by Brit Benson
When she told me she lives in the Crenshaw Village neighborhood, I was thankful she was writing in her notebook so she didn’t see the momentary shock on my face.
Crenshaw Village is, well, not nice. It’s not bad, but it’s kind of junky, and the houses and yards are smaller and usually not well-maintained, and there are no sidewalks, and most of the streetlights don’t work. Crenshaw isn’t far from my neighborhood—I can easily ride my bike there—but it couldn’t be more different.
I do a quick survey of her outfit: ratty black Chucks, plain jeans, a plain blue t-shirt, plain black-framed glasses. Except for the shoes, there’s not a single label on any of her clothes that I can see. It’s polar opposite to my brand-new Under Armour shirt, brand-new Abercrombie jeans, and brand-new Under Armour slides.
“You’re not far from my house,” I say in an attempt to mask my surprise. “Maybe we can hang out.”
Why did I just say that? I can’t hang out with anyone. Soccer tryouts are in two weeks. When I realize my mistake, I open my mouth to specify that I meant hang out after tryouts, but Ivy beats me to it.
“That could be fun!” And she’s so excited that I forget all about running drills to prep for tryouts and decide I’ll hang out with her whenever and wherever she wants.
“This weekend?” I ask.
“Oh, maybe. I have to ask. My mom is probably working doubles since we just moved here and all, so I’ll probably have to watch my brother.”
“Can’t your dad do it? Or is he working too?”
She stiffens a little, and I immediately know I said the wrong thing.
“My dad died when I was five,” she says with a shrug. Her voice is equal parts sad and resolved, and I’m surprised at how, I don’t know, adult she sounds.
“I’m sorry.” I pat her back awkwardly and she gives me a small smile.
“It’s okay. Car accident. Drunk driver,” Ivy shrugs again and sighs. “It is what it is.”
In an attempt to lighten the mood, I ask the first thing that pops into my head. “Where’s your mom work?”
“She’s a shift manager at Pat’s Diner. What does your mom do?”
“My mom and dad are lawyers. They own Pierce, Pierce, & Associates.” I beam with pride. “It’s the top general practice law firm in the city.”
“Wow,” she says, eyes wide. “That’s awesome. That’s a huge accomplishment.” With a morbid chuckle, she adds, “we get excited when we can make the rent before the three-day grace period is up.”
We sit in awkward silence for what feels like freaking forever. It’s terrible, but I don’t know what to say. Each tick of the clock makes me feel more desperate to put a smile on her face, to smooth her scrunched eyebrows and bring out that stupid dimple.
“What if I come over and hang out with you and your brother both this weekend? And I could walk home with you after school today since we’re going in the same direction.”
She nods, but then says, “Maybe. I have to pick Jacob up from daycare after school, though.”
“I’ll come with!” I cringe a little because I know I’m on the verge of sounding too eager and maybe a little stalker-y, but I can’t turn back now, so full-steam ahead. “I can come with to pick up Jacob. First friends need to know each other’s siblings and you said your brother is, and I quote, the coolest tiny human on the planet, so I feel like I should definitely meet him.”
She studies me for a minute, her face freakishly blank, but I can tell from her eyes that she is considering the whole thing. Probably trying to decide if I’m serious, or if I’m worthy of meeting her brother, and I feel my whole body tense the same way it does whenever I’m about to hear who made the team after tryouts.
When the side of her mouth lifts into a half-smile, I heave a sigh of relief.
“Okay, Kelley Allen Pierce. I’ll meet you after school.”
Zing.
At last bell, I hustle back to locker bank nine and waited for Ivy. When she comes around the corner and sees me waiting for her, her face splits into the widest grin and her dimple pops real deep-like. I bet I can fit a whole pencil eraser in that dimple.
“Ivy.”
“Kelley.”
“You ready? You said your brother is at the daycare down the street?”
“That’s the one,” she responds as she tugs her messenger bag from the locker and stuffs some books inside.
