Page 7 of Yours Truly

Ivy

Can you muzzle a bird? Are there little tiny leather muzzles out there that you can wrap around those tiny little beaks to shut those mini noisemakers up? Because that would be something I would invest in. Bird muzzles.

“Shut up!” I scream, kicking my feet in the sheets like a petulant child. I tossed and turned all night and my alarm is going to go off in less than ten minutes but still, that’s ten whole minutes of rest.

Or it would be since bird muzzles have apparently not been invented yet.

There is a nest of scrub jay birds outside my room and right now, though I love all animals and all that shit, I want nothing more than a wild storm to hit and take them all out.

My diaphragm spasms as I let loose what feels like the tenth yawn in under a minute, but I push myself up in bed. Glaring through the curtains, I decide to get up and forgo those ten minutes. I guess the birds aren’t to blame - I didn’t sleep well. Trace didn’t show up yesterday, so I wanted to get up early and get some sketching done before I have to sketch in front of him today.

Assuming he shows up.

Either way, there’s no such thing as too much practicing. After turning off my alarm, I slip out of bed and grab my materials. I don’t typically wake this early, and when I got this apprenticeship, I planned to start my day with sketching, coffee and some light yoga from 7 until 8. But because assjacket decided to no-show yesterday, that makes today the first day.

And sketching before I get there will leave me feeling prepared and less… irritated.

It is my personal pet peeve when talented people think being talented allows them to be shitheads. No matter how creative and gifted Trace is, he’s got no right to leave Deuce high and dry. It’s complete horseshit for him to flake on a fellow artist, too.

I don’t know why it still leaves me ruffled. I should have expected it from him. It’s not like he’s got a reputation of an angel or a fucking saint. He’s known for being a boozing, egotistical prick.

Still, as I rest my sketch pad on my knees and slip my headphones over my ears, I can’t shake the frustration that rattles through me. Instead of getting rid of it, I channel it into the sketch I’m working on.

It’s a detailed graphite-on-paper sketch of a knife. My favorite kind of blade. In fact, it’s my favorite because I wear one in my boot every day.

Sure, Bluebell is a small town and we know everyone here.

Most murders are committed by someone you know, though. Just saying.

And you never know when having a knife on your person will come in handy. That isn’t a scary thing – that’s smart. Safe.

I get to work on the handle of the blade, focusing on the scratch marks near the base from the place I dropped it outside of Rhett’s apartment last year. It hit the concrete at a weird angle, and the enamel wore clean off the bottom. I was using the butt of the knife to knock on the door, since apparently he couldn’t hear my fist.

He heard the knife.

Drawing my knees nearer, I focus so hard on the tiny little imperfection on the bottom of the knife handle that I go through the last few songs on my playlist. I don’t notice there’s no music until my focus is broken by hushed, deep voices coming from outside my bedroom window.

Glaring at my clock, I see it’s hardly even 7 in the morning. Across the way, Dolly and Hudson are definitely awake, but they wouldn’t be outside our house whispering. I let my pad and pencil slide into the comforter as I crawl to the side of the bed, slip off and peer out the window.

With dust clouding their ankles and a tray of empty jam jars between them, Dash Foster and Sterling Ford stand outside. Dash yanks the tray toward him, sending the jars careening into his uniform-clad chest. Sterling’s lips hardly move, but his Adam’s apple bobs as he quietly speaks, the deep timbre felt but not heard. He tugs the tray, bringing the jars back to his own uniformed body.

I blink, watching Bluebell’s police officer and garbage man argue over a tray of Juni’s empty jam jars.

I’ve been single for a whole year yet I go into town nearly daily. Meanwhile, Juni keeps to herself and spends the majority of her time cutting, mashing and boiling fruit, and here she is with two men fighting over her.

“Damn, Juni, what are you putting in that jam?” I muse aloud as I let the curtain fall shut. Whatever they’re arguing about, it’s not my business unless they make it my business. I head out into the kitchen and begin my morning coffee, smirking at my older sister as she appears at the island, her blonde hair braided, eyes heavy with sleep.

“I’m so sorry,” she greets, closing the distance between us to pull me into a hug. “I wanted to know how your first day went but I crashed around 7.”

On her canning days, Juni wakes up really early, which means by the time 7 or 8 rolls around, she’s toast.

“Don’t even,” I drone. “I can just tell you now. It wouldn’t have been worth waiting up. Trust me.”

She arches a blonde brow as I froth my protein. “Not a good first day?” Her bottom lip juts out in disappointment.

I slide her a mug, knowing she’s going to need a cup of hot tea to start her day. She wraps her lean fingers around the Bluebell Farmers Market mug, and waits for me to fill her in.

Pouring the coffee over the protein, I sigh. “He never showed up.”

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