“Are you kidding? No. She’s barely looked at me since we found out you’re our sister.”
“Maybe she feels bad for lying.” I stack the pile of chapter books next to Gracie’s bed.
“Um, no. She just doesn’t want to deal with me being mad. That’s why she pawned me off on Alex last night. You think she cares whether I make friends?” Iz leans up on one elbow. “I have every right to be mad at her. And at you.”
I lift my gaze to hers. “I’m sorry. I really am. I wish I’d told you the truth the day you got here.”
“Well, I don’t forgive you.” She rolls over to face the wall.
“I guess I’ll just have to live with that.” I sit there for a minute, listening to her breath and the lazy whir of the ceiling fan. When it becomes obvious that she isn’t going to answer me, I stand. “You can be mad at me, but don’t do stupid shit like this again, okay? Gracie worries about you too much. She needs you. You’re her big sister.”
I close the door behind me without waiting for a response.
• • •
That afternoon, Granddad takes Gracie into town with the promise of strawberry milk shakes and a new Fancy Nancy book. Erica is off God knows where, so the house is quiet. Iz came downstairs for lunch, nibbled at her turkey sandwich, and then went back upstairs for a nap. I’m sitting at the kitchen table reading Nimona again when Claire knocks at the back door.
“I was thinking we should go for a swim,” she suggests. “We’ll invite Iz. Your granddad will be happy you’re spending time with her, but I’ll be there as a buffer.”
We have already texted about the fallout from last night. “She doesn’t want to hang out with us.”
Claire grins. “Maybe not with you, but she thinks I’m pretty cool.” She sees me wince and her smile fades. “Are you jealous that your sister thinks I’m cool?”
“No.” Claire stares at me until I relent. “Maybe a little? I’d settle for her not hating me.”
“Give her time,” Claire advises. “You’re too nice to hate.”
Nice. Likeable. That’s what I want, isn’t it? But sometimes having to be nice grates.
“You can ask her to come. I don’t think she’ll say yes if I’m part of the package.”
“You are underestimating my powers of persuasion. Don’t ever do that,” Claire chides. Her dark hair is pulled back into a high, bouncy ponytail. “Go get your suit and meet Iz and me down here in five minutes.”
• • •
It takes fifteen, but somehow Claire convinces her. She even convinces Iz to wear a bathing suit. It’s a deep-purple-and-white polka-dotted tankini and Iz looks fantastic, if a little self-conscious. She keeps a towel wrapped around her waist as we walk down to the water, while Claire strips to her black bikini right in the kitchen.
I run and dive off the dock like always. “Show-off,” Claire teases like always. She wades in from the shore, wincing as every new inch of skin hits the cold water.
Iz follows Claire tentatively. “So this is where our grandmother drowned? Like, right here?” she asks. “Isn’t that kind of creepy?”
I shrug. “I try not to think about it.”
“Why didn’t Granddad move? Why would he stay here?” she asks.
I’ve wondered that myself.
“He loves this house. All the history of it,” I explain. “I guess he thinks more about the happy memories than the sad ones.”
“I think her paintings are creepy. Pretty but creepy,” Isobel declares.
“Me too,” I say.
We all look up as the roar of the lawnmower gets louder. Alex is coming around the side of the carriage house on the riding mower. He’s shirtless and wearing headphones and, by the looks of it, singing. I wave. He does not wave back. I shrink into myself. Maybe he didn’t see me?
“Cold,” Claire says. She gives him the finger.
Isobel takes a few more steps until she’s knee deep. “Why’s he mad at you?”
“It’s complicated.” I dunk under the water.
When I come back up, I hear: “…so he’s mad that she’s dating Connor. She’s never had a real boyfriend before.”
“You’ve never had a boyfriend? Mama said you were like a nun.” Iz laughs—not meanly but sort of disbelievingly—and I give her a strained smile. I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that my fifteen-year-old sister’s more experienced than me. “I’ve had three. Four if you count Josh, but that was back in sixth grade and we only held hands. Claire, do you have a boyfriend?”
