Between the Notes (19 page)

Tears ran down my face, and my body convulsed with shuddery gasps. I didn’t remember ever crying like this before, so out of control. I couldn’t make it stop as I replayed the past few weeks—had my life really fallen apart so thoroughly in that little bit of time?

My hysterics finally turned into minisobs and hiccups, and I stood up, wiping my hands on my skirt and my nose on my sleeve. My bottom was soaked and my knees were stinging. The skin exposed through my torn tights was scraped and bleeding.

I searched the ground for my bag and finally found it hung up in a tree directly behind me. About three feet away from where I stood was the path.

I’ve totally lost my mind.

I stepped onto the path and started walking toward home, and that’s when I heard it: the distinctive rumble of a school bus.

The twins’ school bus.

Four o’clock, oh, my God, I was supposed to be home at four o’clock. I pulled my not-a-phone out of my bag to check the time. It said 4:12. Ohmygod ohmygod
ohmygod.
I ran as fast as I
could, tearing down the path and bursting from the woods onto the playground. There were kids on the swings—kids who rode Brady and Kaya’s bus!

I ran toward then, shouting. “Did Brady and Kaya get off the bus? Did the driver let them off?”

They stared up at me like startled little fawns stuck in a car’s headlights. Nobody answered so I shouted again. “Brady and Kaya Emerson? We live over there.” I pointed to Turd Tower. “Did they get off the bus?”

One of the boys shook his head nervously. “I . . . I don’t think so,” he said. “They can’t get off without a grown-up ’cause that kid’s retarded.”

“He’s not . . .” I started to correct the boy, to explain that we don’t use that word anymore. That he’s mentally disabled. That he’s special and wonderful and . . . I just shook my head and ran from them, sprinting for the road, my feet pounding on the gravel until I reached the bus stop, crying and gasping and . . .
there was no bus.
I ran up Jackson Boulevard, hoping the driver might be lingering at the next bus stop, or the next. But it was gone. The bus was gone.

I limped back to the house and pounded on Carla’s door, hoping maybe she’d seen the bus arrive and had the kids with her. But the windows of her apartment were dark and she didn’t answer. I looked toward Lennie’s house. His Jeep wasn’t there.

The bus driver probably wouldn’t have handed the kids over to him, anyway.

I was really crying now, not for myself but for Brady, who must be so scared. And for Kaya, who would be scared, too, and mad. She would never forgive me for this, for ruining everything once again.

I let myself in the back door as the phone rang in the kitchen. I lunged for it. “Hello?”

“You’re there?” It was Mom. “I just got a call from transportation. They said nobody was there for the bus!”

“I wasn’t here. . . . I was late. . . . I . . .”

“Ivy!” Mom said sharply. “The bus driver had to take them back to school. I’m leaving work now to pick them up. And you better hope this hasn’t scarred your brother so badly he’ll never ride the damn bus again, because I don’t know what I’m going to do if that happens.”

“Mom, I . . . I . . .”

“One simple thing, Ivy. That’s all I asked, and you couldn’t even do that?”

I stammered to answer her, but I couldn’t find any words—only the shuddery hiccups that remained from my cry. Then I heard a
click
on Mom’s end and a few seconds later, a dial tone.

My mother had hung up on me.

I returned the phone to its cradle and walked toward the front stairs so I could be waiting for them when they got home. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the door. Scraped arms, torn tights, muddy skirt. I couldn’t let Brady see me like this.

I watched out the window from my parents’ bedroom, which was in the front of our apartment. When our car pulled up, Mom and Kaya got out, but Brady wouldn’t. I heard Mom pleading with him. “Come on, buddy, it’s okay. It’s safe.” The bus driver must’ve said it wasn’t safe, and he thought that meant it was
never
safe here. Mom turned and looked up toward the apartment. It was one of those all-hands-on-deck moments, and my hands were inexplicably absent.

Lennie drove up then, parking his Jeep along the road in front of his house. He got out and waved and Kaya rushed over to him, and then he and Mom were talking low and . . . Lennie leaned into our car. Like
that
was going to help.

