I scribbled the directions on the back of my hand, grabbed the letter I’d written to James, and ran for my bike.
THIRTY-FOUR
I pedaled faster than ever, ignoring honks of the early evening-rush-hour drivers. My legs were on fire and my hair wet with sweat when by the time I rolled onto Clayton Street. It was the kind of neighborhood I had hoped we might move to, with nice two-story houses lined up next to each other. Brick, not brownstone, with cute little porches and sidewalks and cars lining the street. I bicycled as close to the parked cars as I could get without bumping into their rearview mirrors and slowed as the house numbers got closer to 845. A sleek red sports car with New York plates turned in front of me and zipped into an empty spot . . . right behind a black BMW. I steered to the opposite side of the street and pulled onto the sidewalk beside an SUV. Unbuckling my helmet, panting, I heard a familiar voice.
“What are you doing here?” snarled James.
The tone surprised me and I turned immediately, a pit in my stomach. But he wasn’t talking to me. He strode toward the girl who emerged from the red car like she was stepping off a fashion runway. She had sandy blond, wavy hair and a straight, delicate nose. I ducked farther behind the SUV so I was mostly hidden but could still see them through the windows.
“Nice to see you, too,” she said. “No hug? No kiss?”
James took a few steps forward and gave her a stiff hug, followed by a quick peck on both cheeks. It made me think of Wynn, who kissed that way, too.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her again.
“Came to see how the other half lives.” She gestured toward the houses along the block, as if there was something unseemly about them. “Aren’t you tired of slumming it?”
“Staying with Aunt Ida is hardly slumming it.”
“Fine. But working as a stock boy in a grocery store? Come on,” she said. “You could’ve gotten a dozen other jobs that easily paid more. You’re only doing it to annoy Daddy.”
James shrugged. “Think what you want. I told Dad I could take care of myself, and I have. How I do it is my business.”
She stepped back and leaned against her car, crossing her arms under her chest. “Fine. You’ve proven your point. Now it’s time to come home. Hopefully, it’s not too late for Daddy to pull some strings and get you into one of the Ivies. I’m sure the academy will fudge those two credits you’re missing, with the proper incentive. A nice donation—”
“I don’t want him to pull strings for me or buy off my school, Rebecca. That’s the whole point,” said James, his voice rising. “People look at us and all they see are dollar signs. Don’t you ever wonder if anybody would give a fuck about you if they didn’t know who your daddy was?”
She laughed. “Yeah, Robbie. Life’s rough all over.”
Robbie?
James turned his back on her and marched into the house. The girl—Rebecca—remained leaning against her car, inspecting her manicure. My legs were so shaky I was afraid to move—afraid I’d fall flat on my face if I did—so I stayed behind the SUV. Then James emerged from the house carrying a large duffel bag. He strode to his car, popped the trunk, and shoved it in.
“I was leaving anyway,” he said, slamming the trunk closed. “Happy?”
Rebecca shrugged. “I’m just sick of all the yelling and crying and . . .”
James whirled around. “Who’s crying? Mom?”
“Well, it certainly isn’t Dad.”
Something seemed to collapse in James, his defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders and the sag of his head. I don’t know why I didn’t run to him then, stop him and explain myself and—and . . . ask him what the hell was going on. But I hesitated, and before I could blink, he got behind the wheel of his car and drove away.
Rebecca got into her red car, too, and zoomed off after him. When I finally stumbled out from behind the SUV, all I could do was stare at the spot where they had stood arguing, stunned that James was gone.
A gray-haired woman emerged from the house—Aunt Ida, I presumed. She offered me a sympathetic smile. “You’re the one who called?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly, arms folded around her middle, then turned to go back inside.
“Wait!” The note I’d written to James was clutched in my hand. I ran up to the porch and held it out to her. “Can you get this to him?”
She took the folded paper and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. “Can’t make any promises,” she said. “But I’ll try.”
It was dark by the time I got home, and Mom was furious. She followed me up to the attic, scolding me as quietly as her anger would allow so as not to upset Brady. “You were supposed to start supper. Where have you been?” she hissed.
“I screwed something up, Mom, and I was trying to fix it. It’s a long story,” I said, hugging a pillow to my chest.
“Well, I don’t have time for a long story right now, because I have to make supper,” she started down the stairs, then turned back. “You’re grounded, by the way. Until further notice.”
I wasn’t even upset about that. It made sense, at least, when nothing else did—like whatever I’d witnessed between James and his sister. Robbie. Reesa was right all along. But James had left home, apparently, to fend for himself? To prove something to their father? My chest ached when I remembered the worst part, what he’d said about wanting to see if anybody would care about him if he didn’t have money.
I lay down and stared at the ceiling, aching for my piano. I needed to get this horrible feeling out of my chest and put it to music.
The ukulele I’d retrieved from our old house sat dusty and unused in the corner next to my dresser. I got up, took it in my hands, and strummed, cringing at how off-key it was. I fiddled with the tuning pegs. Strummed again. Better.
But it was a ukulele, and it sounded too happy for my mood.