Ivy walks with me to the bike racks where I unlock my chain, and then, rolling my bike next to me, I follow her to the daycare.
When we get there, I wait outside while Ivy goes in to sign her brother out, and a few minutes later she comes back out with him in tow.
He’s short, like all four-year-olds, has jet black hair and the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen. He’s carrying an orange water bottle and is wearing a black shirt with a pumpkin on it and khaki shorts. When he looks up at me, his brown eyes are magnified in his glasses. He looks absolutely nothing like Ivy, and maybe it’s nerves but I just blurt that out.
“He looks nothing like you,” I say, and then wince.
“Well, he’s technically my half-brother,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s my whole brother where it counts,” she adds firmly, no room for dispute, so I just nod and smile like a dork.
“Wh-who are you?” Jacob asks as he clings to Ivy’s leg.
“I’m Kelley. I’m Ivy’s friend,” I say. “Who are you?”
“I’m J-Jacob,” he says back. “I’m her b-b-brother.”
“Cool,” I nod and grasp for something to say. He’s just standing there, blinking at me through those thick glasses. I can feel Ivy’s eyes on me, and it’s making me nervous.
“Sooo...” I point to his shirt. “You, uh, like pumpkins?” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I cringe again and can hear Ivy stifle a laugh. Real smooth, Kap.
He blinks.
“No.” Blink. “I like Hallow-ween.” He’s got a little bit of an attitude.
“Right,” I breathe out and start fidgeting with my bike handles. This is awkward. “Well,” I start again, but trail off when I find him surveying me. And then he blinks at me some more. Like a little judgmental owl.
“C’mon, Bug,” Ivy interjects, saving me from looking even more like an idiot. “Kelley is gonna walk home with us.”
On the walk to Crenshaw Village, Ivy asks Jacob—or Bug, as she calls him—to tell her what he learned in “school.” That starts him jabbering about a sand table and tornado bottles and other kid crap, but he’s got this little lisp and a thick stutter and I gotta admit that he’s kind of adorable. I always wanted a younger brother but so far Ma and Pop have told me nope.
When we get to Ivy’s house, I notice that the yard is better maintained than the neighbor’s, and there’s even some sort of orange and purple flowers planted around the front. She and Jacob walk inside, and I don’t really know what to do. I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet, so I lean my bike on the side of the porch and follow them in.
Ivy and Jacob slide off their shoes, so I do the same, and Ivy tells Jacob to go wash his hands. Then, I watch as she places a cutting board, knife, and apple on the small counter jutting from the wall in the kitchen and begins peeling and slicing the apple. She puts the sliced apples on a plate, pours a small cup of milk, and puts them on the small kitchen table in front of a booster seat.
And I just stand there and gawk at her. Because she’s doing mom things, and I’ve never seen any of my friends do parent-y things like this before. Because the parents do them. Sure, I fix snacks and junk for myself. Open a bag of Doritos. Drink a Gatorade. Throw some pizza puffs in the toaster oven. But I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone peel and cut an apple before who wasn’t a mom.
Jacob comes running into the kitchen and clambers up onto the booster seat.
“Don’t run in the house, Bug.”
“S-sorry, Bean,” he says through a mouthful of apple.
And I am still gawking.
Shaking my
self out of the weird sense of awe I feel, I ask her, “So, like, why do you do all this?”
She pops a brow at me, the same fire in her eyes that I saw this morning on the bleachers, and I know I said something dumb again.
“Excuse you?”
“No, I mean, like, how long have you, like,” and I lower my voice to a whisper so Jacob won’t hear, “been taking care of him?”
“He’s four. So, for four years? When my mom is working, I’m glad to do it.” Her glare is challenging. “Why spend rent money on a babysitter when I’m capable? And anyway, I want to take care of him. He’s my brother.” And then she turns her back to me and starts washing off the cutting board and knife.
“No, yeah, of course,” I sputter out. “It’s just, I don’t know. Surprising? No, impressive. It’s impressive,” I say with more confidence. “You impress me, Ivy Jean Rivenbark.”
