The first time my new sister saw me, she threw a hardcover book at my head, and that was when I knew two things for certain: the Bellamys had not exaggerated about her troubles, and I was going to like her very much.
Chapter 1
The first time my new sister saw me, she threw a hardcover book at my head, and that was when I knew two things for certain: the Bellamys had not exaggerated about her troubles, and I was going to like her very much.
I ducked. The book sailed over me and struck the bedroom door with enough force to make my new mother gasp. Nine years in a crowded children’s home had taught me many things that never appeared on school tests, including how to protect dessert, how to sleep through arguments, and how to dodge objects thrown by angry children before breakfast.
“Oh, Hazel, I’m so sorry,” Marianne Bellamy whispered.
“I’m fine.” I picked up the book and examined it. “Good weight. Terrible aim.”
Across the room, fourteen-year-old Ivy Bellamy stared at me from beside the window. She had not spoken in nearly two years. Her dark hair fell around a face that should have looked young but somehow didn’t, and although everyone had warned me she could be difficult, the expression in her eyes wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
I smiled and held up the book. “Hi. I’m Hazel. Apparently I’m your new little sister, and apparently this is my welcome present.”
Ivy said nothing.
“That works for me. But I’m warning you now, I talk enough for several people.”
Behind me, Nora Pike, director of the children’s home where I had spent most of my life, made a suspicious choking sound. She had cried when the Bellamys signed my adoption papers that morning. I originally assumed she was overcome with emotion until she whispered, “Thank God,” under her breath.
I turned to her. “Miss Nora, are those tears of love or relief?”
“Both.”
“Mostly relief?”
She dabbed her eyes. “Hazel, last Tuesday you organized twelve children into a protest because I moved dessert to Fridays.”
“Dessert is not a scheduling issue. It is a human right.”
Marianne’s mouth twitched.
Her husband, Callum Bellamy, stood beside her in an expensive navy suit with the helpless expression of a man who ran several companies but had just discovered there were no quarterly reports for raising daughters.
Ivy’s fingers moved toward another book.
I pointed at her. “Careful. Never repeat the same attack twice.”
Her eyes narrowed.
That was progress.
Callum cleared his throat. “Ivy, sweetheart, we talked about this. Hazel is going to live with us now.”
Ivy looked away.
Something about that hurt more than the thrown book. Angry children watched to see whether their anger landed. Frightened children disappeared while still standing in front of you.
I knew frightened children.
That evening, after I was shown a bedroom larger than the entire dormitory I had shared with seven girls, I carried my blanket into the hallway and sat outside Ivy’s closed door.
“Hello again,” I announced. “This is Hazel Wren Bellamy, your new sister, emergency alarm, and unpaid entertainment.”
Silence.
“I once fought a pigeon for half a dinner roll.”
Silence.
“The pigeon won morally. The roll fell into a storm drain.”
Something moved behind the door.
I smiled.
“For the record, silence doesn’t scare me. It’s just empty space waiting for somebody stubborn enough to fill it.”
A crumpled paper ball rolled under the door.
I unfolded it.
GO AWAY.
I found a pencil in my pocket. Children raised in group homes carry pencils, snacks, and emergency string for reasons civilized society rarely understands.
Under Ivy’s message, I wrote: REQUEST DENIED.
Another note appeared.
LEAVE ME ALONE.
I wrote: BETTER HANDWRITING. STILL DENIED.
For the next hour, I told stories about the children’s home, Miss Nora’s hidden cookie supply, and a boy named Ben who once tried to sell the same ham sandwich to four different children.
Eventually, I fell asleep against the wall.
When I woke the next morning, a blue blanket covered me.
It was not mine.
Marianne and Callum stood at the far end of the hallway. Marianne had tears in her eyes. Callum looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe.
I glanced toward Ivy’s closed door.
One corner of the blanket was still caught underneath it.
I hugged it around myself.
“Thank you, mysterious hallway ghost.”
The door clicked.
Not open.
Just clicked.
“Too late,” I said cheerfully. “I’m grateful now.”
