The Education of Ivy Blake (5 page)

At home
Ivy's mom sat on the couch flipping through a magazine. It was her day off, but even so Ivy was surprised to see her up. She'd spent most of her free time in bed since they moved here.

Her mom was wearing her
Hot S--t
T-shirt with her favorite jeans. Her right leg was jiggling like it was going somewhere even if the rest of her stayed put. She looked up when Ivy came in. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“How was school?”

Ivy's eyes widened. “Okay.”

Her mom smacked the magazine shut. “Want to go for a drive?”

“Sure, if you want to.”

“I wouldn't have said so if I didn't.”

Ivy picked her bag up again—her notebook and pencils were in it and she didn't like to go anywhere without them—and followed her mother to the car.

They roared out of their neighborhood in the Mustang. Her mother drove swiftly toward the north side of town and Ivy wondered where they were going. To one of the parks on the river, maybe. She hoped so. But then her mother crossed the bridge and got on the highway south to Poughkeepsie and Ivy's heart tightened.

“Cute town,” her mom said flatly as they drove through a little village with narrow streets.

“Yeah.” A fancy coffee shop, an antique store, and a gelato place slid by.

They stopped at a light, and her mom turned the radio up so loud the car almost shook. She gave the gas pedal a quick hard shove and made the engine roar, and the people waiting at the crosswalk turned to look. She roared away when the light turned green. “Give 'em a dose of the real world. Which this is not, believe me.”

“Mmm,” Ivy said. It
was
the real world. Ivy could've reached out and touched every bit of it: the gold-plate letters of
ANTIQUE SHOPPE
, the curved backs of the wrought-iron chairs in the gelato place, the silky fabric of the dress a woman on the corner wore, the springy fur of her tiny dog.

Ivy was glad when they left the town behind, but nervous again when they reached the north side of Poughkeepsie. Her heart shriveled as they approached George's neighborhood.

“Mom?”

Her mom downshifted.

“What are you doing?”

Her mom eased the car into the turn for George's street. “Lindsey called from work. She said George came in with some brunette. Like he was trying to flaunt her in my face, only I wasn't there.”

“Mom—”

“It's only been a few weeks, it really steams me.”

Ivy clutched the door handle. She wished she had the courage to suggest to her mom that she find a safe place to go inside her head instead of coming here.

• • •

“Whoops!” her mom said when she clipped George's mailbox two minutes later. The mailbox tilted backward but didn't fall all the way over. “Guess I got a little too close.” She hit the gas and sped away. Ivy glanced around, but as far as she could tell, there was no one to have seen. She sank down in her seat anyway.

She only inched up when they'd crossed the Hudson again and her mom pulled into a restaurant parking lot. She flicked off the ignition and the key ring clacked. It was a string of translucent beads in different colors that spelled out T-R-A-C-Y. “I don't feel like cooking.”

Ivy unclipped her seat belt. She wondered if it was coincidence that they'd pulled into the Really Fine Diner. She loved the Really Fine, of course. She'd come here with the Everses so much that she knew most of the waitresses by name—Zoe, Olympia, Margot, and Susan. But she'd never been here with her mother. Ivy glanced at her. She was riffling through her purse for a piece of Nicorette. She fished one up and began chewing it like a starved person. “Ready?”

Ivy nodded. Her stomach was churning.

• • •

Zoe led them across the room and they passed Ms. Mackenzie at a table crowded with people. Ms. Mackenzie leaned toward a man with large ears and pointed at him with her fork. She was having the Greek salad, Ivy noticed with a spark of pleasure. Ms. Mackenzie grinned when she saw Ivy. “Hey! I know you!”

“Hello,” Ivy said shyly. Suddenly, she felt happier. Ms. Mackenzie tapped her plate with the fork she'd been pointing at the big-eared man. “The best Greek salad in town.”

“I
know.
It's my favorite too.”

At the table, Ivy studied her menu even though she always got either a cheeseburger or a Greek salad, and then Zoe came and took their order. Five minutes later, her mom's face had turned dark. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “This is taking too long.”

“I'll bet it comes soon, though. It's usually pretty fast here.”

“Is that so? Your precious Everses bring you here, is that it? Take you out to eat all the time like it's nothing?”