She studies me from the other side of the counter, her face that same blank mask from before, and my chest constricts. Once again, I feel like I’m trying out for something, and I really, really, really want to make the team.
And then a smile starts to spread over her face, and when that stupid dimple pops, I let out a breath.
“Thank you, Kelley Allen Pierce,” she says with a huge grin. “I’m really glad you’re my first friend.”
Zing.
4
Jesse and I got here about twenty minutes ago, and it took us about that long to find and claim a table by the wall that wasn’t already in use or covered in spilled beer.
Keggers is packed, one of the most popular spots on the Butler University campus for their Friday night wing and pitcher specials, and open seats are in high demand. Your shoes might stick to the floor a little when you walk, you’ll probably hear “In Da Club” by 50 Cent at least twice, and a twenty-minute wait to use the ladies’ bathroom is pretty standard, but on Friday nights, Keggers is the place to be.
Since it’s my weekend to get the drinks, I head up to the bar and leave Jesse to guard our table and scope out the crowd. As I weave my way through the crowd of bodies, “Mood” by 24kGoldn comes on, and soon, everyone is bouncing to the music. By the time I get to the bar, I’ve stepped in one giant puddle of what I hope is beer and narrowly missed two separate spillage incidents. Pretty successful, actually.
Stepping up on the bottom rung of the stool next to me and leaning my body as far over as I can, I hold up my debit card in an attempt to grab the bartender’s attention. I’ve seen him here before. The guy is pretty attractive. He kind of looks a little like Kelley, actually. Similar height and build, but Kelley’s got a better jawline and better hair. I look him over more closely as I wait. Kelley also has better biceps, I decide, and I’m not sure but probably better hands, too. The bartender is very good looking, but he doesn’t hold a candle to my best friend.
When the guy finally makes eye contact, my calves are straining from being on my tiptoes and I’m sure the edge of the bar has left a permanent bruise on my hips from how I’m propped over it.
“What can I get you?” he asks as he simultaneously makes what looks like a vodka cranberry with a lime garnish.
“I’ll have two pints of the draft special,” I shout over the music as I hand him my debit card. “Just run it. I don’t want to leave it open.”
“You know,” the guy says as he takes my card, “our draft special also includes pitchers tonight. $6.25 for the pitcher. It’s a better deal.”
I raise my eyebrow and stifle a grin. I can’t be mad, though, because the poor guy probably has no idea.
“Actually, it’s not,” I say to him, and he looks back at me with confusion all over his face.
Here we go. My time to shine.
“You see, the standard pint is 16 ounces, which you guys always fill quite full—thanks for that,” I beam, and he smiles back at me.
“Anyway, I’m paying two dollars for it. That’s roughly 12.5 cents an ounce. The pitchers are 48 ounces, and that’s when they’re filled full, which you guys tend not to do.” I nod at the pitcher the second bartender is currently passing to someone a few stools down. “That’s probably only at about 42-ounce capacity. But let’s say for sake of argument that it was filled to 48 ounces, that would still be roughly 13 cents an ounce. So you see? It’s really not a better deal. It’s basically the same. In fact, the standard pint is even a slightly better deal, even if it’s just a matter of half a cent.”
The bartender, wide-eyed and amused, shakes his head and turns to run my card. When he slides back my card and the two pints, I take a sip and smile.
“Thanks!” I say sweetly and turn away with satisfaction all over my face.
Ivy Rivenbark: Blonde hair. Big boobs. Bigger brain.
Jesse is leaning on the wall next to our table, his foot propped on the stool. He’s got one hand messing with something small, probably one of his fidget toys, and the other is scrolling his phone. When I plop the pints on the table, he looks up with a smile.
“Why are you grinning like that? You look like you just made a frat boy cry.” He smirks as he takes his beer.
“The bartender offered me a pitcher of the draft special.”
Jesse barks out a laugh. “You’re such a nerd. Of course, you’d get a boner from spitting math facts.”
