Chapter Three

 

There was a hole in Ivy's memories the next day as she ate lunch outside the high school with Lornie. She wasn't aware of it at first, preoccupied with a test she'd forgotten to study for and a new tune running along her thoughts, but slowly she realized she was limping, slightly. Some of her memories were drifting back, but there were still pockets of lost time.

"How can you not remember falling?" Lornie asked for the fifth time that lunch. She pushed a strand of red hair from her mouth as the afternoon breeze sent it into her bite of lunch-lady spaghetti. "You've still got the bruise on your ankle."

Ivy angled her foot out from the concrete bench that encircled the round lunch table in segments. Sure enough, a large blue bruise was peeking at her from her short socks. She hitched up the pink sock. "Slouch socks really live up to their name." She popped another sweet potato fry into her mouth. "Maybe I hit my head. I don't know. After the shop, it's like fog in my head; I know Dred went with us, but after that . . . not so much." She read the look crossing her friend's face. "Nothing happened, Lornie."

Lornie raised an eyebrow. "I don't know. He's kinda hung up on you."

As if his name conjured him, Dred draped into the second half of Ivy's third of bench segment. "Hey, babe. How ya feeling?"

Ivy worked up a less confused smile. "Oh, fine. And you?"

He slid a grin at Lornie, then propped his elbow on the table, his gaze lingering on Ivy's lips. "A little bruised, are you?"

Ivy fought down a blush. "I just twisted my ankle, that's all, Dredge."

"Eh, Dred, sweetheart." He swiped a fry from the puddle of ketchup on her Styrofoam plate. "Nice. Eating outside."

"I'm sure Canada has an outside." Ivy frowned down his hand that went for another fry. "Maybe even more than we do."

He set a mangled paper lunchbag on the table. "Maybe." He opened the bag and pulled out a Tupperware bowl of soup. He opened it and snagged a spare plastic spoon from the center of the table. "Just checking."

She watched him ladle a spoonful of mostly noodles and carrots into his mouth. "You brought soup?"

"Mhm."

Another memory sparked into her mind. "Hey, you didn't tell me you lived with Maeve Gretels. How so?"

He choked down a wide egg noodle. "You know, an interim thing. I try to forget it."

"That's got to be awkward." Lornie looked between them as Dred nodded, intent on his soup. She leaned to Ivy. "What's that tune you were humming?"

Ivy picked up on the thread of thought. "I think it was on the radio last night." She watched Dred take a large bite of noodles. "Maeve's radio, I guess."

A noodle slapped Dred's lip as he sucked it in, along with too much air that led to a coughing fit.

A hand pounded on Dred's hunched back, and Ivy and Lornie both looked up at Vohn.

"Pace yourself, boy." Vohn glanced to the girls, and then left, dissolving into the crowd of tables and students standing while eating and chatting.

A low growl came from Dred as he turned to watch the older boy leave, eyes narrowing as he wiped a stray noodle off his mouth.

"He's grumbly all the time," Lornie said, her attention back on her spaghetti, coiling the noodles around the spork's shallow tines. "Not just you."

"I know." Dred belched and withdrew an energy drink from the paper bag.

"How do you know?" Ivy asked. She ate the sweet potato fries quicker, then pushed a few toward him. "Go ahead."

"Nah, I shoulda asked." He swiped two. "He looks the type, ya know? Uptight. Know it all. Too good."

Lornie sent a glance in the direction Vohn had gone. "I'm glad Camille's over him. Too much legwork."

Ivy nodded, finishing off her turkey burger. High school food was a step up from middle school fare and even six weeks into the school year, she'd sampled almost the entire menu. She watched Dred hold the Tupperware up to his mouth and slide out every last noodle and broken carrot with the remaining broth. Never had home-cooked soup, usually reserved—in her mind—for colds and flu season, looked so unappealing. "Good?"

He nodded, swallowing the too large gulp of soup. "Berella's cooking, but a gypsy's recipe."

"What?" Ivy and Lornie asked in unison.

Dred composed himself after a long belch. "You know, taste of home and all that."

Lornie nodded. "Canadian gypsies. Right." Her hand shot out and she clutched Ivy's wrist as she reached for her last fry. "That reminds me; I gotta work my uncle's stand at the Fest this weekend. Come with me?" Her eyes pleaded desperately. "Save me? Please?"

Ivy's mind sifted through Lornie's menagerie of relatives. Every festival brought out her friend's more colorful family in the form of carnival stands and booths. "What kind of stand?"

"Tie-dye. Shirts, hoodies, dresses. Cool stuff." Lornie smiled hopefully.

Ivy sighed in relief. "Yeah, I guess. Probably."

"Because I know the Marvins are all out of town this weekend." Lornie nodded. "I checked for play practice."

Dred's head snapped to Ivy. "You're in a play?"

"No. Lornie is." Ivy jiggled the orange juice in her bottle. "Romeo and Juliet, a la Ms. Decker style."

He nodded, stretching his legs under the table, clipping both girls' knees. "Who's Decker?"

"Our new drama department instructor." Lornie warmed to the name. "She's even letting freshmen tryout this year. No one else has, but she did."

Ivy read the eagerness Lornie tried to squelch in her face. "Lornie's got the lead role understudy."

Lornie nodded, smiling. "Just found out last night."

Dred nodded. "Yeah? Backup Julia?"

A nervous giggle possessed Lornie for a full minute. "Yes," she finally said. "But just backup. But it's still fun. And I love the music this time."

"A musical?" Dred glanced from Lornie to Ivy. "Are you in it? At all?"

"No. I don't sing, or dance, or act." There was little regret in Ivy's voice. "But I like to watch, even the rehearsals."

"You're coming tonight, right? It's our first full dress rehearsal for Act Three, with Guilty."