It’s Claire’s turn to evade the question. “Not right now.”
“Claire doesn’t date,” I explain. “She thinks boyfriends are too much drama.”
“Relationships are too much drama, whether they’re with boys or girls. Don’t be heteronormative.” Claire turns to Isobel. “I’m bi.”
“Bisexual?” Isobel asks, and Claire nods. “My friend Rhiannon is too.”
“Really? I don’t know anyone else who’s bi. Everybody around here thinks I’m just a slut.” Claire sighs. “I can’t wait to get away from all this small-town nonsense. I’m going to go to college in DC, so you’ll have to tell me all the fun places.”
“Sure. What about you, Ivy?” Iz splashes me to get my attention. “Where do you want to go to college? Harvard? Yale?”
Is that how she sees me? As some superachiever destined for the Ivy League? “Nope. Nothing that fancy. I might end up staying here. They have a good swim team and a good English program, and I could go for free since Granddad’s a professor.”
“Mama said Granddad’s loaded,” Iz says.
She’s so direct. No wonder she likes Claire so much; they are kindred spirits in that regard. “We don’t really have to worry about money, but most of it’s not his. It belongs to the Milbourn estate, and some of it goes into a trust for me. And you and Gracie. But…I don’t know. It feels kind of frivolous to spend so much money on college if I don’t have to. If I want to go to grad school, that will cost a lot of money, so—”
“Grad school?” Iz grimaces. “You must really like school.”
I laugh. “I do, actually. I’ve been thinking I might want to teach. Be a professor like Granddad.” It’s a newish thought, one I’ve shared only with Claire and Abby. Last summer I helped teach swim lessons at the Y, and even if I’m not a great writer, I love studying books, teasing out the themes, examining the characters.
“I hate school. It’s so boring,” Iz complains. “Like history class. Oh my God. Who cares about all those names and dates?”
“That’s because most of history’s been whitewashed so it’s all about straight white men,” Claire says. “My mom teaches a class on women’s history up at the college, and it’s actually really interesting. She talks about how women got the vote and birth control. I’m going to major in women’s, gender, and sexuality studies at American. I’m president of our Gay-Straight Alliance at school. If you’re still here in September, you should join.”
Isobel freezes mid-paddle. “I’m not going to be here that long.”
“Probably not,” Claire says. “But if your mom goes into treatment or something…”
“Is that what you think is going to happen?” Isobel narrows her eyes at me. “You think Mama’s going to go to rehab and Gracie will go live with Dad and I’ll be stuck here? Is that why you’re being so nice to me?”
“What? No. I’m being nice to you because you’re my sister.” My heart sinks. This was the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and okay, she made fun of me for not having a boyfriend, but it felt sort of…sisterly. Like in her own prickly Isobel kind of way, she was trying to get to know me.
“You feel sorry for me. I can tell.” Isobel tugs on the bottom of her tankini. “You think Mama’s going to run off on us the way she did you. Well, she’s not. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave us. Things got really bad before Gracie and Dad, but she’s never left me.” Isobel storms out of the water and wraps a towel around herself.
“Don’t defend her.” Isobel glares at me again. “You’re not my sister. You’re just some stranger I have to live with for a while.”
She stomps up to the house, passing Alex, who waves at her.
Claire turns to me, sympathy written all over her face. “Wow,” she says. “That kid has a temper on her.”
I nod. “Like mother, like daughter.”
• • •
Gracie is mad when she comes home and finds out that Izzy went swimming with Claire and me. She stomps around the library in her pink sandals like an adorable, inconsolable T. rex. “I want to go swimming! It’s not fair! How come Mama let Izzy learn how and not me? I’m big enough to learn how to swim!” she complains.
“If your mama says no swimming, then we need to respect that,” Granddad says, even though he seems to have precious little respect for the rest of Erica’s rules (or lack thereof). “But maybe you and Ivy could do something special tomorrow.”
Gracie brightens. “Like a special sister date?”
“Sure.” My mind spins, trying to dream up something fun.
