The first time I met my new sister, she threw a hardcover book at my head.

Chapter 2 / 4

Chapter 2

Over the next two weeks, I learned the rules of Ivy Bell.

No unexpected touching. No crowded rooms. No applause. No violin music. Never lock a door near her. Never tell her to “calm down” when she was frightened.

And never, ever mention Roland Voss.

I discovered that last rule accidentally.

Thomas was explaining Ivy’s old music lessons at breakfast when he said the name. Ivy’s fingers tightened so hard around her spoon that her knuckles turned white.

I stopped chewing.

Thomas changed the subject.

Adults often think children do not notice when grown-ups become afraid of their own sentences.

I noticed everything.

I also learned that Ivy had once been considered a violin prodigy. Newspapers had written about her. She had performed in competitions from Boston to Chicago. Then, after one performance two years earlier, she suffered what everyone called “a breakdown.”

After that, she stopped playing.

Then she stopped speaking.

Nobody explained why.

Instead, doctors came and went. Tutors came and went. Specialists used soft voices and long words. Relatives whispered about trauma as if naming pain politely made it smaller.

I decided not to fix Ivy.

I decided to annoy her.

That worked better.

We developed an entire language of notes, facial expressions, shoulder shrugs, thrown stuffed geese, and carefully controlled insults. I called the goose Sir Honks. Ivy repeatedly crossed out “Sir” and replaced it with “Lady.” Eventually we settled on Attorney Honks because Thomas said every family should avoid unnecessary litigation.

The first real trouble arrived wearing pearls.

Her name was Daphne Crowley.

She came with her mother, Beatrice, who smelled like expensive perfume and spoke in the tone of someone who believed kindness was a service she provided selectively.

Daphne looked at Ivy across the living room.

“So the broken princess finally came downstairs.”

I slowly placed my cookie on the plate.

At the children’s home, that was a recognized sign that somebody’s peaceful afternoon had ended.

Beatrice gave a delicate laugh. “Daphne, don’t be cruel. Ivy is sensitive.”

Ivy’s face went empty.

Daphne looked at me.

“And you must be the orphan they brought in to entertain her.”

I stood.

“I’m not loud. Everyone else is underdeveloped.”

Thomas coughed.

Margaret turned toward the window.

Daphne’s smile tightened.

Before I could continue, Ivy reached for the ribbon holding back the curtain beside her chair and pulled it once.

A decorative basket of silk flowers toppled from a side table.

It landed directly on Daphne’s head.

She screamed.

I stared at Ivy.

She calmly opened her notebook and wrote:

YOU TALK ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US.

I pressed both hands to my heart.

“Sister, you don’t speak, but your soul has excellent dialogue.”

She wrote another word.

ACCEPTED.

That was the day we became a team.

A week later, I asked why Ivy did not attend school.

Margaret and Thomas exchanged the look parents use when they are trying to decide how much truth a child can carry.

“She had difficulties there,” Margaret said.

“Did the difficulties have names?”

Silence.

“Bullies have names,” I said. “Adults call them situations when they don’t want to deal with them.”

At the top of the stairs, Ivy appeared.

She was wearing her blue sweater. Headphones hung around her neck.

“I’ll go with her,” I said.

Margaret turned. “Hazel, you just got here.”

“I have time. Ivy has been losing hers.”

Nobody answered.

Three minutes later Ivy returned downstairs carrying a school bag.

She walked directly to me and took two fingers of my sleeve.

I lifted my chin.

“The queen has chosen battle. Pack snacks.”

School smelled like floor wax, cafeteria grease, and problems pretending to be education.

The whispers started before first period.

Silent doll.

Crazy violin girl.

Mute princess.

Ivy heard them.

Of course she did.

Near the lockers, Daphne waited with three friends.

“Ivy brought backup,” she said.

One boy laughed. “What did she bring, an orphan puppy?”

I looked him over.

“No. A tax audit with braids.”

Daphne stepped closer.

“You talk a lot for someone nobody wanted.”

That sentence landed.

For half a second, I was back at the home, watching couples choose quieter girls. Younger girls. Prettier girls. Girls who knew when not to ask whether parents returned children the way stores returned shoes.

I smiled anyway.

“I grew up with thirty children. I can smell fake kindness through three walls and a birthday cake.”

The boy grabbed Ivy’s notebook.

Unfortunately for him, I had prepared the notebook.

When he opened it, a packet of pink craft glitter burst into his face.

The hallway went silent.

Then someone laughed.

The boy stood there sparkling from forehead to collar.

I clasped my hands.

“Congratulations. Your personality is finally visible.”

More laughter.

I turned toward Ivy, afraid the noise might be too much.

She was looking at me.

And smiling.

Not much.

But enough.

That tiny smile nearly got me expelled.

The principal called our parents. Daphne’s mother arrived. So did the glitter boy’s father. They complained about me for twenty minutes before Thomas and Margaret walked in.

The principal folded his hands.

“We are concerned Hazel’s background may have made her a disruptive influence.”

Margaret’s face changed.

“Hazel is my daughter. Speak about her respectfully or speak to our attorney.”

My daughter.

Those two words did something dangerous to my heart.

Thomas set a folder on the desk.

“We requested the security footage.”

The principal went pale.

The footage showed Daphne blocking Ivy’s way. It showed the boy stealing the notebook. It showed me stepping between them.

It also showed me hiding glitter in the notebook earlier.

I raised my hand.

“That was preventive decoration.”

Thomas looked down to hide a smile.

Formal warnings followed. So did new rules about harassment. For the first time in years, someone had to answer for what happened to Ivy instead of explaining why Ivy ought to endure it.

That evening, I walked past a sitting room where several relatives were visiting.

They did not see me in the hall.

One woman whispered, “Thomas and Margaret only adopted that girl because Ivy needed someone lively around her.”

Another said, “Exactly. A little orphan entertainer. Perhaps it will draw Ivy out.”

I stopped.

Every old instinct woke up.

The emergency bag.

The hidden crackers.

The habit of never growing too attached to a bed because beds could disappear from your life without asking.

I went to my room and started packing.

Socks.

Crackers.