by Casey Lyall
“I was mad,” I said. “Of course I was on your case. You ditched me. For sports. All of a sudden basketball was the most important thing ever. More important than your best friend.”
“It wasn’t more important.” Miles sighed. “It was just different. People actually talked to me. They noticed me—in a good way. I liked it, even though it was making you hate me.” He scratched at his sneaker. “After a while, being mad was easier than thinking about how messed up everything was.”
Having a year’s worth of mad under my own belt, I understood where he was coming from. I didn’t like it, but I understood it. There was one serious point that needed correcting though. “I never hated you,” I said, and Miles’s head whipped up. “I was mad and upset, but I never hated you.”
“I never hated you either,” Miles said, swallowing hard.
We sat in silence until the whump of bouncing basketballs filled the gym.
“So,” I said, clearing my throat, “do you still want to help?”
“Can I?” Miles’s eyebrows quirked at that. “I mean, yeah, if you’ll let me.”
I explained our current predicament and my makeshift plan.
“First of all, that’s a terrible plan,” he said. “Second, where do I fit in?”
“I need you to get as many guys from the team on board as possible,” I said, laying it out fast before he had a chance to overthink. “They’re not going to listen to Scotty, not once they find out he was involved. But we need the numbers to make this work—to make an impression. And the guys will listen to one of their own.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
No point in lying. “You could get booted off the team,” I said. “Make yourself a target again.”
I waited for him to take a pass. Instead, he tilted his head and asked, “Who’s on board?”
“Me, obviously,” I said, and Miles snorted. “Carl, Leyla, Ashi, Scotty, Ellis, and the rest of the Arts Council.”
“Ivy?”
“Yes.” Probably.
Hopefully.
“Okay.” He nodded. “I’m in.”
“Meet me at Marvin’s at six,” I said, pouncing before he could take it back.
Miles ducked his head and scrambled out from under the bleachers. He stayed crouched, looking over at me. “Hey, Howard?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for asking me,” he said. “I appreciate it. Even if we end up regretting it.”
He jogged back out onto the court, and I waited a beat before crawling out myself. I knew a thing or two about regrets. Collecting them was easy. Clearing them up, not so much. But Pops was right. Sometimes you just had to forge ahead.
It was time to go get my partner back.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ivy’s house was smack in the middle between my neighborhood and Scotty’s. It was two-story red brick with a bare maple tree in the side yard. The grey slush and dirty snow carpeting the yard made for a less-than-inviting picture. I strode up to the front door before I could talk myself out of it and gave three solid knocks. Ivy’s grandma came to the door. The temperature took a sudden drop, but I soldiered on.
“Hi, Lillian.”
“Howard, please, call me Mrs. Mason.”
Ouch. Guess I knew where I stood now. “May I speak to Ivy, please? Ma’am?”
“Sorry,” she said, already closing the door. “She’s not home.”
“I’ll wait for her.” Desperation moved me forward, and I stuck a foot in the doorway.
Lillian—Mrs. Mason—gave it a pointed look and shot one at my face for good measure. “That’s not a good idea, Howard.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist.”
“I’ll tell her you stopped by,” Mrs. Mason said, giving my foot a little kick and knocking it off the jamb. “She’ll call you.”
The door slammed shut, and I stumbled back on the stoop. Less than a success, but not quite a failure. Ivy was definitely at home. My dismissal wouldn’t have been so swift if she wasn’t. Wandering back to the walkway, I looked up at her window.
There it was.
A twitch in the curtains.
Ivy was watching. Now I had to get her attention. I marched into the yard and checked out my options. There was really only one. I placed a hand on the trunk of the tree and gathered my strength. Onward and upward. After a few false starts, I got a hold and made my way up the tree. The slippery bark almost got the best of me, but I pressed on. I crawled out onto the branch closest to Ivy’s window.
“Poor planning, Howard,” I muttered. I had nothing to throw at her window to get her attention. Time for a little classic rule number one. “Ivy,” I hollered. “I-vy!”
The window slid open and her face appeared. “What is wrong with you?”
“We need to talk,” I said, maintaining my death grip on the branch.
“You mean you need to talk,” Ivy said. The window skated shut.
“Ivy?”
This was going even less to plan than expected.
“Ivy.”
After what felt like another lifetime, the window opened one excruciating inch at a time. My partner reappeared in the window. “What?”
I held her gaze for as long as I could muster, finally managing to get the words out. “I’m stuck.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The glare she came back with would have taken out any poor sap, but I was too preoccupied with my current predicament for any lasting effects. She exhaled in a huff. The window slid back down and Ivy vanished.
“Hello?” I called out. “I don’t need much help. A rope would be good. Ladder. Fire department.”
The front door slammed and Ivy came into view. Pulling mittens on, she watched me cling to my post and shook her head. My partner grabbed hold of the tree and climbed up to my branch. After getting herself situated while I held on for dear life, she turned to me. “You’re an idiot.”
“You’re right,” I said. “And not just about this particular situation. I’ve been an idiot. I’ve been a bad partner and a bad friend.”