Then I couldn’t believe it. Brady got out of the car. He was smiling and holding his arms out to Lennie. Lennie lifted him up, then sat him in the grass and took him by one hand and one foot and . . . gave him an airplane ride. Once around, so he wouldn’t get too dizzy.

But I did. I got dizzy, watching Lennie save the day, while I sat there helpless and pathetic and wrong, wrong,
wrong
about everything. And
everyone.

M
om found me asleep on top of her bed in my mud-caked skirt. She shook me awake, a look of horror on her face.

“Mom.” My voice was raw. “What’s wrong?” I’d forgotten for a moment what I must look like.

“What happened to you?” Then a more panicked expression came to her eyes.

“No . . . I . . .” How could I explain my breakdown? “I fell, in the woods . . . I . . .”

“Oh, sweetie.” She gathered me in her arms. Everything hurt when she touched me, but I didn’t want her to let go. I just wanted to cry on my mother’s shoulder and let her take care of me.

And she did. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

She led me down to the bathroom and filled the tub, helped me peel off my clothes without taking too much skin along with them, and gently washed the dirt from my wounds. She spoke in the soothing tone I remembered from before the move, not the sharper more harried one that had replaced it lately.

“So what happened?” she asked softly.

“I just, I got home late—my ride left me by the Save-a-Cent, and I walked through the park. Only I couldn’t find the path and I got tangled and fell, and . . . and then I heard the bus, and . . .” I started to cry again.

“I’m so sorry I yelled at you. I was on a deadline at work. . . . If I’d known . . .” Her own eyes filled with tears and she reached for the corner of a towel to wipe them away. “Look at us. We’re a mess.”

I cry-laughed, nodding. “We really are.”

“Okay, finish cleaning up. I need to check on Brady and Kaya. They’re still outside with Lennie.” She got up. “You know, maybe we were wrong about that boy. The twins adore him.”

When the bus unloaded in front of the school the next morning, I pushed against the flow of students going in to head the other way—toward the back parking lot. I stood where James always parked his car, waiting until the first-period bell rang. But he didn’t show. I waited again outside Mr. Eli’s room.

Reesa must’ve thought I was waiting for
her,
because she stopped halfway down the hall and pretended to tie her shoe. When she looked up and I was still there, she dug around in her backpack for a while. Wow. She
really
did not want to talk to me. Join the club. Reesa, James, even Lennie . . . nobody could stand being around me. I was like poison.
Poison Ivy.

I snorted at my own joke and went into class. Reesa finally came in a second before the bell rang, so there wasn’t a moment to talk to her even if I wanted to. Instead, I spent most of my morning classes drafting a letter to James, in case he showed up but refused to speak to me. At least I could shove it into his hand and hope he’d read it. I tried to explain everything—how Reesa thought he must be a member of this wealthy Wickerton family from New York that she found online. How I didn’t care. How I was glad he wasn’t. How I didn’t want a boyfriend who could go places and do things that I couldn’t do. I was just surprised that he’d never mentioned a job. I would’ve felt better about my own circumstances if I’d known about his.

But I never had a chance to give him the letter. There was no sign of James all day, not even in our secret room, where I’d left an especially long note after English class. I started to worry that he was gone for good, not just the day. But his books were still there. He wouldn’t leave without his Shakespeare, would he?

At home after school, I searched my room for the Charcoal Hut receipt James had written his home phone number on. I took the phone to my room and pressed my shaky fingers to the buttons. It rang nine times, and I was about to hang up when someone finally answered.

“Hello?” An elderly woman’s voice.

“May I speak to James, please?”

Silence.

“Ma’am?”

“May I ask who’s calling?” she said.

“It’s Ivy Emerson.”

There was a muffled sound on the other end, like her hand was covering the phone as she spoke to someone. It had to be him. She wouldn’t have asked my name if it was a wrong number. Right?

She came back on. “I’m sorry. He’s not available at the moment.”

“Oh. Um, could you please tell him . . .”

Click.

