Wild Swans

by Jessica Spotswood

  Eleanor is another one of the professors up at the college; she teaches freshman comp, Poetry I and Poetry II, and a special topics class on poetry of the Harlem Renaissance that Connor is really excited to take this fall. She’s the real deal, with a couple of chapbooks and poems published in various journals and magazines.

  “Um, that’s okay.” More. Already, he’s thinking more and next. What have I gotten myself into?

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble. I’m sure she’d be happy to do it.” Granddad gets up to fetch himself another cup of coffee, and I slump in my seat like someone’s let all the helium out of me. “I’ll email her about it this afternoon and she—”

  “I said no!”

  Granddad startles and spills his coffee. “Ivy, there’s no need to snap.”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Can we just take a minute and celebrate this? Please? I don’t have any other poems that are ready to share.”

  He frowns, sitting down and straightening his paper with a rustle. “I thought that was our agreement, honey, that you’d keep working on your poetry this summer and submit several poems.”

  Several. Not just one. The chant begins in my head: not enough, not enough, never enough.

  “That was our agreement before I took on the Dorothea project and that French class. Before I had two sisters to look after.”

  “I do appreciate that you made time for Grace and Isobel this weekend,” Granddad says slowly. There’s a but in his voice. He doesn’t come right out with it, just leaves me with that inadequate feeling hanging over me like a thundercloud. He checks his watch. “You better get going or you’re going to be late.”

  “I thought maybe I’d skip the pool today so I can tell Luisa as soon as she gets here?” I hate that I phrase it like a question, like I’m asking for permission.

  “Now, Ivy, don’t go getting lazy on me,” he chides.

  Lazy? Seriously? “It’s summer! I thought we were going to celebrate! One morning off won’t kill me.”

  “It might not kill you, but it won’t help you get ahead of that girl from Salisbury either,” he says, and I guess there is some truth to that. “Go on, now. We’ll have pancakes waiting when you get back.”

  I could argue. Erica would.

  Or flat-out refuse. Iz would.

  But that’s not me. Never has been.

  • • •

  I run into Charlotte Wu, Alex’s Halloween party hookup and my swim teammate/rival, as I’m leaving the pool. We see each other here sometimes, me leaving the women’s locker room as she arrives for the last hour of free swim. Usually she ignores me or gives me a halfhearted wave, but today she bounces right over. “Hey, Ivy! Did you have fun at the bonfire Friday night?”

  I nod, mystified by her sudden friendliness. I don’t even remember seeing her at the party, but I was pretty preoccupied. “Yeah, it was fun.” Not as much fun as if I hadn’t had to leave early and cart Iz home. I’d envisioned the night ending with Connor walking me home and some seriously swoony good night kisses, not a lecture from Granddad and the sounds of my sister vomiting.

  “Who was the guy you came with?” Charlotte asks.

  Ah. She’s not being friendly; she’s being nosy. “My boyfriend.” I blush, testing out the word, still shiny-penny new. “Connor.”

  She grins. “He’s really cute. Is he a student here?”

  I nod, pulling my bag out of my locker. “A sophomore.”

  “Cool.” She fiddles with the strap on her blue swimsuit, pretending nonchalance. Badly. “So, you and Alex…?”

  “Just friends. We were always just friends,” I tell her, and her resulting smile could power the whole swim center.

  “Oh. I mean, I know he brought your sister to the party. Isobel, right? She seems really sweet,” Charlotte says, and I almost laugh because of all the ways I’d describe Iz, “sweet” is not among them. “Katie said that was just a favor though. Is he seeing anybody?”

  “Not that I know of. We haven’t been hanging out much lately.” Which is an understatement, but his request for space is none of Charlotte’s business. How could I have missed her massive crush on Alex? It’s not like she’s trying real hard to hide it. Or maybe that’s only now that she knows I’m not a rival for his affection.

