Supposedly.
Even though Scott’s the oldest of us three and he’s been dating Olive for two years, my parents still insist they sleep in separate bedrooms. It’s ridiculous, mostly becauseI’mthe one who has to suffer when his girlfriend takes my room, relegating me to the basement. No one else seems to care, though, which is generally how things go around here.
“Is it just me or is itfreezingin here?” asks Olive, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. She’s always reminded me of a bird, with thin, delicate features and fine, reddish-brown hair that falls to her shoulders.
Try sleeping in the basement.
She’d freeze to death, especially since she’s standing in the middle of the kitchen with bare feet, a short-sleeve t-shirt, and black leggings. You’d think by now she’d realize you need layers to survive this house.
Scott nods, passing her a cup of coffee. “It’s frigid. Maybe Dad will feel generous since it’s his birthday and turn up the heat.”
Noah snorts. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Wes would be sweating.
The thought pops into my head, invasive and unexpected, and I shove it away.
As Scott and Olive take a seat at the table, Mom appears, already showered and dressed, her blonde hair blow-dried and styled to perfection. Momneverwears sweatpants or pajamas around the house. She likes to be put together. Always.
“Good morning,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Who wants to help me make some birthday pancakes for Dad?” Noah makes a face Mom can’t see, and Scott keeps his mouth shut like always. Mom doesn’t notice them, though. She’s too busy seething at my lack of enthusiasm. “Ivy?”
“Sure, Mom,” I say, quickly saving my file before shutting my laptop. “Of course, I’ll help.”
“That’s what I thought.”
And that’s that. She doesn’t recruit the boys further. Or Olive, for that matter. So I spend the next thirty minutes mixing the batter (too much, according to Mom), cooking the bacon (too long, according to Mom), and shaping the pancakes (too flat,according to Mom). Though by the time Dad wanders in, she’s whipped me into shape, and we somehow end up with an edible breakfast Dad seems absolutely thrilled by.
We stick a candle in a stack of pancakes—a family tradition—and sing happy birthday. Dad makes a wish and blows out his candle, and we all sit down to eat.
“How does it feel to be old, Dad?” asks Noah with his mouth full. It’s a question that would definitely getmein trouble.
Dad takes a sip of coffee and says, “Sixty feels no different than fifty-nine. Fifty-nine felt no different than fifty-eight. I suspect sixty-one will feel no different than sixty.”
“Well, you look fantastic, Mr. Combs,” says Olive.
Dad dips his chin in her direction. “Thank you, Olive.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I check the screen to find a Stratus notification, a mass warning telling students not to park in bus lanes.
“No phones at the table, Ivy,” Mom snaps, like I’m thirteen and not a full-grown college student with actual responsibilities. Coming home sure makes me feel like a child, though.
I hastily tuck the device away. “Sorry.”
“We got you something, Dad,” says Scott, pulling out an envelope. He passes it to Dad across the table, and we all watch him open it. His brow furrows for a moment, and then his mouth breaks into a rare smile.
“Orchestra season tickets!” It sounds like hell to me, but Dad plays violin and foams at the mouth for this sort of thing. “This is incredible.” He looks between Scott and Noah. “Thank you.”
“What a thoughtful gift,” Mom gushes.
“I thought so,” pipes in Olive.
I don’t bother mentioning I paid for a third of it. I let it slide like everything else because ever since the end of junior year it’s like I don’t matter.
I stopped talking to my parents. I lost all my friends. My grades dropped. I tanked the SATs. But the worst thing I did…the worst thing I did was try to tell my mother what happened to me at the Northland party. And when she didn’t want to listen, I accidentally drank an entire bottle of Jack Daniels. And so instead of supporting Noah at the Men’s College World Series, they were at the hospital, with me, treating my alcohol poisoning.
Noah made “the worst decisions of his life,” after that, according to Mom, and they blame me for it. Quitting baseball. Losing his scholarship. Changing his major. Going overboard with partying. Breaking up with his girlfriend.
Mom will never forgive me.
