Chapter 6 #2
My mom comes out of nowhere to stand at my side, like she has some kind of radar that says Ivy’s being forced to socialize and might say something stupid.
“Ivy’s really turned things around,” she’s quick to assure Jeff, but it’s more for her own sake than mine.
She’s obsessed with keeping up appearances, which is why the things I did upset her so much.
“She’s on her second semester at Stratus. ”
“Is that so? What major did you decide on? Something more substantial than that art stuff, I hope. Never going to make a living painting pretty pictures.”
“Graphic design,” I mutter.
I see the immediate judgement on Jeff’s face, but Mom cuts in before he can respond. “Graphic design is everywhere, Jeff. Trust me. We wouldn’t let her major in something useless like painting or drawing. The application for graphic design is endless.”
Jeff looks skeptical. “Well, you know more about it than me, I suppose. When Briana wanted to major in music composition, her mother and I said, ‘sounds good, but we’re not paying.’ She switched up her tune real fast after that, pardon my pun.”
Mom laughs, but I can see the tension in her eyes.
She hates when people bring up the art thing.
She hates defending her own decision to let me major in something “frivolous,” instead of something “respectable” like finance or business or even marketing.
“It wasn’t an easy decision, but Robert and I did extensive research on the… ”
I tune out Mom’s well-rehearsed justification and focus on keeping my eyes from going cross as I stare at the spot just over Jeff’s right shoulder. When his voice chimes in over my mom’s, signaling the end to her speech, I tune back in.
“Well, Ivy. I hope it works out for you,” he says.
I give him a tight smile. “Thanks.”
When I finally manage to slip away from Jeff Greene, I make myself small. I’ve perfected the art by now, and I shuffle all the way to the kitchen, slumping against the counter and watching Noah grab a beer from the fridge. I suppose his hangover cleared up.
Noticing me standing here, he tilts his head at the can. “Want one?”
I shoot him a look because he can’t be serious. “I can’t.”
He cracks open the can. “Dad gave me beer freshman year.”
“You know that’s not the issue.”
Mom would have a conniption if she witnessed me drinking alcohol, and Noah snorts because he knows it too, before wandering off to the living room.
With a sigh, I fiddle with the fruit bowl on the counter, my back to the door, wishing I could hide away in here for the remainder of the evening. It’s an impossibility. Mom will hunt me down after a while, but for the moment, it’s nice to be alone. All these people set me on edge.
“Ivy?” The voice comes from behind me, and I jump a mile, whirling to find Matthew Clarkson standing in the doorway with a sheepish smile on his face and a beer in his hand.
My shoulders relax an inch. “Oh. Um, hi, Matt.”
“I thought that was you. Your hair’s longer.”
I blink at him, surprised he noticed. Surprised he even remembered the length of my hair in high school. “Oh. Yeah. I grew it out.”
“I like it.”
I shift on my feet, thrown by the unexpected compliment. “Um, t-thanks.”
He grins at me and takes a sip of his beer. “So. It’s been a minute.”
Way more than a minute. Five years, maybe? I can barely remember the last time I interacted with Matt. Freshman English? Biology? We weren’t really “friends” after middle school, but we did grow up together.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. It has. Are your parents here, too?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re around here somewhere. I’m home from Pitt for the weekend.”
I shift my weight again. Bite the inside of my cheek. “Nice.”
My fingers fidget with the hem of my sweater, and Matt’s eyes follow the movement. They flick back over me, lingering a little too long in my opinion, and my heart rate kicks up as paranoia floods my mind.
He shouldn’t be looking at you like that.
“E-excuse me,” I stammer and push past him before I can think through my actions. Rounding the corner, I slip quietly into the basement and shut the door behind me. Halfway down the staircase, I slump down on the steps, resting my head in my hands and telling myself to get a fucking grip.
You’ve known Matt Clarkson since childhood. He’s never once come on to you. He was just making conversation. It’s all in your head.
No. No. I can’t accept that because if it’s all in my head then my brain’s fucked up and my gut’s working wrong and my intuition’s shot. If it’s all in my head, then I need serious help.
There’s no way of knowing, though. Not unless I ask Matt, and that’s the last thing I’m about to do.
I rub my temple, sighing into the dark. A light appears out of the corner of my eye, and I look up, glancing toward the glowing screen of my phone lying in the middle of the pull-out. I walk across the room to grab it and flop stomach-down on the bed.
There’s one more message.
Wes: Okay, maybe this was creepy. Please do me one final favor and forget this ever happened. I’m going to go crawl under a rock now.
I almost smile at Wes’s text, my anxiety and self-loathing easing ever-so-slightly. My fingers move over the keyboard of their own accord, and before I know it, I’m sending him a response.
Me: You’d have to find the world’s biggest rock.
Wes: There she is. For a second there I was worried I was going to have to ask some stranger for Thursday’s notes. Scared the shit out of me, stranger danger and all.