“Sometimes Mama and I have special Grace-and-Mama dates,” she says. “We go get our toes painted and go to the movies, and Mama lets me put M&M’s in our popcorn.”
I hesitate. I can’t quite picture that version of our mother. “Do she and Izzy have Iz-and-Mama dates?”
“Uh-huh. They go see musicals.” Gracie grins. “So what’re we going to do for our sister date?”
I think fast. Abby has off tomorrow. “Do you know how to ride a bike?”
“Yes.” Gracie looks insulted at the idea that she might not. “Daddy taught me.”
“Okay. How about we get my old bike out for you and ride our bikes to the park? We can have a picnic with my friend Abby and her little sister. Ella’s almost the same age as you.”
Gracie grins. “Can we bring ice cream cookie-wiches?”
I tweak her ponytail. “Ice cream cookie-wiches would probably melt, but we can bake cookies. Whatever kind you want.”
“Peanut butter!” Gracie shrieks, and runs off to the kitchen. A minute later I hear the clatter of pots and pans as she extracts a cookie sheet from its cabinet. I like that she knows where it is. That she feels at home here already.
• • •
Sunday afternoon, Grace and I ride our bikes through the side streets to the park. There is a wedding taking place down by the water. The bridesmaids are dressed in coral and the groomsmen are in gray suits, and Grace squeals with excitement when she spots the bride. I have to grab her hand and tell her she can’t go closer. We set up our blue-plaid blanket and wait for Abby and Ella to arrive. Abby texts me to say they’re running late. E refused to ride his boy bike so we had to get V’s old bike out of the shed & it was covered in spiders, she explains. I’ve prepped Grace by telling her that Ella looks kind of like a boy but is really a girl, and she said okay.
Gracie and I amuse ourselves by making up pretend vows for the couple getting married. “I promise to love you and honor you even if you—” I begin.
“Toot!” she says, and howls with laughter.
“I promise to love and honor you even if you—”
“Eat all the cookies!”
We go on like this for a while, until I see Abby and Ella approaching. Ella is riding their sister Vanessa’s pink bike, which is tricked out with a pink basket and streamers.
“Sorry, sorry,” Abby says as she hops off her bike and puts down the kickstand. “Someone had to ride this bike and not her old one.”
“It’s beautiful,” Gracie declares, running over to Ella. “Can I ride it?”
“Maybe after lunch,” I suggest.
Ella studies Grace. “I like your sunglasses.”
Gracie studies Ella back: her tangled shoulder-length red hair, freckles, yellow sundress, pink sneakers. “I like your sneakers.”
“Pink is my favorite color,” Ella says.
“Mine too,” Gracie says.
“You can ride my bike now if you want,” Ella decides, as though Gracie has passed a test of some kind.
“Can I, Ivy? Please?” Gracie asks.
“Go ahead. But stay away from that wedding.” Gracie hops on Ella’s bike, and Ella hops on Gracie’s, and they ride off, fast friends.
“She didn’t even blink an eye at him. Her,” Abby says. “God, I feel so bad. I got so frustrated with Ella earlier. We were all ready to go and then she freaked out about her bike being a boy’s bike because it’s blue and has the Avengers on it. Like, why can’t you just wear pants and ride that bike? I’m wearing pants! I like the Avengers! But it was so important to him. Her. Dammit! I keep doing that.”
“You’re trying,” I say. “That’s what’s important.”
Abby is quiet for a minute. “Do you think she’s weird?”
“Ella?” I ask, and she nods. I pause, trying to get the words right. “I really respect her. She’s seven and she’s insisting that people treat her the way she wants to be treated. That’s incredibly brave. Braver than me. I’m always worried about what people think.”
“Me too,” Abby says. “People are going to judge her. Judge our whole family. I hate that.”
I lean over and give her a hug. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. Has your dad come around?”
She shakes her head. “Things are pretty tense between him and Mom. He almost didn’t let us come today with Ella wearing a dress and riding Vanessa’s bike. But Mom said to go and get the spiders off it and she’d take care of Dad. Ty told me he agrees with Dad and can’t believe we’re letting Ella call the plays.”
