Page 3 of Writing On The Wall

But it’s Monday, so I have a morning routine to get through. And certainly no time for dwelling on silly, unrealistic dreams.

Just before snack time, I turn on my teacher-voice, capturing the class’s attention. “Okay friends! Listen up! It’s Katie’s birthday today.” I smile, opening my arms for Katie to come stand beside me. “We’ll sing, then she’ll help hand out cupcakes. Jace, honey, pencil out of your ear please, thank you.”

Boys are a different species. That’s all I’m saying.

The class is abuzz with excitement as they huddle closer, and Katie sidles up next to me.

“Miss Marsh,” she tugs on my arm, whispering in my ear. “What are you supposed to do while people sing happy birthday to you?”

This kid’s throwing out the big guns. My nostrils flare as I stifle a laugh, not wanting her to feel embarrassed for asking one of life’s greatest questions. I bend a little, putting an arm around her and she snuggles closer.

“Well, I’m still trying to figure that one out myself. But I think if you just smile politely and think about cake, you’ll get through it.”

She nods, accepting my plan. Kids are the best.

We make it through the out-of-tune happy birthday serenade, and before I know it, it’s 3 PM, and my classroom is empty. I’m going over tomorrow’s lesson plans when a text comes through over my phone.

Ross:

I’m sorry, Vee, can’t talk. I’ll swing by your place tonight.

Well, I guess he’ll figure things out when he arrives at my empty apartment.

CHAPTER TWO

IVY

Nobody likes showering at the gym. You never know what jiggly bits might assault your eyes while people with flushed, post-workout cheeks parade around naked in the locker room. But beggars can’t be choosers, and a girl’s gotta get clean.

I wave guiltily at the receptionist after swiping my membership card, heading straight for the locker room. I give the fitness machines a cursory glance as I pass them. It’s been a while since I nearly killed myself on a treadmill. My annual‘I’m going to get fit’ resolution only lasts two days for a reason. Those contraptions weren’t made for the accident prone, like myself. I hate how much I resemble Bella Swan in this shortcoming. But regardless of my lack of fitness, my morning has begun, and I still have to complete the slightly degrading task of showering before school. My car might be able to serve as a makeshift bedroom, but it can’t replace running water.

I’m enveloped in the humid aroma of chlorine and generic body wash as I walk into the locker room, clutching my bag. I round the corner to the showers, coming face-to-face with the first pair of senior citizen dangly parts for the day. That’s thedownside to arriving before 7 AM—the bits that hang and swing around the locker room mostly belong to an advanced generation. Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with aging and being proud of what ya mama gave ya—it’s just a lot of pruney skin for 6:30 in the morning.

The first thing I do is brush my teeth, then I remove my shoes and shuffle into a pair of flip-flops before picking an empty shower and making sure the curtain is well and truly closed. I don’t quite share my fellow locker roommates’ affinity for nudity. Before I turn the water on, I hang up my clothes in the hopes that the steam from the shower might smooth out some of the wrinkles.

There’s still no response from Ross when I check my phone one last time before stripping down. My brother has been MIA, leaving me in a pile of trouble. He sends the odd text, like yesterday, telling me he can’t talk but never answers any questions or picks up the phone when I call.

I think I shed a few tears under the spray of the water, but one can never be sure when crying in the shower. Am I just silently making ugly faces in an attempt to process the crap storm that is my life? It’s a little less cathartic when you can’t feel the salty drops on your cheeks. I give myself sixty seconds. That’s all. Sixty seconds to cry (probably) and let out my frustrations.

That’s all I have time for, and it’s as much as I can allow myself to feel at the moment. If I were to try and face everything that’s happening at once, I’m not sure I’d be able to hide my desolation very well. The puffy eyes would be a dead giveaway, not to mention the fact that I’d be reduced to a pile of emotions, curled up on the floor. Because I need a place to live, and I can’t see any way of making that happen if Ross doesn’t pay me back.

So sixty seconds is all you get, Ivy June.

I twist my blonde hair into a neat bun, not wanting any visible evidence of being out of my element. A silky teal ribbon finishes the look. I chose it to match my teal wedges—perfect height extenders for the vertically challenged.

As I leave, the check-in lady’s eyes narrow my way, tracking my exit, and the shuffling of my heels quickens.

“I swear I’ll work out next time!” I grimace, timing my words so that I’m out the door before she can reply. There’s nothing in my gym contract that says I have to step foot in the workout zone.

I amble through five minutes of traffic, preparing to slip into my professional persona—Happy Ivy—carefree and committed to helping everyone, despite the extra hours of work that sometimes lands me.

It’s not hard to smile throughout the day when you get to spend it with a bunch of eager eight-year-olds. We’re currently learning about countries and cultures around the world, which feels like a delightful little escape on its own.

The school bell rings, signaling the end of the day and causing my shoulders to slump as I survey my empty classroom. There’s a sudden longing for the noise that I use to drown out the chaos of my personal life. I linger there as long as I can, delaying the inevitable for a while longer before finally getting into my car and stopping at the nearest grocery store for the day’s discounted hot meal.

When I’m done eating, I park on a side street within eyesight of Carl’s security booth at Crystal Retirement Village. That small fragment of familiarity and just knowing someone kind is near makes things feel a little less dangerous.

There’s a theory that the human psyche can survive anything—the harshest conditions, imprisonment, capture, extreme poverty, and trauma—when routine exists. The simple act of waking up and choosing to repeat the same order ofmundane tasks each day and having the same place to store important things creates a sense of stability for the brain and allows it to find a semblance of normality amidst chaos.

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