Ivy actually went to a regular public elementary school, but by fourth grade, the other girls had figured out that she was gullible and played some pretty dirty tricks on her, like locking her in a closet and stealing her stuff. Mom pulled Ivy out as soon as she realized what was going on and has kept her in special needs classes ever since. They may not be all that great academically, but at least no one’s mean to Ivy and she feels safe there.
She’s been in the same class at Vicente High for a couple of years now. There aren’t that many options for special needs kids who are already over eighteen, so we’re actually lucky it isn’t even farther away—?for LA, half an hour’s a reasonable commute. The school district is theoretically responsible for transportation, but Ivy hated riding the bus with all the other special needs kids. A lot of them had serious behavior problems, and by the time she got home every day, she was a wreck from spending over an hour in a confined space with kids who were bucking wildly in their seats and banging their heads and shouting at the aides who rode the buses with them, so Mom resigned herself to dropping her off and picking her up. It wasn’t a problem until Mom got married and Ron realized he could save money by replacing his paid receptionist with his free wife. Which leaves me picking up Ivy a lot.
That’s the complete story, but my friendship with Sarah is built on laughing and teasing and gossiping and both sincere and insincere flattery. No reason to inject too much of my family life into it. It would just drag us both down.
I get to Ivy’s school about half an hour before classes end so I can go in and scope out the boys in her class—?I’m especially interested in seeing Ethan. Since it isn’t pickup time yet, the gate’s closed, and I have to park on the street and walk in. A security guard buzzes me through the door and escorts me to the main office, where they check my ID and give me a stick-on name tag. Los Angeles public schools have gotten pretty intense about security in the last few years, and this one’s in kind of a dicey neighborhood, so they’re extra careful.
I’ve only ever picked Ivy up outside, in my car, so it takes me a while to find the right room number. In the hallway, some guy yells at me to get to class, but I point to my badge and he backs off.
It’s total chaos in Ivy’s classroom, and I sneak in without anyone noticing. The teacher and a couple of aides are at the front of the room, sitting behind tables covered with small treats (plates of M&M’s, pyramids of Hershey’s Kisses, bowls of pretzels) with prices written on big pieces of paper near them (5 cents, 30 cents, 10 cents). The students are carrying around fistfuls of plastic coins, and after I watch for a minute or two, I realize they’re buying snacks with their play money.
Not everyone’s into it. About a third of the kids in the room are sitting at tables, rocking or shaking their heads or staring into space, their stash of coins ignored on the table in front of them. An aide is circling around, trying to coax them to get up and join the fun.
I’m glad Ivy’s up at the front, picking out red M&M’s (the only color she likes), carefully counting each one as she adds it to the small pile in front of her. A thin, pale girl with bad skin and French-braided dirty blond hair is standing next to her. She’s wearing overalls. Her lips are moving, but I can’t tell if she’s talking to Ivy or just to the air.
The aide who’s walking around spots me. “Hi,” she says, coming over. “You’ve got to be Ivy’s sister.” She’s a short, pretty woman with light brown skin and cropped hair, probably not that much older than Ivy in years, but totally an adult in a way that I can’t imagine my sister ever being.
“How’d you know?”
“You look a lot alike—?those beautiful blue eyes and all.”
“Aw, thanks. I’m Chloe.”
“Kimberly.”
“Hey,” I say. “Maybe you can help me. We’re trying to get Ivy to be more social? We were thinking of inviting a friend from school to do something with her, but we weren’t sure who we should ask.”
“That’s a great idea.” She surveys the room. “Let me think about who she usually hangs out with . . .”
“Who’s the girl standing next to her?”
“That’s Diana.” She pronounces it the way Ivy did: Dee-ah-na. “Ivy definitely likes her—?when they need to buddy up, it’s always those two. She’d be a good choice for a get-together—?if you can work out the logistics. Unfortunately she lives pretty far away, in, like, Alhambra or something. Poor thing is on the bus for hours every day.”
That’s a problem. I want someone who Ivy can see easily. Plus she seemed into the boyfriend idea, so . . . forget Diana. “How about Ethan? She talks a lot about him.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s a real cutie.” Kimberly nods toward a slim boy who’s leaning against a wall near the tables, soberly chewing on a pretzel, a bunch more cupped in his half-open upturned hand. He has light brown wavy hair and a slightly pixie-ish face that looks vaguely familiar—?I’ve probably seen him at pickup. “All the girls in the class seem to have a special place in their hearts for Ethan. And he lives on the west side. You do too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there you go. Give him a try. You can get his number out of the class directory.” She glances at her watch. “Oops, time to clean up.” She claps her hands and makes an announcement to the room and then there’s a lot of movement as the teachers shout commands and the students rush around to obey them. Well, some of them do, anyway.
Ivy obediently sorts her coins out on the front table according to the teacher’s instructions and then grabs Diana’s arm and tugs her back toward a table. They pass Ethan, and his eyes follow Ivy.
I don’t know much about autism, but I know a lot about high school guys, and it looks to me like he’s interested in her. And why wouldn’t he be? She’s pretty cute, and totally sweet.
“Chloe?” She’s turned around and is staring at me. “Why are you here?”
“I was early for pickup and figured I’d come in and see what your class is like. Did you—”
“Shhh,” she says. “The teacher’s talking.”
I nod sheepishly and fade back until class is officially dismissed.
Nine
IN THE CAR, I say cautiously, “That kid Ethan seems nice.”