“OH, MY GOD, this is amazing,” says Sarah once we’re back in the kitchen. “Ethan is so cute! If Ivy doesn’t want him, I’m going to ask him out.”
“So will you stay for dinner?” Mom’s nailing the hostess role right now. There was a time when she would have crawled to her room to curl up in a fetal position at the ring of the doorbell. And here she is, smiling, welcoming, social. Progress.
“I have to be home for dinner,” Sarah says. “Sorry.”
“How about you, James?”
“I should probably check with my mom first.”
“Yes, of course. I’m thrilled to hear that you check with your parents before making plans. I’m not always sure Chloe does.” She laughs, and Ron adds, “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.”
I need to get away from them both before I lose it. I say to my friends, “Let’s go to my room.”
Once we’re safely behind a closed door, Sarah asks me what’s wrong. “You’re being weird.” she adds.
“No, I’m not.”
She looks to James for corroboration.
“Yeah, you’re in a bad mood,” he says.
“It’s just . . .” I sit on the edge of my bed and pull my knees up to my chest. “I’m working really hard on this Ethan and Ivy thing and then everyone just descends on them like they’re mating pandas in a zoo or something.”
“Oh, please.” Sarah sits down on my desk chair. “They barely even noticed us. And we told you we were coming.”
“I didn’t think you were serious.”
“We thought it would be fun to drop by. Sorry if it annoyed you.” But her tone isn’t apologetic. It’s pissy.
“Maybe she’s mad because we interrupted something between her and David,” James says.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what’s going on here: I’m furious because David Fields was just about to tell me who his biggest crush is, and I had my fingers crossed that he was going to say me, and that’s when you guys walked in and ruined everything. I’m sorry this had to be the way you found out I’ve lost interest in you, James, but what can I say? David is twice the man you are. I mean, that body . . . and then there’s his radiant personality—”
“Okay, okay.” James holds up a hand. “Sarcasm noted.”
“Good. Because you’re being ridiculous. You know why I have to hang out with him. Ivy isn’t ready to be alone with Ethan.”
“That explains why you have to be here,” Sarah says. “Doesn’t explain why David does.”‘
“Same deal with his brother.”
“So he says. I mean, the guy probably has no social life—I bet he came just to hang out with you.”
“Well, it’s what he told me,” I say irritably. “Feel free to ask him if he was lying or not.”
“See?” Sarah says. “You’re in a bad mood.”
The three of us are watching music videos on my laptop when Ivy comes in and informs us that Ethan and David left as soon as the movie ended.
I say, “You should have told me. I would have said goodbye.”
“It’s okay. They didn’t care.”
Sarah’s parents tell her she has to come home, and James says he’ll drive her. I get the sense he doesn’t particularly want to stay alone for dinner with my family, so I don’t push him to come back.
Mom’s annoyed that she ordered a lot of pizza and now only the four of us are eating. “At least James and Sarah explained why they had to go, and of course I don’t blame Ethan for not communicating. But that brother of his . . . Not only did he completely ignore the fact I’d invited them to dinner—no response one way or the other—but he didn’t even say goodbye, so I thought they were still here when I placed the order.”
“I actually thought he was the autistic one,” Ron says. “I mean, when we first walked in, before we met the other one. He seems to have his own social difficulties.”
It’s lovely the way he talks about autistic people in front of Ivy—like there’s something wrong with them. She’s chewing away at her pizza, and I can’t tell whether or not she’s bothered by what he said.
“Well, maybe he’s on the spectrum too,” Mom says, picking up her own slice with a sigh. “It can run in families, you know.”
Ron doesn’t like pizza because it’s “all carbs,” so he put together a salad for his own dinner, which he washes down now with several glasses of red wine.
Mom keeps fretting about all the leftover pizza she’s going to have to deal with, but when Ivy reaches for a third slice, Ron puts out a hand to stop her. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“No, I’m still hungry.” She puts the slice on her plate.
He takes a long sip of his wine. “Ethan’s pretty thin. You don’t want to be heavier than your boyfriend, do you?”
“I don’t think he’s my boyfriend.” Ivy looks at me. “Is he?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He’s not not your boyfriend. And I want another slice of pizza too.” I’m lying. I don’t really want it—I just don’t want Ron to make Ivy feel bad about having one. I take a couple of bites just to make my point.
Ivy turns very quiet, and later, when we’re alone in our room, she says, “I don’t think Ethan’s my boyfriend. We don’t kiss like you and James do.”
“Do you want to? Because I think he’d be up for it.”
“Would I know if I wanted to?”
The question kind of blows my mind. You can’t assume anything with Ivy. Finally I say, “I think so. I did. I really, really wanted to, pretty much every time I kissed a guy. I mean, it was scary the first time—”
“The first time with James? Or the first time kissing anyone? Because you had a lot of boyfriends before James. There was Juan and Brian and—”
I cut her off before she can finish the whole recitation. “Yeah, yeah, I know. The first kiss with any guy is always scary, I think. But the first first kiss is the scariest. Even when you want to do it, it’s terrifying.”
“So why do it?”
