The Book of Ivy

Page 9

 

  After a breakfast of oatmeal and raspberries and a quick shower, I wander out onto the screened porch off the kitchen. It’s a large room with a floor covered in once white-washed planks, now faded to a tired gray. Two wicker sofas topped with yellow cushions face each other across a low wrought-iron table. My namesake grows up the sides of the screens, giving the porch a cozy, cocoon-like feeling. I can see out, but the ivy gives the illusion that no one else can see in.

  The back door of the neighboring house opens and a girl emerges, carrying a basket over one arm, gardening gloves clasped in her fist. Her hair is long and stick straight, a shiny, pale blond. The kind of hair I’ve always secretly wanted instead of my tumbled and tangled mass of waves, my own color more plain honey than spun gold. I recognize her from my side of town, although I’m sure I’ve never officially met her. It’s possible she was at the marriage ceremony, but I was too preoccupied to pay close attention. She is halfway down her back steps when the screen door opens again and a boy leans out, grabbing her forearm.

  “What about my breakfast?” he asks her.

  “I left cereal out,” she says. Her voice is high and childlike. “And I made fruit salad. ”

  From where I stand, concealed by the greenery, I see his hand tighten on her arm. She winces and tries to pull away, but he jerks her back toward him. “That’s not breakfast,” he says. His voice is reasonable, not raised, which makes it more frightening. “I want eggs. Or pancakes. Something hot. ”

  “All right,” the girls says. “Just let me—”

  “Now,” he says.

  I push open the screen door to the porch and bound down the steps toward them.

  “Hi,” I call out. Both their heads whip in my direction.

  The boy’s eyes narrow briefly, then clear. He drops the girl’s arm and comes down the steps toward the low fence separating our yards. “Hi there,” he says with a smile.

  I smile back at him, although it costs me something to do it, and find the girl’s eyes over his shoulder. “I’m Ivy…Lattimer,” I say. The name still sounds foreign on my tongue, like I’m introducing a girl I’ve never met. “We just moved in. ”

  “Sure,” the boy says, “I know who you are. I went to school with Bishop, although he was a few years ahead of me. ” He holds out his hand. “I’m Dylan Cox. ” He hooks a thumb back over his shoulder. “And this is my wife, Meredith. We’re new to the neighborhood, too. ”

  “Hi,” Meredith says. Her eyes ping-pong between her husband and me.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “Well, I just wanted to introduce myself. ”

  Dylan smiles at me again. It’s an infectious smile, one that’s difficult to resist. Looking at it makes me think maybe I’m wrong about what I saw, wrong about what kind of boy I think he is.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” he tells me. I stand at the fence and watch until he and Meredith go back inside, the dark doorway swallowing them whole.

  By afternoon, I have to get out of the house, even if I have no particular destination in mind. I’m bored and restless and I can’t stop replaying the scene with Dylan and Meredith in my head. That is exactly the type of relationship my father always talked about when he railed against the arranged marriages. He said that forcing young girls to marry boys they’d never met and who were considered a better class, even if no one said it out loud, set up an unbalanced power structure that often resulted in abuse and violence. And now I’ve seen evidence of it first hand. I want to help Meredith, but I’m not sure how. Once my father’s plan is fully in place, it might be too late for her.

  Without any conscious thought, I find myself wandering to the green space that separates the populated sections of town from the uninhabited woods. It’s more than twenty acres of grass and rolling hills, dotted with trees and a large pond. There is a path for bicycles, and a wider one for walking, but today, a Monday afternoon, only a few other people are visible in the distance.

  I ignore the path and cut straight through the long grass, heading toward the pond and the ducks I used to feed as a child. There is a low wooden bridge over the water, and I cross halfway and lower myself to sitting, my legs dangling above the water, my arms folded on the bottom of the wooden rail. I rest my chin on my hands and watch the ducks splash around below my feet, wishing I’d thought to bring some bread to throw for them.

  I don’t look up when I hear steps on the bridge, but then a pair of legs slots in to place beside mine and a voice as familiar as my own cuts the silence. “Tell me everything,” says Callie, her shoulder pushing into mine.

  I suppose I should be surprised to see her here, but I’m not. My entire life she’s always been one step ahead of me—of most people, for that matter. She always says she has eyes everywhere, and it’s wise to take Callie at her word. Besides, I’m too relieved to see her to care how she knew where to find me.

  “Callie,” I say, smiling. “I went to the market yesterday, but there wasn’t a message. I’m glad you’re here. ”

  “Me, too,” she says, her eyes raking my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. But we’re not living in President Lattimer’s house. Did you know that?”

  She nods. “I found out yesterday. From what I’ve heard, that was Bishop’s idea. He didn’t want to live with his parents. ” She shrugs. “Makes sense, I guess. But it definitely complicates things. ” She pins me with her gaze. “You’re going to have to figure out a way to get what we need. You’ll be in and out of that house, I’m sure. It may take a little longer, that’s all. ”

  “Okay,” I say. The thought of snooping around President Lattimer’s house while I lived there and might be able to think of a valid excuse if caught was bad enough. Doing it this way will be even worse.

  One of the ducks below us dives for food, splashing cool water onto my foot. It tickles as it runs over my instep.

  “So,” Callie says, her voice quiet. “Was it bad? Did he hurt you?”

  I glance at her. She is staring down at the water, her jaw clenched. “No,” I say. “We didn’t…you know. ”

  She twists her head in my direction. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, really. I think he could tell I was scared, that I didn’t want to. ” I kick my feet back and forth. “Maybe he didn’t want to, either. ”

  Callie snorts. “The guy has self-control, I’ll give him that. I didn’t think he’d be able to resist…all that,” she says, flapping a hand in my direction.

  “Stop it,” I say, but I can’t help the little laugh that escapes me. It is good to laugh, even over something that’s not really funny.

  “And he’s clever,” Callie says. “Not forcing anything makes him seem like a nicer guy than he actually is. How’s the rest of it going? Are you getting him to trust you?”

  “It’s been two days. ”

  “I know that, Ivy. But we don’t have the luxury of endless time. Three months, that’s what you’ve got. The clock is already ticking. ”

  Three months. I don’t know if it’s too long or not long enough. But it’s the amount of time I have to complete the steps in my father’s plan, the last one being to kill Bishop. President Lattimer’s death will follow, and Callie’s told me that plan is already in motion, cannot be slowed down or stopped. But Bishop has to die first. I don’t know all the details. My father thinks it’s safer if I only have pieces, in case I’m caught. But what I do know is that if I screw up, our plans will be ruined.