. I guess I'll see, right?" Ivy gave her best smile.
Mrs. Rinnhaldt raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, well, we don't always find great things in the past, do we? Those commercials on television always act like we do, but truth is, sometimes we have rotten apples in our family trees."
"Sometimes. Hopefully not." Ivy was well aware of the rivalry between the Genecology Group and Historical Society. Some bad blood no one could remember.
"I'm off to bingo. Good luck, Ivy," Mrs. Rinnhaldt said.
"Bye," Ivy said, watching her leave.
It left only Ivy, Mrs. Galewaters, and a scout troop earning their Dewey decimal badge in the library. She headed to the back of the library.
She had talked herself out of thinking the picture in the yearbook was Maeve last night, but that morning, all through classes and into lunch, she could find no other explanation. She'd hoped she wouldn't see the girl at school, and hadn't, but felt as if she was just out of eyeshot.
She stopped at the back of the building where the old maps, newspapers, and magazines were stored. Since an outbreak of mold in the basement last summer, some of the more historical research materials were simply stacked on shelves at the back, divided off from the library front sections by folding screens patterned with old newsprint panels. She stepped behind the edge of the first, sighing at the mammoth bookcases and shelves that lined the back wall and jutted out in dark rows. Maybe she was pursuing a fruitless, and baseless, idea, but the resemblance in the yearbook was uncanny.
She went to the back of the last row and found the building's wall. Here the high school memorabilia was stashed, rarely used and mostly unwanted. On a support post hung large framed sheets of alumni class photos, in oval shapes, of past years. She paused here, swinging aside the large plastic page that was as big as a movie poster. "Class of 2014," she read.
At least she was in the right place. She ran her hand over the top edges of the plastic-cased poster-pages, guessing there had to be at least twenty. To her right, nearer to the back wall, were more stands, each holding nearly two dozen plastic pages of oval student senior photos arranged by class.
She pulled a metal library lamp closer and turned up the brightness. It took only a moment to discover that the archives weren't exactly up to date. They weren't categorized for a few years, but picked up three years ago. She turned them, searching for Maeve, but didn't find her. "Too late, or early," she decided.
She swung the large pages, going back to find her dad, and her mother, decades ago. She continued, going back to the classes of 1968, 1962, and even earlier. By now she was on the second stand of alumni pages. It wasn't until her second pass through 1967 that she saw Maeve again, this time listed as Mimi Greitz.
Ivy stared for a long time at the oval black-and-white photo.
She was positive it was Maeve, even with the coils of dark hair framing her face and a cheerier smile. An unsettled feeling passed through her, and with a shaky hand, she reached for the panel showing 1966 students.
The ovals continued, 1965, 1964, 1963—but no Maeve.
She sighed a little, trying to find a logical reason. Maybe it was Maeve's mother, or older aunt, or grandmothers. It had to be. Family resemblances ran strong in some families. She turned the page again and again, reaching 1954.
Margaret Goddard stared back at her, this time Maeve in a sweetheart neckline with her hair pulled back in a Doris Day style.
Ivy swallowed, feeling faint. She held on tightly to the framed class page, trying to comprehend. She turned the next page slowly.
She didn't see Maeve again until 1941, and then in 1928, and then in 1915. She was afraid to look past that, but there were fewer students in each class, and even less girls.
Someone cleared their throat from beyond the archive area.
"She knows your secrets," she heard a male voice whisper. "And I think she's getting too close."
Ivy froze, her mind going numb at the nearness of the voice.
There was a long pause, and then, "He's been careless . . ."
She held her breath, determining the voice was coming from behind the divider to her left.
There was the shuffle of feet, and then the voice spoke again, lower. He sighed, then said, "Maybe later then."
There was a soft beep, and Ivy guessed it was a phone call.
Someone scooted a chair out and then the sound of books moving. Footsteps faded to the library front.
Ivy let out a careful breath. It could have been anyone, but there was something familiar about the scent.
Aftershave, she guessed, but she couldn't place from where she knew it.
Chapter Twelve
"No, no, no!" Mr. Sandovar cried, crossing the stage and waving his arms at the teen boys playing the rivaling Capulets and Montagues. He was in charge of choreographing the rumble scene. "This is a duel, a dancing duel number, not a real melee!"
