Then she says, “Ethan likes to talk. Usually about movies. He’s obsessed with movies.”
“Ethan, huh?” I say with a meaningful glance in Mom’s direction.
“But he’s really annoying sometimes. He talks about movies even if no one cares. Diana always says to him, ‘Stop talking so much, no one cares,’ but he still talks about them. Diana says he’s boring.” She pronounces Diana the Spanish way, Dee-ah-na.
“Do you think he’s boring?”
“Sometimes.” She puts down the sandwich and reaches for her glass of milk. “If I’ve seen the movie, it’s okay.”
“Maybe you should ask Ethan if he wants to go see a movie sometime.”
“He sees movies all the time.”
“I meant with you.”
“With me?” She puts her glass down without drinking from it. “That would be weird.”
“Why? James and I go to movies together all the time.”
“That’s because he’s your boyfriend.”
“He wasn’t always. Things have to start somehow.”
“Things?”
“You know . . . Stuff between a girl and a guy.”
“Oh.” She thinks for a moment. “Did you and James see a movie before he was your boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though it’s not entirely true. We hooked up at a party last spring and then hooked up again at another party and then we hung out together at each other’s houses a couple of times and then we just slipped into being boyfriend and girlfriend. Somewhere in there we probably saw a movie or two, but never just as friends.
“Huh,” Ivy says. “Ethan really likes movies. He’d probably like it if I invited him to one.”
“So do you want to?”
“I don’t know. I need to think about it.” She crams the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and excuses herself from the table.
“She’s so hard to read,” Mom says, coming forward after Ivy’s left the room.
“Not for me,” I say. “She’s interested. A little nervous, but interested. I’ll keep trying.”
“I have such mixed feelings about her growing up. You too. I’d like to keep my little girls little for as long as possible.”
I don’t say anything. It’s been a long time since I felt like a little girl.
Eight
IN MS. CAMPANELLI’S CLASS on Tuesday, we’re discussing tragic and comedic endings, and Jana Rodriguez brings up Jane Eyre, which we read back in September. “I know it’s supposed to count as a happy ending,” she says, pulling her thick ponytail over her shoulder, “but it doesn’t feel happy to me. Rochester’s such a mess by that point—blind and missing a hand and scarred and everything—”
“Not in the movie,” Carolyn Horinberg says. “Michael Fassbender was a little blind, but otherwise he was perfect.”
“He’s too beautiful to ruin,” Sarah says.
“Ew,” Jana says, and the girls in the class start arguing about whether he’s cute or not.
“Hold on!” Camp says. “Jana made a really good point, and I want to talk about it. Why couldn’t Jane just come back and find Rochester strong and virile but now free to marry her? Why does he have to be a wreck?”
“He had to be punished,” I say.
“For what?” Jana asks, turning in her seat to look at me.
“Um, for trying to commit bigamy?”
“Oh, who cares?” she says with a shrug. “His wife was cray. And he took care of her and even tried to save her life, which was more than anyone else would have done.”
“Trying to marry someone when you already have a wife is pretty bad.”
“Sucks to suck,” Lambert Vini says helpfully.
Jana says, “But it’s so not fair that Jane gets punished too—instead of getting the handsome, strong Rochester she fell in love with, she gets stuck with lame, blind Rochester. He’s not nearly as sexy.”
“Except when he’s Michael Fassbender,” Sarah says.
Jana ignores that. “Why should Jane have to lose out? She should get to end up with someone hot.”
“But that’s part of the point, right, Camp?” I’m so eager to appeal to the teacher that I accidentally call her by the nickname we usually only use behind her back. “That Jane gets to be the strong one now? Like the way she tells him another guy wants to marry her, just to torture him. He was kind of mean to Jane before, and now she’s kind of mean to him.”
Jana says, “I still say she’d rather have him the way he was before. Sexy and strong.”
“Like Michael Fassbender,” Sarah says.
“Maybe she likes him better this way,” David Fields says. He’s sitting over by the wall and, as usual, has been staring at his laptop, but apparently he’s deigned to eavesdrop on the class discussion, because he looks up now. “Some girls prefer their men thoroughly emasculated. Right, Chloe?” He jerks his chin meaningfully in James’s direction.
Someone makes a low ooooh noise. James glares at David and opens his mouth, but I get my response in first: “If that were true, David, you’d probably get a date once in a while.”
That gets a pretty big laugh.
Ms. Campanelli says, “Guys, guys, please don’t get personal in classroom discussions. I expect better from you, Chloe.”
“Sorry,” I say. “He started it.”
David puts an offended hand to his chest. “I was just discussing Jane Eyre.”
“Let’s get back to Shakespeare,” Ms. Camp says wearily.
At lunch, Sarah and I talk about what happened in English.
“James looked like he was ready to kill David,” Sarah says. “Do you think he’d ever actually do anything to him?”
“Nah.” I tear a chunk off my bagel. I have to bring my lunches from home—Ron says school lunches are a waste of money—but I’m too tired in the morning to make anything other than bagels with cream cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, both of which I’m royally sick of. “James isn’t the violent type.”
