Ivy’s mom flicked her eyes at Ivy when she walked in, then shifted them back to the TV. A game show was on. Bells rang; people cheered; her mom lifted a cigarette to her lips and then set it down again. “I missed work, I’ll have you know. I don’t know where I was supposed to start looking. I drove all around. I almost called the police to report you missing. I would’ve, in another hour.”
“Sorry.” Ivy went to the kitchen, found four thumbtacks in the drawer beside the sink, and headed to her room.
Her mom came to her door as she finished hanging Jacob’s poster in the middle of her wall.
“What’s that?”
“A poster.” Ivy yanked History and Geography from her bag and thwacked it onto her desk. Two of the stones from Skytop rattled to the floor.
“That thing’s useless. I told you when you made it.”
Ivy put the stones back next to her ivy plant, which Mom Evers had given her last year. Your namesake, she’d said. Ivies are beautiful and strong. Adaptable. Like her desk. She’d made it by laying an old door she’d found in the carport over two stacks of milk crates, and she was proud of it. It was shaky, but it worked. And it was gigantic. There was plenty of room to spread her stuff out, room for big pieces of paper (sometimes she cut grocery bags open and used them like canvases) and all her pencils and painting stuff.
Her mom drummed her fingers on the desktop; the tapping made a hollow sound. She traced a fingertip around the hole someone had made near the bottom—with a boot, probably. It was the right size and shape for that. Ivy scooted History and Geography over it.
“I should get you a real desk at the Goodwill next payday.”
“No thanks.” Ivy didn’t bother to sound grateful even though a shiver went up her backbone. “I like this one.”
Her mom moved closer and Ivy smelled Irish Spring. Tears pricked Ivy’s eyes. The smell went with the memory of being cuddled on her mom’s lap.
She squinted the tears away and pulled her Go Math! book and notebooks out of her bag. Then she pulled out the pencils she’d bought and lined them up alongside the books.
Her mom leaned over the bed. “So what’s the poster about?”
“A film contest.”
“A film contest?”
Ivy got an eraser out and set it carefully beside the pencils. “Yes.”
“And is there some special reason we’re hanging up a poster of a film contest like it’s the Mona-freaking-Lisa?”
“I’m going to make a movie for it, I’m entering.”
Her mom made a rude noise. “Make a movie with what? Your charm and good looks?”
“I guess so.” Ivy gazed at her. “That plus the job I’m going to get.”
“Job. Kid, let me tell you something. You’re not going to find a job. I barely found a job, and I’m thirty, with a car and experience. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Her mother shook her head and turned to leave. Just before she went, she said, “I bought those batteries, for your information. In case you’re thinking I took them.”
Ivy raised her eyebrows at her mother’s back.
“They were on sale because of going out of date, but I thought, heck, I’ll bet they got some life left in them, I’ll get them for Ives.”
Ivy said, “Uh-huh.”
Her mom turned to face her again. She didn’t have any makeup on and her hair was damp. She must’ve taken a shower. She looked younger than usual. Softer, like the water had washed a shell away. “So you really think you can make a movie?”
“I know I can,” Ivy said, although she didn’t know any such thing.
“Well—good luck.” This time it sounded like her mom really meant it.
Ivy frowned and sat down to read her chapter assignment in History and Geography. She didn’t want to think about their own crazy history and all the strange, hard roads they’d bumped along.