You'll Be the Death of Me

IVY

I respect a good checklist, but I’m beginning to think my mother went overboard.

Sorry, what page? I ask, flipping through the handout at our kitchen table while Mom watches me expectantly via Skype. The heading reads Sterling-Shepard 20th-Anniversary Trip: Instructions for Ivy and Daniel, and it’s eleven pages total. Double-sided. My mother planned the first time she and Dad ever left me and my brother alone—for four days—with the same thoroughness and military precision she brings to everything. Between the checklist and the frequent calls over Skype and FaceTime, it’s like they never left.

Nine, Mom says. Her blond hair is pulled back in her signature French twist and her makeup is perfect, even though it’s barely five a.m. in San Francisco. My parents’ flight home doesn’t take off for another three and a half hours, but Mom is never anything but prepared. Right after the lighting section.

Ah, the lighting section. My brother, Daniel, sighs dramatically from across the table as he overfills a bowl with Lucky Charms. Daniel, despite being sixteen, has the cereal tastes of a toddler. I would have thought we could turn them on when we need them, and off when we don’t. I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

A well-lit house deters break-ins, Mom says, like we don’t live on a street where the closest thing we’ve ever witnessed to a criminal act is kids riding bicycles without a helmet.

I keep my eyeroll to myself, though, because it’s impossible to win an argument against my mother. She teaches applied statistics at MIT, and has up-to-the-minute data for everything. It’s why I’m thumbing through her checklist for the section on CCY Award Ceremony—a list of to-dos in preparation for Mom being named Carlton Citizen of the Year, thanks to her contributions to a statewide report on opioid abuse.

Found it, I say, quickly scanning the page for anything I might have missed. I picked up your dress from the dry cleaner yesterday, so that’s all set.

That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mom says. Our plane is supposed to land at five-thirty. Theoretically, with the ceremony starting at seven, that’s enough time to come home and change. But I just realized I never told you what to do if we’re running late and need to go straight from the airport to Mackenzie Hall.

Um. I meet her penetrating gaze through my laptop screen. Couldn’t you just, you know, text me if that happens?

I will if I can. But you should probably sign up for flight alerts in case the plane Wi-Fi isn’t working, Mom says. We couldn’t get a signal the entire way over. Anyway, if we don’t touch down before six, I’d like you to meet us there and bring the dress. I’ll need shoes and jewelry, too. Do you have a pen handy? I’ll tell you which ones.

Daniel helps himself to more cereal, and I try to suppress my usual low-simmering resentment of my brother as I hastily scribble notes. Half my life is spent wondering why I have to work twice as hard as Daniel at everything, but in this case, I asked for it. Before my parents left, I insisted on handling every aspect of the award ceremony—mainly because I was afraid that if I didn’t, my mother would realize she’d made a mistake by asking me, not Daniel, to introduce her. My wunderkind brother, who skipped a grade and is currently outshining me in every aspect of our senior year, would have been the logical choice.

Part of me can’t help but think Mom regrets her decision. Especially after yesterday, when my one-and-only claim to school fame was brutally torpedoed.

My stomach rolls as I drop the pen and push my empty cereal bowl away. Mom, ever alert, catches the motion. Ivy, I’m sorry. I’m keeping you from breakfast, aren’t I?

It’s fine. I’m not hungry.

You have to eat, though, she urges. Have some toast. Or fruit.

The thought doesn’t appeal even a little. I can’t.

Mom’s forehead scrunches in concern. You’re not getting sick, are you?

Before I have a chance to reply, Daniel loudly fake-coughs, Boney. I glare daggers at him, then glance at Mom on-screen to see if she caught the reference.

Of course she did.

Oh, honey, she says, her expression turning sympathetic with a touch of exasperation. You’re not still thinking about the election, are you?

No, I lie.

The election. Yesterday’s debacle. Where I, Ivy Sterling-Shepard, three-time class president, lost the senior-year election to Brian Boney Mahoney. Who ran as a joke. His slogan was literally Vote for Boney and I’ll leave you alone-y.