“Because at some point, the wanting is stronger than the terror.”
“Do you think you’ll marry James?”
“Marry him? Ivy, I’m seventeen.”
“I know. You’re three and a half years younger than me. I’ll turn twenty-one before you turn eighteen, and then I’ll be four years older than you, but only for five months. Do you think you’ll marry James when you’re older?”
“Nah. I’ll probably go out with tons of guys before I get married, if I even ever get married.”
“I don’t think I’ll marry Ethan either. I’m old enough to get married, but I don’t want to marry him.”
“No one’s expecting you guys to get married, Ives. This is just about having someone to do fun things with. That’s good, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So relax,” I say.
Twenty-One
TV at our house on Friday?
It’s Wednesday night. I’m lying on my bed doing homework. The text is from David. He adds, Ethan’s idea
Ivy or both of us?
Up to you
We still don’t talk to each other at school. We do this nodding thing when we pass, and we don’t attack each other’s comments in English class anymore . . . but we don’t talk.
I ask Ivy what she thinks about going to Ethan’s house. She says, “Only if you go too.”
“Come on, Ives. You can’t always be dragging your sister along wherever you go.”
“Just this time.”
“And then you’ll go out with Ethan by yourself?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Seriously, I can’t keep going with you. It’s getting weird for me.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s starting to bother James that David and I spend so much time together.”
“Why?”
“Because James is my boyfriend. Which you know.”
“Does he think you want David to be your boyfriend??
??
“God, no!”
“Then why is it weird?”
I fling my hand out. “It just is. Guys don’t like their girlfriends to hang out with other people when they could be with them.”
“Why not? Why does it matter?”
“Look, what if Ethan said to you, ‘You shouldn’t always be with—’” I stop because I can’t think of an example.
“With Diana?” she suggests.
“What if he said, ‘You’re spending all this time with Diana instead of with me, and that hurts my feelings’? You’d feel a little bad, right?”
She shakes her head. “You should be with who you want to be with. If I wanted to be with Diana more than I wanted to be with him, then I would be.”
“I mean, obviously no one should ever tell you who you can and can’t be with. I’m just saying that if it bothered him, you’d feel bad.”
“But why would it bother him?”
“Because it’s less time that he gets to be with you.”
“That would be okay,” she says. “Are you worried that James won’t let you come on Friday?”
“It’s not a question of whether or not he’ll let me—”
“Okay, good,” she says. “Then you can come.”
As I drive up to the Fields family home in Westwood, I’m surprised that it’s so normal-looking—just a midsize stucco house with a neat lawn, like millions of other houses in LA. I’m not sure what I expected it to look like—dark and mysterious? Dilapidated? Surrounded by fog? It just seems impossible that someone as tortured as David could come from an unremarkable middle-class home.
It’s just a house, and whoever answers the door is just a woman, not a ghoul or a monster or a witch. She’s tall and thin and has chin-length brown hair that’s slightly layered, and her makeup and clothing are neat and unremarkable.
“Yes?” she says with a wary smile, opening the door a few inches. Not someone who likes unannounced visitors—there’s a small NO SOLICITORS sign next to the door.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Chloe. And this is Ivy.” She’s standing behind me, holding back a little, like she always does, waiting for me to take the lead and do the talking for us both.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see David and Ethan? They know we’re coming.”
“Oh!” The woman steps back. “Sorry. The boys never tell me anything, and we get the strangest people at our door sometimes. I have a little one, so I have to be extra careful. I’m Margot Fields. Come on in.”
She shouts up to the boys and then invites us into a very clean and organized kitchen, where a chubby baby in a blue romper and a bib sits in a highchair playing with a spoon. There’s some kind of food smeared all over his face and on the tray in front of him, but he seems happy.
“It’s Caleb’s dinner time,” Mrs. Fields tells us. “We were just eating mashed bananas, weren’t we, my love?”
The baby bangs his spoon on the tray and makes a ba-ba-ba sound.
“That’s right!” his mother says delightedly. “Bananas! You see David’s friends, sweetie? These are David’s friends.”
“I’m not David’s friend,” Ivy says. “I’m Ethan’s friend. Chloe is David’s friend. They go to school together.”
“Is that right?” Mrs. Fields says. She studies Ivy, assessing the stretch pants and the ponytail and the averted gaze. “And do you go to school with Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” she says like now she understands something. “Can you two gals excuse me for a second? The boys must not have heard me. Let me see where they are.” She leaves the kitchen, and we can hear her calling up the stairs for the boys.
The baby stares at us and mouths the back of the spoon.
“I think it threw up,” Ivy whispers to me, clutching at my arm. “There’s throw-up on its chin.”
“That’s just the bananas.”
She retches audibly and takes a few steps back. She has a very low tolerance for disgusting things, and is phobic about vomit.
Mrs. Fields returns in time to see the dry retching. “Are you okay?” she asks anxiously. “You’re not sick, are you? We have to be careful with a baby in the house.” She puts her body between Caleb and Ivy, like that would stop germs from spreading.
“Is that throw-up on its face?” Ivy says.