“Lucky for David. James could crush him with a single blow. He’s, like, twice his size.”
“David’s such a jerk. I don’t know what his problem is.”
“He’s so arrogant.” She pulls a half-chewed cherry tomato out of her mouth, examines it, makes a face, and drops it on her tray. “He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else because he gets As really easily.”
“I will vomit if you do that with another tomato.”
“It’s not my fault—it was slimy.” She pushes the salad away and reaches for a brownie. “Hey, want to do something after school today? I can drive.”
“I can’t. I told my mom I’d pick Ivy up from her school—I’m heading out right after bio.”
“It’s so annoying that she has to go to a different school that’s farther away. Why don’t they just let her go here?”
“No class for her here. Can I have a bite of your brownie?” I don’t feel like launching into the story of Ivy’s educational choices.
Ivy actually went to a regular public elementary school, but by fourth grade, the other girls had figured out that she was gullible and played some pretty dirty tricks on her, like locking her in a closet and stealing her stuff. Mom pulled Ivy out as soon as she realized what was going on and has kept her in special needs classes ever since. They may not be all that great academically, but at least no one’s mean to Ivy and she feels safe there.
She’s been in the same class at Vicente High for a couple of years now. There aren’t that many options for special needs kids who are already over eighteen, so we’re actually lucky it isn’t even farther away—for LA, half an hour’s a reasonable commute. The school district is theoretically responsible for transportation, but Ivy hated riding the bus with all the other special needs kids. A lot of them had serious behavior problems, and by the time she got home every day, she was a wreck from spending over an hour in a confined space with kids who were bucking wildly in their seats and banging their heads and shouti
ng at the aides who rode the buses with them, so Mom resigned herself to dropping her off and picking her up. It wasn’t a problem until Mom got married and Ron realized he could save money by replacing his paid receptionist with his free wife. Which leaves me picking up Ivy a lot.
That’s the complete story, but my friendship with Sarah is built on laughing and teasing and gossiping and both sincere and insincere flattery. No reason to inject too much of my family life into it. It would just drag us both down.
I get to Ivy’s school about half an hour before classes end so I can go in and scope out the boys in her class—I’m especially interested in seeing Ethan. Since it isn’t pickup time yet, the gate’s closed, and I have to park on the street and walk in. A security guard buzzes me through the door and escorts me to the main office, where they check my ID and give me a stick-on name tag. Los Angeles public schools have gotten pretty intense about security in the last few years, and this one’s in kind of a dicey neighborhood, so they’re extra careful.
I’ve only ever picked Ivy up outside, in my car, so it takes me a while to find the right room number. In the hallway, some guy yells at me to get to class, but I point to my badge and he backs off.
It’s total chaos in Ivy’s classroom, and I sneak in without anyone noticing. The teacher and a couple of aides are at the front of the room, sitting behind tables covered with small treats (plates of M&M’s, pyramids of Hershey’s Kisses, bowls of pretzels) with prices written on big pieces of paper near them (5 cents, 30 cents, 10 cents). The students are carrying around fistfuls of plastic coins, and after I watch for a minute or two, I realize they’re buying snacks with their play money.
Not everyone’s into it. About a third of the kids in the room are sitting at tables, rocking or shaking their heads or staring into space, their stash of coins ignored on the table in front of them. An aide is circling around, trying to coax them to get up and join the fun.
I’m glad Ivy’s up at the front, picking out red M&M’s (the only color she likes), carefully counting each one as she adds it to the small pile in front of her. A thin, pale girl with bad skin and French-braided dirty blond hair is standing next to her. She’s wearing overalls. Her lips are moving, but I can’t tell if she’s talking to Ivy or just to the air.
The aide who’s walking around spots me. “Hi,” she says, coming over. “You’ve got to be Ivy’s sister.” She’s a short, pretty woman with light brown skin and cropped hair, probably not that much older than Ivy in years, but totally an adult in a way that I can’t imagine my sister ever being.
“How’d you know?”
“You look a lot alike—those beautiful blue eyes and all.”
“Aw, thanks. I’m Chloe.”
“Kimberly.”
“Hey,” I say. “Maybe you can help me. We’re trying to get Ivy to be more social? We were thinking of inviting a friend from school to do something with her, but we weren’t sure who we should ask.”
“That’s a great idea.” She surveys the room. “Let me think about who she usually hangs out with . . .”
“Who’s the girl standing next to her?”
“That’s Diana.” She pronounces it the way Ivy did: Dee-ah-na. “Ivy definitely likes her—when they need to buddy up, it’s always those two. She’d be a good choice for a get-together—if you can work out the logistics. Unfortunately she lives pretty far away, in, like, Alhambra or something. Poor thing is on the bus for hours every day.”