Okay, fine. It’s catchy. But now Boney is class president and really will do nothing, whereas I had all kinds of plans to improve student life at Carlton High. I’d been working with a local farm share on bringing organic options to the salad bar, and with one of the guidance counselors on a mediation program to resolve disputes between students. Not to mention a resource-sharing partnership with the Carlton Library so our school library could offer ebooks and audiobooks along with hard copies. I was even looking into holding a senior class blood drive for Carlton Hospital, despite the fact that I faint at the sight of needles.

But in the end, nobody cared about any of that. So today, at exactly ten a.m., Boney is going to give his presidential victory speech to the senior class. If it’s anything like our debates, it will mostly consist of long, confused pauses between fart jokes.

I’ve been trying to put on a brave face, but it hurts. Student government was my thing. The only activity I’ve ever been better at than Daniel. Well, not better, exactly, since he never bothered to run for anything, but still. It was mine.

Mom gives me a look that says Time for some tough love. It’s one of her most powerful looks, right after Don’t you dare take that tone with me. Honey, I know how disappointed you are. But you can’t dwell, or you really will make yourself sick.

Who’s sick? My father’s voice booms from someplace in their hotel room. A second later he emerges from the bathroom dressed in travel-ready casual clothes, rubbing his salt-and-pepper hair with a towel. I hope it’s not you, Samantha. Not with a six-hour flight ahead of us.

I’m perfectly fine, James. I’m talking to—

Dad approaches the desk where Mom is sitting. Is it Daniel? Daniel, did you pick something up at the club? I heard there was a rash of food poisoning over the weekend.

Yeah, but I don’t eat there, Daniel says. Dad recently got my brother a job at a country club he helped develop in the next town over, and although Daniel is only a busboy, he makes a fortune in tips. Even if he had eaten bad shellfish, he’d probably drag himself into work anyway, if only to keep adding to his collection of overpriced sneakers.

As usual, I’m an afterthought in the Sterling-Shepard household. I half expect my father to inquire about our dachshund, Mila, before he gets to me. Nobody’s sick, I say as his face comes into focus over Mom’s shoulder. I’m just…I was wondering if maybe I could go to school a little later today? Like, eleven or so.

Dad’s brows shoot up in surprise. I haven’t been absent for a single hour of my entire high school career. It’s not that I never get sick. It’s just that I’ve always had to work so hard to stay on top of classes that I live in constant fear of falling behind. The only time I ever willingly missed school was way back in sixth grade, when I spontaneously slipped out of a boring field trip at the Massachusetts Horticultural Society with two boys from my class who, at the time, I didn’t know all that well.

We were seated close to an exit, and at a particularly dull point in the lecture, Cal O’Shea-Wallace started inching toward the auditorium door. Cal was the only kid in our class with two dads, and I’d always secretly wanted to be friends with him because he was funny, had a hyphenated last name like me, and wore brightly patterned shirts that I found oddly mesmerizing. He caught my eye, and then the eye of the kid next to me, Mateo Wojcik, and made a beckoning motion with one hand. Mateo and I exchanged glances, shrugged—Why not?—and followed.

I thought we’d just linger guiltily in the hallway for a minute, but the outdoor exit was right there. When Mateo pushed it open, we stepped into bright sunshine, and a literal parade that happened to be passing by to celebrate a recent Red Sox championship. We melted into the crowd instead of returning to our seats, and spent two hours wandering around Boston on our own. We even made it back to the Horticultural Society without anyone realizing we’d been gone. The whole experience—Cal called it the Greatest Day Ever—created a fast friendship between the three of us that, at the time, seemed like it would last forever.

It lasted till eighth grade, which is almost the same in kid years.

Why eleven o’clock? Dad’s voice yanks me back into the present as Mom twists in her chair to look at him.

The post-election assembly is this morning, she says.

Ahh, Dad sighs, his handsome features settling into a sympathetic expression. Ivy, what happened yesterday is a shame. But it’s no reflection of your worth or ability. That wasn’t the first time a buffoon has been handed an office he doesn’t deserve, and it won’t be the last. All you can do is hold your head high.

Absolutely. Mom nods so vigorously that a strand of hair nearly escapes her French twist. But not quite. It wouldn’t dare. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if Brian ends up resigning when all is said and done. He’s not really cut out for student government, is he? Once the novelty wears off, you can take his place.

