The Education of Ivy Blake (9 page)

Ivy's mom
flicked her eyes at Ivy when she walked in, then shifted them back to the TV. A game show was on. Bells rang; people cheered; her mom lifted a cigarette to her lips and then set it down again. “I missed work, I'll have you know. I don't know where I was supposed to start looking. I drove all around. I almost called the police to report you missing. I would've, in another hour.”

“Sorry.” Ivy went to the kitchen, found four thumbtacks in the drawer beside the sink, and headed to her room.

Her mom came to her door as she finished hanging Jacob's poster in the middle of her wall.

“What's that?”

“A poster.” Ivy yanked
History and Geography
from her bag and thwacked it onto her desk. Two of the stones from Skytop rattled to the floor.

“That thing's useless. I told you when you made it.”

Ivy put the stones back next to her ivy plant, which Mom Evers had given her last year.
Your namesake,
she'd said.
Ivies are beautiful
and
strong. Adaptable.
Like her desk. She'd made it by laying an old door she'd found in the carport over two stacks of milk crates, and she was proud of it. It was shaky, but it worked. And it was gigantic. There was plenty of room to spread her stuff out, room for big pieces of paper (sometimes she cut grocery bags open and used them like canvases) and all her pencils and painting stuff.

Her mom drummed her fingers on the desktop; the tapping made a hollow sound. She traced a fingertip around the hole someone had made near the bottom—with a boot, probably. It was the right size and shape for that. Ivy scooted
History and Geography
over it.

“I should get you a real desk at the Goodwill next payday.”

“No thanks.” Ivy didn't bother to sound grateful even though a shiver went up her backbone. “I like this one.”

Her mom moved closer and Ivy smelled Irish Spring. Tears pricked Ivy's eyes. The smell went with the memory of being cuddled on her mom's lap.

She squinted the tears away and pulled her
Go Math!
book and notebooks out of her bag. Then she pulled out the pencils she'd bought and lined them up alongside the books.

Her mom leaned over the bed. “So what's the poster about?”

“A film contest.”

“A
film
contest?”

Ivy got an eraser out and set it carefully beside the pencils. “Yes.”

“And is there some special reason we're hanging up a poster of a film contest like it's the
Mona
-freaking-
Lisa
?”

“I'm going to make a movie for it, I'm entering.”

Her mom made a rude noise. “Make a movie with what? Your charm and good looks?”

“I guess so.” Ivy gazed at her. “That plus the job I'm going to get.”

“Job. Kid, let me tell you something. You're not going to find a job. I barely found a job, and I'm thirty, with a car and experience. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Her mother shook her head and turned to leave. Just before she went, she said, “I bought those batteries, for your information. In case you're thinking I took them.”

Ivy raised her eyebrows at her mother's back.

“They were on sale because of going out of date, but I thought, heck, I'll bet they got some life left in them, I'll get them for Ives.”

Ivy said, “Uh-huh.”

Her mom turned to face her again. She didn't have any makeup on and her hair was damp. She must've taken a shower. She looked younger than usual. Softer, like the water had washed a shell away. “So you really think you can make a movie?”

“I know I can,” Ivy said, although she didn't know any such thing.

“Well—good luck.” This time it sounded like her mom really meant it.

Ivy frowned and sat down to read her chapter assignment in
History and Geography.
She didn't want to think about their own crazy history and all the strange, hard roads they'd bumped along.

Ivy woke up
thinking about the film contest. She flung her quilt back and sat down at her desk with a newly sharpened pencil and opened her journal to a fresh page.

JOBS, she printed at the top. She nibbled on her pencil eraser. It tasted smooth and surprisingly salty. Eventually she wrote
Dog walker.
Then,
Babysitter.
After that,
Lawn mower, House cleaner,
and
Dishwasher.
She'd seen how hectic it was through the swinging doors at the Really Fine Diner. Maybe they'd be desperate and hire someone underage. She nibbled on her eraser again.
Window washer, Papergirl, Gardener.

With that, she slapped her notebook shut and went to the bathroom. She peered into the mirror as she brushed her teeth, trying to see if she looked different. She thought she did, around the eyes. More determined.

• • •

On the way to school she looked for a sign that anyone might need her to do anything. She passed the house she liked so much and wondered if the woman who lived there might need a gardener. But the lawn was mowed and the flower beds, though wild-looking, seemed to be in good order, so probably not.