  “Oh. That’s too bad.” She shifts from foot to foot. “I guess you’re pretty busy with your new sisters. I mean, new to town. I mean…” She winces. “I was there the other day when your mom—? I can’t believe she kept them away from you all this time. That sucks. My little sisters are a pain, but I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  I nod. I’ve seen Charlotte’s sisters in the stands, cheering her on at swim meets. Carrie is going be a freshman this year, and Charlotte said she might try out for our team. I wonder what clubs Iz would join, if she were staying long enough to start school in September. Would she try out for the fall play? Abby says they’re doing The Crucible. Would Gracie and Iz come with Granddad to my swim meets and cheer for me?

  Before Erica arrived—before I met Gracie and Iz—I thought them staying till September would be the worst. Now I’m starting to dread the day they leave. I’d even be willing to put up with Erica to keep my sisters in town. When did that change?

  “Okay, well, I’d better get in there before free swim ends. See you!” Charlotte says, and I realize I’ve been quiet for a long time.

  “See you,” I echo.

  I walk back through campus slowly in the early-morning heat, keeping to the redbrick paths. The college was founded back in the 1780s—one of the first colleges in the new nation—and the buildings have mostly kept that redbrick-colonial feel. The sweet scent of freshly mown grass fills the air. A few groundskeepers are edging the sidewalks and mowing the lawn where the all-campus picnics are held. Besides the whine of the lawnmower and the buzz of the Weedwacker, it’s quiet. No students rushing to the dining hall to grab breakfast or stumbling bleary-eyed to early-morning classes.

  It’s so pretty here. And so familiar. When I was little and Luisa was sick or on vacation, Granddad would tote me with him to his office. I grew up surrounded by his framed diplomas and shelves of leather-bound books, reading quietly in the corner while he had office hours. I’d come with him to pick up papers and play with the magnetic poetry on the secretary’s filing cabinet. I ate hot dogs with Claire and the other faculty kids during reunion weekend picnics. The college is home as much as Cecil is. As much as Granddad and Alex and Luisa are.

  I cross the street that separates campus from town and think back to Charlotte. I wonder how I’d feel about her and Alex dating. Just a few weeks ago, Alex having a girlfriend would have freaked me out. Would his girlfriend be jealous of me and all the time we spend together? Would he bail on our movie nights and family croquet games to go out with her instead?

  Now I just miss my friend. The last week has been hard. Really hard. It would have been easier with Alex there, popping in and out of the kitchen to sneak peanut butter cookies from Gracie and me, staying for supper once or twice and making everybody laugh, lightening the ever-present tension.

  He was there the night they arrived. Got to see firsthand how awful Erica was. He knows how much I need him right now.

  The more I walk, the angrier I get.

  Claire’s right. I’ve needed Alex in the last week, and he ghosted on me. I understand that I hurt him—but he’s the one who totally shut me out because I got a boyfriend, not the other way around. I never got mad when he kissed other girls!

  When I get home, instead of making my way into the kitchen for my celebratory breakfast, I head to the carriage house instead. The small brick building is nestled between two shady old oak trees. The front door is open and I can hear Alex’s music blaring, so I knock on the wooden part of the screen door. It feels strange not to call out and go right in. When I was little, I was in and out of this house as much as Alex was in and out of mine.

  But we aren’t little kids anymore. Things change.


  The music turns off and Alex comes to the door, clad only in a pair of red shorts. When he sees it’s me, his mouth tilts into a scowl. “What do you want, Ivy?”

  “To talk to you.” I don’t wait for him to invite me in, because it’s pretty apparent he isn’t going to. I pull open the screen door.

  “It would have been hard for me if you were dating Charlotte Wu—” I start.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not dating Charlotte.” Alex leans over the back of the couch, picks up a white T-shirt, and pulls it on.

  “If you were though. If you’d started dating her at Halloween after the two of you hooked up, I would have been jealous, and I would have been worried about how it would change our friendship. But I wouldn’t have stopped being your friend. I wouldn’t have abandoned you.”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “Abandon? That’s a little dramatic, Ivy.”