“Excuse me?”
“I already told you it’s just food,” I say impatiently.
“This?” Mrs. Fields says, swiping the baby’s chin. “That’s just banana.”
Ivy retches again.
“Maybe you should go home,” Mrs. Fields says. “Babies shouldn’t be exposed to germs.”
“She’s not sick,” I say as David enters.
“Who’s not sick?” he asks.
“Ivy.”
“Who said she was?”
No one answers him. His stepmother says, “Where’s your brother?”
“Bathroom.”
“Does he know his friend is here?”
“Are you sure it’s bananas?” Ivy asks me. “Because if someone throws up, people who are nearby breathe in molecules of the vomit and then they throw up a day later.”
“No one in this room is sick!” I say.
“I’m not sick, but I’m not well,” David says.
A man comes into the kitchen, and Mrs. Fields says, “Oh, Kevin. Look! The boys have guests.” She gives a little laugh. “Too bad for them the Browns canceled on us at the last minute. Looks like we accidentally crashed their little party.”
Mr. Fields is around the same height as his sons but significantly heavier. He shakes my hand and then holds his out to Ivy, who hesitates a couple of seconds before taking it. She’s not being rude; it just takes her a moment to process social niceties and remember what she’s expected to do with them.
“Nice to meet you both,” he says. He’s got the boys’ grayish-brownish-greenish eyes but they’ve receded deep into a lined face. He looks like he’s a lot older than his wife.
There’s a pounding of steps in the hall, and Ethan bursts in. “I’m sorry!” he says. “I’m really, really sorry. I wanted to open the door for you, but I was in the bathroom. It took me longer than I wanted it to. I’m sorry.”
“No worries,” I say.
“Hi,” he says to Ivy. He tentatively strokes her arm. “I’m glad you came to my house.”
She just nods.
“Why don’t you kiss her on the cheek?” his father says with a jovial wink. “I bet she’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ivy?”
“Don’t encourage that kind of thing,” his wife says with a tight smile. “The slower, the better.”
Ethan looks confused and a little concerned. “Should I kiss her?” he asks David.
“Nah, man, you’re good,” his brother says. “Let’s show the girls around the house.”
“You’ll stay downstairs, right?” Mrs. Fields says. “I think that’s best. And doors have to remain open.”
“Why?” Ivy asks.
“Oh, you know . . .” An uncomfortable little laugh. “Boys and girls together . . .”
Ivy waits for the rest of the explanation, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, the boys’ stepmother turns to me and says, “Oh, you’re a good person to ask—I’m always trying to take advantage of people with experience . . .”
“Experience?”
She waves her hand toward Ivy. “You know . . . Have your parents ever said anything about your sister’s vaccination experience? Do they feel this”—another hand wave—“was connected to that? I’m terrified of getting Caleb vaccinated. With my husband’s family history and all . . . I just don’t want to take any unnecessary risks. I assume Ivy was vaccinated?”
“Yeah, of course. We both were.”
She considers this. Then dismisses it. “Well, back then they didn’t know as much about the connection . . .”
“There isn’t a connection,” David says impatiently. “How many time
s do I have to tell you? The original study used falsified data.”
“Maybe,” she says stiffly. “Maybe not. A lot of very smart people say the medical industry is part of the deception.”
“He’s right,” I say. “Vaccinations don’t cause autism, and it’s dangerous not to vaccinate kids. They’ll end up getting the measles or something like that.”
“Better measles than autism,” Mrs. Fields says darkly.
“But measles is a disease,” Ivy says. “People get really sick if they get the measles. Why is that better than autism?”
“It’s not,” David and I say at the exact same time.
“Oh, gosh!” Mrs. Fields says. “I didn’t mean it like that at all! I just want to make the right decision here. Caleb is my first child, and there’s just so much to think about . . .” She brushes the back of her hand against his cheek and gazes brightly around the room. “You all understand.”
There’s an awkward pause.
“Can we watch TV?” Ivy asks. Her hands are fluttering anxiously at her sides. “Chloe said we were coming over to watch TV.”
“Yeah,” Ethan says. “Come on.” He steers her out of the room.
David and I start to follow them. Mrs. Fields says from behind us, “We’ll be upstairs. Please keep the noise down. I’m putting Caleb to bed soon.”
“We’ll be quiet,” David says.
“But not too quiet,” she says with a little nervous laugh. “I don’t want anything going on that Chloe and Ivy’s mother might not approve of.”
“You really don’t have to worry about that,” David says, and we leave the kitchen.
Twenty-Two
“I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE’S an antivaxxer,” I say as David and I linger in their formal, white-on-white living room. There are double doors at the other end of it that open onto a wood-paneled family room, and I can see Ethan and Ivy settling down on the sofa in there, TV remote already in Ethan’s hand. “I thought all rational people had given that one up.”
“Emphasis on rational. Margot was always nervous and a little nuts, and I wasn’t thrilled that my dad married her, but we got along okay at first. Then she got pregnant and went off the deep end. We so much as cough, and we’re banished for the rest of the week so we don’t infect the baby.”