“I don’t know,” I say, my eyes straying out the window. There’s too much visual stimulation everywhere else. Including Ivy.
I’m almost as rattled by our conversation on the train as I was about Cal and Ms. Jamison. It’s like I have to rearrange my whole perception of Ivy to fit what actually happened when we were in middle school, instead of what I believed. I meant what I said on the train; it’s not like I spend time thinking about that kiss. Not anymore. But Ivy was the first girl I’d ever asked out, and it stung that she ignored me. If I’m being honest, the memory of that made me more impatient with her earlier than I would’ve been otherwise, and it’s probably why, as Autumn likes to remind me, I bail at the first sign of rejection. Not just from girls, but anyone or anything. I’ve been like that for so long that I never really thought about how or why it started.
And now I know: it started with a misunderstanding. I don’t know what to do with that.
Shove it down, Autumn’s voice says in my head. She and I have a running joke about my dad; how any time something happens that he doesn’t know how to handle, he just—doesn’t. He shoves it so far down in his mental space that it might as well not exist. Which is one of the many reasons he’s never seemed like much of an adult. It didn’t occur to him, for example, that he should give Autumn a home when his brother died, or take a break from living his roadie dreams once Ma got sick.
As jokes go, it’s not actually funny, but it’s still solid advice for now. “I’ll probably get the same thing you are,” I tell Ivy.
“My treat,” Cal says. Guess we’re forgiven. “If you want, we could—”
“Well, hello there, Cal!” The woman behind the cash register interrupts him with a big grin. She’s middle-aged with streaked blue hair, wearing a Ramones T-shirt and cat’s-eye glasses. “Back so soon? What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”
Ivy shoots me a nervous look at their familiarity as Cal says, “Hi, Viola. Just getting a snack. I’ll have two blueberry cakes and one hazelnut bacon, please.”
“Coming right up,” Viola says, turning to the rows of doughnuts behind her.
Ivy leans into Cal and hisses, “Why did you bring us someplace where they know you?” Her eyes are huge and reproachful. “We haven’t figured out our stories. You might end up telling people that you were really home sick all day!”
“Viola’s cool,” Cal says, digging into his pocket for his bank card. Ivy looks unconvinced, and he adds, “Really, don’t worry about it. She’s anti the Man. Not a fan of authority figures at all. You wouldn’t believe how many health violations this place gets.”
“Seriously?” Ivy asks in a loud whisper. “Then why are we eating here?”
“Hang on,” Cal says. He pays for the doughnuts and accepts a white paper bag from Viola, who gives Ivy and me a curious look. Almost like she thinks she knows us, but can’t remember where from.
“Come back soon, Cal,” she says. “And bring your friends.”
“I will,” Cal says, snatching a bunch of napkins from the counter before turning toward the door. He holds it open for Ivy and adds in a low voice, “Not health violations because it’s dirty or anything. They’re just really creative with their toppings. Sometimes it’s not technically food, so the city throws a fit.”
“Do I even want to know?” I ask as we step onto the sidewalk.
“Probably not,” Cal says, handing us our doughnuts and a couple of napkins each. I take a huge bite of mine and it’s better than expected; moist and packed with fresh blueberries, along with some kind of lemony cream. I’m hungry enough that I eat the entire thing before we’ve even reached the crosswalk. Ivy, who’s barely taken two bites of hers, notices.
“Want some?” She waves her doughnut with a small smile, and something tugs at my chest. It’s been comfortable being low-key annoyed with Ivy all these years, telling myself I dodged a bullet because she’s an overly intense pain in the ass, and not even all that cute. That last one’s not true, though, and the first one?
True, but it never bothered me.
“Nah, that’s okay,” I say. “I’ll get something else later.” The sugar must be working its magic, because the headache I’ve had since we entered Ms. Jamison’s studio is finally starting to fade. I pat the left pocket of my jeans and add, “Listen, you guys. We still need to do something about Boney’s phone.”
“Oh, right.” Ivy scans our surroundings as we walk. “The studio’s not far from here, is it? What if we keep going in that general direction and just—leave it nearby? And then call in a tip. With a pay phone, maybe? Do they still have those?”
Cal looks worried. “I don’t think we want to go back there,” he says.
“Not back there,” Ivy corrects. “Near there.”