Scott and Dad talk orchestra logistics for the rest of breakfast while Noah grunts through his hangover, shoveling a disgusting number of pancakes into his mouth. I sit there silently, pushing my food around my plate, and once the boys deem the meal over, Mom and I wordlessly clean up the table and load everything into the dishwasher.
As everyone scatters to get ready for the day, I sit back at the computer with my third cup of coffee and think,Wes would beproud. I startle and push him out, out, out of my head for the second time this morning. He doesn’t belong there.
There’s no shower in the basement, so I have to wait my turn and pray there’s hot water left by the time it comes. When pipes begin to clang throughout the house, I settle back into my chair. It’s going to be a while, especially since Prima Donna Noah’s known for his forty-minute spa treatments.
On the table beside my keyboard, my phone buzzes. I spare it a haphazard glance, but when I see the message, I do a double take.
Unknown:Poison Ivy!
Heat rushes up my neck, flooding my face, and my stomach bottoms out. I snatch up the phone, holding it an inch from my nose as I study the message from an unfamiliar number. It vibrates with a follow-up text.
Wes:At least, I hope this is you. I got your number off the class list in the portal so…sorry if that’s creepy.
I blink at the screen, my head foggy despite the caffeine. I feel a mix of emotions, and I can’t figure out if his text makes me anxious or…pleased.
Maybe both?
Now there’s an outrageous thought.
I set the phone down on the table, my knee bobbing as I decide not to answer right away, and by the time it’s my turn to jump in the shower, not even the (luke)warm water can ease the knot in my stomach.
Once I’m dressed and ready, I purposely leave my phone downstairs as I help Mom do last-minute setup and cleaningbefore Dad’s party. Apparently, Noah went to pick up the cake, and Scott and Olive the balloons, so I’m stuck with bathroom and trash duty. Typical.
It’s almost four when guests start arriving at the house—mostly neighbors and my parents’ friends from church. I feel eyes on me as I move through the room, and discreet glances being shot my way. They all know I tanked my GPA and devastatedmy parents in the process. They all know some vague details about my stint in the hospital and how it forced my parents to miss Noah’s big moment.
They all know too much, in my opinion.
“How’s it going, Ivy?” asks Jeff Greene, his meaty hand clapping my shoulder with enough force to make me flinch. “Staying out of trouble?”
My mom comes out of nowhere to stand at my side, like she has some kind of radar that saysIvy’s being forced to socialize and might say something stupid.“Ivy’s really turned things around,” she’s quick to assure Jeff, but it’s more for her own sake than mine. She’s obsessed with keeping up appearances, which is why the things I did upset her so much. “She’s on her second semester at Stratus.”
“Is that so? What major did you decide on? Something more substantial than that art stuff, I hope. Never going to make a living painting pretty pictures.”
“Graphic design,” I mutter.
I see the immediate judgement on Jeff’s face, but Mom cuts in before he can respond. “Graphic design is everywhere, Jeff. Trust me. We wouldn’t let her major in something useless like painting or drawing. The application for graphic design is endless.”
Jeff looks skeptical. “Well, you know more about it than me, I suppose. When Briana wanted to major in music composition,her mother and I said, ‘sounds good, but we’re not paying.’ She switched up her tune real fast after that, pardon my pun.”
Mom laughs, but I can see the tension in her eyes. She hates when people bring upthe art thing.She hates defending her own decision to let me major in something “frivolous,” instead of something “respectable” like finance or business or even marketing. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but Robert and I did extensive research on the…”
I tune out Mom’s well-rehearsed justification and focus on keeping my eyes from going cross as I stare at the spot just over Jeff’s right shoulder. When his voice chimes in over my mom’s, signaling the end to her speech, I tune back in.
“Well, Ivy. I hope it works out for you,” he says.
I give him a tight smile. “Thanks.”
When I finally manage to slip away from Jeff Greene, I make myself small. I’ve perfected the art by now, and I shuffle all the way to the kitchen, slumping against the counter and watching Noah grab a beer from the fridge. I suppose his hangover cleared up.
Noticing me standing here, he tilts his head at the can. “Want one?”
I shoot him a look because he can’t be serious. “I can’t.”
He cracks open the can. “Dad gave me beer freshman year.”
“You know that’s not the issue.”
Mom would have a conniption if she witnessed me drinking alcohol, and Noah snorts because he knows it too, before wandering off to the living room.
