Wild Swans (9 page)

Granddad used to buy me a journal every Christmas. I'd fill the first five or ten pages, writing diligently every night before bed, until I'd forget about it one night and quit. Last year at an end-of-semester barbecue, Granddad bragged to someone about my dedicated journaling. How I was just like Dorothea. I waited till the car ride home to set him straight, but from the look on his face, he was disappointed. Again.

“What an incredible resource.” Connor runs his hand gently over the spines, and I remember him tracing
my
spine with the same careful attention. “May I?” he asks, setting the tray of coffee down on the desk.

“Of course. But no food or drinks anywhere near them.” Granddad gives me a pointed look. “These are very valuable documents.”

He talks about them—about everything of Dorothea's—like they belong in a museum. “It was the teeny, tiniest splotch of iced tea. You can still read everything!” I protest.

Connor selects a journal from the middle of the shelf and opens it, flipping pages reverently, squinting as he tries to decipher Dorothea's faded, spidery handwriting. “This is so cool.” He looks up at Granddad. “Thank you. Thank you for trusting me with these.”

“I know they're in good hands with you,” Granddad says, and he does not add
unlike with my careless granddaughter, who once had the audacity to splash a drop of iced tea on these hallowed pages
, but he might as well have.

I sigh. “I'll be
really careful
this time, okay?”

“You better. I know some graduate students who would kill for this opportunity.”

“Yeah, but you'd have to pay them more,” I joke.

“Brat.” Granddad laughs as he claps Connor on the shoulder. “I'm counting on you to keep an eye on her, Connor.”

“I will, sir.” Connor's face is inscrutable. Like he didn't have more than his eyes on me Saturday night.

“All right then. I'll leave the two of you to figure out how you'll divide the work. Ivy's very good at reading Dorothea's handwriting. It can take some getting used to, but I'm sure you'll manage.” Granddad gives Connor an encouraging smile. “If you need anything, I'll be in the living room with Grace.”

“We'll be fine,” I promise.

We're quiet as he leaves. I can hear the jingle of some cartoon from the other room. I crouch and pick up the first journal, the one from 1942 when Dorothea was only sixteen. Her mother and little sisters had just been killed, and her father was off fighting in the Pacific. She was terrified that Robert Moudowney was going to drop out of school and enlist, and a year later he did. He lied about his age to join the marines and was wounded at Iwo Jima. It's all detailed in the next two journals.

When I stand, I meet Connor's gaze.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.” I offer a shy smile.

“Did you really do that? Spill iced tea on one of the journals?” he asks.

I sigh. “Granddad is never going to let me live that down. I was
fourteen
. I swear to God, I'll be super careful this time.”

“He's right, you know. He could hire grad students.” Connor stares at the journal in his hand like it could grow fangs and bite him.

“Yeah, but he'd have to import them from someplace else. We're right here, and we're cheap labor.” I plop down in Granddad's leather recliner and cross my legs. “It's a good deal for him.”

Connor's eyes land on my legs, but only for a second. “It's a good deal for
me
.” For a second, my heart soars like a seagull because I hope he means working with me, but then he continues: “After I graduate, I want to get my MFA in poetry. This is the kind of thing that could really set me apart from other applicants.” He takes a breath, running his hand over the back of his neck. He's nervous.

And it's not about being in the same room as me.

My heart drops like a wounded bird.

It wasn't me he was trying to impress with the coffee.

Connor puts the journal back before picking up his iced coffee and taking a sip. He leans against the desk. “This job is really important to me, Ivy. I don't want to screw it up.”

I glance over my shoulder, making sure we're still alone. “Screw it up how? By making out with your professor's granddaughter?”

Connor's pretty eyes go wide. “No. Well, uh…maybe.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I had an incredible time the other night, but—”

The “but” arrows into my heart, already sore from this morning's skirmish with Erica and Saturday night's battle with Alex.

“I understand,” I interrupt breezily. I might as well be the one to say it. “It was fun and all—” I just about choke on the words but force myself to keep going, my voice a shade too loud. “I mean, I don't
regret
what happened—but it's probably not a good idea for it to happen again. Especially if we're going to be working together all summer. Things are pretty complicated for me right now anyway.”

“Complicated. Right.” Connor frowns.

“Right. So…” I glance over my shoulder again, then hop up, stroll closer—but not too close—and lower my voice. “If we're going to be working here, you should probably know that my mother hasn't told Gracie and Isobel that I'm their half sister. They think I'm their aunt.”

“She told them the Professor is your father?”

I shrug. “In a lot of ways, he is. He raised me.”

“And you agreed to this? You're just—going along with it?” I guess maybe I've given him the impression that I'm a pretty forthright girl, not the kind to mince words or tell lies and half-truths—except, of course, the one I'm telling right now, about how it would be better if we don't ever kiss each other again.