That’s a problem. I want someone who Ivy can see easily. Plus she seemed into the boyfriend idea, so . . . forget Diana. “How about Ethan? She talks a lot about him.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s a real cutie.” Kimberly nods toward a slim boy who’s leaning against a wall near the tables, soberly chewing on a pretzel, a bunch more cupped in his half-open upturned hand. He has light brown wavy hair and a slightly pixie-ish face that looks vaguely familiar—I’ve probably seen him at pickup. “All the girls in the class seem to have a special place in their hearts for Ethan. And he lives on the west side. You do too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there you go. Give him a try. You can get his number out of the class directory.” She glances at her watch. “Oops, time to clean up.” She claps her hands and makes an announcement to the room and then there’s a lot of movement as the teachers shout commands and the students rush around to obey them. Well, some of them do, anyway.
Ivy obediently sorts her coins out on the front table according to the teacher’s instructions and then grabs Diana’s arm and tugs her back toward a table. They pass Ethan, and his eyes follow Ivy.
I don’t know much about autism, but I know a lot about high school guys, and it looks to me like he’s interested in her. And why wouldn’t he be? She’s pretty cute, and totally sweet.
“Chloe?” She’s turned around and is staring at me. “Why are you here?”
“I was early for pickup and figured I’d come in and see what your class is like. Did you—”
“Shhh,” she says. “The teacher’s talking.”
I nod sheepishly and fade back until class is officially dismissed.
Nine
IN THE CAR, I say cautiously, “That kid Ethan seems nice.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
“Then why do you think he’s nice?”
“He just seemed nice, that’s all.”
“He doesn’t do anything wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“The other boys drive everyone crazy. Like, Roger hits himself in the head, and sometimes the teachers have to take Ajay out of the room because he won’t listen.”
“Who do you like the best?” I ask. “Of those three? Ethan, Roger, or Ajay?”
“Ethan.”
Just what I was hoping she’d say. “Cool! I think you should text him and see if he wants to do something this weekend.”
“Do something?” she repeats. “Like what?”
“You guys could go to a movie or out for ice cream or to a bookstore . . . Whatever sounds like fun to you.”
“Could we get frozen yogurt?”
“Sure.”
“But you have to drive me,” she says. “Not Mom. He’ll think I’m a baby if she drives me.”
“No problem. So we’ll text him when we get home?”
“I guess, but it will be weird.”
“What will?”
“Going for frozen yogurt with him. We’re not really friends.”
“That’s how you become friends with someone. Doing stuff like that.”
“You and Sarah were already friends when you started going out for frozen yogurt.”
“But doing stuff like that made us better friends. You and Ethan are already friends too, right?”
“No, we’re not. That’s why it’s weird.”
“You’re in class together, and you like to talk to each other. That’s what being friends is.”
“I don’t think so. And we almost never talk to each other at school.”
“Well, you will when you go out for frozen yogurt.”
She doesn’t say anything to that, or at least nothing out loud. She turns her head away, but I can hear soft hissing as she whispers to herself.
Back home, we look up Ethan’s number on the online school directory and write a text together (actually, I write it, but I make her hit Send).
This is Ivy from school. Would you like to get some frozen yogurt with me this weekend?
Ethan’s answer comes back quickly: Yes, please
The please kills me. It’s so sweet.
“Ask him if Saturday afternoon works,” I say. “At, like, three or four?”
Ivy composes another text, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrates on punching out each word. She shows it to me for my approval before sending it.
We’re at the kitchen table, doing our homework. Mom and Ron are staying late at the office, which means it’s nice and peaceful
right now.
Ethan texts back that three is fine and asks where they should meet.
“There’s a place at Bundy and Santa Monica that I like,” I say.
“What’s it called?”
“I can’t remember. Just tell him the intersection. He’ll find it.”
“No, no.” She jumps up out of her chair and starts pacing around the table, pounding at her hips with her fists. “What if there’s another frozen yogurt place near there?”
“I’m pretty sure there isn’t.” But she’s getting more agitated, bouncing her hands harder and faster against the sides of her thighs. So I say, “Fine. Let’s just go to Yogurt Palace on Montana.” It’s more expensive and smaller, but at least I remember the name.
“Okay.” She stops hitting herself, but her hands stay rigid in the air near her waist. “You sure that’s the right name?”
“Positive.”
She still does a Google search to double-check it before sending the text.
There’s a photo of me and Ivy stuck with a magnet on the refrigerator in our kitchen. I’m a toddler, and Ivy’s five or six. We’re holding hands tightly. I’m looking right at whoever is taking the photo, but my sister is looking past the photographer, her gaze elusive.
It’s been up there as long as I can remember, along with a bunch of other family photos, a torn-out gazpacho recipe from a magazine, a partial alphabet of letter magnets, and a drawing I did in second grade of my family, my mother looming larger than my father, and Ivy and me together to the side, drawn with identical long hair and eyelashes.
Nothing on there ever changes, so I’d stopped even seeing any of it, but then one day a few years ago, I suddenly stared at the photo of me and Ivy. For the first time, it seemed weird to me—why were we holding hands? We’d never held hands that I remembered. Ivy has never liked being touched.
Mom was at the table doing some work, so I looked over my shoulder and said, “When was this photo of me and Ivy taken?”
She raised her head and squinted at it. “That one? I think we were at one of those indoor park things, with the slides and balls and stuff. They had an area that was for kids only. So we said you two could explore it, but only if Ivy held your hand and watched out for you. You were only three.”