"Who's guilty?" Dred wadded up his paper bag, with the Tupperware still in it. He swore and reopened the bag and withdrew the plastic bowl and lid.

"Ms. Decker's using contemporary music for some of the scenes," Lornie said as the class period bell rang and drowned out half her words. She and Ivy stood up and collected their lunch trays. "You do have Marina and the Diamonds in Canada, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure," he said automatically.

"I'll be there," Ivy said. "I've got some basting to do first, but that's it."

"You need an escort?" Dred was at Ivy's hip as she climbed out from the bench and steadied her tray.

"It's only practice, not the real play," Lornie breathed, slipping by them.

"Well, it's not open to the public," Ivy began.

"But not closed, right?" He stayed at her side as they funneled into the doors propped open at the outdoor eating area.

Something in his eyes found a place deep inside Ivy that made her merely nod. "But I don't need an escort."

 

Ivy distinctly recalled telling Dred that last part several more times over the next few hours of classes that afternoon, but there he was again, at her side as they entered the school's enormous Arts Center just as evening fell. It was an early evening, with the days getting shorter, but past afternoon.

"Wow, this is nice," he said in the hushed, carpeted corridor as they made their way through the art and music rooms.

"Yes, the best tax dollars at work, so my dad says." She dodged his elbow that almost caught her chest—again—as they rounded a corner in the darkened Center. "We've got a pool on the lower side, across the building, but no swim team yet."

"You a good swimmer?"

She watched his gaze sweep up and down her body. She pulled her jacket tighter. "No. I don't swim much."

"What do you do? No swimming, no acting. Play an instrument?"

"Needlework. What do you do, Dred? Just interrogate everyone the moment you meet them?" She checked her agitation, blaming most of it on her sore ankle.

"Needlework? Like, sewing?"

"Yes, like sewing. I thought the fabric shop would have been a dead giveaway."

They took the next turn of hallway and the air changed to a lighter, more electrified feel. An industrial sound, like awkward woodwinds and reeds played by a mechanized autoplayer, went through the beginning notes from Guilty.

"No!" Mr. Munsun's baritone boomed out. "More succinct, keep the staccato!"

The instruments rambled to a stop. A baton tapped, and then the music began again. This time, every note was aligned and distinct, like pistons in a steam bath.

Ivy smiled at the sound. "I wish I had a talent like that. Music, or singing."

"Thought you liked pins and needles." He put a hand to the door when she paused them. "Here?"

She glanced down the hallway to their right. No one was around. "I guess we're a little early. It's an open rehearsal but not public."

"What's the difference?"

She watched him push the door open without waiting for her reply. They looked into the blackness beyond that felt as deep as the sixteen rows of seats that led down to the orchestra pit. The music grew louder, now joined by more of the orchestra.

"We have to be quiet," she told Dred, leaning as close as he dared as an opportunistic grin claimed his face. "Come on." She pulled his sleeve as they quietly, quickly took the steps down to a lower row.

They found seats in the fourth row to the front, with a good view of the stage yet far enough away from the orchestra pit not to be bombarded with percussion.

"Tybalt! Enter and challenge Romeo!" Ms. Decker's husky tone called out as the music lowered.

Onstage, the street scene was set for the fight with Tybalt, Mercutio, and Romeo. The setting was a steampunk inspired alley, with vapor rising from a few of the behind set pipes. The backdrop was painted as brick buildings in gray and charcoal with copper pipes snaking across them. Some were real PVC pipes painted copper, some just painted onto the wooden backdrop. In the fore, Tybalt, Mercutio, and Romeo, played by freshmen Chris and Thom and sophomore Jarod, were dressed in jeans and linen tunics belted at their waists with rope.

Dred sat back as he and Ivy took their seats in the sparsely populated audience. "Not very good costumes."

She shushed him. "These are only practice costumes. The real ones are still being made."

"You?"

"No. A lady in Shanonton, about six miles from Rasperville. She did Pippin last year for the old drama instructor." Ivy leaned forward on the seat in front of her. "It was good, but not like this—just standard Pippin."

"Oh."

Onstage, all three actors were milling around, wooden swords drawn as insults were tossed. The band played the shrill, sharp music in the background until Jarod ran through Chris with his sword, who took a full moment to fall and die. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on Jarod as he faced the audience. The music wove back around to the first verse, this time louder, and Jarod belligerently sang out his crime and guilt.

Ivy crossed her arms over each other on the chair back, smiling at Romeo's unapologetic song. Dred leaned beside her on the next chair back.

"You know him?"

"Jarod? No, not really. Only seen him here." She pointed and lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. "Lornie said he's really talented."

"Where is she?"

"Shh. She's backstage, watching."

Jarod wound down the song as the musicians let the music trail out. As soon as it did, a black-clad figure jumped onstage and clapped a few times.

"Very good. very good. Okay, that's fine for the fight." Ms. Decker turned around and waved off the spotlight. It shed away. She put her hands on her hips, appearing more student age than her thirty years. "Okay, now we'll move on to the orchard. Backdrop, please! Nurse, whatever is done of your costume will do, Heidi!"

Ivy sat back, holding her breath. "I haven't seen the nurse or Juliet's dress yet, not in full."

Dred slouched beside her. "I thought this was a dress rehearsal."

"I guess not all the costumes are done. There's a lot to do." She looked up at him, watching his eyes flick across the stage as props were wheeled in and out. "Do you do any sports?"

"Eh, yeah. Some." He ginned at her, nudging his arm closer that was already commandeering the armrest. "Fencing."

"Really?" She appraised him anew. "We don't have fencing here. We're too small for most sports . . . but fencing? That's cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She sat back, watching him slink into his chair. "What did you think of the fight scene?"

"Not bad."