Ivy wanted to giggle, but could only stare. The dark theater offered a sort of solace from her thoughts, but the play practice for the fight scene in Romeo and Juliet wasn't proving enough of a distraction. She glanced to Forrester, who was in his practice costume as Paris. He kept fiddling with his fake mustache, sneezing. Everywhere, wooden swords in rapier style were clashing.
Lornie stood at stage left, beaming at her chance to stand in for Juliet's Are You Satisfied? scene in her post-engagement number. Carlie had a cold. Lornie had practiced pining over Romeo all afternoon as they finished Ivy's dress.
Still, Ivy's mind was full of black-and-white images of Maeve—sometimes Mabel, Mary or Madeline—from the library school archives. She'd tried to show one of the class groupings to Lornie from her cell phone pictures, but Lornie didn't see any familiarity.
"But that guy," Lornie had pointed out, indicating a boy two photos away from Maeve in 1928, "looks kinda familiar. Geez, we had such a small graduating class that year that they let the girls and boys have a photo together?"
Ivy had taken another look at the cell phone image. "No, the ovals were placed on the class archives later, for posterity. I'm sure they had separate pages at the time."
"Posterior?" a voice from behind them had said.
Ivy had nearly keeled over. Dred stood looking over their shoulders as they waited for the rush of students to leave the school hallway earlier. She'd snapped the phone off, staring at him. "No."
"What ya up to?" he'd wanted to know.
She didn't tell him, and he didn't seem to recognize Maeve's old photo. "Research, for . . . for my dress."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going," Lornie had told them. "See you there, Ivy!"
And she'd left her alone with Dred.
Now in the safety of the dim theater, Ivy realized how weak her excuse of not going with him to the Hall was. He'd bought it—after all, she did have a lot of homework—but it would only take a few wrong words to let slip her interest in the school archives.
But, she had learned, he didn't wear the same aftershave she'd detected at the library.
The conductor tapping his baton on the music stand in the orchestra pit brought Ivy's attention to the stage. On it, in mostly full costumes, the scene was set for Juliet's post-engagement to Paris number. Lornie stood in the center of the bedroom, pulling at her hair as she began the song. Nearby, He
idi as Juliet's nurse, looked on, this time with a headset to autotune her voice when her part of the song came to join in. Ivy marveled that Heidi could join the fluidity of roller-skating with her jerky mime-like movements while singing.
Lornie went through the number, but all Ivy could concentrate on was the violins in the pit, their harmonized chords plucking through the mostly empty auditorium. Somewhere in her memory of the last week or so, Mandrake's playing at Brylinden Hall floated back to her. She smiled, recalling the blond man's aggressive talent with the instrument. There had been something bold in his playing, something not undermined by his ability to make the violin play the more sensitive notes with the same affect.
At least, affect on her. She shook her head, trying to shake it from her mind as her curiosity brought back the name of the piece he was composing in the second floor music room. Year of the Bone. She couldn't imagine what it meant, except to have something to do with Scarlet's play. She'd done an internet search for the term, but found nothing about a play of the name.
By the time she looked back at the stage, and really focused, the setting had changed for the Mantua apothecary scene. Instead of being fourteenth century Verona, a Victorian mad scientist-type of shop was set up, complete with steaming and bubbling beakers on the counter. Ms. Decker had cast junior Fritz Hrez as an androgynous apothecary, complete with steampunk goggle-eyepatch and vest of chain and glass vials. Lornie had talked-up the character so much, Ivy felt she'd seen Fritz in costume before; she hadn't, and now, he was nearly unrecognizable as the somewhat standoffish teacher's aide in her English Pre-Lit class. According to Camille, he wasn't shy outside of school.
A series of sharp, climbing notes came from the orchestra pit, followed by Fritz's high, girlish laugh onstage, and then Lornie's half-boyfriend Jeremy's banging away at the piano keys burst out as Fritz launched into his rendition of Marina and the Diamonds' Girls!!! Ivy sat forward, realizing she'd missed most of Lornie's performance by letting her mind wander back to the Hall.