Wind whipped through the tree, and a pile of dead, wet leaves slipped from the branch above onto my head. “Oh, gross.” Ivy broke a small smile as I stuck a finger under my collar to dig out the icy cluster. “I’ve messed up a lot this week,” I said. “But the worst mistake I made was messing up with you.”
She stayed silent.
“I can keep talking and I’ll keep apologizing for as long as it takes. But I really came to see if maybe you wanted to talk about what’s been going on with you.”
Ivy’s eyes welled up. “A lot of stuff, Howard. A lot of stuff.”
Shuffling over, I moved in to give her a hug. I felt the exact moment my weight shifted in the wrong direction. Instantly, I released my hold. No point in taking my partner down with me. I caught sight of Ivy’s horrified face as I slipped off the branch and fell to the ground.
“Howard!”
“It’s okay,” I wheezed. “The snow broke my fall.”
Ivy clambered down the tree and leaned over me. “Well, at least you’re not stuck anymore.” She held out a hand and helped me up. “Let’s go inside.”
With my lucky coat safely in the dryer, I sat in Ivy’s room with a towel around my neck. Ivy was wearing a groove in the floor in front of me, and Spartacus watched the whole scene from his perch on her bed, eyes slightly crossed.
“I don’t even know if I want to talk,” Ivy said. “I’ve been talking—to my grandma, my dad—although that’s been as much yelling as talking. Talking to my therapist has been good. That’s why I skipped out on Drama Club, by the way. She shot me a sideways look. “But she wasn’t happy when I missed my Wednesday appointment.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that’s where you were going?”
“When should I have told you? When you were accusing me of taking on other jobs, or when you were peeved at me for not helping with the case enough?”
The full scope of how much I’d messed up
began to sink in. Everything I’d missed and ignored. The words knotted up in my throat. “Ivy, I—”
She stopped suddenly to face me. “I’m not going to apologize for taking Spartacus.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I said with a forceful shake of my head. “You were right.”
Ivy blinked. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I was.” She stared off at the wall for a moment and then nodded again. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a wrinkled, white envelope. Her name was scrawled across the front.
“Ivy,” I said. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to—”
“No.” She handed me the envelope. “I want to.”
I carefully opened up the envelope and pulled out the paper from inside. It was a single sheet, crumpled, ripped, and taped back together. I skimmed over the contents and blinked. “It’s from your mom.”
“Yup,” Ivy said, snapping off the end of the word with a pop.
“I don’t have to read this.”
She took the letter out of my hand and folded it back up. “I’ll give you the highlights,” she said. “She needs time, she has to work on herself, she’s not getting back to together with Dad, but she misses me.” Ivy’s fingers twitched, ripping the edge of the paper. “That keeps happening,” she said, reaching for the tape on her desk. “Long story short, she’s moving to Grantleyville. Dad’s already talking about the schedule for my living arrangements.”
“When did she send that?”
“Monday,” Ivy said, taping the letter back together and tucking it away. “It came in a packet of divorce papers for my dad. They’re talking like it’s already done and sorted. Nobody’s asking what I want. I’m supposed to fall in line.”
“Ivy,” I said, sitting forward in my seat. “I’m so sorry.”
She waved me off, eyes bright. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay. Obviously. But it will be. Eventually. It has to be, right?”
“I had no idea.”
“Trust me, I know,” Ivy said, shooting me a look. She sat down on the bed beside Spartacus. “Listen, I know I punked out on the case—”
“Ivy, that’s not—”
“Listen,” she said. “I couldn’t deal with it. With you. On top of everything else.” Ivy sighed. “I was too mad. It was like all at once I could see everything piling up. My mom leaving. My dad picking up and moving us here with zero discussion because it was the ‘right thing to do.’ For him. And then the case. It was your decisions. Your rules.”
Ivy plucked at the bedspread, snapping off a thread. “I’m sick and tired of dealing with the fallout from everyone else’s choices,” she said. Her lips were trembling when she finally looked up. “When do I get to make the rules?”
All of my commands and accusations from the past week came back to punch me in the gut. I’d gone so far off course, it wasn’t funny. Pops had hit the nail on the head. Now was the time to dig in and make things right.
“How about now?” I sat down beside Ivy. “I can’t do anything about your folks,” I said. “But I can change things with us.” Ivy’s words echoed, and an idea bounced back. “Let’s start from scratch. What’s our first rule?”
Ivy scratched Spartacus under the chin as she thought. Her jaw was set when she finally spoke. “Rule number one: we help people.”
“For a set fee.”
“Howard,” she said. “It’s not about money and business or checking and balancing favors. It should be about making a difference. Helping people.”
“Yes, okay, fine.” I smiled. “We help people. That’s good. I know exactly where to start.” I filled Ivy in on what I’d learned from the Arts Council and the plan so far.
She grimaced. “That’s a terrible plan.”
“I know.”
“I love it,” she said.
We made it to Marvin’s shop at six on the dot. Ivy and I burst through the door to find Leyla, Carl, and Miles standing in front of the counter.
“Oh, good,” I said. “The gang’s all here.”
“Waiting to hear what for,” Leyla said, arms crossed as she glared at me.
