“But how…I would have seen you!” Cal says.
“I grabbed it after Mateo knocked a bunch of dishes over. Remember that?” Ivy says. “Then I took it into the bathroom and looked through it, and saw this.” She taps a page in the planner. “My dad has one like it, and he puts his entire life in there. So I figured, why not take a look?”
“Why not take a look?” Cal repeats disbelievingly. “Maybe because it’s stolen property?”
“I did mention that as a flaw in the plan,” Ivy reminds him.
“What plan?” Cal asks, his voice rising. “What’s the point of this?”
“Shhh,” Ivy hisses. Viola looks up, seems to decide that we could use some privacy, and opens a door behind her. I catch a glimpse of kitchen appliances before she slips inside and closes the door.
“Cal, listen,” I say, because chances are good Ivy’s only going to make things worse if she keeps talking. “You’re right. It was a bonehead move.” I don’t look at Ivy when I say that, but I can hear her light snort of indignation. “But it’s already done. And you can’t blame us for thinking Ms. Jamison knows more than she’s saying. Bottom line is, Boney died in her studio.”
“It’s not her studio,” Cal points out. “She borrows it from a friend. So do other people. And there are new owners, so…” He puts up his hands at Ivy’s epic eye roll. “I’m just saying, lots of people have access to that space, and—”
“Do any of them know Boney?” Ivy interrupts, and that shuts him up.
I glance at the planner in Ivy’s hand. Now that it’s right in front of me, I have to admit that I’m curious. “Come on, Cal, let’s just take a look. If there’s nothing there, then we’re assholes.”
“You’re already assholes,” Cal mutters, but he doesn’t try to grab the planner, or take off. It seems like all the fight’s drained out of him, and I think I was right earlier: the guy is lonely as hell. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t keep going to the mat to defend Ms. Jamison. Ivy and I might be assholes, but right now, we’re the only friends he has.
“All right then,” Ivy says, flipping a page. “I’ll start at the beginning.”
I can’t see much from where I’m sitting, and Cal’s not looking, so for a few minutes it’s just Ivy turning pages and muttering to herself. She’s obviously not finding anything interesting, or she’d be waving it in our faces.
“Exciting reading?” Cal finally asks, almost sounding amused.
“Her handwriting is incomprehensible,” Ivy complains. “It’s like she’s intentionally making this difficult.” She flips a page, and something rectangular slips out of one side. “Hmm,” she says, pulling it out the rest of the way.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Looks like a card,” Ivy says, holding the front toward me. It’s a painting of flowers overgrowing a building. “Pretty,” she says, flipping the card back toward her and Cal. “Looks impressionist.”
“The Garden at Bougival,” Cal says. “By Berthe Morisot. It’s Lara’s favorite painting.”
Ivy raises her eyebrows, like she’s clocking his use of Ms. Jamison’s first name, but all she says is “Let’s see if there’s anything inside.” She opens it, clears her throat, and reads, “Love you so much, angel. Let’s make it happen, D.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, her cheeks turn pink and she darts a glance at Cal. “Um,” she says. “So that’s…”
Cal looks nauseated. “Probably from Coach Kendall.”
Ivy gives him a tight smile. “Coach Kendall’s first name is Tom,” she says.
“Maybe it’s a nickname. Or the card is old,” Cal says. “Like from college or something.” His face is—God. He really shouldn’t be surprised at the possibility that Ms. Jamison has more than one guy on the side, but he clearly is, and it sucks to watch.
“Maybe,” Ivy says, looking supremely unconvinced. She closes the card and slips it back inside Ms. Jamison’s day planner. “Let’s file that away for—”
“Hang on,” I interrupt as something catches my eye. Loose paper is poking out of the back of the book, and I grab hold of its corner and pull. It’s a thin sheaf of paper, stapled in one corner and folded twice. I unfold it and read the heading: “Carlton High Senior Class Roster. Alphabetical order, looks like. Zack Abrams, Makayla Austin…”