I stared at the dead phone. My first instinct was to call back. I pressed my finger to the redial button, but let it go and placed the receiver in its cradle.

It rang almost immediately.

I swooped the phone to my ear. “James?”

“No. It’s me.”
Mom.
“I’m picking the twins up from school today and taking them directly to Brady’s therapy appointment, okay?”

“Oh, yeah, okay.”

She rattled off some instructions for me, something about starting supper, and I heard her but I wasn’t listening, because all I could think about was that James was at home. The woman who answered the phone had spoken to someone before telling me he wasn’t there. That he wasn’t
available.
I flipped open my
laptop while Mom was still talking, and typed the phone number I’d just called into the search window. Wasn’t there some kind of reverse directory where you could put in a phone number and find the name or the address?

“Ivy? Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Yeah, Mom. I’m just doing some . . .” I caught myself before another lie came out. “I’m just searching for something online, for an address,” I said.

She let me go as I hit the
RETURN
key and the name
IDA MCDANIELS
popped up with a Belleview address. I typed her name into another search window and found an obituary, not for Ida but for a man named James A. Robertson

Then everything started falling into place. The cemetery. The tombstone where James and I sat on the bench.
James Aloysius Robertson.
And J.A.R. . . . from the Shakespeare book. I searched the obituary for any mention of James. It noted grandchildren but didn’t name them. Just a sister, Ida McDaniels, and a daughter—

Sheila Wickerton.

I went back to the listing that showed Ida’s address: 845 Clayton Street. I quickly mapped it, hoping it wasn’t too far to get to on my bike. When the directions popped up, I scrolled down to see the total distance. Seven miles.

I scribbled the directions on the back of my hand, grabbed the letter I’d written to James, and ran for my bike.

I
pedaled faster than ever, ignoring honks of the early evening-rush-hour drivers. My legs were on fire and my hair wet with sweat when by the time I rolled onto Clayton Street. It was the kind of neighborhood I had hoped we might move to, with nice two-story houses lined up next to each other. Brick, not brownstone, with cute little porches and sidewalks and cars lining the street. I bicycled as close to the parked cars as I could get without bumping into their rearview mirrors and slowed as the house numbers got closer to 845. A sleek red sports car with New York plates turned in front of me and zipped into an empty spot . . . right behind a black BMW. I steered to the opposite side of the street and pulled onto the sidewalk beside an SUV. Unbuckling my helmet, panting, I heard a familiar voice.

“What are you doing here?” snarled James.

The tone surprised me and I turned immediately, a pit in my stomach. But he wasn’t talking to me. He strode toward the girl who emerged from the red car like she was stepping off a fashion
runway. She had sandy blond, wavy hair and a straight, delicate nose. I ducked farther behind the SUV so I was mostly hidden but could still see them through the windows.

“Nice to see you, too,” she said. “No hug? No kiss?”

James took a few steps forward and gave her a stiff hug, followed by a quick peck on both cheeks. It made me think of Wynn, who kissed that way, too.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her again.

“Came to see how the other half lives.” She gestured toward the houses along the block, as if there was something unseemly about them. “Aren’t you tired of slumming it?”

“Staying with Aunt Ida is hardly slumming it.”

“Fine. But working as a stock boy in a grocery store? Come on,” she said. “You could’ve gotten a dozen other jobs that easily paid more. You’re only doing it to annoy Daddy.”

James shrugged. “Think what you want. I told Dad I could take care of myself, and I have. How I do it is my business.”

She stepped back and leaned against her car, crossing her arms under her chest. “Fine. You’ve proven your point. Now it’s time to come home. Hopefully, it’s not too late for Daddy to pull some strings and get you into one of the Ivies. I’m sure the academy will fudge those two credits you’re missing, with the proper incentive. A nice donation—”

“I don’t want him to pull strings for me or buy off my school, Rebecca. That’s the whole point,” said James, his voice rising. “People look at us and all they see are dollar signs. Don’t you ever
wonder if anybody would give a fuck about you if they didn’t know who your daddy was?”

She laughed. “Yeah, Robbie. Life’s rough all over.”

