Faith, Hope, and Ivy June

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  March 9

  I expected Rosemary would be on her worst behavior, and she “exceeded expectations,” as Dad put it. He says that she married into money when she married Gramps and has always been self-conscious about her own background. That’s why she’s so eager to put down someone else.

  Dad says that the way Ivy June fired back at Rosemary shows she can stick up for herself. And I’ll have to admit I was a little bit envious of that, because I’ve never had the nerve to say half of what I feel. Our family’s nothing if not polite. We were born polite, I think, which makes me wonder what Grandpa Combs saw in Rosemary in the first place. Or maybe, as Hannah says, Rosemary’s the reason he’s usually out playing golf.

  We headed for the clubhouse afterward, and as soon as we got outside, Hannah said, “I’ll bet you’re glad that’s over!” All I could do was be embarrassed. It felt good to pound that volleyball around. Ivy June must have felt it too, because she sure packed a wallop with that ball!

  When I got Mom alone later, I asked what we could do about Rosemary, and she said all we could do was accept her the way she is, because “there’s one in every family.” Peter and Claire didn’t understand the subtlety of what happened there in the living room.

  “What?” they kept asking. “What did Grandma do that was so terrible?”

  “She wasn’t terrible,” Mom explained. “She was tactless.” And then it sounded to me as though she was agreeing with Rosemary but would have said it a different way. Part of me is thinking, well, if we wanted Ivy June to be just like us, why did we vote for this exchange program in the first place? And another part of me is thinking that Ivy June has a mouth on her, and underneath her politeness, there’s who-knows-what waiting to make itself heard.

  It’s all very confusing. If something like this happens at school tomorrow, the teachers can sort it out.

  Catherine Combs

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March 10

  This may be the last I write in my journal for a while, because I’ve got more homework than flies on a mule. What I’m wondering is, do the teachers pile on work like this every blessed day, or is it just to show me up? I gave up mud vacation for this?

  We went off this morning in those short skirts—I had goose bumps clear down to my ankles. But if the other girls have to wear them, I will too. At least here you don’t have to wait a half hour out on the road for a bus—Mr. Combs drives. Then Hannah’s mom picks us up.

  Everyone’s friendly, though. There’s a big WELCOME, IVY JUNE sign above the door. Feel like I’m Miss America, almost. Then I walk inside and look like two hundred other girls, can’t hardly tell them apart. I try to put names with faces, but sometimes you just have to go by knees. Seems like the knees look more different than the faces.

  Catherine introduced me in every class. “This is Ivy June Mosley, our exchange student from Thunder Creek,” she said. “I know that all of you will help her feel welcome.” And everybody smiled at me like we’ve been friends since first grade.

  I notice the teachers don’t call on me much. That’s good, because I haven’t had a chance to look at a single book. Catherine said I shouldn’t have to think of homework my first weekend here, but now I’ve got to study extra hard tonight. I have to take time to write in my journal, though, because I don’t want to forget anything.

  Some of the classes are harder than others. Math, for one. History’s boring. I don’t know if Thunder Creek’s ahead of Buckner Academy or what, but we’re on World War II, and they’re still back with Lincoln.

  English class is good, though, and I love science. They’re finishing up a geology unit, and I bet it’s no coincidence we’re studying mountain regions of the United States, specifically the Appalachians, and in particular, the Cumberland Mountains. I knew that the Appalachians form a divide between the rivers that flow into the Atlantic Ocean and the ones that drain into the Gulf of Mexico. What I didn’t know was that they’re the oldest mountains in the U.S.

  I walked into the science room to see a big diagram of stratified rock, like a slice cut out of a mountain. The class is studying what the earth’s crust is made of, only the layers in the diagram are nice and level, like a stack of lumber. I’ve seen a big cut in a mountain where a road goes through, and sometimes layers are at a forty-five-degree angle. Sixty, even! Like God just leaned against a side of the mountain and the whole thing tipped over.