Hoarse coughing cut me off as Marvin shuffled out of the back room. “Am I paying you to loiter around my shop?”
“You’re not paying me,” I said. Stepping over to the door, I locked it and flipped the Open sign. “And you’re closed.”
Marvin looked at Spartacus, lying on the floor and panting at Ivy’s feet. “Is that a dog?”
“Yes?”
Spartacus’s tongue lolled out.
“Is it dead?” Marvin took a step back.
“No?” I took a peek at Spartacus. “No, he’s fine.”
“If it messes on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up,” he sniffed, and Carl cracked a smile.
“Uncle Marv, a mess would be an improvement on this carpet,” Carl said.
Marvin cackled and shuffled back toward his office. “Good luck storming the castle,” he said. “If you get caught, I saw nothing and no one.”
“Thanks, Marv,” I called after him. Leyla leaned forward, toying with a box of harmonicas on the counter.
“This store is amazing,” she said. “It’s like a museum of Grantleyville’s most bizarre history and collectibles. I could get an article a week out of here.”
“One thing at a time,” I said. “Let’s focus.” I brought everyone up to speed and filled Leyla and Carl in on the plan.
“That’s a terrible plan,” Leyla said.
Miles leaned up against the counter and whistled. “Believe it or not, that’s better than the one he told me this afternoon.”
Ivy grinned. “I made some improvements.”
Miles, Leyla, and Carl nodded, making noises of approval. I knew I should be offended, but we didn’t have the time. “Anyway,” I said and halted when Leyla held up a hand.
“Your plan needs a little kick,” she said. “Remember that lead I was chasing down from Stoverton?”
“Vaguely.”
“It paid off.” Leyla pulled a folder out of her bag. “Big time.” She set it down on the counter and began spreading out newspaper articles and old yearbooks. “I was going to save this for when the deal with you went bust, but I think you actually have a chance of making it work.”
We read through the articles and Miles hooted. “Especially with this,” he said.
“What do you think?” I looked over at my partner.
“We’ll need to tweak the plan a little,” Ivy said. “But yeah, I think this’ll do. Quite nicely.”
“Okay, then,” I said, pulling notebooks and pens out of my pockets and passing them around the circle. “Let’s get to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
On Saturday morning, the five of us stood outside the school, ready for action. Ivy bounced up on the balls of her feet, excitement radiating out through the tips of her toes. “Operation Sportsball is now in effect,” she said. Under Ivy’s direction, the plan had gone from very terrible to semiterrible.
Miles put his hand up. “Is that—are we really calling it that?”
“Yes,” Ivy and I said.
Carl and Miles groaned.
“The name isn’t going to make or break the plan,” Leyla said, tucking Spartacus under her coat.
“But it helps if it’s snazzy,” Ivy said. “And we need all the help we can get. Let’s get phase one rolling.”
“That’s Coach’s car,” Miles said, pointing at the parking lot. If the man of the hour was here, it was time to set things in motion.
“Everybody knows what to do,” I said.
Ivy held out a hand. “ ‘Go, Gladiators’ on three?”
Carl and Leyla peeled off to the left and Miles snorted. I fist-bumped her waiting hand and grinned. “Go, Gladiators.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Ivy flashed me a smile and headed toward to the school. Miles and I jogged after her.
Rounding the corner to Coach’s office, I checked out my partner. “You all set?”
Ivy patt
ed her shirt pocket. “Double and triple checked.”
“Okay,” I said. “Operation Sportsball is a go.”
Miles dipped his head to hide a smirk. “Sure, whatever,” he said. “I’ll see you guys in a bit.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a good code name,” Ivy said.
“No, no, it works,” I said. “I like it.”
I held up a finger as we approached Coach’s office. Mr. Williams was the picture of desolation, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looked up when we knocked on the cage door, and we took a step back. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary. Coach had had a rough night. He scrambled up from his seat to let us in, scattering papers and knocking his pen cup over. “You got him? Where is he?”
“We ran into a problem,” I said as we stepped through the door.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Williams ran a hand through his patchy hair. “What problem? Where is he? Do you not understand how serious this is?”
“We’ve made some progress,” Ivy said. “We know for sure that Carl Dean wasn’t involved.”
“I don’t care about Carl,” he snapped. “I care about getting Spartacus back. If we go into the Grudge Game without him and lose, the Parents’ Association is going to have my head.”
“Don’t you want the proper person caught for this?”
“If Carl didn’t do this, I can guarantee he did something else. He’s as likely a candidate as any, and if people find out about this, I’m going to need someone believable to put the blame on.”
“It doesn’t matter that he’s innocent?” I asked.
“That’s a relative concept when it comes to Carl.”
“It’s one game,” Ivy said.
A flush began to creep up Mr. Williams’s neck. “One game? One game? It’s the game. I will do whatever it takes for us to win.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “You do have some making up to do.” I poked through my bag and pulled out the copies of the articles Leyla had dug up. “Ivy, did you know we keep old copies of our school newspaper?”
“I did not, Howard,” Ivy said. “Please tell me more.”
“It’s fascinating stuff, really. A look back at all of our school’s triumphs . . . and tragedies.”