I shake my head at his message and type out a careful reply.
Me: Please. I doubt you’d have any trouble asking a stranger for help…
Wes: Maybe not. But then I wouldn’t get to talk to you.
I blink at his words, feeling lightheaded for a moment. But then I remember that Wes is beloved because he knows how to turn on the charm, and I’m sure he’s like this with everyone he talks to. I’m nothing special.
Me: Where were you on Thursday?
I ask the question before I lose the nerve.
Wes: I had that nasty twenty-four-hour stomach bug that’s going around. I really don’t recommend it.
Me: I’m sorry. I hope you’re feeling better.
Wes: I am now. So did you miss me? :p
Yes, I think immediately. I don’t type that, of course.
Me: I guess.
Wes: Hey, I’ll take it! I missed you for what it’s worth.
Again, I almost smile.
Me: I can send you the notes in a bit. We’re expanding on our topics.
Wes: My hero, coming to my rescue yet again. First the pencil, now the notes. I owe you a million more muffins.
Me: No one can eat a million muffins, but I appreciate the gesture.
I expect him to leave it at that, so I’m surprised when another message comes through a minute later.
Wes: What are you up to this weekend? Hopefully hanging on tight to that apartment key?
Me: Ha ha funny. I’m at my parents’ house for my dad’s birthday, actually.
Wes: Oh, nice. Do they live far?
Me: About two hours. I’m from Miller Hill.
Wes: Oh, no way. You went to MHHS?
Me: Unfortunately, yes.
Wes: I went to Northland. Looks like we’re rivals :p
Northland.
There’s only one other person I know from Northland High School.
I shut off the screen and flip onto my back, resting the phone on my chest as I stare up at the ceiling.
I try to ignore the alarm bells blaring in my head—the first in a while when it comes to Wes—and focus on the facts.
Just because he went to Northland doesn’t mean he knows him.
He probably doesn’t, and I concentrate on keeping my breathing even.
Before I can fully process what to do or say, the door swings open. I scramble off the bed, tucking my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, as Mom calls, “Ivy, are you down here?” I’ve been gone for almost fifteen minutes, so she’s right on cue.
“Yeah, sorry!” I call. “Was just using the bathroom.”
The light flicks on as she descends the stairs, pausing halfway down. “Why didn’t you use the one upstairs?”
I squint up at her and lie. “It was occupied.”
She frowns like she doesn’t believe me, glancing around the basement like she thinks I might be hiding something. Alcohol, probably. “Well, your father’s about to give a speech.”
“Coming,” I mutter, and I follow her up.
The rest of the night moves slowly, and by the time most people have left, Dad’s still in the living room, sipping beer and chatting with Jeff and Bill. I’m helping Mom tidy the kitchen when Scott and Olive appear, both with that glazed look in their eyes that means they’ve had one drink too many.
“Successful party, Mom,” says Scott, patting her on the back.
Mom smiles at him. “Thank you, honey.”
“Yeah, it was so much fun, Angela,” Olive says, sidling up next to me at the sink. She starts drying the dishes I’ve washed before nudging me with her shoulder, giving me a secret smile. “I saw you talking to that guy, Ivy. He was kind of cute.”
Mom freezes, her head snapping toward me. “What guy?”
I fight the urge to glare at my brother’s girlfriend and focus on gripping the sponge in my hand, scrubbing it over a serving spoon. “It was just Matt Clarkson, Mom. Not a big deal.”
I expect her to relax now that she knows it was just the neighbor kid, but she doesn’t. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ivy,” she warns, low enough for only me to hear, and my face flames.
Ever since the night in the hospital, when I cemented my status as the familial disappointment, Mom expects me to fuck up again. With grades, with boys, with parties, with booze. I don’t reply to her. Just keep my mouth shut, washing the dishes beneath hot water until my hands burn.
It’s just past ten when everyone disappears to bed, so I retreat downstairs to the basement.
Standing at the sink, I wash my face, I brush my teeth, I take extra care with the floss.
I procrastinate, stretching out my nighttime routine, because once I get in bed, I’ll have to look at my phone—and once I look at my phone, I’ll have to respond to the message there.
And I have no idea what to say.
Finally, I change into my sweatpants and slip under the covers. I pull out my phone, Wes’s last text taunting me through the screen.
I went to Northland. Looks like we’re rivals :p
Instead of responding, I dig up Thursday’s notes on the drive and paste the link in our text thread. A part of me doesn’t expect him to answer, but his reply comes within minutes.
Wes: You’re an angel, you know that?
His words send a wave of heat up my body until my cheeks warm.
Me: You’re welcome.
Wes doesn’t say anything after that. I debate asking what he’s up to, but I don’t want to bother him. I shouldn’t be bothering him. I shouldn’t want to bother him. He has enough adoring fans.
Setting my phone aside, I pull the blanket up under my chin and get as comfortable as I can on the brittle mattress. It’s not long before I fall asleep.