  Everybody wants to eat with us at lunchtime, and they are so polite and sweet their words almost stick to my cheeks. I’m glad Hannah and Mackenzie eat with us, because they don’t have to try so hard to be nice.

  The school serves the food, and if Mammaw ever saw the stuff they put on our plates, she’d give it to a dog. Today the choice is between “mystery meat,” as Catherine calls it, or grilled cheese sandwiches. I’ll take a fried egg sandwich on Mammaw’s homemade bread any day.

  What’s embarrassing, though, is that every time I open my mouth, it’s like I said something important. I mention how early I’ve got to get up in the morning to catch the bus in Thunder Creek, and the girls’ mouths make a big O, like I just said I have to walk ten miles in the snow.

  I’m writing all this from my bed. Got a bunch of pillows behind me. Catherine’s over at her computer, writing an essay for English, due Friday. We’ve got to write two pages on someone who has influenced our life. Catherine’s writing about a teacher she had last year. I thought of writing about Miss Dixon because I like her a lot, but I think I’ll do Papaw instead.

  Claire says I can use her computer when I need it if Catherine’s using her own. I never learned the touch system of typing, though, and my handwriting is pretty good, so I may just do my essay in cursive.

  I like the Combs family, all but Rosemary. She takes exception to whatever I say. I tell her I’m looking forward to seeing a horse farm, and she says, “Horses, horses, horses! That’s all anybody thinks about, and Lexington is so much more than that!” She might as well have said, “Hillbillies, hillbillies, hillbillies,” because I know that’s what she was thinking.

  Peter and Claire fuss with each other a lot, but what else is new? And I like Catherine, but I can tell we’re not anywhere near being close friends yet, because she got a call on her cell phone, and when she switched it to her left ear, just before she left the room, I could hear a boy’s voice. I think she’s got a boyfriend, but she didn’t tell me one word about him after she came back. I wonder where the girls at Buckner ever meet up with boys. Wonder too what Shirl and Fred Mason are up to during mud vacation. Got to remember to send a postcard home to Ma and Daddy so it’ll get there before I get back. Catherine says we’re going to do most of our sightseeing next week, when Buckner goes on spring break. I’ll be glad when that happens, because I already studied the South and wouldn’t want to sit through the Civil War all over again.

  Ivy June Mosley

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It seemed to Ivy June that somebody had gotten the exchange program backward. The first week should have been spring vacation—all the fun stuff—and the second week school. Then she would’ve had a good taste in her mouth for Lexington right off the bat.

  As it was, she and Catherine were going to have to spend every evening doing homework. But right after school on Monday, they had changed out of their uniforms and gone to the clubhouse—sort of a fancy community center, Ivy June decided. This time they shot baskets, and it felt good to Ivy June.

  What felt weird, though, was the way the Academy girls had come up to her that day at school, offering compliments as though they were second helpings.

  “You’ve got beautiful teeth, Ivy June.”

  “I love your handwriting.”

  “Your back’s so straight, like a ballet dancer’s, almost.”

  “They sure must feel I need the praise,” Ivy June had told Catherine at lunchtime.

  “The closer we get to Friday, the more they’ll forget you’re here,” Catherine had ass
ured her. “I’ve got assignments due in every class except music, and I’ll bet if Mr. Kirby could think of one to give us, he would.”

  She was right about that, Ivy June discovered. By Tuesday, the compliments had turned to questions—polite questions, of course: “Are there a lot of kids in your family?” and “How many grades in your school?” But by afternoon some of the girls passed Ivy June in the halls with only a smile, and Ivy June began to relax. She even began to feel less cold in the green and white pleated skirt.

  Mr. Kirby’s music class met twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. At Tuesday’s session, he was teaching the girls a new song to be sung as a round: Annie, Annie was the miller’s daughter. Far she wandered, by the singing water…. And at the end, the haunting five notes: Bring your white sheep home.

  As the first group finished, then grew silent, Ivy June’s voice stood out clear and sweet along with the second group, who repeated the concluding line: “Bring your white sheep home.” Mr. Kirby smiled at her.