Robbie?

James turned his back on her and marched into the house. The girl—Rebecca—remained leaning against her car, inspecting her manicure. My legs were so shaky I was afraid to move—afraid I’d fall flat on my face if I did—so I stayed behind the SUV. Then James emerged from the house carrying a large duffel bag. He strode to his car, popped the trunk, and shoved it in.

“I was leaving anyway,” he said, slamming the trunk closed. “Happy?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I’m just sick of all the yelling and crying and . . .”

James whirled around. “Who’s crying? Mom?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t Dad.”

Something seemed to collapse in James, his defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders and the sag of his head. I don’t know why I didn’t run to him then, stop him and explain myself and—and . . . ask him what the hell was going on. But I hesitated, and before I could blink, he got behind the wheel of his car and drove away.

Rebecca got into her red car, too, and zoomed off after him. When I finally stumbled out from behind the SUV, all I could do was stare at the spot where they had stood arguing, stunned that James was gone.

A gray-haired woman emerged from the house—Aunt Ida, I
presumed. She offered me a sympathetic smile. “You’re the one who called?”

“Yes.”

She nodded slowly, arms folded around her middle, then turned to go back inside.

“Wait!” The note I’d written to James was clutched in my hand. I ran up to the porch and held it out to her. “Can you get this to him?”

She took the folded paper and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. “Can’t make any promises,” she said. “But I’ll try.”

It was dark by the time I got home, and Mom was furious. She followed me up to the attic, scolding me as quietly as her anger would allow so as not to upset Brady. “You were supposed to start supper. Where have you been?” she hissed.

“I screwed something up, Mom, and I was trying to fix it. It’s a long story,” I said, hugging a pillow to my chest.

“Well, I don’t have time for a long story right now, because I have to make supper,” she started down the stairs, then turned back. “You’re grounded, by the way. Until further notice.”

I wasn’t even upset about that. It made sense, at least, when nothing else did—like whatever I’d witnessed between James and his sister.
Robbie.
Reesa was right all along. But James had left home, apparently, to fend for himself? To prove something to their father? My chest ached when I remembered the worst part,
what he’d said about wanting to see if anybody would care about him if he didn’t have money.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling, aching for my piano. I needed to get this horrible feeling out of my chest and put it to music.

The ukulele I’d retrieved from our old house sat dusty and unused in the corner next to my dresser. I got up, took it in my hands, and strummed, cringing at how off-key it was. I fiddled with the tuning pegs. Strummed again. Better.

But it was a ukulele, and it sounded too happy for my mood.

I closed my eyes and let my voice take over. I don’t even remember what I sang, if there were words involved or just sound—moaning or humming or bellowing open vowels of agony. I didn’t care if someone out there heard me. I just had to get it out.

When I stopped and looked up, Brady was standing in my doorway. His little face was twisted into a question mark as he struggled to assess the situation.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I was just . . . I was singing.”

His eyes lit up. “Sing for Brady?”

I nodded as he shuffled to the bed and sat next to me, his legs dangling off the edge. I wrapped my arms around him and held tight. After what I’d just seen, the way Rebecca talked to James, so cold and uncaring . . . I craved the warmth of a good hug.

We sat close with the ukulele on my lap. “What kind of song do you want?” I asked.

“La-la,” he said, and I smiled.

“Okay,” I said. “One la-la lullaby coming right up.”

I strummed and plucked until a tune came tumbling out. It started a bit slow and mournful, but Brady’s la-las were too exuberant to be satisfied by a sad song. I picked up the pace and let the music cheer me up.

“You know what? I think we need Kaya,” I said to Brady.

Brady smiled and shouted, “Kaya!” at the top of his lungs. I did the same. “Kaya! Kaya!”

She bounded up the stairs. “What are you doing?”

“We’re singing la-las,” I said.

She grinned and threw herself at me, a laughing tackle-hug onto the bed. “You’re back,” she said.

I paused, realizing she didn’t mean I was back from my bike ride. She meant I was
back.
Back to myself. Back to being part of my family. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m back.”