Ivy

(v) late december

          CONTRARY TO MOST years, this December brought with it lashings of snow. It was just a shame that Jack Frost had decided to grace them with his presence the one winter Aaron was imprisoned at school. He loved the snow.

What kind of school kept its students from coming home anyway? And what kind of parents let them?

These were questions Ivy would have angrily muttered down the phone to him, if only he answered her calls. Or texts. A week had gone by since they'd spoken, and he'd left her on a cliffhanger.

A: I won't be able to see you at Christmas anymore, sorry

Without any further explanation, Ivy assumed he was still at Hawthorne. It seemed as though every day that went by without a reply from him was sending her world into collapse, a splinter here and a fracture there. Was it normal to feel this way? She fumbled with the blue bracelet on her wrist. Of course it was normal, she was just worried about him. She would call his parents on their home phone, but they were barely home according to Aaron, and she doubted they'd be happy to hear her voice.

Stop being so dramatic, Juliet, Clara would've said if she could hear Ivy's thoughts. Instead, she was looking at her watch and sighing.

"He's late. And I'm cold."

"Give him a break. He lives a half-hour bike ride away from us, and it's not like there's any rush." Ivy moved the swing she sat on with her feet. She kicked a flurry of snow into the air.

Clara, however, didn't budge. "Yes, there is. The sooner he gets here, the less chance there is of us getting hypothermia. Or worse, frostbite."

Ivy shook her head in amusement. And she thought she was the dramatic one. "I like Ben," she commented.

"Me too. He makes us look less like losers because we can finally call ourselves part of a friendship group. You can't do that with just two people."

"We have friends, just not close ones, I guess. And how are you always bordering on mean without actually being mean?"

"Pure talent, babe." She flashed her best friend a smile. "You know I like JB, really. He's nice. He contributes a good amount of banter. And he really rounds our group out - I'm the sporty one, you're the intellectual one, and he's the artist."

"I'm not intellectual."

"Brainy, then. Academic. I don't know."

"You're just as clever as me."

"Maybe, but teachers like you more 'cause you put more heart in your work. Plus, you're a genius with words, Miss Editor Of The School Newspaper -"

A sudden something hit her back, winding her. She and Ivy turned to see the missing third of their group, arm still in midair after having thrown a snowball.

"I didn't miss!" The boy's jaw was slack with disbelief. He whooped but it sounded oddly quiet against the thick layer of snow at their feet. His target, by comparison, was audibly fuming as she stood up and faced the boy square on. Anyone who knew Clara Clifton well enough knew that she detested snow.

"Benjamin Yang, I think you'll find you asked for this."

And with that glorious declaration of war, the snowball fight commenced.

* * * * *

Clara had played a lot of sports in her life. Volleyball and swimming were the main two. She was the swim captain at Archer West, and she wore the title proudly. She enjoyed participating in athletics too, in the summer; the girl had a knack for javelin-throwing. She thought maybe that was what was helping her hurl balls of ice at Ben with ample force and speed.

"Eat shit, JB." She would have looked menacing if it wasn't for the rosy patches that bloomed on her nose and cheeks.

Ivy lobbed a snowball onto Clara's shoulder, missing her face by inches. Ben threw one the size of a grapefruit, knocking Ivy's bobble hat clean off. He and Clara howled with laughter.

"Can you rewind that for us? We want to see your face again in slow motion," Ben managed to wheeze, tears in his eyes. Clara had to sit back down on the swing to compose herself and remember to breathe. 

Ivy pulled a face. "I feel like I got hit with a bloody ice beam." 

"Hey, Iv. Let it go," said the other girl, causing Ben to start up again.

They spent the next hour or so chatting, watching people on the other side of the park sledding down the hill and, consequently, laughing at any collisions and sledding-turned-forward-rolls. During this, it had started to snow again.

"I'd better go before I end up cycling in a blizzard," Ben decided, feeling a flake settle on his eyelashes. He picked his bike up off the ground. "Merry Christmas Eve Eve, ya filthy animals."

He took off after goodbyes were exchanged, and Ivy and Clara watched him disappear into the white. Then the two of them headed back to their homes too, parting ways, and Ivy was left with her thoughts again. 

It was as though she couldn't find comfort in the shell of her mind. She couldn't trust herself to be alone for even a minute; why? An unhappiness had begun to seep within her these past few months, putting out the fire she once was. The flames would return when she was with her friends, or her family, but in their absence she was reduced to smoke. A whisper of what she could be; what she was in others' company. She did not like who she was when alone.

It scared her to think like this. She didn't suppose anyone else fought with themselves this way.

An envelope with her name lay waiting on the staircase in her house, and she waited to reach her room before opening it. With her back against the door, she inspected the handwriting that bore her name and address. 

It was Aaron's.

She tore at the paper and pulled the letter out. Ivy-lee, it began with. The date in the top right corner told her he'd written it two weeks ago. So he'd given up texting for writing to her instead?

This is English homework, by the way, in case you think I'm writing you for fun. Mr Langley's in denial about the art of letter-writing being dead. I won't lie - he's on his way there too.

Ivy laughed at his dark humor. She could imagine his faux-sombre tone. As she read through to the end of the letter, she was puzzled to find nothing mentioning his lack of texts, or any complaints about spending Christmas there. But he seemed to be doing fine, and keeping busy, from the contents of his writing. Boarding had to be occupying a lot more of his once-free time. 

It didn't matter to her. Her best friend was well, most importantly, and this letter was better than a one-line text; better than any rushed phone call. For now at least, it would do.