That is
such
a lie.

I find myself staring at his lower lip. Recall nibbling on it a little. I shrug again and paste on a smile. “Well, I wasn't given much of a choice. That's kind of how it goes around here.”

But that's not true, is it? I could have pitched a fit when Granddad first told me Erica and the girls were coming. After they arrived, I could have been honest with him about how hard it would be having my mother in the same house, how much the things Erica's said have hurt me. I could have said no to working with Connor. Just now, I could have told Connor I want to see him again—not as his professor's granddaughter, but as me. Ivy.

“You have choices.” Connor takes a deep breath. “If it makes you uncomfortable, me being here, us working together—”

Is he being chivalrous and offering to quit? “No,” I interrupt. “This job is important to you. It'll be fine. No worries. Besides, Granddad would never let you quit without a damned good reason. He can't shut up about how great you are. It's sort of obnoxious, honestly.”

“Really?” Connor looks delighted.

“Really.”

“That means a lot. This is such an incredible opportunity for me. Seeing where one of my favorite poets lived, reading all about her life—I can't believe you grew up here.”

He turns in a slow circle, examining Dorothea's old blue Smith-Corona typewriter, perched on the desk behind him; the bookcase full of her signed first editions and foreign editions; the portrait of her above the fireplace. “I know you said poetry isn't your thing, so maybe it's no big deal to you, but my mom's a payroll manager. My dad's an accountant. They met in business school. They don't get poetry. It's, like,
frivolous
to them. And my sister's just like them. A total math genius. I'm the anomaly.”

“I know how it feels not to fit in,” I say with a crooked, bittersweet smile.

What I don't say is that at least Connor has a normal family. Two parents still married to each other. A sibling he got to grow up with.

No one is expecting him to be extraordinary.

Except…I think he expects it of himself. I watch as he leans down, tripping his fingers lightly over those spines again, and he is so goddamn gorgeous I want to cry. He knows what he wants and he's going to make it happen. Part of me is crazy jealous of that. And the other part of me is crazy attracted to it—that passion, that ambition. It makes me want him more than I've ever wanted anyone.

Even though that ambition is what's standing in the way of him wanting me back.

“And then I called my mother a slut,” I explain.

“Ivy! Don't use that word,” Claire says, reaching around to tighten the knot on her black halter top. “It shames women for their sexual agency and reduces them to nothing but—”

“We
know
,” Abby interrupts impatiently. She and I finished our Tuesday morning shift at the library an hour ago. She helped with preschool story time, and I shelved a whole cart full of books. Now we're at Abby's house, surrounded by paintings of Thomas Kinkade's cozy cottages, family portraits taken down by the water, washable slipcovers, muddy soccer cleats, and dog hair from their ancient cocker spaniel, Sunshine. I love Abby's house.

“I want to hear more about what happened with Alex. Have you talked to him since the party?” Abby is sprawled in the middle of the living room floor, petting Sunshine.

“Forget Alex.” Claire is curled up on the green-flowered couch. “He was such a dick to her the other night.”

“Because he's in love with her!” Abby defends.

“That doesn't make it okay.” Claire grabs a handful of pretzel sticks from the bag on the coffee table. “Has he apologized to you, Ivy?”

“I haven't seen him,” I admit. Usually Alex pops in and out of the kitchen while Luisa's cooking or comes over to go for a swim after he gets off work at the garden center. Or we pass each other coming and going in the driveway or while he's mowing the lawn. He must be avoiding me.

“Three days without talking is a long time for you two,” Abby says.

She's right. It's not like us.

Only I'm not sure what
us
means anymore. If he can't be my boyfriend, does Alex still want to be my friend? The thought of losing him makes me want to cry. Usually he and Luisa come over for Sunday supper, but with Erica and the girls here, everything's different now. This Sunday, Luisa made a roast chicken with potatoes and squash and zucchini and then went back to the carriage house. Supper was brief and awkward, with Granddad and Gracie doing most of the talking while Erica drank half a bottle of white wine and Isobel picked at her vegetables.

What if things never go back to normal?

“Tell us more about your conversation with Connor,” Claire says. “Why did you let him off the hook like that? It's okay to go after what you want. You don't have to play hard to get.”

Abby scrunches her freckled forehead. “Maybe she doesn't want Connor.”

“No, I do. But it's probably for the best.”

I grab my glass of iced tea as Abby and Claire exchange deeply dubious glances. Claire and I have been friends since we were toddlers. The English department and the history department are in the same building on campus, and her mom brought Claire to the office one afternoon when I was there with Granddad. We bonded over Granddad's admin assistant's special stash of lollipops. Our duo became a trio after Abby and I sat next to each other in fifth grade homeroom and we geeked out over comic books together. Granddad is kind of a genre snob, so I started borrowing from Abby's amazing collection of graphic novels. We've been friends so long that Abby and Claire know when I'm lying. Or evading. Or trying to convince myself of something.