Jesus. Trust Ty to have a sports metaphor for everything. He’s not a bad guy, but he definitely has a limited imagination. I watch Ella and Gracie for a minute. “Look at her,” I say. “She’s so happy. Think of how she was last year when your parents cut her hair and tried to make her dress like a boy. Who cares what people think?”
Abby leans her head on my shoulder. “You’re a good big sister, Ivy.”
I watch Gracie, but I’m remembering Iz’s fury yesterday. “I’m trying.”
Chapter
Seventeen
Dear Ms. Milbourn: We are pleased to accept your poem for publication in our August issue…
That’s how my Monday starts off.
I let out a little “Eep!” and bounce on my bed. I did it! I’m going to have a poem published! Okay, it’s just an online magazine, but it’s a start. Everyone starts somewhere, right? I have to tell Granddad!
I rush downstairs, still in my pajamas. It’s too early for Luisa to be here yet, but the scent of coffee wafts up the stairs. I burst into the kitchen. Granddad’s already sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and drinking from his banana-yellow World’s Best Grandpa mug. I made it for him for Father’s Day at the ceramics camp he made me take the summer I was Gracie’s age. It’s ugly as hell and the handle is misshapen, but he still uses it all the time.
“Guess what?” I demand.
He smiles at me absently over the paper. “Good morning, Ivy.”
“Good morning. Guess what! Guess, guess, guess!” I bounce on my toes.
“By the look on your face, something exciting,” he muses. “But I’ve only just started my coffee. You’ll have to tell me.”
“Look!” I shove my phone at him, and he squints to read the screen. “I got a poem accepted! To be published online!”
He beams at me. “That’s wonderful. I knew your persistence would pay off.”
My persistence. Not my talent.
I hold on to my delight with sticky fingers. “It’ll be in their August issue. Look. Ms. Reeder—that’s their editor—said the imagery in the last line is ‘sharp and evocative’!”
“Good imagery is important in poetry.” He takes another sip of coffee. “When do I get to read it?”
I hesitate. “When it’s published?” I wonder if it’s obvious that the p
oem is about me wanting to hold hands with Connor. Wanting to do more than hold hands. I blush, suddenly mortified at the thought of strangers reading it. Worse, of people I know reading it. Granddad. Amelia and the other English professors up at the college. Judy and Susan down at the Book Addict. Mrs. Summers… Oh Jesus. Granddad will share the link all over town. Knowing him, he’ll print copies and hand them out. And everyone will think, He’s so proud of that girl, but…
I only thought as far as getting an acceptance. My poems are a way to put all my scrambled-egg feelings down on paper. There’s a reason I don’t go letting everyone read them; they’re private. I submitted this one on impulse, trying to prove a point. Now that I succeeded, what comes next? Granddad won’t be content with one poem. One poem could be a fluke. Maybe everybody has one good poem in them.
But if I keep reading, keep writing, surely I’ll improve. I just have to make time for it in between swimming and volunteering at the library and working on the Dorothea project and French homework and spending time with Connor and trying to be a good sister to Isobel and Grace and having fun with Claire and Abby and… I feel dazed thinking about it all. And that’s before school even starts.
“We’ll have to celebrate today and again in August when it’s published,” Granddad says. “What do you think about banana chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast?”
That’s my traditional birthday breakfast. Has been since I was little. I hear a door open upstairs and wonder fleetingly if Erica even knows what Gracie and Iz’s favorite breakfasts are.
Granddad is staring at me expectantly.
“That sounds perfect. I can’t wait to tell Luisa!” She’ll be so excited. Iz sleeps late, but Gracie will be up soon and maybe the four of us can have pancakes together. I cross my fingers behind my back that Erica will sleep in and not ruin everything with her presence.
“Aren’t you glad I kept at you to submit something?” Granddad asks.
“I am.” But I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. Is my success about me or him?
“Why don’t I ask Eleanor to take a look at a couple of your other poems? Give you some feedback?” he suggests. “If you revise with her help, I bet you’ll have a better chance at getting more work accepted.”
Wild Swans Page 16