After breakfast, Marianne led me into my room and showed me a mountain of boxes. Dresses, shoes, coats, ribbons, stuffed animals, notebooks, hair clips, and a pink backpack covered the bed.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Did a department store explode?”
“We wanted you to have choices,” Marianne said.
Choices.
At the children’s home, choices were small things. Which sweater had fewer holes. Whether you ate the dry crust before the soup or saved it. Whether you cried where people could see you.
Marianne lifted a sparkly shoe. “Anything you don’t like, we can return.”
My stomach tightened.
“Return?”
She must have seen something in my face.
“Hazel?”
I stared at the shoe.
“You don’t mean me, right?”
The room went completely still.
Callum’s face changed first.
“No.”
His voice was rough.
“Never you.”
Marianne slowly knelt in front of me. “Clothes can be returned. Furniture can be returned. You are our daughter.”
I nodded quickly because crying in front of rich people on my second day seemed like giving away valuable information.
“Good,” I said. “Because I’ve already claimed the socks.”
Then I gathered half the presents and carried them down the hall.
Ivy’s door stayed closed.
“I am sharing because I am generous,” I announced. “Also because no human being needs this much pink.”
I placed the gifts outside one by one, offering commentary on each. The ribbons could tie evidence. The slippers might blind an attacker. The little crown was too easy to lose in soup.
Then I set down a stuffed white goose.
Ivy’s door opened two inches.
A pale hand shot out.
The goose vanished.
The door closed.
I sat cross-legged in triumph.
“The council has accepted the goose.”
A note slid underneath.
NO COUNCIL.
I wrote back: GOOSE ACCEPTED. COUNCIL FORMED.
Another note came.
THE GOOSE HAS NO AUTHORITY.
I grinned.
That evening I named him Sir Honks.
Ivy threw him at me.
By Sunday, I understood the important rules of Ivy Bellamy’s world. Never touch her without warning. Never trap her in a crowded room. Never close a door behind her unexpectedly.
And never mention violins.
Before she stopped speaking, Ivy had been a gifted young violinist. According to Callum and Marianne, she had suffered some kind of breakdown after making a mistake during a major competition. She had abandoned music afterward and gradually stopped talking.
Doctors had come.
Therapists had come.
Teachers had come.
Everyone wanted to fix Ivy.
I decided I would do something different.
I would simply be her sister.
Then Daphne Crowley came to visit.
She was fourteen, perfectly dressed, and accompanied by her mother, Beatrice, whose smile looked professionally installed.
Daphne saw Ivy sitting near the window holding Sir Honks.
“Well,” she said, “the broken princess finally came downstairs.”
The room changed.
I slowly put down my cookie.
At the children’s home, that gesture usually meant someone had five seconds to reconsider their life choices.
Beatrice laughed lightly. “Daphne, don’t tease. Ivy is sensitive.”
Ivy went blank.
Daphne noticed me next.
“And this must be the orphan entertainer.”
I stood.
“I prefer family menace.”
Callum coughed into his fist.
Daphne smiled. “You talk a lot.”
“I’m not loud. Everyone else is underdeveloped.”
For the first time, something almost alive appeared in Ivy’s expression.
Daphne turned back to her. “Poor Ivy. Still hiding behind other people.”
Without changing expression, Ivy reached toward a ribbon attached to the curtain.
She tugged.
A decorative basket of silk flowers toppled from a side table and landed directly over Daphne’s head.
Daphne screamed.
I stared at Ivy with reverence.
“Sister,” I whispered, “your mouth may be silent, but your soul has excellent timing.”
Ivy opened her notebook.
YOU TALK ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US.
My hand flew to my chest.
“That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever written about me.”
She wrote another word.
UNFORTUNATELY.
That was the day we became sisters.
But it was also the day I noticed something else.
When Beatrice Crowley mentioned the upcoming youth music season, Ivy’s hand started shaking.
And when Daphne quietly said, “Mr. Voss always said weak musicians eventually remove themselves,” Ivy dropped her pencil.
Nobody else seemed to understand why.
I did.