Sure, Dad says cheerfully, like being Boney Mahoney’s cleanup crew wouldn’t be a mortifying way to become class president. And remember, Ivy: anticipation is often worse than reality. I’ll bet today won’t be nearly as bad as you think. He puts a hand on the back of Mom’s chair and they smile in unison, framed like a photograph within my laptop as they wait for me to agree. They’re the perfect team: Mom cool and analytical, Dad warm and exuberant, and both of them positive that they’re always right.

The problem with my parents is that they’ve never failed at anything. Samantha Sterling and James Shepard have been a power couple ever since they met at Columbia Business School, even though my dad dropped out six months later when he decided he’d rather flip houses. He started here in his hometown of Carlton, a close-in suburb of Boston that turned trendy almost as soon as Dad acquired a couple of run-down old Victorians. Now, twenty years later, he’s one of those recession-proof real estate developers who always manages to buy low and sell high.

Bottom line: neither of them understand what it’s like to need a day off. Or even just a morning.

I can’t bring myself to keep complaining in the face of their combined optimism, though. I know, I say, suppressing a sigh. I was kidding.

Good, Mom says with an approving nod. And what are you wearing tonight?

The dress Aunt Helen sent, I say, feeling a flicker of enthusiasm return. My mother’s much older sister might be pushing sixty, but she has excellent taste—and lots of discretionary income, thanks to the hundreds of thousands of romance novels she sells every year. Her latest gift is from a Belgian designer I’ve never heard of before, and it’s the most fashionable thing I’ve ever owned. Tonight will be the first time I’ve worn it outside my bedroom.

What about shoes?

I don’t own shoes that do the dress justice, but that can’t be helped. Maybe Aunt Helen will come through on those when she sells her next book. Black heels.

Perfect, Mom says. Now, in terms of dinner, make sure you don’t wait for us since we’re cutting it so close. You could unfreeze some of the chili, or—

I’m going to Olive Garden with Trevor, Daniel interrupts. After lacrosse practice.

Mom frowns. Are you sure you’ll have time for that?

That’s my brother’s cue to change his plans, but he doesn’t take it. Totally.

Mom looks ready to protest, but Dad raps his knuckles on the desk before she can. Better sign off, Samantha, he says. You still have to pack.

Right, Mom sighs. She hates to rush when it comes to packing, so I think we’re done until she adds, One last thing, Ivy—do you have your remarks for the ceremony all ready?

Yeah, of course. I’d spent most of the weekend working on them. I emailed them yesterday, remember?

Oh, I know. They’re wonderful. I just meant… For the first time since we started speaking, Mom looks unsure of herself, which almost never happens. You’re going to bring a hard copy with you, right? I know how you—I know you can get nervous in front of a crowd, sometimes.

My stomach tightens. It’s in my backpack.

Daniel! Dad barks suddenly. Turn the computer, Ivy. I want to talk to your brother.

What? Why? Daniel asks defensively as I spin the laptop, my cheeks starting to burn with remembered humiliation. I know what’s coming.

Listen, son. I can’t see Dad anymore, but I can picture him trying to put on his stern face. Despite his best efforts, it’s not even a little bit intimidating. I need you to promise that you will not, under any circumstances, mess with your sister’s notes.

"Dad, I wouldn’t— God. Daniel slumps in his chair, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, and it takes everything in me not to throw my cereal bowl at his head. Can everyone please get over that? It was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t think she’d actually read the damn thing."

That’s not a promise, Dad says. This is a big night for your mother. And you know how much you upset your sister last time.

If they keep talking about this, I really will throw up. Dad, it’s fine, I say tightly. It was just a stupid prank. I’m over it.

You don’t sound over it, Dad points out. Correctly.

I turn my laptop back toward me and paste on a smile. I am, really. It’s old news.

Based on my father’s dubious expression, he doesn’t believe me. And he shouldn’t. Compared to yesterday’s fresh humiliation, sure—what happened last spring is old news. But I am not, in any way, shape, or form, over it.

The irony is, it wasn’t even a particularly important speech. I was supposed to make closing remarks at the junior class’s spring talent show, and I knew everyone’s attention would be wandering. Still, I had the whole thing written down, like I always do, because public speaking makes me nervous and I didn’t want to forget anything.

