Chapter 16
Ivy
Life can change in an instant. I know that well. And for me, it’s often been for the worse.
Waking up to Mom’s sobs the night I overheard her tell Dad she was sick.
Waking up in a hospital room less than a year later to Dad’s heart-shattering cries and finding out Mom was no longer with us.
Having to upend my life in the city after a call telling me that my dad was going to jail and that CPS were threatening to take my little brother away.
I’m a firm believer that life can get better, but geez. How about a break every now and again? Because, given my history, sometimes hope feels more like delusion.
All this to say, I’m not used to my chest feeling this light. To having enough room to breathe because that huge load of pressure has vanished.
I did it. I really did it—in less than two weeks, I drew twelve half-naked firemen that didn’t suck.
Ian’s mom—who handles the merchandise—wasn’t too convinced it would sell well, but she’s happy with the final result anyway. She loves it. And most importantly, I do too.
Against my own expectations, I was able to unblock the part of me that couldn’t draw. And it only took an hour of Ford posing in gray sweatpants and an undershirt that left very little to the imagination.
That doesn’t mean I’ve let him see his, though.
Showing Ford an illustrated version of himself with his abs on full display isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, so I somehow convinced him to wait until the calendar comes out.
To build up the excitement, I said. He saw right through my bullshit, but didn’t press.
Now, life feels more optimistic as I clock in for my shift at The Harmony Grove.
“Looking happy, Ivy,” Nash comments as I pass him and Diana on the way to the spa room. “Ford told me that the calendar is almost ready. We’ll be stocking them here for guests.”
I chuckle. “Isn’t this place a little too fancy for those types of calendars?”
“Nah. We gotta support the community.”
“What calendars?” Diana asks. “Are you talking about the firemen ones?”
“Yeah. I…” Own it, Ivy. “I’ve illustrated them this year. I’m excited.”
“I haven’t seen them yet, but Ford swears by her art,” Nash tells Diana, and I’m not sure how to feel about Ford talking to his brothers about me. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable; quite the opposite. “I’m sure they’ll look great.”
“It’s a new concept,” Diana concedes, sending me a tight-lipped smile and not sounding so sure about her own words. “Harmony Hills has never had anything other than real firemen on those calendars.”
“Times change, Di,” Nash quips. “Doing those photo shoots takes a lot of resources, and the department is better off investing them somewhere else.”
“We’ll agree to disagree,” Diana says with a chuckle.
It’s not hard to tell she’s one of the many people who aren’t on board with the illustrated calendar, but what am I supposed to do about it? It wasn’t even my idea.
“We’ll have to treasure the old calendars as the relics they are,” Nash says casually, never being rude or imposing when he voices his opinion.
I appreciate that about him more and more as the days pass.
“Some of the guys don’t feel comfortable doing the calendars anymore. I think it’s a good alternative.”
It doesn’t surprise me that some of them, including Ford, feel that way. I’ve never felt like a piece of meat to that degree, but I imagine it can be degrading.
Diana shakes her head. “You younger generations are ruining all the good things.”
I try not to take her words personally. She’s entitled to her own opinion, of course. And although I think it’s in poor taste to criticize something she hasn’t even seen—in front of the person who made it, no less—I need to pick my battles.
“And we do it proudly,” Nash declares good-naturedly.
The older woman shakes her head again, but she’s smiling. I’m starting to see it’s impossible to get into an argument with Nash.
I smile, too, mostly out of politeness. “See you guys later. I have to get started on the spa.”
“Have a good shift, Ivy,” Nash tells me.
Diana smiles back but doesn’t say anything, and I head over to the spa room, focusing on what I came here to do. Which is not arguing with a coworker.
Once I’ve gathered all my usual cleaning supplies, I fish for my phone inside my purse. A couple of days ago, I found a paranormal storytelling podcast I now can’t live without. It may fuel my paranoia when I go into the dark and empty parking lot later, but it’s worth it.
As soon as I tap on my lock screen, though, a notification pops up. It’s an email from one of Joe’s teachers.
Good evening Ms. Farnsworth,
I hope this email finds you well, and I apologize for the late hour.
My name is Mr. Grimes, and I’m Joe’s physics teacher. I don’t believe we have spoken before, so it’s good to e-meet you.
Unfortunately, I’m writing to let you know that your brother has been underperforming in class for the past couple of weeks. He has always been a model student, but he failed last week’s test and has turned an assignment in late.
I’ve spoken to some of his other teachers, and they have agreed that Joe seems distracted in class. I’m not sure, however, if he has been underperforming in their classes. If no other teachers have reached out to you, there may not be a reason to be alarmed yet.
That said, I would like to hold a parent-teacher meeting with you ASAP. How does tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. sound?
Joe is a great student, and I am aware that he wants to become a pilot.
I would like to believe this is nothing more than a rough patch, but I must be honest—unless he gets back on track, I am not sure how likely he is to succeed at flight school.
Physics is a key subject for his career choice, after all.
Please let me know about the parent-teacher meeting at your earliest convenience.
Best,
Mr. Grimes
My vision blurs and my head spins with it. For a moment, I think I’m going to faint.
