The Education of Ivy Blake (4 page)

Her mother's car
was gone and the house was empty when Ivy got home from school. The magnet from the Really Fine Diner held up a note.
Lindsey changed my schedule,
it said.
I work three p.m. to eleven now. See you later.

Ivy's heart went loose in its socket. She stared blankly at the fridge, which was bare of anything but the magnet and the half sheet of notebook paper the note was written on. It never would've been that way when Aunt Connie was alive. Every drawing and gold-starred homework paper Ivy brought home was taped right up and left until there were so many layers you couldn't see the door anymore.

Ivy's footsteps as she walked to her room sounded louder than usual without her mom there. Even though they didn't talk that much, there was always the reassuring presence of someone else breathing and bumping around.

She sat on the edge of her bed with her hands on her knees. Her ears rang, the room was so silent. She wrinkled her nose. The house smelled damp from the crack in the shower wall that had leaked through to the bathroom floor. She'd spent most of her birthday money from Mom and Dad Evers on lemon-scented cleaning liquid and a candle from the drugstore around the corner to try to mask it. She went to her desk to light the candle. It was called Line-Dried Linen and it had almost knocked Ivy over when she held it up to her nose in the drugstore aisle. It smelled just like the laundry after Mom Evers brought it in from outside.

When the candle was flickering, wafting out its homey odor, Ivy felt better. She decided to act like everything was normal and her mom was in the living room watching TV, or in bed napping. First she pulled her books out and did all of her homework. Next she made a box of macaroni and cheese—it didn't taste anywhere near as good as Mom Evers's homemade version, but it smelled almost the same and, like the candle, made the house seem less lonely—and heated the rest of the green beans she'd opened a few days before. Her mom hadn't eaten any of those when Ivy made them to go with their hamburgers Friday night. She'd laughed at Ivy for saying that well-balanced meals were important, but Mom Evers said it all the time and Ivy believed it.

For dessert, she washed an apple and cut it into slices. She ate the wedges slowly, with her eyes closed, pretending she was at the Everses' kitchen table. Then she opened her eyes back up because pretending that made her miss them too much.

Life with her mom was thinner and flatter than life with the Evers, but maybe they just needed more practice. They'd watched TV together Friday night, and laughed in the same places. And when Lindsey called and wanted her mom to go out with her and Dave, her mom had said,
No, I can't, me and Ives are watching a show.

When the apple was gone, Ivy microwaved a bag of popcorn. She took it to the living room and turned on the Nature channel. A snake appeared on the screen and the narrator's quiet voice explained that the copperhead was native to the southern and southwestern United States but could also be found in southern New England and southeastern New York State, which Ivy knew since twice there'd been a copperhead in the Everses' garden. “The copperhead did not reestablish itself north of the terminal moraine after the Wisconsin glaciation,” the narrator said. The foreign-sounding phrases made a calm feeling spread through Ivy.

She slowly munched her popcorn. A love of popcorn was something she and her mom shared and eating it now was comforting. Her mom had brought home not just a single bag or even a whole box of bags but an almost-full case of six-pack boxes from the gas station last week. She'd said that Lindsey said it was almost past its expiration and they might as well divide it up among themselves instead of throwing it out.

Ivy reached her hand into the bag. The copperhead basked in the sun. Then a mouse scuttled by and the copperhead struck and the mouse was dead. Ivy drew her quilt up close with a quick intake of breath, then relaxed again when the snake went back to basking. The world of nature was gory and violent, but also peaceful. There was something reassuring about that.

• • •

At nine, Ivy sent herself to bed the same as usual. For the first half hour, she adhered to her lights-out rule and kept the room dark and herself under the covers, but when a yell erupted from the house next door and there was what sounded like someone stumbling across her own porch, she sat up and turned the light on. First that light, and then every light in the house, and then, after a few shaky minutes where she pretended she was brave and strong, she shut herself in the bathroom.

She sat in the tub wrapped in her quilt for the next two hours. At some point during that sweaty, heart-racing time, she remembered Ms. Mackenzie teaching them to breathe:
Balloon belly, flat belly.
She sucked in a wavery but belly-inflating breath, then slowly whooshed it out again.

