Will gave her a smile, but it was more with his eyes, which were deep brown, than with his mouth. His lips turned up slightly at just one corner of his mouth.
He was not easy to figure out, thought Ivy.
"O'Leary," said Eric when the owner had passed by, "have you got the hots for Pat, or what?"
"Likes those older women," Gregory teased. "One at UCLA, one doing Europe instead of college…"
"You're kidding," said Suzanne, obviously impressed.
Will glanced up. "We're friends," he said, and continued sketching. "And I work next door, at the photo lab."
That was news to Ivy. None of Gregory's friends had real jobs.
"Will did that portrait of Pat," Gregory told the girls.
It was tacked up on the wall, a piece of cheap paper worked over with wax crayons. But it was Pat all right, with her straight, soft hair and hazel eyes and generous mouth-he had found her beauty.
"You're really good," said Ivy.
Will's eyes flicked up and held hers for a second, then he continued his drawing. For the life of her she didn't know if he was trying to be cool or if he was just shy.
"You know, Will," said Beth, "Ivy keeps wondering if you're really cool or just shy."
Will blinked.
"Beth!" said Ivy. "Where did that come from?"
"Well, haven't you wondered it? Oh, well, maybe it was Suzanne. Maybe it was me. I don't know, Ivy, my mind's a muddle. I've had a kind of headache since I left your house. I think I need caffeine."
Gregory laughed. "That chocolate pizza should do the job."
"For the record," Will said to Beth, "I'm not really cool."
"Give me a break," Gregory said.
Ivy sat back in her chair and glanced at her watch. Well, it had been eight whole minutes that she had thought about other people. Eight whole minutes without imagining what it would have been like if Tristan had been sitting beside her. That was progress.
Pat took their order. Then she dug in her pocket and handed some forms to Will. "I'm doing this in front of your friends, so you can't back out, Will. I've been saving your tablecloths- I'm planning to sell them once your paintings are hanging in the Metropolitan Museum. But if you don't enter some of your work in the festival, I'm entering the tablecloths."
"Thanks for letting me choose, Pat," he said dryly.
"Do you have any more of those forms?" asked Suzanne. "Ivy needs one."
"You've been saving my tablecloths, too?" Ivy asked.
"Your music, girl. The Stonehill Festival is for all kinds of artists. They set up a stage for live performances. This will be good for you."
Ivy bit her tongue. She was so tired of people telling her what would be good for her. Every time somebody said that, all she could think was, Tristan is good for me.
Two minutes this time, two minutes without thinking of him.
Pat brought more festival forms along with their pizzas. The others reminisced about the summer arts festivals of the past.
"I liked watching the dancers," Gregory said.
"I was once a young dancer," Beth told him.
"Till an untimely accident ended her career," Suzanne remarked.
"I was six," Beth said, "and it was all quite magical-flitting around in my sequined costume, a thousand stars sparkling above me. Unfortunately, I danced right off the stage." Will laughed out loud. It was the first time Ivy had heard him laugh like that.
"Do you remember when Richmond played the accordion?"
"Mr. Richmond, our principal?"
Gregory nodded. "The mayor moved a stool out of his way."
"Then Richmond sat down," said Eric.
"Yow!"
Ivy laughed with everyone else, though mostly she was acting. Whenever something did interest her or make her laugh, the first second it held her attention, and the next second she thought, I'll have to tell Tristan.
Four minutes this time.
Will was drawing funny little scenes on the tablecloth: Beth twirling on her toes, Richmond's legs flying upward. He put the scenes together like a comic strip. His hands were quick, his strokes strong and sure. For a few moments, Ivy watched with interest.
Then Suzanne breathed out with a hiss. Ivy glanced sideways, but Suzanne's face was a mask of friendliness. "Here comes a friend of yours," she said to Gregory.
Everyone turned around. Ivy swallowed hard. It was Twinkie Hammonds, the "little, petite" brunette, as Suzanne called her-the girl that Ivy had talked to the day she first saw Tristan swim.
And with her was Gary.
Gary was staring at Ivy. Then he checked out Will, who was seated next to her, then Eric and Gregory. Ivy prickled. It wasn't as if she were on a date; still, she felt Gary's eyes accusing her.
"Hi, Ivy."
"Hi."
"Having a good time?" he asked.
She toyed with a crayon, then nodded her head. "Yes."
"Haven't seen you for a while."
"I know," she said, though she had seen him- at the mall once, and another time in town. She had quickly ducked inside the nearest doorway.
"Getting out a lot now?" he asked.
"Pretty much, I guess."
Each time she saw him, she expected Tristan to be nearby.
Each time she had to go through the pain all over again.
"Thought you were. Twinkie told me."
"You got a problem with that?" asked Gregory.
"I was talking to her, not you," Gary replied coolly, "and I was just wondering how she was doing." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Tristan's parents were asking about you the other day."
Ivy lowered her head.
"I visit them sometimes."
"Good," she said. She had promised herself a hundred times that she would go see them.
"They get lonely," Gary said.
"I guess they do." She made dark little X's with her crayon.
"They like to talk about Tristan."
She nodded silently. She couldn't go to that house again, she couldn't! She laid the crayon down.
"They still have your picture in his room."
Her eyes were dry. But her breath was ragged. She tried to suck it in and let it out evenly, so no one would notice.
"Your picture has a note tucked under it." Gary's voice wavered with a kind of tremulous laughter. "You know the kind of parents they are-were. Always respecting Tristan and his privacy. Even now they won't read it, but they know it's your handwriting and that he saved it.
They figure it's some kind of love note and should stay with your picture."
What had she written? Nothing valuable enough to save. Just notes confirming the time they would meet for their next lesson. And he had saved such a scrap.
Ivy fought back the tears. She should never have gone out with the others that night. She couldn't keep her act together long enough.
"You jerk!" It was Gregory's voice.
"It's okay," said Ivy.
"Get out of here, jerk, before I make you!" Gregory ordered.
"It's okay!" She meant it. Gary couldn't help how he felt, any more than she could.
"I told you, Gary," Twinkie said, "she's not the kind to wear black for a year."
Gregory's chair fell back as he rose, and he kicked it away.
Dennis Celentano collared him just before he got to the other side of the table. "What's the trouble here, guys?"
Ivy sat still with her head down. At one time she would have prayed to her angels for strength, but she couldn't anymore. She held herself still, wrapping her arms around herself. She shut down all thoughts, all feelings; she blocked out all the angry words that whirled around her.
Numb, she would stay numb; if only she could stay numb forever.
Why hadn't she died instead of him? Why had it happened the way it did? Tristan had been all his parents had. He had been all she wanted. No one could take his place. She should have died, not him!