The Monday after school let out, Ivy pushed her bike from under the carport at eight a.m. She swung a leg over her bike bar and coasted onto the street. It was sunny and birds were singing cheerfully, but Ivy was miserable. When a robin aimed a snippet of melody at her, she glowered at it. Then she reminded herself that her misery was not the robin’s fault. It was her own doing. She had chosen not to go to North Carolina. Even her mom had tried to talk her into changing her mind last night.

She pictured Prairie and Grammy on the train as she turned onto Broadway. Their eyes would be bright, they’d be leaning forward in their seats. Prairie would have on her red cowboy shirt with the pearly buttons. Grammy, who didn’t care about clothes at all, would have on the green velvet tracksuit she’d ordered out of a catalogue especially for the trip. She’d have a sack of peppermints in her purse; she’d take one and then offer one to Prairie as the sights flashed by their window and the train clattered south to the city.

Ivy leaned over the handlebars and pumped the pedals hard. Her expression was so forbidding that a dog who’d been thinking of darting out and snapping at her ankles decided to stay on his porch.

• • •

Half an hour later, Ivy coasted up to the address Mrs. Grizzby had given her: 401 Elderberry loomed over the street. It was built of red bricks that were crumbling at the corners and had a chimney with a chunk missing out of its top. The shutters needed paint, the porch had two broken columns, and a porch swing creaked lonesomely on its chains.

Ivy perched on her bike seat with her toes on the ground, staring. If she was smart, she’d turn right around and go home. She made a face and cruised up the driveway.

On the porch she stood before a dark green door with a brass handle that had a design of vines and leaves etched into it. A radio played from somewhere deep in the house. Ivy breathed in shallowly. There was a sour smell, an oldness that seemed to rise from the earth beneath the place. She tugged on her braid. Then she squared her shoulders and jabbed the doorbell button.

A clumping sound came slowly nearer. Eventually the door opened and Mrs. Grizzby appeared, propped on crutches.

Ivy smiled at her.

Mrs Grizzby frowned like Ivy was a stain on the carpet, except that Ivy could already tell there was no way you’d ever be able to see her carpets. The room the door opened into was filled with boxes and piles and mounds and stacks of stuff. A stairway led to the second floor, and every step had so much stuff on it so that you’d hardly be able to fit your foot on the tread.

Ivy smiled wider. “Hi! It’s me. Ivy. Come to help you clean.”

“But why are you wearing that? I thought you’d come to work.”

Ivy had spent a long time choosing her outfit that morning: a denim jumper over a plain white T-shirt. Nice but not fancy. Practical but respectful. “I have, for sure, that’s why—”

“You can’t clean in that!”

The train had pulled out of the station not fifteen minutes ago. Staying for this job had to be worth it. “Yes, I can,” she said quickly. “It’s just old stuff from the thrift shop. Or I can go home and change if you want—”

Mrs. Grizzby shook her head as if this was a showstopping problem and nothing Ivy said could fix it. Then she said peevishly, “Oh, come in, I guess.”