Ivy took a sip of tea instead of pointing out that the Everses sold their produce here.

The food came a minute later. Ivy poked an olive onto her fork and ate it in two bites, then mashed a chunk of feta onto a few spinach leaves and munched that down. She looped a circle of onion and a banana pepper onto her fork next and speared another olive. She wished her mom would start eating too.

Finally her mom took a bite of chicken strip. She put it down. Ivy looked at her through lowered lashes and kept eating. Grammy would've told her she was eating too fast, if she'd been there.

When Zoe came by and asked how everything was, Ivy said good at the same time as her mom said
terrible.
“The fries are burnt, they're inedible, and the chicken strips are no good, they don't taste right, they're spoiled or something. Plus they're cold. It's ridiculous.”

Zoe's face went slack with surprise. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't think that's possible. Those fries are not burnt, and as far as the chicken, I've been serving it all afternoon and no one else has complained. And they can't be cold, either, I watched the cook pull them out of the fryer.”

“Bull,”
Ivy's mother said fiercely.

Ivy dropped her fork. It clattered onto her plate and an olive rolled onto the table. Her mom whipped her head around and stared at her like she'd done an unimaginably bad thing. Fortunately—or not so fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—she was too mad at Zoe to concentrate on Ivy for long. She said a lot of things; her words were like a swarm of hornets. The bottom line was, she wanted to leave without paying for her meal or Ivy's, even though Ivy's Greek salad—which Zoe had been nice enough to add extra banana peppers and olives to without Ivy even asking—was perfect.

“I can't do that,” Zoe said. “But how about I give you your meal and a dessert, and everyone can part ways with no hard feelings?”

“Not good enough.”

Ivy shot Zoe an agonized look and Zoe gave her a quick grim smile before she turned her attention back to Ivy's mom. “I'm sorry you feel this way, ma'am, but I'm not comping both meals. I'll get my manager—”

Ivy's mother picked up Ivy's notebook, the artist's book Grammy'd given her for her birthday that said
Universal Wire-Bound Sketchbook
on the front cover sticker, and hurled it at the wall.

The pages flared open. Zoe hopped sideways. Ivy didn't wait to see what would happen next. She bolted for the exit. She stumbled on something as she rushed past Ms. Mackenzie's table, but yanked her foot free and kept moving.

She tried not to look at anyone. Maybe that little-kid fantasy that anyone you didn't see couldn't see you would work. But to her horror, just before she got through the dining room, she saw the boy from the theater in Rosendale. He was at a table with an older couple, his parents or grandparents probably. He looked right at her and Ivy could tell he recognized her.

Her cheeks flamed. She hurtled out the door.

Ivy hurried
across the parking lot. She didn't know if her mom was right behind her or still inside yelling at Zoe, or if the police would come or what. She glanced over her shoulder. Ms. Mackenzie stood under the diner's awning, her hand shielding her eyes. The boy from the theater was coming out the door behind her.

Ivy ducked behind a tan pickup truck and peered through the tinted windows of its topper. Ms. Mackenzie wore a red scarf printed with white polka dots, a white T-shirt, and a pleated red skirt. She'd probably been celebrating some special event with all those people. A birthday or an anniversary. Ivy grimaced. It was even worse to interrupt something like that than just a regular dinner. Ms. Mackenzie walked out into the lot and Ivy went statue-still. After a moment, Ms. Mackenzie shook her head and turned back toward the diner. At the door, she said something to the boy from the theater, then went inside. The boy took one more look around the lot and then he went in too.

Ivy sagged against the truck. She felt both disappointed and relieved. And most of all, tired. Too tired to hide behind a stranger's truck anymore.

She walked slowly to the Mustang. It wasn't locked. Her mom always said they didn't have anything worth stealing and, if someone did take something, they must need it pretty bad. She probably only said that because the locks didn't work, but maybe she really did mean the part about someone else needing their stuff. Her mom surprised her sometimes. Not usually in a good way, but sometimes. Ivy got in and sat with her head down, holding her hands together to keep them from shaking.

What she wanted to do: walk out of the parking lot and keep walking forever, walk until she was eighteen years old and could start her own life.

