Ivy

The light streaming in Jon’s bedroom window becomes a thousand tiny daggers when it reaches my eyes. I fling an arm over my face, but it doesn’t help. The knives are still there, along with a thousand soldiers and their drums, too, banging, banging, banging inside my head. It seriously feels as though something’s trying to push my eyes out from the inside. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, but that only makes it worse. No matter what position I’m in, nothing brings any relief.

Even though I don’t remember the specifics of my own accident, what happened yesterday has triggered something.

Maybe if I sit up, the change in gravity will lessen the pain. With my eyes pinched shut, I push myself up and let my legs dangle off the edge of the bed. Almost immediately, a wave of nausea grips my insides. I throw off the covers, rush to the bathroom, and make it there just in time.

Jon left before I woke. Monday is his busiest day of the week with station work, class and tutoring. But he’s going to wonder why I’m not in class, so I’ll have to think up some excuse. If he knows about the headache, he’ll just bring up going to the doctor again.

I will myself to stand, somehow managing to brush my teeth and pull on my sweats. I don’t dare glance in the mirror because I know I look like hell. I grab my phone from where it’s been charging on his desk and send Cassidy a text. Thank God, she answers right away. She doesn’t have class for another hour, so she can come pick me up. A few minutes later, I’m in her car and we’re heading back to the dorm.

With finals coming up, I really can’t afford to miss anything, but I don’t want to get sick in front of anyone. Hopefully, I’ll feel better tomorrow.

When we get back to Kefner Hall, I put my phone on vibrate and climb into bed. Before she left, Cassidy told me she’d write Do Not Disturb on our whiteboard to keep people from knocking on our door.

I wake up a few hours later, feeling a little better. Not perfect, but well enough to see what homework I missed. I log in to my student account and go through my classes. Nothing too pressing. Good.

When I check my student email, there’s a message from an email address I don’t recognize. My head starts to pound again. Three words are in the subject line: Nice boyfriend, bitch.

I delete it without opening. It’s Aaron. He knows I’m at PSU. But…how did he find me?

Jon

I have just enough time to pick up my mail at the post office and get some work done at the station before I have to be in class. I’d like to get tomorrow’s music schedule programmed to give Harrison a chance to insert the ads and PSAs. He gets cranky if I wait until the day of and I’m not sure I’ll have a chance to come back this afternoon because I’m working in the tutoring center the rest of the day.

Tossing my mail on the desk I share with a few of the other hosts, I sit down and get to work. At least ten indie tracks have been emailed to the station since I last checked. I listen to all of them and end up selecting three of my favorites. I drag those media files to the hard drive, move them into the scheduler, and make a note that I need to do look up the bands’ bios before tomorrow’s show.

Anna, part-time receptionist and host of KREX’s call-in advice show, looks in the open door. “I forgot to give this to you when you came in.” She hands me a demo CD from Shoo, Gretchen. “It came in the mail the other day.”

Gretchen must’ve gotten my Facebook message. “Old school. I like it.” Most new music comes via WAV files online, but some bands still send CDs.

I open the case, put the CD into the player behind me, and press Play. Their odd hip-hop slash folk sound fills the room.

“Interesting,” Anna says, then leaves.

It’s a song about following your passion, no matter how crazy it is, and not giving up. The best fucking job in the world. The EMT’s words echo in my head. Ivy didn’t seem to think it was strange that I once dreamed of becoming a doctor.

I run my hand through my hair. If I got accepted into medical school, I’d be leveraged up the ass for years in student loans. I just don’t know if it’s worth it.

As I listen to the next track, I go through my snail mail. Some catalogs, a few ad flyers. Nothing exciting. But then an envelope near the bottom catches my attention. It’s from the Ames-Wickey Foundation. I tear it open and read the letter.

My application for a college grant has been denied.

I ball the paper in my fist. That extra four thousand dollars would’ve really helped next year. I had hoped to quit tutoring in my senior year since my class schedule will be so demanding. Guess that’s not happening. I’ll have to think of some other way to pay for my final year.

Ivy

After several false starts, I call home. My fingers are still shaking. Mom answers on the second ring.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. You calling us for a change.”

I waste no time and jump right in. “Mom, how did Aaron Marquette get my email address? How did he know I was going to school here? Did you or Dad say anything?”

There’s a pause before she answers. “What did the email say?” I can hear the tension in her voice.

“I don’t know. I didn’t read it.”

“Good,” she says, sounding relieved. “Ignore him, Ivy. He’s just being an immature little kid.”

“Mom, he’s eighteen. He graduates from high school in June. That hardly constitutes being an immature little kid.” She’s always trying to paint Aaron as harmless. She thinks that if she can get me to believe it, I’ll ignore his taunts and his threats.

“Ivy, listen. Your father’s construction company is on the short list to get that contract with the city. This could be the break we’ve been praying for. Please don’t screw it up for him. If Ace Marquette hears about any of this, it could reflect poorly on your father’s bid. The city could drop his company from the list. We can’t afford that, Ivy. We’ve got everything riding on this.”

I don’t understand what she’s getting at. “But Mom, I’m…afraid. My headaches are starting up again.”

“He’s just a kid,” she says, like she didn’t hear what I just said. “And he’s not even there. I saw him and his mom in the grocery store yesterday. Honey, listen. If your father doesn’t get that contract, I don’t know what we’re going to do. We’re stretched so thin financially as it is. We…we might have to declare bankruptcy, which means we’ll lose the house. Getting this contract means everything, so please don’t screw it up this time.”

There’s a loud roaring in my ears and I grip the phone tighter. “This time? What do you mean?”

“Never mind. That’s not the point.”

“Mom, would you fucking tell me?”

“Watch your language, young lady.”

I mumble an apology and hear her exhale through the phone.

“I didn’t want to tell you this—you’ve been through so much—but your father lost a big contract with the city shortly after your accident. I think you were still in the hospital, actually. That’s why this is so important now.”

There’s an edge to her voice. Is there a connection between my accident and my father losing that contract?

“What are you saying?” I choke. No answer. “Mom,” I repeat, louder this time.