I couldn’t have read that right. There’s no way my brother, historically an A student, has failed a test and turned an assignment in late.
Joe, who hasn’t failed a single test in his life. There’s no way.
But the words don’t change when I reread the email once, twice, three times. The email is also sent by a verified account from his school, and Mr. Grimes is his physics teacher—I know the names of all his teachers—so this isn’t a prank either.
After taking a deep breath that does nothing to calm my anxiety, I email him back, confirming that tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. is fine, and thank him for letting me know about Joe.
He failed a test last week and didn’t tell me about it.
The feeling of betrayal pierces straight through my chest, and I have to force myself to ignore it and focus on my job. A job that needs to be completed in four hours unless I want to be out of it tomorrow.
I try my hardest to stay grounded and only think about cleaning products and the ghost stories the woman on my podcast is narrating. For the most part, I succeed; if nothing else, I’m a master at compartmentalizing.
I don’t text Joe about Mr. Grimes’s email because this isn’t a conversation I want to have over the phone. And when I get home after midnight, he’s already fast asleep, so I leave him a note on his nightstand telling him that I’m home safe and go to bed myself.
I sleep like shit. And in the morning, things don’t get better.
“Jojo,” I call out from the kitchen as I finish making some toast for him. My stomach has been in knots since yesterday, and I’m not even a little hungry.
“Yeah?” His voice is followed by the sound of a zipper. He emerges from his room moments later, swinging his heavy backpack over one shoulder before setting it down in the hallway and grabbing a slice of toast from my plate. “How was work yesterday?”
“It was all right. Actually—”
“I saw Nash the other day at the grocery store,” he interrupts me, munching on his toast without a care in the world. Oh, Joe. “He said I could work at The Harmony Grove in the summer if I wanted to. He didn’t specify doing what, but I think—”
“Joe, we need to talk.”
Not the gentlest approach, I’m aware, but I can’t keep stalling, and we need to leave for school in five minutes.
Slowly, he puts down the piece of toast. “Okay….”
He sounds confused, and I don’t understand why. Does he really not have any idea what I would want to talk about?
“I got an email from Mr. Grimes yesterday. He wants to talk to me,” I say, watching his face closely. When it falls, so does my stomach. “You know what this is about, don’t you?”
He very visibly gulps. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“What should you have told me, exactly?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “That I failed my physics exam the other day.”
“Joe,” I groan. “You’ve never failed a test in your life. What’s going on?”
He shrugs, and what I see in his face is pure exhaustion. How have I not noticed the bags under his eyes until now? What kind of sister does that make me? What kind of guardian?
“I’m just tired,” he explains. “Am I in trouble? Am I going to fail this semester?”
I let out a deep breath and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t think one single exam will make you fail an entire semester, but I don’t know, Joe.
Mr. Grimes sent me an email because he’s worried, and so are some of your other teachers.
They told him you look distracted in class, and Mr. Grimes said that you turned in a late assignment. ”
“That’s because I confused the dates,” he argues.
“I get that, Jojo. Mistakes happen. But your teachers are worried, and it must be for a reason. Are you not sleeping well?”
“I guess,” he mumbles, eyes locked on his sneakers. “But it won’t happen again. I promise.”
“You didn’t tell me about the exam.”
Of course I want him to do well at school, but turning in an assignment a day late or failing a single exam isn’t the end of the world. What is making all my alarms go off is that he lied to me. That he kept that F to himself when we tell each other everything, all the time, no matter what.
“I didn’t want to upset you. You have enough going on already, and it was just one exam,” he explains. “I’m sorry, Ives. I just had a bad week and didn’t study enough, but it won’t happen again. You have to trust me.”
“I trust you, but I’m speaking to Mr. Grimes anyway. He asked me to come to school today.”
“Okay,” he says carefully. “What did he say in his email?”
I choose to be honest, even if this is probably the last thing he wants to hear.
“That you’re a good student, but that you might not be accepted into flight school unless you get back on track.”
Hurting Joe in any way goes against all my instincts, but part of growing up is accepting the consequences of our actions. And, at sixteen, he should be very aware of that.
“It won’t happen again,” he repeats, his shoulders dropping. “I want to get into flight school.”
“I know, and you will,” I reassure him, because it’s vital to me that he doesn’t lose his drive now.
That’s not what I want him to take from this situation.
“A bad grade doesn’t define you. It won’t determine your future as a pilot.
As long as it doesn’t happen again, you will be okay.
Just make sure you study harder next time, especially in physics so you can bump up your grade.
And please, talk to me if you’re not feeling well or if you’re worried about something.
I’m your sister, and I love you. I’m not here only to feed you and tell you how stinky you are, all right? You can talk to me.”
I grab his arm and give it a reassuring squeeze. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugs. “I’m disappointed in myself for letting you down.”
“I’m already over it, okay? Let’s focus on the future. Do you have any tests this week?”
“No, but I have an English assignment due on Friday.”
It’s Tuesday, so not too bad. He has time. “The Shakespeare one, right? How’s that going?”
“I need to write the conclusion and reread it. I’ll turn it in on time, I promise.”
“I know you will, snot.” I give him another squeeze. “Come on, let’s finish breakfast. You’re not going to school on an empty stomach.”