They are still watching me. Waiting for a real answer.

“Connor and I are going to be working together all summer,” I continue. “It's too complicated. You know Granddad. He's protective.”

“Patriarchal,” Claire says darkly. “Your body is not—”

“We know!” Abby interrupts, and Sunshine barks, startled.

“You could quit the job,” Claire suggests. “You can read Dorothea's journals anytime. It's not like you need the money.”

“Must be nice,” Abby says. She waitresses at the Crab Claw to save up for college, not because it looks good on a transcript. Her dad is a salesman down at the Ford dealership, her mom works part-time as a real estate agent, and with four kids, they have to stretch to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Claire's parents are both professors, and Granddad and I are pretty well off between his salary and Dorothea's estate. If I do end up staying in Cecil, my tuition will be free. That's another reason that the prospect of leaving, of considering other colleges, makes me feel like an ungrateful brat.

“Why would she quit a job she likes for a boy she barely knows?” Abby scratches Sunshine's ears to the rhythmic thump of the dog's tail against the floor. “Aren't you supposed to be the feminist here, Claire? Connor didn't even
protest
when Ivy said they shouldn't see each other again. She shouldn't have to compete with her granddad and her dead great-grandmother for a guy's attention.”

Jesus
.
Abby has a point, but…

“Alex, on the other hand, is totally devoted to her.”

“Stop pushing for her to get with Alex! She doesn't want to be with Alex,” Claire says. “Besides, remember how he acted with Ginny West? Would you want him telling the whole baseball team about your sex life? Those guys are gross.”

Abby toys with her infinity necklace. “Not all the guys on the team are like that. Ty isn't. And besides, Alex would never be like that with
Ivy
.”

I take a deep breath. Count to ten. Remind myself that my friends love me and want what's best for me. “Could you two stop fighting, please? I've made up my mind, and I am not dating Alex
or
Connor. I'm going to work on this project and try to improve my butterfly and take a French class on Thursday nights—and try not to murder my mother. That's it. That's my summer.”

Claire leans forward. “Wait. What French class?”

“Ivy!” Abby groans. “No classes. You promised.”

“Wait,” Claire says. “Did you literally get stressed out because of your mom and sign up for a college course?”

I stuff two pretzel sticks in my mouth so I can't answer. They both just stare at me till I finish chewing. “Uh, maybe? I like languages. I'm good at languages.”

“You're good at lots of things,” Abby says, ever loyal.

“Not good enough.” I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.

Claire waves her pretzel stick at me threateningly. “Do not even start with that.”

Mrs. Morris comes in, carrying a plate of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. “Girls? The cookies are ready! Want some?”

“Um,
yes
,” Claire says, and I nod as Mrs. Morris puts the plate down on the coffee table next to our iced teas. I love that she doesn't worry about crumbs or calories or using coasters.

“Thanks, Mama,” Abby says.

“Don't tell Luisa,” I whisper, “but your chocolate-chip cookies are my favorite.”

“It'll be our secret.” Mrs. Morris smiles. Her straight, reddish-blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, with little wisps escaping around her apple-cheeked face. She's short, like Abby, but plump. And she loves her kids so much. She's always in the stands cheering at the twins' soccer matches, and she's always in the front row with a bouquet of yellow roses—Abby's favorites—during chorus concerts. She even cut her hours back to part-time last year when Eli started having trouble in school.

I cannot imagine
any
situation in which she'd call Abby a little bitch.

Eli zooms through the doorway and across the floor on his Heelys, his shaggy, shoulder-length red hair flying out behind him. “Where are the cookies?”

“There are more in the oven for you,” Mrs. Morris assures him.

Eli grabs two cookies off the tray and stuffs one in his mouth.

“Elijah! Be a gentleman! We have guests.”

“It's just Claire and Ivy. They aren't real guests.” Eli scowls and spins, his pink skirt flaring out, while Claire and I laugh. “And I told you to call me Ella! And I don't want to be a gentleman. They don't get to wear dresses. Ladies wear dresses. And princesses. I want to be a princess.”

“Honey, we've talked about this.” Mrs. Morris's face flushes. “It's okay to want to wear dresses and be a princess. It's okay to want to play with makeup and dolls. That doesn't mean you have to be a girl.”

I glance at Abby, who is literally squirming, her eyes trained on the floor.

“But I told you, Mama, I
am
a girl,” Eli says, and zooms off again.

Mrs. Morris starts after him, then pauses in the doorway. “I'm sorry. This is very confusing for all of us.”

There's an awkward silence in Eli—Ella's—wake.