  Because Buckner Academy for Girls had started out as an Episcopal school, tradition had it that each choral session end with a hymn. Every fall, during the first assembly, the school voted on the hymn of the year, Mr. Kirby explained. Last year it had been “Rock of Ages” and this year it was “Amazing Grace.”

  “Each week, I choose one girl to sing the third verse alone while the others hum,” he said. “Would you sing it for us this time, Ivy June?”

  Catherine smiled at her, but Ivy June’s face flushed. Where she had sung out eagerly before, she shrank back now. “I don’t remember all the words,” she said.

  “Here,” Catherine said quickly, handing her a song sheet that the others had memorized.

  Mr. Kirby smiled again and gave the pitch. The sopranos and altos hummed the first note together, then sang the rest of the verse in harmony. By the time they reached the third verse, Ivy June had regained her confidence, and sang with her eyes toward the window and the sky beyond. “Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come….”

  After all the girls joined in on the fourth verse and the song ended, Mr. Kirby smiled again and said, “Beautiful. Thank you, Ivy June.”

  “That was terrific!” Catherine told her later when they left the room.

  “It sure was,” Mackenzie agreed. “With you, it’s a real song. With some of the girls, it’s a competition.”

  “Why?” Ivy June asked.

  “At the end of each year, Mr. Kirby picks the best singer to sing it again, and he records it to play for future classes. Up to now, it’s been a toss-up between Jennifer Paine and Megan Murkoff. But that was before you came along.”

  “Well, I’m going to leave as sudden as I came, so no use in their worrying about it,” said Ivy June.

  Mrs. Combs had felt good enough to make part of the dinner herself that evening, and was pleased at her progress.

  “I think I just need to move around a little more to get my strength up,” she said as she placed the apple cobbler on the table and let each person scoop his own ice cream. Out in the kitchen, Flora kept the TV on low as she put things away, and the rain drummed steadily on the roof and against the windows.

  Peter and Claire were arguing over which of them had taken the bigger scoop and whether there was enough left for the others.

  Mr. Combs grinned wearily at Ivy June. “Do your brothers argue this much?”

  She smiled. “Ezra and Howard go at it sometimes, and Daddy has to take a switch to them,” she said.

  There were wide-eyed stares from Peter and Claire.

  “He hits them?” asked Claire.

  “He switches them a couple times on the legs and backside,” said Ivy June, taking the ice cream scoop, which Claire was handing her.

  Peter let a trickle of his dessert run down his chin. “He could go to jail!” he declared.

  Ivy June looked amused. “Then probably every last dad in Thunder Creek would be there with him.”

  “Peter, in some parts of the country that’s considered appropriate,” said his dad.

  “Danny, he’s the youngest,” Ivy June went on. “He’s got it easier, because he sees what gets the older ones in trouble before he tries it. As Daddy says, ‘Danny learns on somebody else’s behind.’”

  Catherine and her parents laughed while Peter and Claire tried to figure out the joke. Then Catherine said, “Probably whatever way you were raised feels right to you.”

  “That’s a good observation, Catherine,” said her dad. “I never spanked you kids because my dad never spanked me, and who knows how far back that goes?”

  Ivy June tried to remember if anyone in her family had ever said to her, “That’s an interesting observation.” Or “Interesting thought.” “Interesting argument,” even. Did anyone offer praise for anything at all? Not much, she concluded. Doing or saying something intelligent was supposed to be its own reward.

  There was a sudden exclamation from the kitchen.

  “Oh, Lord!” came Flora’s voice.

  Everyone turned toward the doorway. All they could hear were the indecipherable voices on television.

  “What is it, Flora?” Mrs. Combs called.

  “Down near Harlan,” Flora said, coming to the door-way. “Three men are trapped….”

  Ivy June jerked around, her face suddenly pale.

  “Where?” she asked hoarsely. “A coal mine?”

  “No, a highway crash with a tractor trailer. A trucker was injured, and a car with Illinois license plates went into the river. They’ve got a rescue helicopter down there now.”