What I didn’t realize, until I was standing onstage in front of the entire class, was that Daniel had stolen my notes and replaced them with something else: a page from Aunt Helen’s latest erotic firefighter novel, The Fire Within. And I just—went into some sort of panicked fugue state where I actually read it. Out loud. First to confused silence as people thought I was part of the show, and then to hysterical laughter when they realized I wasn’t. A teacher finally had to rush the stage and stop me, right around the time I was describing the hero in full anatomical detail.

I still don’t understand how it happened. How my brain could have frozen while my mouth kept running. But it did, and it was mortifying. Especially since there’s no doubt in my mind that it represents the exact moment when the entire school started thinking of me as a joke.

Boney Mahoney just made it official.

Dad is still lecturing my brother, even though he can’t see him anymore. Your aunt is a brilliant creative force, Daniel. If you have half the professional success that she does someday, you’ll be a lucky man.

I know, Daniel mutters.

"Speaking of which, I noticed before we left that she sent an advance copy of You Can’t Take the Heat. I’d better not hear a word of that tonight, or I’ll—"

Dad. Stop, I interrupt. Nothing is going to go wrong. Tonight will be perfect. I force certainty into my voice as I meet my mother’s eyes, which are wide and worried—like they’re reflecting all of my recent failures. I need to get back on track, and erase that look once and for all. It’ll be everything you deserve, Mom. I promise.

MATEO

Here’s the thing about powerhouse people: you have no idea how much they take on until they can’t do it all anymore.

I used to think I did plenty to help around the house. More than my friends, anyway. But now that my mother is at maybe half her usual capacity, facts have to be faced: Former Mateo did jack shit. I’m trying to step up, but most of the time I don’t even think about what needs to be done until it’s too late. Like now, when I’m staring into an empty refrigerator. Thinking about how I worked five hours at the grocery store last night and never considered, even once, that maybe I should bring home some food.

Oh baby, I’m sorry, we’re out of almost everything, Ma calls. She’s in the living room doing her physical therapy exercises, but the whole first floor of our house is open concept, and anyway, I’m pretty sure she has eyes in the back of her head. I haven’t made it to the store this week. Can you grab breakfast at school?

Carlton High cafeteria food is crap, but pointing that out would be a Former Mateo move. Yeah, no problem, I say, shutting the refrigerator door as my stomach growls.

Here. I turn as my cousin Autumn, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-zipped backpack in front of her, tosses me a PowerBar. I catch it in one hand, peel back the wrapper, and bite off half.

Bless you, I mumble around the mouthful.

Anything for you, brousin.

Autumn has lived with us for seven years, since her parents died in a car crash when she was eleven. Ma was a single parent by then—she and my dad had just divorced, which horrified her Puerto Rican family and totally unfazed his Polish one—and Autumn was her niece by marriage, not blood. That should’ve put my mother low on the list of people responsible for a traumatized preteen orphan, especially with all the married couples on Dad’s side. But Ma’s always been the adult who Gets Shit Done.

And unlike the rest of them, she wanted Autumn. That girl needs us, and we need her, she told me over my outraged protests as she painted what used to be my game room a cheerful lavender. We have to take care of our own, right?

I didn’t like it, at first. Autumn acted out a lot back then, which was obviously normal but still hugely uncomfortable for ten-year-old me. You never knew what would set her off—or what inanimate object she’d decide to punch. The first time Ma ever took us shopping, a clueless cashier told my cousin, Look at that beautiful red hair! You and your brother don’t look anything alike. And Autumn’s face froze.

"He’s my cousin, Autumn said tightly, her eyes getting big and shiny. I don’t have a brother. I don’t have anybody." And then she drove her fist into the candy display next to the register, scaring the life out of the cashier.

I scrambled for the fallen candy while Ma put both hands on Autumn’s shoulders and pulled her away from the display. Her voice was light, like there was no meltdown happening anywhere near us. "Well, maybe now you have a brother and a cousin," she said.

A brousin, I said, stuffing the candy bars back in all the wrong spots. And that made Autumn choke out a near laugh, so it stuck.

My cousin tosses me another PowerBar after I’ve polished off the first in three bites. You working at the grocery store tonight? she asks.