“How is he doing?” I ask tentatively.

Claire snatches a chocolate-chip cookie. “
She.
”

“He's a boy,” Abby insists, her shoulders stiffening. “You heard Mama. Eli likes girl things, but he's still a boy. His therapist calls it gender-variant.”

Claire shrugs. “I don't know, Abby. Sounds to me like she's transgender.”

Oh Jesus. Cecil might be a college town, but the Eastern Shore is conservative, and a transgender six-year-old is not something most people are going to accept without any ugliness. I understand why Abby worries about Eli—Ella's—safety. About her being bullied.

“He's six!” Abby protests. “How can he know?”

“How do
you
know you're a girl?” Claire asks.

“What?” Abby looks at Claire like she's crazy. “It's not the same. I was born this way. I've got girl parts.”

“God, Abby, you can say
vagina
,” Claire says. “It's not a bad word.”

Abby winces. I ignore them, thinking about Ella. I mean, if she wants to be called Ella, I should call her that, right? She says she's a girl, so we should treat her like one. Besides the pronouns, it's not really any different from how I treat her now. She's always liked wearing girls' clothes and playing with the twins' dolls. When she was a toddler, the Morrises thought it was cute, her wanting to be like her big sisters. She's only two years younger than the twins, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris thought maybe she felt left out.

But when she started kindergarten last year, they cut her hair short and told her she couldn't wear dresses outside the house—and Ella started acting out. Trying to hurt herself even. At the recommendation of her therapist, her parents started compromising: letting her grow out her hair and wear nail polish. But identifying as a girl is pretty new. I can see how it would take Abby's family some time to wrap their minds around it.

“Mama's taking him to that therapist once a week now,” Abby says softly. “And Daddy's taking him fishing and to T-ball practice. It's been hard. On everybody.”

“Imagine how hard it is on her. All the fishing and T-ball in the world isn't going to make her a boy,” Claire says. “I bet she could really use her big sister's support.”

“She is a boy.
He.
” Abby jumps to her feet. “I'm sorry, I've got to go see if Mama's all right. I'll catch you at the library on Thursday, Ivy.”

“Abby—” I start, standing up.

“I'm fine,” she says, blinking back tears. “I just want to check on Mama. She and Daddy have been fighting a lot this week. About Eli.
Ella
. God, I don't know. Daddy gets upset when any of us say Ella or call her ‘she.' So I know you mean well, Claire, but I can't do this right now. Just—see yourselves out. Take some cookies.”

She rushes out of the room. It's hard to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Morris fighting. They still hold hands in public.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Claire says.

“You need to give them a little time. They'll come around. Even Mr. Morris, I bet.”

“I hope so. This town is so backward. People barely understand what bisexual means. Transgender is going to be a real stretch. There's a reason more kids aren't out at school. Do you know how many times I got told I was going to hell this morning walking into the clinic?”

“Is that why you're so grumpy?” I take a chocolate-chip cookie. It's still warm and gooey and streaks my hand with chocolate.

“Might have something to do with it.” Claire sighs. “It sucks having to walk through that crowd of crazies. There was a girl our age who came into the clinic with her aunt to get tested for STDs, and she was already scared and embarrassed. It's her body. It's nobody else's business what she was there for.”

“I agree,” I say, “but the Morrises are good people. They'll figure this out. They love each other. Ella will be okay.”

Claire stands up, stretching her arms above her head, coming dangerously close to flashing me as her yellow skirt lifts to her upper thighs. She fixes me with an unsettling look of pity. “Ivy, for a smart girl, you are super, super naive sometimes.”

• • •

Back home, I'm relieved that Erica's car isn't in the driveway. I let myself in through the back door and find Granddad, Gracie, and Isobel at the table. Granddad and Gracie are eating bowls of cherry cobbler with scoops of vanilla ice cream. Isobel is having a bowl of cherries and a Diet Coke and scowling. Childishly, I wonder if her face will get stuck that way. The kitchen smells heavenly: brown sugar and tart cherry and sweet vanilla. For the first time in days, I am glad to be home.

“Aunt Ivy!” Gracie lost one of her front teeth last night and is even more adorable now, if that's possible.

“Hey, you! Did the tooth fairy come visit you last night?” I ask.

She nods and pulls a wrinkled dollar bill from her pocket. She stretches it out for me to admire. “Mama said I can spend it on anything I want! She said she'll take me in town to get candy later this week. Said maybe we could get milk shakes too.”

I sit in the empty chair between her and Isobel. “Mr. Jacobs makes the best milk shakes in town. The strawberry ones are my favorite.”

“Me too! Strawberry milk shakes are my favorite too.” Gracie seems delighted whenever we have anything in common, from favorite superheroes (Black Widow) to favorite vegetables (broccoli). “Iz likes chocolate.”