  Peter and Claire jumped up and ran to the kitchen to watch, but Ivy June sank back in her chair, the racing in her heart beginning to slow.

  Mrs. Combs shook her head. “Whenever there’s rain, the roads are slick, and travelers from up north aren’t used to our winding roads….” She focused on Ivy June. “You were afraid it was a coal mine accident, Ivy June?”

  Color returning to her cheeks, Ivy June said, “My grandfather works in a coal mine.”

  “No wonder you were frightened!” Mr. Combs said.

  Now the whole family was watching her. Peter and Claire returned from the kitchen during a commercial.

  “He’s going to retire in July, though,” Ivy June continued. “I sure will be glad when that happens.”

  “I didn’t know your grandfather was a miner,” said Catherine.

  “Guess they left all the asking and telling up to us,” Ivy June said, and wanting to deflect the attention from herself, added, “I don’t know what kind of work your grandpa does either.”

  Mr. Combs smiled. “Well, Catherine’s grandfather used to run a printing company. A very old company, actually. Combs Printing and Engraving. My great-grandfather founded it, and now it’s been handed down to me. To tell the truth, I really wanted to be a commercial pilot, but … it’s in the family, and someday, I suppose, it will go to Peter.”

  “Or me!” said Claire.

  “Of course. You or Catherine or Peter, whoever shows the most interest.”

  “News is back on, and they’ve rescued all three of them!” Flora called from the kitchen.

  “Oh, that’s good,” said Mrs. Combs. “It’s nice to have good news for a change.”

  Catherine got another call from a boy that evening. Once again the girls were studying in their bedroom, away from the sounds of Claire’s violin practice downstairs and Peter’s video game across the hall. Ivy June saw Catherine check the number before she answered. “Hello,” she said, smiling, and quickly took the phone into the bathroom, closing the door.

  Ivy June was working on her essay for English, and when Catherine came out fifteen minutes later and went back to her computer, Ivy June said, “Never heard of taking a boyfriend into the bathroom with you.”

  Catherine turned and instantly her face colored. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said, then sat down quickly and worked the keyboard.

  For ten seconds or so, the room was quiet except
for the soft sound of keys clicking. Then Catherine stole a look at Ivy June. Ivy June was still watching her, and suddenly both girls broke into laughter.

  “Not my boyfriend!” Catherine insisted.

  “No skin off my nose. I don’t like him!” said Ivy June.

  “He’s just a guy I met at a party last Christmas,” Catherine explained. “A friend of a friend, that’s all.”

  “Fine with me,” said Ivy June, grinning.

  “But don’t tell anyone,” said Catherine.

  “Not a word,” Ivy June promised.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  March 11

  There’s something I need to write about. On the news tonight, there was a report of three men trapped in a sinking car down near Harlan, and a helicopter rescue. At first, Ivy June was afraid it was a coal mine accident, and we found out that her grandfather works in a mine. There’s so much I don’t know about Ivy June.

  Afterward, we were doing homework in my room, kidding around … talking…. But later, when I came out of the bathroom, I saw her slip something under her pillow. I could tell by the way she did it that it was something she didn’t want me to see. I didn’t want to say anything, but I began to suspect she’d stolen something of mine.

  I hated myself for suspecting it, but still, I couldn’t let it go. I was afraid it was the gold locket from Mom, or maybe the ring from Rosemary and Gramps. When Ivy June went in the bathroom next and I heard the bathwater running, I knew that if I didn’t find out what she’d hidden, I’d go on suspecting everything she did for the rest of her time here. And if she was stealing … well, better to have it out now.

  I peeked under her pillow, and there was a small rock. Just a rock. I could feel my face redden because I was so wrong, and I put the pillow back. Then, hearing Ivy June splashing around in the tub, I lifted the pillow again and picked up the rock. It was rough on one side, smooth on the other. Nothing more unusual about it. I can’t understand. And there’s no way I can ask Ivy June about it without admitting I peeked.