I closed my eyes and let my voice take over. I don’t even remember what I sang, if there were words involved or just sound—moaning or humming or bellowing open vowels of agony. I didn’t care if someone out there heard me. I just had to get it out.
When I stopped and looked up, Brady was standing in my doorway. His little face was twisted into a question mark as he struggled to assess the situation.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I was just . . . I was singing.”
His eyes lit up. “Sing for Brady?”
I nodded as he shuffled to the bed and sat next to me, his legs dangling off the edge. I wrapped my arms around him and held tight. After what I’d just seen, the way Rebecca talked to James, so cold and uncaring . . . I craved the warmth of a good hug.
We sat close with the ukulele on my lap. “What kind of song do you want?” I asked.
“La-la,” he said, and I smiled.
“Okay,” I said. “One la-la lullaby coming right up.”
I strummed and plucked until a tune came tumbling out. It started a bit slow and mournful, but Brady’s la-las were too exuberant to be satisfied by a sad song. I picked up the pace and let the music cheer me up.
“You know what? I think we need Kaya,” I said to Brady.
Brady smiled and shouted, “Kaya!” at the top of his lungs. I did the same. “Kaya! Kaya!”
She bounded up the stairs. “What are you doing?”
“We’re singing la-las,” I said.
She grinned and threw herself at me, a laughing tackle-hug onto the bed. “You’re back,” she said.
I paused, realizing she didn’t mean I was back from my bike ride. She meant I was back. Back to myself. Back to being part of my family. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m back.”
THIRTY-FIVE
The next few days at school were quiet. At lunch I started sitting with Molly and Rigby, the friend of Lennie’s who had air-fist-bumped me at the food pantry. I didn’t see the point in subjecting myself to more torture at the hands of Willow and Wynn, and Reesa’s ongoing silent treatment was unbearable. Molly slid her tray over and made a
spot for me, no questions asked.
On Saturday, Mom lifted my grounding, and I immediately went back to Clayton Street. When Ida saw me standing on her front porch, she gave a big, weary sigh and held the door open. I stepped inside and followed her to the front room. The house was beautiful, with its hardwood floors and Oriental rugs and lamps with fringed fabric shades. There was a quiet, fragile feeling to her home, like an antique shop. The only sound was the tick of a clock coming from another room.
“Have a seat,” said Ida. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thank you,” I said. “I can’t stay long.”
She lowered herself slowly into a flowered chair that seemed to hug itself around her as she sat. There was a table next to it, with books and reading glasses. I wondered if James had sat here, too, on this same couch when they talked.
“So, you’re Ivy,” she said.
“Oh, sorry . . . yes,” I stammered. “Ivy Emerson.”
“Well, I’ve always been partial to three-letter names that start with I.” She winked and held out her hand, its knuckles swollen with arthritis. “I’m Ida McDaniels.”
I closed my fingers gently around hers. “Nice to meet you.”
We settled back into our respective seats and I tried to find the right question, the right thing to say.
She rescued me. “You’re wondering about Robbie.”
It was hard for me to think of him that way. “Was that his real name? Robert?”
“Middle name. Robertson, actually. James Robertson Wickerton, named after my brother, his grandfather.”
“James Aloysius Robertson. He’s buried at the Methodist cemetery, isn’t he?” I said. “With his wife, Clara. They died a week apart.”
Ida smiled. “Robbie took you there? He was very close to his grandfather.” She pointed to the fireplace mantel, which was lined with framed photos. “There they are.”
I walked over to see the picture. It was a young James, maybe five years old, in bare feet. His grandparents stood on either side, each holding one of his hands while he swung like a monkey between them. He was grinning like crazy.
“He spent a week here every summer. They let him really be a kid. Not like . . .” She let her voice trail off.
I smiled at the boy in the photo. “James didn’t tell me they were his grandparents. He didn’t tell me . . . a lot.”
“Well,” said Ida, returning to her chair. “I’ll leave him to explain why he left home, what happened with his father and all, because that’s his business not mine. But I took him in. This was his grandparents’ house, and he’s always welcome here. I called my friend Olivia Lanahan—Mrs. Lanahan to you—and got him enrolled at the school so he could finish high school. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Why didn’t he tell anybody who he was?”
“He wanted to start with a blank slate—no money, no status, none of that—and see if people would treat him differently.”
“So I was an experiment?”
“Not you specifically. People in general, I suppose,” she said. “But he liked you. He came home that one night and told me, ‘She didn’t even want me to pay for her milk shake!’ The girls at his school all expected him to pay for that and a lot more.”
A pang of guilt caught in my throat. I had been drawn to James before I’d known anything about him. But had Reesa’s speculation about his wealth played a role as well? I couldn’t deny the possibility. He had everything I’d lost, and more. If I’d thought, from the very beginning, that James worked mopping grocery store floors, would I have ever gotten into his car that first time? Or would I have treated him like I’d treated Lennie?
I sat the photo back on the mantel. “Have you heard anything from him? Did he . . . did you give him my note?”
“I mailed it to him, but I haven’t spoken to him since he left. I tried calling, but that snooty butler of theirs kept telling me he was unavailable.” She chuckled in a humorless way.