At school she studied the bulletin board in the entryway and got excited when she saw the words
Attention, Babysitters!
at the top of one bright blue piece of paper. Then she saw the poster was advertising a babysitting
class.
She plodded off to Ms. Mackenzie's room, tugging on her braid.

“Earth to Ivy,” Tate said when Ivy bumped into her on the way into room 203.

Ivy smiled at her distractedly.

“So I was wondering, do you want to go see a movie this weekend?”

Ivy blinked. “What?”

“A movie. Do you want to go see one? Saturday night, maybe? Or Sunday afternoon? My grandparents could take us, or my mom. We could pick you up.”

Ivy imagined Tate seeing her house, meeting her mother. Her stomach clenched. Besides, she didn't want to—couldn't—miss spending the weekend with the Everses. “I, um. Yeah, it sounds fun. But—I don't know when I could.”

A curtain eased over Tate's eyes. “Okay, sure. I get it.” She started rummaging in her book bag.

Ivy yearned to make the curtain sweep back again. “It's just that I go away every weekend. But when summer vacation comes, then I probably could.”

Tate quit sorting through her books. “Okay, then. It's a plan. Sort of a plan, anyway.” She stuck her hand out and Ivy shook it firmly.

• • •

After school Ivy went into the dry cleaner on Broadway. The woman behind the counter guffawed when she asked about the
HELP WANTED
sign in the window. She actually slapped her leg, which Ivy'd never seen anyone do before. “Right. A schoolkid, that's the answer to my prayers.”

Ivy slunk out. She almost didn't have the nerve to check the second place that had occurred to her, but she had to have that camera she'd seen in the pawnshop. She was going to do what she'd told her mom. She was going to get a job and enter that contest.

She pushed through the door into the dark, narrow deli. It had grimy floors that needed mopping.

“I'm looking for work,” she told the man who leaned on the counter studying a newspaper.

The man wore pink-framed ladies' reading glasses and an apron that needed bleaching. He scratched the back of his head. “Man, oh, man, kid. I ain't really hiring.”

Ivy frowned.

He looked apologetic. “Even if I was, I'd need someone during the day. Someone—you know—older. Not in school.”

Ivy studied her boots. Sometimes it seemed like they were her only friends, these slightly too-large shoes that had traveled so far with her.

“Wouldn't be surprised if you wasn't a better worker than most of the adults I ever put on the payroll.”

Ivy looked up sharply, but his face was regretful and closed.

• • •

At home Ivy fixed herself a hot dog and a can of beans and studied the help wanted ads in the newspaper she'd bought at the deli. She read each description carefully, turning it every direction in her mind to see if there was any way each job might fit her. It was like trying on clothes from the discount rack at the dollar store, and like those clothes, nothing was quite right. Nothing at all seemed like it would earn a kid three hundred and fifty dollars in a couple of weeks.

Saturday morning
was sunny and warm. Ivy sat on the porch steps waiting for the Everses, her skirt bunched around her knees. When the station wagon rolled up, she called good-bye to her mom through the screen and trotted down the walk, her satchel bumping on her hip.

At the market grounds, Mom Evers squeezed the car in alongside Dad Evers's pickup loaded with chairs. There was just barely room to fit because of a truck on the opposite side that was straddling the dividing line. The passenger doors wouldn't open; Ivy had to climb out on Prairie's side.

Mom Evers opened the tailgate to reveal their eggs and the banana box full of supplies. “You two get your stuff set up and then help Dad with the chairs, okay? He's probably already got your table unloaded. I'll be there in a minute. I have to pee.
Again.
”

Prairie made a face. “Mom. You don't say
pee
in front of people.”

“Why not? You just did.” They stuck their tongues out at each other and Ivy giggled.
This
was why she could never miss her weekends with them.

Prairie and Ivy each grabbed a box and headed for their spot in the pavilion. Their steps were matching: right, left, right, left. They glanced at each other, then put their arms around each other's shoulders and began flinging a leg over the other's leg with every step. It was tricky, like a dance step, only a more modern one than Grammy's box step. They had to be in perfect timing, each one pulling their leg out for another step at exactly the right moment so they wouldn't trip each other, but they were good at it. Of course. Ivy grinned. Prairie was magic. She
would
tell her, everything. Sometime today, she would find a time. She might even admit she hadn't really been sick last weekend.