“Guilty,” I sing-song, and slide onto the stool next to him. “He also looked a little like my Kelley.”
“Your Kelley?” He eyes me with a smirk, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. “Freudian slip?”
“Hush, you know what I meant.” I wave him away airily.
“Yep. I def do.” I ignore him and go back to scanning the crowd.
Jesse is almost a foot taller than my 5’5”, and even sitting on the high-top bar stool, my eyes are still only about level with his armpit. After a few minutes of people watching, he nudges my shoulder with his elbow.
“You sure you’re good with two weekends in a row?” Jesse asks, and I nod.
“Yeah. Things went well last weekend. I want to test it out.” I’m still riding the high of progress, but I don’t want to take the risk that last weekend’s success was a fluke.
“Cool cool. Okay, how about that dark-haired guy at the pong table? He’s got that douche bag look you been goin’ for.”
Jesse laughs, but I’m not offended. He’s right. One hundred percent, I go for the d-bag look right now, and while Jesse has a vague understanding of why I do what I do, he doesn’t know everything, so I let it slide right off me. Water off a duck.
I narrow my eyes and study the person he’s pointed out.
“Ummm, J, I think I’ve met him already.”
“Worth a replay?”
“Meh, I suppose everyone deserves a second chance.” I laugh, and he tosses me a grin. “But let’s keep him on the bench for now.”
“Sure thing, Coach.”
We scope out the crowd a bit longer as more people pour in the front door, singing along to the music and making idle chitchat as we wait. My week was grueling, though, so I don’t have the energy for small talk, and Jesse can tell. One test, a pop quiz, and a paper I turned in this morning has left my mind a bit mushy for socializing. Not to mention yesterday’s brain busting session of LSAT practice tests. I did pretty well on them, but my accuracy wasn’t as consistent as I would have liked.
Anyway. This week has been a week.
“Ooooh.” I lean into Jesse and bring my beer to my lips. “I want that one,” I say, nodding my head to the muscular guy a few tables down from ours. I go through my mental checklist:
Athletic build, check.
Around six feet, check.
Smooth shaven, check.
Dark hair that’s longer hair on top than on the sides, check.
And there’s something about his clothing—tight jeans, a Colts t-shirt, Jordans, and a black, backwards ballcap—that sells me on him. He’s exactly what I’m looking for.
Yeah, he’ll do nicely.
Jes
se tears his eyes from the short skirt he’s spotted and drags them to my conquest.
“Damn, girl. You’ve definitely developed a type.” He gives me a wink. “I think I’m going with her.” He nods back to the redhead in the skirt, currently dominating at the beer pong table.
Another reason Fridays are so popular at Keggers—they set up beer pong tables in the back and host first-come-first-served games. It makes for a rowdy crowd and definitely contributes to the stickiness of the floor.
I check Jesse’s girl out. She seems confident and has two girlfriends in tow, so she’s not fending for herself. Smart. I watch as she tosses the ball into the other team’s cup and then throws some sassy remark I can’t hear at the guys on the side of the table. She cocks her head to the side and pops her hand on her hip, a small smirk on her face as the guys say something back. Yeah. This girl could work.
“I like her. Meet back here in twenty? Text if you need more time.”
“Yesss,” he says, drawing out the ‘s’ so he sounds like a snake. “Imma go secure you some D for that P, V.”
I snort out a laugh and bump his fist with mine, and we each head toward the other’s prospective company for the night.
I sidle up to the girl and watch as she finishes handing the frat guys their butts. Then, I get to business.
“Good game,” I say, before taking a sip of my beer.
“Thanks,” she smiles confidently. “They were easy to beat.”
I nod and laugh with her, unable to contain my grin. “What’s your name?”
“Bianca. You?”
“I’m Ivy.”
Her smile is warm, her eyes focused and interested. She’s not drunk, so that’s a notch in the pro column, and she seems like a straightforward woman, so I cut to the chase.