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 3
The school hosted a music benefit two weeks later.
Roland Voss was invited as an honored guest.
Ivy wanted to attend.
I went backstage during rehearsal to retrieve her noise-canceling headphones. A woman wearing an event badge told me someone had placed them in a storage room.
I should have fetched an adult.
I didn’t.
Being clever and being invincible are not the same thing. I learned that approximately ten seconds later when the storage-room door slammed behind me.
The lock clicked.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I pushed the handle.
Locked.
The room was narrow, nearly dark, and unnaturally quiet.
Then I understood.
A soundproof room.
My heart began pounding.
I imagined Ivy at eleven.
Alone.
Terrified.
Screaming.
I struck the door.
“I’m a legally adopted minor with parents and an attorney! Whoever is doing this has made a very poor career decision!”
No answer.
Minutes passed.
Then I heard two knocks.
Our signal.
I pressed my ear against the door.
“Ivy?”
Two more knocks.
Relief nearly knocked my knees out.
“I’m inside!”
Voices gathered in the hallway.
Someone tried the handle.
A teacher said, “Ivy, stay calm.”
Wrong thing to say.
I heard Ivy’s breathing change.
“Don’t panic!” I shouted. “Go find Dad!”
Then Daphne’s voice came from somewhere outside.
“Maybe Hazel is playing a prank. She loves attention.”
My fear became anger.
I pounded on the door.
Then everything outside went strangely quiet.
I heard Ivy hit the door once.
Twice.
Three times.
And then came a sound I had never heard before.
My name.
“Hazel.”
Her voice was hoarse and tiny.
But it was hers.
I froze.
Outside, somebody gasped.
I began crying so hard I could barely laugh.
“Ivy, if that’s your first word in two years, I’m incredibly honored, but please get me out before I become expensive stored cheese.”
Silence.
Then Ivy spoke again.
“Idiot.”
I laughed through tears.
“She’s back! And immediately insulting me. Family healing confirmed.”
Callum arrived seconds later with security staff.
The door opened.
Light flooded the room.
Ivy grabbed both sleeves of my sweater.
She wasn’t hugging me.
Not quite.
She was holding on as if I might disappear if she loosened her fingers.
Marianne dropped beside us and wrapped her arms around both of us.
Callum stood over us trembling with rage.
At the end of the corridor stood Roland Voss.
For one second, his pleasant public expression disappeared.
I saw fear.
So did Ivy.
After that day, Ivy did not suddenly become talkative.
Trauma does not vanish because one dramatic moment goes well.
She used words carefully.
At breakfast the next morning, Callum passed the salt too slowly.
“Salt,” Ivy whispered.
Callum burst into tears.
I stared at him. “Dad, she requested seasoning. She did not recite the Gettysburg Address.”
Ivy looked at me.
“Loud.”
“I am not loud.”
“False.”
Marianne began crying into her napkin.
“Wonderful,” I said. “My sister recovered her voice specifically to criticize me.”
Ivy thought about that.
“Useful.”
Callum cried harder.
A week later, Ivy opened her violin case for the first time in two years.
I sat on the floor nearby with crackers.
“You don’t have to play,” I told her. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Her hand trembled over the bow.
“But if revenge motivates you, Roland Voss deserves severe indigestion.”
Her mouth twitched.
She lifted the violin.
Then lowered it.
I began singing badly.
“Stop,” she whispered.
I gasped.
“Music has returned to this house through criticism.”
She glared.
That evening, we created a notebook called Sister Operations.
I wrote our rules.
Sisters first.
If someone hurts one sister, the other becomes a problem.
Hazel talks.
Ivy finishes.
Sir Honks serves as legal counsel.
Ivy added a final rule.
HAZEL MUST NOT SING UNLESS MEDICALLY NECESSARY.
I objected.
She underlined it twice.
Then the announcement arrived.
The National Young Virtuoso Gala would honor Roland Voss for his contribution to music education.
Daphne Crowley would perform.
Ivy read the invitation at breakfast.
Her face lost color.
Then she looked toward the violin case.
“I want to go.”
Marianne’s coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth.
“As a guest?” Callum asked.
Ivy shook her head.
“To play.”
Nobody moved.
I climbed onto my chair.
“The queen has chosen battle again.”
Callum looked only at Ivy.
“You don’t owe anyone a performance.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to prove you’re strong.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Ivy’s fingers tightened around mine.
“Because I want music back.”
That ended the discussion.
A few days later, Daphne cornered us outside the school music room.
“I heard you’re performing,” she said to Ivy. “How brave. I hope you don’t have another episode.”
I stepped forward.
Ivy stopped me with one finger.
Then she looked directly at Daphne.
“I won’t be alone.”
Daphne’s face changed.
It was the first time Ivy had spoken to her in two years.
Beatrice arrived behind her daughter.
“Hazel, you really don’t understand our world. You are merely an orphan with a talent for making noise.”
I smiled.
“Noise is how smoke alarms save houses.”
Ivy spoke clearly.
“She is my sister.”
Students nearby turned.
I nearly levitated.
Instead, I whispered, “That sentence had shoes and kicked her.”
Ivy whispered back, “Don’t get spoiled.”