She took a sharp breath and huffed it out, then another.

After a while her mother appeared, and they roared from the lot. Apparently the police were not coming.

• • •

If she'd had her notebook on the way home, Ivy would've drawn a towering stack of boxes all tumbling down. She stared out the window and considered what the best part of her day had been, instead. She finally decided it had been Zoe saying, “You want your usual?” and bringing a silver pot of hot water and the wicker basket of tea. Zoe'd grinned when she noticed the Lemon Lift tag dangling over the edge of Ivy's cup. “My favorite too,” she'd said.

“I'm sorry about your notebook thingy,” Ivy's mom said as she turned onto O'Reilly Street. “I'll get you another one.”

Ivy had no idea how to respond.

Nothing could fix the wrongness of what her mom had done. Nothing could change her sudden fury at Zoe, her hand grabbing Ivy's sketchbook—which was
hers,
a part of her, a gift and a quarter full of writing and drawing and the start of a story she was trying to write about an orphan girl named Heather Lake—and flinging it at the wall.

But at the same time, her mom had never said
I'm sorry
to Ivy before. The words were like some strange creature from the bottom of the deepest part of the ocean.

Ivy didn't go
to school the next morning. She didn't even ask her mom if she could stay home, she just did it. Her mom stayed in bed until almost noon, and when she got up, Ivy said, “I didn't feel good,” and picked up her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and carried it to her room.

She didn't go to school Friday, either. She watched television until her mom got up. Then she went into her room until her mom left for work. Her mom hardly spoke to her. Since that apology and Ivy's nonresponse, her silence had become full of injury, like Ivy was the one who'd done something mean instead of the other way around.

For the first time ever, Ivy didn't try to smooth things out between them.

• • •

Friday afternoon Ivy realized there was no way she could go to Prairie's house for the weekend. At three fifteen she went out on the front step with her cell phone.

“I'm sick,” she said. “I can't come this weekend.”

There was a surprised silence. Then Prairie said, “Oh. Okay. Well, but—I could bring you ginger ale or something instead of going to the creamery. I could even bring one of those coloring books you like—”

“They're not
coloring
books.”

“Well, design books, whatever, the ones they have at the art store—”

Ivy grimaced, sorry for snapping. “They're expensive though.”

“Yeah, but I want to. So you'll have something to do. Being sick is so boring.”

“I know, thank you, but, you'd better not.” Ivy tried to sound grateful but really she only wanted the conversation to be over. “I think I'm contagious. I've been throwing up. I don't even feel good enough to read or draw or anything. All I want to do is sleep.”

There was another deep silence. It was as if Prairie knew she was lying, though Ivy didn't know how she could've. Finally Prairie said, “Um, sure. Okay. I'll see you next weekend, then. Get better. Feel better.”

“I will. Thanks.” Ivy made her voice sound weary, which wasn't hard.

She went inside and turned the television on. She kicked the couch on her way past, even though it hadn't done anything but give her a place to sit. She hurt her toe doing it.

• • •

Her mom drank a cup of coffee while Ivy stared at the toaster waiting for a piece of bread to toast Saturday morning. Her mom was subbing for Lindsey and working a double shift, so she was up before usual. The toast popped up and Ivy took it to the couch.

Ten minutes later her mom was by the door shoving her feet into her clogs. She slung her purse over her shoulder. “Don't leave every light in the house on when you go to bed tonight. Heat up a can of that soup that's in the cupboard or something.”

“Okay.” Ivy gazed at the TV. Her mother banged out the door.

Ivy glared at the television and then turned it off. In her heart, she hoped the car would stop, turn, and screech back down the street, that her mom would barge in and yell, “Hey, get yourself up off that couch and do some homework or something, and what's this about you staying here this weekend? You never stay here on the weekend for one thing, and I have to work for another. This is no good, we can't have it. Get your rear in gear.”

Of course that didn't occur.

Ivy was now a truant and her mother was going to pretend that nothing was happening. It was what she always did. The bad things that went on—bad things
she did
—were supposed to vanish, evaporate like water on hot concrete. Instead, Ivy thought, they went into a black hole. It was a place that might not be visible or audible, but it was real, and powerful. It would suck you in and devour you.