Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,59

the hot dog from Iz and takes an enormous bite. Mustard drips onto her green jumper but she just shrugs. “See? Your turn. Come on, Iz. It’ll make you feel better.”

Iz takes the hot dog and nibbles at it. Connor is standing close, his shoulder brushing mine, lending silent support.

“And that better be the only wiener you put in your mouth. We do not give blow jobs so that boys will like us!” Claire roars, and Connor nearly chokes on his beer.

Iz stares at Claire like she’s found a new hero. “Okay.”

• • •

“You want me to come in with you?” Claire whispers forty-five minutes later.

We’re standing outside my front door. The TV murmurs through the open living room windows, but the lamp is on in the library, so my chances are fifty-fifty of running into Granddad at either entrance. I’m hoping I can sneak Isobel in the front door and up the stairs before he sees her. “No, I’ve got it. But thank you.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow and check on you,” she says to Iz, stroking her messy blond curls. Iz nestles into her, and I think what a good big sister Claire would be (unlike me). “Feel better, okay?”

Iz mumbles an incoherent response. Claire practically dragged her home. I tried to help but Iz wouldn’t let me touch her. And she threw up in somebody’s garden.

“Night, Ivy Bear,” Claire says, and I give her a hug. I am damn lucky to have a friend like her.

Still, this is not how I’d hoped my night would end.

“All right. Time to go inside,” I say to Iz as Claire disappears down the dark driveway. “You go straight up to the bathroom and brush your teeth. I’ll be up in a minute with water and ibuprofen.” I get out my keys, but the front door is unlocked, which means Granddad is still up. Super.

“I’m sleepy,” Iz complains, her eyes drifting closed as she leans against the white bricks.

“I know.” I swing open the door quietly. “Go upstairs now. Quiet, okay?”

Ignoring me, Iz creeps to the living room and peers in the doorway. “Iz. Go upstairs!” I hiss, looking to see what’s caught her attention.

Erica’s fallen asleep on the couch. The TV sends flickering ghosts over her face. In sleep, she looks young. Softer. Her face loses some of its armor; her lipstick has worn off and left her mouth vulnerable. The wine bottle she opened before supper is sitting empty on the coffee table, a glass next to it. The front windows are open, letting in the cool night breeze. Someone—Granddad?—has tucked Great-Grandmother’s quilt over her, and she’s snuggled into it.

When I’m sick, Granddad brings me ginger ale, tucks that quilt around my shoulders, and watches BBC adaptations of Jane Austen with me. He probably did the same thing—or some variation of it—for my mother when she was young. For the first time, it hits me, viscerally: he’s her father. He might not always like her, but he still loves her. Despite all the heartbreaks, he’s willing to give her another chance.

“Girls?”

I spin around. Granddad has snuck up behind us in his stockinged feet.

Iz wobbles and almost falls. I catch her elbow, but she yanks away.

Granddad narrows his eyes. “Isobel, have you been drinking?”

She raises her chin. “Yep.”

At least she’s smart enough not to deny it.

He herds us down the hall. The framed pictures of Dorothea getting married, getting her PhD, and getting her Pulitzer Prize watch our shameful progression. “I knew it was a bad idea for you to go out tonight. Ivy, what were you thinking, letting her drink like that?”

Of course. Of course this is my fault. Did I pour the beer down her throat?

“I didn’t see her until it was too late,” I mutter.

Granddad shakes his head while I get Iz a glass of water. “The cove isn’t that big, Ivy. Last week you came home smelling like liquor and now… Isobel, I know your mother hasn’t set a good example for how to drink responsibly, but you’re too young to—Isobel, are you listening to me?” Granddad waves a hand in front of her face to catch her attention, and Iz’s droopy eyes snap open. “You’re grounded.”

She shrugs. “So? I have no life here anyway. Mama still has my phone.”

“That’s part of the problem. You need a life outside your phone. Theater camp starts on Monday morning, and you’re going,” Granddad decides. “You need to meet people your own age and be productive.”

Productive. Like the secret to