  “Well, that’s how it feels.” I pace the hardwood floor between the front windows. I remember when Luisa ripped out the ugly, orange shag carpet and refinished the floors underneath. “I needed you this week. You know how freaked out I was about my mother coming back. It’s been a nightmare. She drinks too much, and she fights with everybody in sight. She and Granddad can’t go ten minutes in the same room without an argument. Half the time it’s about me. Did you hear about the scene she made at Java Jim’s?”

  Alex nods, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “So you heard, but you didn’t come by and see if I was okay? She called me a bitch in front of everybody! Told me it would be all my fault if Gracie and Iz get separated. She told me I’m the kind of girl who people leave.”

  My voice wobbles on that last one. Alex reaches out a hand, then lets it fall halfway between us. “I didn’t know.”

  “Because you didn’t ask!” I throw my hands in the air. “You’re supposed to be my best friend, and you haven’t been there for me at all.”

  He leans a hip against the couch. “Why do you need me? You have Claire and Abby. And Connor.”

  “They’re not you.” I struggle to find the right words. “They don’t live here. They don’t know Granddad—not the way you know him, because he raised you too. They don’t know how weird it is, walking in and hearing the TV on all the time, or finding empty wine bottles in the trash, or having to eat in the dining room because we can’t all fit around the kitchen table. I know you don’t want me to think of you as family, but I do. It might not be in the way you want, but I love you, Alex, and I need you. Having a boyfriend doesn’t change that.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “It does,” Alex says finally, rubbing a hand over his stubbly jaw. “For me, it does. I don’t want to be your brother, Ivy. I meant what I said before. I need some space. It’s not forever.”

  “So my feelings don’t matter? I don’t get a say in this?” I ask. He doesn’t meet my eyes, just shrugs. The utter carelessness of the gesture makes me furious. “Fine. Take your space. But you can’t disappear when all these huge things are happening and then come back in a week or a month and expect that our friendship will be the same. Because it won’t.”

  “Whatever,” he says. Like he can throw fifteen years of friendship right out the window. Like my feelings don’t matter. All that matters to him is that there’s another boy in my life, and he’s punishing me for it.

  “Whatever?” I echo. “Seriously? Go to hell.”

  I stomp out of the house, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. I don’t know how I expected that to go—for him to apologize? To care that he’s hurt me? To see that there’s room for both him and Connor in my life?

  I make my way to the main house, apologies on my lips for being late. But no one is there. A plate of cold banana chocolate-chip pancakes sits on the counter with a note from Granddad explaining that he’s sorry he missed me, but he had to register Isobel for her first day of theater camp and then he’s taking Gracie for a playdate with Professor Campbell’s daughter. Luisa added a PS that she had to run out to the market but she’ll be back soon.

  I sink into a chair and prop my chin in my hands, blinking back tears.

  So much for my special celebration.

  I’m still pushing cold pancakes around my plate when Connor rings the doorbell. He’s a little early for work. He must notice that Granddad’s car isn’t in the driveway because he bends down and kisses me right there on the front porch.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  I muster up a smile. “Hi.”

  “So what’s the exciting news?” he asks as I lead the way to the library.

  I forgot that I texted him a hint. It doesn’t even feel worth celebrating anymore.

  “That poem I submitted was accepted.”

  “What? That’s fantastic!” He takes in my Eeyore face. “Isn’t it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just… I thought Granddad would be more excited.” I drop into Granddad’s big leather recliner. Connor sets his bag and his coffee down and sits on the edge of the couch. “It’s dumb, but I guess I expected a magical moment where he’d say he was proud of me and I’d stop feeling so inadequate.”

  “You are not inadequate.” Connor reaches out and traces his thumb over my ankle. Even in my despondency, his touch makes my heart race. “Can I read it? The poem? You never told me what it was about.”

  I play with the frayed edge of my red shorts. “Well, it’s kind of about you.”

  He grins. “Now I’m really curious.”

  I grab my phone and pull up the poem in my email. “Here. Just don’t tell me if it’s terrible, okay?”