“Could you give me his phone number? An email address?”
“I don’t use email, so I don’t know if he has one of those,” she said, reaching to her table for a piece of paper and pen. “But I can give you his mailing address and phone number. Can’t promise you’ll get through.”
“Thank you,” I said, the thought of James believing nobody would ever like him for himself gnawing at my stomach. “I have to try.”
I sat on my bed with the phone cradled in my lap. I had dialed his number eight times now, always chickening out at the last minute and slamming it down before anyone answered. What if he hung up on me?
My hands trembled as I punched in the number Ida had given me once more, then lifted it to my ear.
On the fourth ring, a deep, male voice answered. “Hello?”
I’d expected something fancier, and it set me off to a bad start. “I . . . um, could I speak to James . . . uh . . . Robbie . . . Wickerton?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Ivy Emerson?” I immediately cringed at how ridiculous I sounded, like I was guessing at my own name.
“One moment,” the man said. They had hold music. Classical. Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp for piano, to be exact. I knew it, because I’d played it. So there, snobby butler guy, who was taking way longer than “one moment.” It was at least ten minutes before the man came back. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Wickerton is not available at this time.”
He didn’t offer to take a message, but I gave him my name and phone number, anyway.
THIRTY-SIX
After my failed attempt to call James, I gravel-kicked my way down to Molly’s house. She held a finger to her lips when she answered the door and motioned me into her room.
“Mom’s sleeping,” she said, quietly closing her door. “What’s wrong?”
“Life sucks.” I flopped backward on her bed and gazed up at the new additions to her wall. “You can quote me on that.”
She pointed to a far corner. I could barely make out where she’d written in pencil:
Life sucks.—Me.
I snorted. “See? My life even sucks at sucking. It’s a rerun of somebody else’s sucky life.”
Molly tapped her finger to yet another quote, this one a clipping from a magazine:
Been there, done that.
Moping around at Molly’s was my new favorite pastime, but it made me miss Reesa. She never let me mope. Not for long, at least. She always came up with the plan to fix whatever needed fixing. A completely insane plan, usually. But a plan.
I turned on my side and bent my arm to prop up my head. “What do you do when a guy—the guy you like—won’t even acknowledge that you’re alive?”
“Which guy?” said Molly. She didn’t know about me and James. Hardly anybody did, since I’d kept it such a secret. It was like it had never happened.
“Any guy,” I said. “Hypothetical Guy.”
She twirled slowly on her desk chair. “Is Hypothetical Guy dating someone else?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“Does he know you’re trying to get his attention?”
Had James gotten my letter or my phone message? “Hypothetical Girl is uncertain.”
“Ahhhh.” Molly spun back around to face her desk and bent over her journal. She collected quotes there, including random things she overheard people saying during the course of her day. I had a feeling I’d just been quoted. She clicked her pen a few times. “You could throw a party.”
“A party.”
“You know, one of those things where people gather and dance and drink and talk and laugh?”
“Yes, I know what a party is.”
“So, you throw a party and you invite Hypothetical Guy. But it’s not a date. If he comes, awesome. If he doesn’t, it’s a party. You’re still having fun.”
Considering I was presently estranged from most of my friends, throwing a party sounded like a great way to make a complete fool of myself. But heck, I was on a roll.
“Halloween,” I said. “We could invite all the people who weren’t invited to Willow’s bash.”
“We?” Molly raised her eyebrows.
“Well, yeah. It was your idea.”
An hour later we had decided on a theme for the party: “Come as you are.” And not as in “I’m too lame to figure out a costume” but rather, “This is who I really am.” Our invitation would encourage guests to let it all hang out, reveal their hidden identities, show their true selves. I didn’t know how I’d get James there, but after what happened between us, maybe this theme would hit home. I just hoped I could get through to him.
Walking back to my place from Molly’s, I was nearly sideswiped by a souped-up truck that stopped in front of Lennie’s place. I slowed my pace to witness the transaction. Lennie came out with a small paper bag, handed it to the guy, took his money, thank you, good-bye, the guy drove off. Carla’s advice came back to me:
Ask him about it.
Lennie disappeared around the back of his house, into the shed. I hurried across the gravel road and followed him. The small wood-and-metal structure was windowless. I stood at its door, my imagination conjuring visions of pot plants and grow lights.
Before I could change my mind and retreat, Lennie burst out and nearly crashed into me. We both jumped.
“Whoa. Hey.” His hands went to my shoulders, to steady me. Then he quickly dropped them to his sides. “Didn’t see you there. What are you doing?”
“Yeah, I . . . uh . . . just . . .” I tried to peer into the shed but his shoulders were blocking my view. “Wanted to thank you for helping out with Brady the other day. I royally messed up, and you seem to always swoop in and save the day when it comes to Brady. So, uh, thanks.”
“He’s a great kid,” he said. “I like him a lot.”
“Yeah.” I smiled nervously. “He really likes you, too.”
Lennie kicked at the dirt with his boot. We hadn’t spoken in a while, since open mic night, and I hadn’t exactly been friendly to him then.
Between the Notes Page 21