Her mom got home at eleven thirty and started complaining about Ivy having all the lights on and running up the electric bill, and Ivy went back to bed.

It started raining
that night and poured rain all day Tuesday. At school they had to spend both recesses and lunch hour inside.

It was still raining when Ivy got up Wednesday morning. She peered out the living room window and went back to her closet for her umbrella, an old red one of Aunt Connie's she'd kept when her mom put Aunt Connie's stuff into storage. There'd been a whole barrelful of umbrellas at Aunt Connie's, but this was the one she'd used the most. The rest were extras,
just in case,
she always said when she picked them up at garage sales.

Just in case you're a pack rat,
Ivy's mom used to joke.

It was true that Aunt Connie's house had been cluttered, but it had a bustle and cheer to it that was like the Everses', and the big red umbrella always brought that feeling back.

Ivy unfurled it with a flourish when she got out the door, then went sloshing down the sidewalks toward Quail Middle School, the raindrops making friendly plopping noises on the fabric.

She was just walking up the hall toward room 203 as Tate slammed her locker shut.

“Hey, take it easy!” Mr. Caletti, the custodian, roared as he pushed his cleaning cart past. “Is that how you close doors at home?”

Tate's eyes were startled behind her glasses. “Sorry. I guess I wasn't thinking.”

Mr. Caletti rubbed his forehead like it ached. “Yeah, yeah. It's no big thing. Just—you don't have to take the thing off its hinges, do you?”

“No, Mr. Caletti. Sorry.”

Ivy hung her umbrella on the coat hook in her locker and eased the door shut with extreme caution. It made a very tiny
click.
Tate grinned. After a second, Ivy did too.

“So, what do you think of Ms. Mackenzie?” Tate asked as they walked toward the classroom.

Ms. Mackenzie had a presence as definite as a mountain. She had dark blue eyes and a strong, plain face, and she wasn't pretty, exactly, but she was beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful thing about her was the way she seemed so sure of things. Ivy wished she could be like that. “I like her a lot.”

Tate nodded emphatically. “Me too.” She flicked a glance sideways at Ivy. “I noticed you drawing in class. Your flower looked really good.”

“Thanks.”

“I wish I could draw.”

Ivy hugged her books to her chest. “I sort of just do it, I always have. But I could try and show you sometime, if you wanted.”

“
Cool.
Holding you to that, Blake.” Tate pecked Ivy's shoulder twice with her finger.

• • •

At second recess, Billy Wells and Nick Zusak got into a fight in the middle of a kick ball game in the gym. They had their arms clenched around each other's shoulders and Nick, who was much bigger than Billy, almost as tall as Ivy, was pushing Billy toward the table where Ivy was playing a game of solitaire.

“You're a scrawny little
shrimp,
” Nick yelled.

Billy's sneakers scrambled. For a second it looked like he was going to get enough steam worked up to change their direction. “You're a—a—a giant
galumph
!” he roared.

The gymnasium, which had gone silent, erupted into laughter.

Ms. Mackenzie sailed onto the gym floor. She dragged the boys apart and marched them away.

• • •

“Everyone get out your math books, please,” Ms. Mackenzie said after recess.

Everyone flopped their orange
Go Math!
books onto their desks.

“So, we're back to fractions.” Ms. Mackenzie drew three circles on the board in red chalk. The class erupted into groans and boos. Ms. Mackenzie spun on her heel. “
Enough.
Pipe down, sit still, and pay attention.”

The class went silent.

While everyone was working on their problems, Ivy watched Nick dart his right sneaker forward and whap Billy's shin. Billy whipped around and shoved
Go Math!
off Nick's desk. The book whumped to the floor.

Ms. Mackenzie's head snapped up. “O-kay,” she said. “That's it.”

Ivy glanced at Tate and Tate looked her way at the exact same moment and they widened their eyes at each other.