I take a huge bite before answering. No, Garrett’s. It’s my favorite job; a no-frills dive bar where I bus tables. Where are you headed? Waitressing?

Murder van, Autumn says. One of her jobs is working for Sorrento’s, a knife-sharpening company, which means she drives to restaurants all over greater Boston in a battered white van with a giant knife on one side. The nickname was a no-brainer.

How are you getting there? I ask. We only have one car, so transportation is a constant juggling act in our house.

Gabe’s picking me up. He could probably drop you off at school if you want.

Hard pass. I don’t bother hiding my grimace. Autumn knows I can’t stand her boyfriend. They started going out right before they graduated last spring, and I thought it wouldn’t last a week. Or maybe that’s just what I hoped. I’ve never cared for Gabe, but I took what Autumn calls an irrational dislike to him the first time I heard him answer his phone by saying Dígame. Which he still does, all the time.

Why do you care? she asks whenever I complain. It’s just a greeting. Stop looking for reasons to hate people.

It’s a poser move, is my point. He doesn’t even speak Spanish.

Gabe and my cousin don’t fit, unless you think of it in terms of balance: Autumn cares too much about everything, and Gabe doesn’t give a crap about anything. He used to head up the party crowd at Carlton High, and now he’s taking a gap year. As far as I can tell, that means he acts like he’s still in high school, minus the homework. He doesn’t have a job, but somehow still managed to buy himself a new Camaro that he revs obnoxiously in our driveway every time he comes to pick up Autumn.

Now, she folds her arms and cocks her head at me. Fine. By all means, walk a mile when you don’t have to out of sheer spite and stubbornness.

I will, I grumble, finishing my second PowerBar and tossing the wrapper into the garbage. Maybe I’m just jealous of Gabe. I have a chip on my shoulder, lately, for anyone who has more than they need and doesn’t have to work for it. I have two jobs, and Autumn, who graduated Carlton High last spring, has three. And it’s still not enough. Not since the one-two punch we got hit with.

I turn as Ma enters the kitchen, walking slowly and deliberately to avoid limping. Punch #1: in June she was diagnosed with osteoarthritis, a bullshit disease that messes with your joints and isn’t supposed to happen to people her age. She does physical therapy nonstop, but she can’t walk without pain unless she takes anti-inflammatory meds.

How are you feeling, Aunt Elena? Autumn asks in an overly bright tone.

Great! Ma says, sounding even more chipper. My cousin learned from the best. I clench my jaw and look away, because I can’t fake it like they do. Every single day, it’s like getting slammed in the head with a two-by-four to see my mother, who used to run 5Ks and play softball every weekend, strain to make it from the living room to the kitchen.

It’s not like I expect life to be fair. I learned it’s not seven years ago, when a drunk driver plowed into Autumn’s parents and walked away without a scratch. Still sucks, though.

Ma makes it to the kitchen island and leans against it. Did you remember to pick up my prescription? she asks Autumn.

Yup. Right here. Autumn roots through her backpack, pulling out a white pharmacy bag that she hands to my mother. My cousin’s eyes briefly meet mine, then drop as she reaches into the backpack again. And here’s your change.

Change? Ma’s eyebrows shoot up at the thick stack of twenties in Autumn’s hand. Those pills cost a fortune. I wasn’t expecting change. How much?

Four hundred and eighty dollars, Autumn says blandly.

But how… Ma looks totally lost. Did you use my credit card?

No. The co-pay was only twenty bucks this time. Ma still hasn’t made any move to take the money, so Autumn gets up and drops it onto the counter in front of her. Then she sits back down and picks up a scrunchie from the table. She starts pulling her hair into a ponytail, cool and casual. The pharmacist said the formulary changed.

Changed? Ma echoes. I stare at the floor, because I sure as hell can’t look at her.

Yeah. He says there’s a generic version available now. But don’t worry, it’s still the same medication.

Autumn is a good actress, but my shoulders still tense because Ma has a bullshit detector like no one I’ve ever met. It’s a measure of how rough the last few months have been that she only blinks in surprise once, then smiles gratefully.

Well, that’s the best news I’ve had in a while. She pulls an