When they got back to the car for another load, an old lady was dragging a case of jam from the back of the pickup that was blocking their car. Ivy watched, an idea niggling at her. When they came back the next time, the lady was slowly walking away from the truck with a box of jam clenched up against her chest.

Prairie grabbed a chair and headed back to the pavilion. Ivy tapped Dad Evers's arm. “Is it okay if I offer to help that lady? When we're done with the chairs?”

Dad Evers gave her one of his slow smiles. “Sure. Go on ahead right now. Prairie and I can finish these.”

Ivy turned and took a breath, then trotted to catch up with the woman. “Um, ma'am? Can I help you do that?”

• • •

She ended up carrying box after box of jam, arranging the jars in pyramids on the old woman's table, which was right across the aisle from their own, and pointing all of their egg customers in that direction.

“Why are you being so nice to her?” Prairie whispered.

The lady wore a red ball cap and a bright green T-shirt, but the main thing you noticed about her was her giant frown. “How about you see to it that your kid's hands stay to himself!” she snapped at a woman who'd just bought three dozen eggs from the Everses and whose little boy had touched a jar of jam. The mother pulled the little boy close to her and hurried away.

Prairie shook her head. “You're going to make us look bad by association.”

Ivy grimaced. She was embarrassed to admit she was hoping to earn some money for her efforts.

• • •

Toward the end of the day Ivy carted the remaining jam back to the lady's pickup, along with her heavy wooden lawn chair. When the last box was loaded, she stood in front of the woman smiling. She tried to make the smile friendly, reliable, and humble all at the same time.

The woman pointed at the chair. “Fling that up there too, would you, since you're such a helpful Henry? Make sure you get it wedged in good so it don't flop around.”

Ivy hefted the chair onto the tailgate and climbed up after it to push it to the front. She climbed back out and straightened her skirt.

“You ought to wear pants for work like this, not them dresses. Don't know what your ma was thinking.”

Ivy kept smiling.

The old lady shuffled through her bag.

“Where'd I put those keys?” she muttered. Then with a
ha
of triumph she held up a ring of keys. She punched the fob and the truck's lights went on; its locks popped up with a unanimous
clunk.
She hauled herself into the driver's seat. “Take it easy, kid. Maybe I'll see you here next week, steer some of my customers your way. That jam of mine, it sells itself.” She started up the truck and drove away.

Ivy let her foolish smile fade and trudged back to the pavilion.

• • •

“You seem quiet.” Prairie handed Ivy the stack of empty egg cartons a man from High Falls had brought them. “Are you okay?”

Ivy put the cartons in the banana box, then lifted the table to start folding in the legs. Prairie lifted the other side at the exact same time and again Ivy wanted to tell her everything: her mom's new work schedule, the police cars, the film contest, all of it.

They lugged the table to the pickup and started back to the stall.

“So, um,” Ivy said as Prairie's cell phone rang. It sounded like a tinny player piano and Ivy lost her step. When they got the phones they'd both set them with an old-fashioned landline ring and Ivy wouldn't have dreamed of changing hers. Prairie dropped her arm from Ivy's shoulder and pulled her phone out. “Hi!”

Ivy started walking again and kept her eyes on the ground, like there was something fascinating there.

“No, I can't, I have company. That doesn't work.”

“No.” Pause. “No.” Then a laugh. Ivy walked faster. Prairie hurried to catch up.

At the stall, Ivy refolded their tablecloth into a tighter square.

“No, I'll call you when I know.” Prairie stared across the emptying market ground; she squinted like she was gazing across a wide-open plain. “Sunday night, maybe. That'd probably work.” She ended the call and shoved her phone in her pocket.

“Sorry. We're doing this project for 4-H—a breeding program, only just on paper—and that was Kelly, wanting to talk about it. So anyway—you seem quiet, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“I still wish you were doing 4-H.” Prairie took aim at a pebble and gave it a whap with the side of her foot. “Nothing's as fun without you.”

Ivy's feelings shifted again. She
would
tell Prairie—

There was a sound behind them, a groan. Mom Evers had come back from the port-a-potties at the edge of the market. She sank into a chair that hadn't been packed yet, holding her stomach with both hands like it was a vase that had almost fallen off a shelf. Her face was pale.

“Prairie, go get your dad.”