  “I’m sure it’s not terrible,” he says.

  I get up, pacing back and forth, back and forth, in front of the french doors.

  After a minute, I look over at him. It’s not a very long poem. Why isn’t he saying anything?

  “When did you write this?” he asks.

  My heart races at the strain in his voice. “Last week. That day we had lunch. What’s wrong?”

  “Ivy…” he starts, then trails off. He stands, putting my phone down on the coffee table.

  “Is it terrible? It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not terrible. It’s just… The last line—” Connor goes to the bookshelf and retrieves Dorothea’s first journal from the bottom shelf. He pages through it, his brow furrowed. “Ivy, that last line isn’t yours.”

  “What do you mean, not mine?” Even though I’m standing in the middle of a patch of sunshine, I feel icy cold.

  He holds the journal out to me, pointing to Dorothea’s words spiraling across the page in faded blue ink. I take it from him with a sinking stomach and read. There, at the bottom, Dorothea talks about Robert Moudowney. About sitting across from him at a picnic in the town square and wanting so badly for him to take her hand.

  And she uses my words.

  Except, they were her words first.

  I fumble and Connor catches the journal before it hits the floor.

  “No. I didn’t…” I feel like I’m going to throw up. I can’t meet his eyes. Instead, I stare at the portrait of Dorothea above the mantel. She looks unbearably smug in her little gloves and smart navy shirtdress and neat, pin-curled hair. She would never make this kind of mistake. “I thought I made it up. I didn’t realize—”

  “It was an accident,” Connor says. “It’s just that one line. I only remembered because the phrase really stuck with me. It was such a great image.”

  “The editor said it was ‘sharp and evocative.’ That’s what she liked best about the poem. The part—the part that wasn’t really mine.” I bury my face in my hands. “I am so stupid.”

  “Hey.” Connor takes my hands and moves them away from my face. “Don’t beat yourself up. It was an honest mistake. At least we caught it before publication. You can still pull the poem.”

  Pull the poem. Of course. Otherwise it’d be plagiarism.

  But that means I’ll have to tell Granddad what happened. What I accident
ally did. Whatever pride he mustered up for my persistence—my effort, if not my talent—will disappear. I cheated. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

  “He’ll be so disappointed,” I whisper. “And he’ll be right. I’m not a poet. I’m not anything.”

  “Ivy, I have to ask. Do you want to be a poet? Are you doing this for you or for him?”

  I don’t answer.

  Connor tips my chin up with one finger until I have to meet his pretty, golden eyes. “I see you jumping through hoops to try to earn his approval, to measure up to some Milbourn ideal, and it’s making you hate yourself. Is it really worth it?”

  “I can answer that.”

  We both whirl around at the low, smoky voice. Erica. She strides into the room, her spiky blond hair still wet from the shower, her makeup perfectly applied—the slash of red lipstick, the cat’s-eye black eyeliner. She’s dressed in a long, striped black-and-gray tunic and black capris, her hands laden with silver rings and a silver necklace draped around her throat. She looks sleek and powerful, like some elegant cat waiting to pounce.

  “Sorry for interrupting,” she says with a smile that’s not sorry at all.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  “Connor, this is Erica. Erica, Connor.”

  Erica takes one look at us—at the distance between us, or lack thereof—and taps her long, taupe fingernails against her pointy chin. “So you’re the reason she’s not dating the housekeeper’s kid.”

  “His name is Alex,” I say through gritted teeth, “and I’m not dating him because he’s like my brother. But yes, Connor is my boyfriend. And one of Granddad’s students. We’re working together to—”

  “Archive Dorothea’s journals. I heard.” Erica flutters a hand at the bookshelves, her silver rings catching the sunlight. “If it were up to me, I’d set the damn things on fire; I’m that sick of hearing her name.” She gives a rich, throaty laugh as Connor’s jaw drops in horror. “Oh, look at you. You are one of Dad’s disciples. Are you dating Ivy for extra credit?”