“Oh, gross!” Olivia cried.
An hour later, Ivy did her best to skip up to the front door of the Abbotts’ split-level home. Even after Olivia’s in-depth briefing on life in her house, she couldn’t keep from being a little nervous. Stick a bat in a bunny hole, she thought, and sooner or later it’s going to flap its wings. Still, she’d just have to do her best. It would all be worth it to see Wicked and help her sister.
Ivy swung her ponytail around, moistened her pink lips, smiled as brightly as she could, and rang the doorbell. Soon enough, the door swung open to reveal Olivia’s mom, Audrey Abbott, wearing a dark blue skirt and pearls.
“Hi, Mom!” said Ivy.
“Hi, Olivia,” said Mrs. Abbott. She craned her neck to look past Ivy into the street. “Everything okay?”
“For sure,” Ivy chirped. “Why?”
“Don’t you have your house key?” Mrs. Abbott asked.
I rang the doorbell of what’s supposed to be my own house, Ivy thought, horrified. There go my bat wings: flap, flap!
Ivy smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I must have forgotten it,” she said. “Sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Mrs. Abbott said. “You’d better go upstairs and change, though. We’re leaving for the show in half an hour.”
Luckily, Ivy made it to the theater and into her seat without saying anything else that might give her away. The first act of Wicked was killer. When the lights rose for intermission, Ivy couldn’t take her eyes off the stage. The performances, the music, the story—everything was seriously spectacular. The name of the wicked witch echoed in her head.
“Elphaba...Elphaba... Elphaba! Olivia!” Mrs. Abbott was shaking her arm. “Olivia, are you okay, honey?”
“This show sucks,” Ivy whispered in awe.
Mrs. Abbott’s face fell. “You hate it?”
All at once Ivy remembered that she was supposed to be her sister. Flap, flap!
“I mean,” she scrambled, “it sucks in a good way. It’s slang. I totally love the show!”
“You do?” Mrs. Abbott looked surprised.
Not too enthusiastic, you dingbat! Ivy thought to herself. This is supposed to be Olivia’s therapy!
“What I’m trying to say”—she looked at Olivia’s mom sincerely—“is that it’s really helping.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Mrs. Abbott threw her arms around her and hugged her close. “I’m so happy to hear that.” She pulled back slightly and patted Ivy’s cheek. “Let’s go get you a soda.”
Ivy followed Olivia’s mother up the aisle and out to the lobby. It’s awfully nice having a mom, she thought to herself.
As they stood in line for the concession stand, everyone was buzzing excitedly about how great the show was. Ivy was trying to eavesdrop on the conversation the people in front of her were having about the costumes when she overheard someone say, “We’ve finally secured the funds for the largest art exhibit in the history of the museum!”
Ivy recognized Walter Grosvenor, the curator of the Franklin Grove Art Museum, standing at the bar. She’d know him anywhere, because he had that classic vamp hairstyle with gray hair on the sides and slick, pitch-black hair on top. He picked up his drink and pressed through the crowd, followed by an enormous man in a fancy dark suit and an enormous floppy red bow tie.
“Oh?” the heavy man said. “What will the exhibit be?”
“A permanent installation dedicated to the history of Franklin Grove,” Mr. Grosvenor said as he walked by Ivy. “All we need is a long-standing member of the community to design it and serve as its permanent curator.” He rested his drink on the ledge of a pillar.
My dad would bite his own neck to design an exhibit at the Franklin Grove Art Museum! Ivy thought. She tried to hear more, but Audrey was talking.
“I’ll never forget the night you saw The Wizard of Oz on TV,” Mrs. Abbott said. “You loved it at first.”
Ivy nodded her head automatically, inching closer to Mr. Grosvenor. He was saying something about “someone with a passion for the arts and a deep appreciation for the diversity of Franklin Grove.”
“But then that woman with the crooked nose came on and said ‘I’ll get you, my pretty!’ ” Audrey said. They crept forward in line, and Mr. Grosvenor fell out of range. Ivy tapped her toe nervously, desperate to hear more. Finally it was their turn, and the moment the bartender handed Ivy her drink, she said, “Let’s go stand over there,” gesturing toward the post where Mr. Grosvenor was standing with his friend.
Audrey followed her gaze. “Brian Warchuck!” She gasped. “Why didn’t you say you saw him! My, he’s grown.”