Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,18
say. “We’d be lost without her. I’m useless in the kitchen. Ivy’s getting to be a great cook though.”
The timer for the meatballs goes off, and Luisa steps away. I rush to fill the awkward silence. “I like to bake, mostly. I was thinking maybe I could make a strawberry pie for dessert tomorrow night. If you want.” I look at Gracie. “You like strawberries, right?”
“I love strawberries!” Gracie tugs on her big sister’s arm. “Izzy likes to bake too. She makes the best chocolate-chip cookies.”
“Iz could stand to lay off the chocolate-chip cookies,” Erica mutters, and Isobel flushes and yanks on the hem of her T-shirt.
I bite my lip. I cannot believe Erica just said that.
Isobel’s curvy, not all angles like Erica and Gracie. But she’s not fat. Even if she were fat, who cares? It still wouldn’t be okay to police what she eats and shame her in front of everyone.
“Well, you’re welcome to use the kitchen any time, Isobel. Luisa keeps it pretty well stocked, but if there’s anything else you need, you just let us know,” Granddad says.
“I don’t need anything. I’m on a diet,” Isobel croaks. Her brown eyes are fixed on the floor like she wishes she could melt right through it.
Fury rises in me. She’s beautiful the way she is. There’s more to being pretty—or healthy—than being skinny.
But I don’t know her, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make her feel worse.
Gracie is staring at Alex. “You’re Aunt Ivy’s friend who’s a boy but not her boyfriend, right?”
Alex winces at Aunt Ivy, but he recovers fast. “Yep, that’s me.”
“She showed me a picture of you. Daddy says boys don’t wear pink, but I like your tie. It matched Ivy’s dress!”
Alex chuckles. “Thanks. That was the idea.”
“Alex is the first baseman for the Warriors,” Granddad brags. “Got a couple colleges already scouting him. And he made honor roll last semester too.”
Alex shoves his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Ivy’s the smart one. Third in our class.”
“Of course she is,” Erica says.
I freeze. What does she mean by that?
Granddad’s jaw twitches. “Ivy works hard.”
I do work hard. I study my ass off. And he means it as a compliment, but I only hear how it’s not enough. Third place, not salutatorian, not valedictorian.
Luisa leans out of the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.”
“We’re going out for pizza,” Erica says. “Come on, girls.”
Granddad’s face falls. “Erica, stay. Please. Luisa went to the trouble of making a nice supper to welcome you all home.”
Erica pivots on one stiletto heel. “This isn’t my home. I hate this house.” She slams a hand against the wall, and the photo of Dorothea getting her Pulitzer crashes to the floor. The glass shatters. Everyone flinches.
“Mama, I want to stay here and eat with Granddad and Aunt Ivy,” Gracie says.
“Smart girl,” Alex says. “Ma’s spaghetti and meatballs are the best.”
“Alex.” Luisa beckons him from the kitchen. “Stay out of it. Let’s go.”
Alex touches my arm. “You’re still coming to the bonfire, right? Pick you up at nine?”
“Bonfire?” Erica raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. “You’re kidding. You let her go to parties at the cove?”
Granddad nods, jaw tight. “I trust Ivy. She’s never given me any reason not to.”
“Unlike me, you mean.” She purses her glossy red lips and grabs a set of keys from her bag. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”
“But Mama! Spaghetti and meatballs is my favorite,” Gracie whines.
“You can get some at Giovanni’s. Now, Grace. I can’t breathe in here.” Erica holds the door open and the girls scramble out and she slams the door behind her. Leaving Alex and Luisa and Granddad and me staring at each other in horrified silence.
Jesus. What a mess.
• • •
The little cove down from the Crab Claw is packed. The flickering light from the bonfire casts shadows over couples cuddled up on sun-faded beach blankets and big pieces of driftwood. Somebody’s speakers blare a country song about getting drunk and kissing a girl in the back of a pickup truck. A few just-graduated seniors are dancing barefoot in the pebbly sand, hands in the air. Guys from the baseball team are drinking Natty Boh and roasting hot dogs. As we get closer, I lose the scent of summer nights on the Shore—brackish water and wet grass—and inhale smoke and beer and cheap cologne.
I am already having doubts about this.
Abby grabs me the minute we arrive. “You came! And you look so cute!” she squeals, pointing at