Ms. Mackenzie came out in front of her desk and leaned against it. She capped and uncapped the red Sharpie she'd been grading papers with. “We haven't been able to get outside and race around the way we'd like to. Instead of sunshine and softball, we have this.” She gestured toward the window, where the rain fell in streaming sheets. “Everyone's a little jumpy, me included. But these things happen. ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.'”

She gazed at the class. Everyone stared back at her dumbly.

Ms. Mackenzie snick-creaked the cap of the marker again. “Frustrations are a fact of life. Maybe you can't figure out what to wear in the morning or maybe it's something much bigger than that.”

Ivy froze, wondering if Ms. Mackenzie knew about the terrible things in her life, things that were much bigger than not knowing what to wear in the morning.

But Ms. Mackenzie's gaze swept across everyone, and everyone looked back at her as if they each had a secret they wondered how she'd discovered. “Maybe your friends are changing and you can't figure it out. Maybe
you're
changing and it all seems like too much, too fast. Or not enough, and too slowly.” Ms. Mackenzie didn't look at Nick or Billy but they both sat very still. “Maybe your parents are getting divorced or your dog won't behave—anyway, it doesn't matter what it is exactly. You have to figure out how to live through it, okay? Plus, it's spring and it's raining cats and dogs and we all just have to
cope,
right?”

The students gaped at Ms. Mackenzie with their mouths slightly ajar. Ms. Mackenzie frowned like a general in front of a demoralized army. Then she sighed. “Okay. Here's what we're going to do. I want everybody to close their eyes and think about their favorite place. A safe place, a peaceful place. The place you might go—instead of punching someone—if, say, your best friend called you a mean name.”

Ivy wondered if Ms. Mackenzie had heard Nick or just made a lucky guess.

“Close. Your. Eyes,” Ms. Mackenzie said in a voice like a hypnotist's. “Imagine your place.”

Ivy closed her eyes. She could hear Tate breathing in the desk to her left.

“Fill in the details,” Ms. Mackenzie murmured.

Ivy saw the red-painted door that led into the Everses' kitchen. She opened it. The big south window was filled with plants. Soup simmered on the stove and rain slashed against the windows. Pup batted his catnip mouse across the floor and it slid under the woodstove. He flattened onto his belly and stuck his paw in to snag it out again. Grammy read in the rocker; Mom Evers worked at her sewing machine; Dad Evers carried in a newly painted chair. Prairie perched at the table making a sign for their eggs, the heel of one boot thumping. Ivy pictured herself next to Prairie.

“Does everyone have someplace imagined?”

Some people nodded, some whispered yes, and Billy Wells yelled, “Does it have to be a real place?”

“Real or imagined, as long as it makes you feel happy. And
calm.
” Ms. Mackenzie aimed a pointed look at Billy and Billy nodded. “Okay. Good. Now stay there for a few minutes.” She sat down. “Just stay there,” she said in the hypnotist's voice.

Ivy peeked and saw that Ms. Mackenzie was grading papers again. She flicked her gaze sideways. Tate's eyes opened and they smiled at each other. Then the bell rang and the room exploded into noise and motion.

“Where'd you go?” Tate asked when they were walking toward their lockers.

“Home. I mean—just to a kitchen I love. Where'd you?”

Tate sighed like someone about to plunge a spoon into a butterscotch sundae. “To the piano in my grandparents' study. Me and my mom live with them since my parents got divorced. My grandfather has a Steinway crammed into his den—he was a concert pianist, a way long time ago—and he lets me play it. It's my favorite thing, next to math. Well, that and singing.”

“So—like drawing is to me.”

Tate grinned. “Probably.”

“I have a guitar, my friend's grandma's been trying to teach me how to play. I'm not good at it so far.”

“It takes a while,” Tate said.

“I don't think I have the talent.”

“Talent's overrated. Practice, practice.”

“I don't know—”

“Even just five minutes a day, every day, and you'll get better. Promise.” Tate slung her arm around Ivy's shoulder and squeezed it for a second. Then she made a sharp right into the auditorium, where the choir was having an after-school practice.