“It’s okay, honey,” Mrs. Abbott said. “You’d better go upstairs and change, though. We’re leaving for the show in half an hour.”
Luckily, Ivy made it to the theater and into her seat without saying anything else that might give her away. The first act of Wicked was killer. When the lights rose for intermission, Ivy couldn’t take her eyes off the stage. The performances, the music, the story—everything was seriously spectacular. The name of the wicked witch echoed in her head.
“Elphaba...Elphaba... Elphaba! Olivia!” Mrs. Abbott was shaking her arm. “Olivia, are you okay, honey?”
“This show sucks,” Ivy whispered in awe.
Mrs. Abbott’s face fell. “You hate it?”
All at once Ivy remembered that she was supposed to be her sister. Flap, flap!
“I mean,” she scrambled, “it sucks in a good way. It’s slang. I totally love the show!”
“You do?” Mrs. Abbott looked surprised.
Not too enthusiastic, you dingbat! Ivy thought to herself. This is supposed to be Olivia’s therapy!
“What I’m trying to say”—she looked at Olivia’s mom sincerely—“is that it’s really helping.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Mrs. Abbott threw her arms around her and hugged her close. “I’m so happy to hear that.” She pulled back slightly and patted Ivy’s cheek. “Let’s go get you a soda.”
Ivy followed Olivia’s mother up the aisle and out to the lobby. It’s awfully nice having a mom, she thought to herself.
As they stood in line for the concession stand, everyone was buzzing excitedly about how great the show was. Ivy was trying to eavesdrop on the conversation the people in front of her were having about the costumes when she overheard someone say, “We’ve finally secured the funds for the largest art exhibit in the history of the museum!”
Ivy recognized Walter Grosvenor, the curator of the Franklin Grove Art Museum, standing at the bar. She’d know him anywhere, because he had that classic vamp hairstyle with gray hair on the sides and slick, pitch-black hair on top. He picked up his drink and pressed through the crowd, followed by an enormous man in a fancy dark suit and an enormous floppy red bow tie.
“Oh?” the heavy man said. “What will the exhibit be?”
“A permanent installation dedicated to the history of Franklin Grove,” Mr. Grosvenor said as he walked by Ivy. “All we need is a long-standing member of the community to design it and serve as its permanent curator.” He rested his drink on the ledge of a pillar.
My dad would bite his own neck to design an exhibit at the Franklin Grove Art Museum! Ivy thought. She tried to hear more, but Audrey was talking.
“I’ll never forget the night you saw The Wizard of Oz on TV,” Mrs. Abbott said. “You loved it at first.”
Ivy nodded her head automatically, inching closer to Mr. Grosvenor. He was saying something about “someone with a passion for the arts and a deep appreciation for the diversity of Franklin Grove.”
“But then that woman with the crooked nose came on and said ‘I’ll get you, my pretty!’ ” Audrey said. They crept forward in line, and Mr. Grosvenor fell out of range. Ivy tapped her toe nervously, desperate to hear more. Finally it was their turn, and the moment the bartender handed Ivy her drink, she said, “Let’s go stand over there,” gesturing toward the post where Mr. Grosvenor was standing with his friend.
Audrey followed her gaze. “Brian Warchuck!” She gasped. “Why didn’t you say you saw him! My, he’s grown.”
“Huh?” said Ivy. Then she saw that, standing directly on the opposite side of the pillar from Mr. Grosvenor was a lanky, pimply teenaged boy in a skinny tie.
Olivia’s mom grabbed her hand and plunged through the crowd. “Brian!” she called. “You remember my daughter, Olivia, Olivia Abbott?”
Brian Warchuck turned a brighter shade of red than Ivy thought possible, even for a human. “Olivia Abbott?” he squeaked.
“Hi,” Ivy said tentatively. She angled her head toward the pillar. From what she could tell, Mr. Grosvenor was now talking about German Expressionism.
“Olivia still talks about you!” Mrs. Abbott said.
“I do?” Ivy responded.
“You do?” Brian gawked. A bead of sweat emerged in the middle of his forehead.
“One never forgets her first love,” Mrs. Abbott said wistfully, “even if it happened in kindergarten.”
No way! Ivy thought. Brian Warchuck stared at her with a dreamy, toothy grin. His hair was plastered to his head, and he had exactly three reddish whiskers protruding from his chin.
“So what brings you to Franklin Grove, Brian?” Mrs. Abbott asked. “We’ve only lived here since September.”
“W-we moved to Creemore a few years ago,” Brian stammered, unable to take his eyes off Ivy. “It’s only two towns over.” His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “I still have your blue blankie, Olivia. Do you still have my fuzzy bear?”
“I don’t think so.” Ivy shook her head.
“You threw Fuzzy out?” Brian’s lip trembled. “But you said you would never abandon Fuzzy!”
Flap, flap! Ivy thought, and her mouth went bone dry. What if Brian was onto her? She looked at Olivia’s mom’s desperately.
“Of course you have that teddy bear, honey,” Mrs. Abbott said. “It’s on the shelf in your room.”
Ivy almost collapsed with relief. “Oh, that bear,” she croaked gratefully. “Of course.”
The lights in the lobby flashed on and off, signaling everyone to return to their seats for the second act.
“Oh, well. Time to go back in. Bye!” Ivy said desperately.
“I can take a bus to see you sometime,” Brian offered.
“You should probably call first,” Ivy said quickly before tugging Mrs. Abbott toward the doors to the auditorium. I have got to talk to Olivia about her taste in boys, she thought.
“We’re in the white pages under ‘Abbott’!” Olivia’s mom called over her shoulder.
As they took their seats, Ivy’s mind returned to Mr. Grosvenor, the opening at the art museum, and her friends’ plan to keep her dad in Franklin Grove.
He’s the perfect candidate for that museum job, she thought, but he’d never put himself up for consideration.