White Ivy(33)
* * *
PERHAPS GIDEON ALSO felt diving into a sudden overnight trip would be too risky because he called her a few days later and invited her to a Celtics game. Another trial run before the main performance. Ivy assumed Tom and Marybeth or more of the “old crowd” would be present, but when she saw Gideon waiting outside the Garden, he was alone. How stiff and ungainly her arms and legs felt, swinging this way and that, without elegance, while Gideon stood so tall and formal, the heavy drape of his wool coat, the edges of his plaid scarf, his pressed trousers forming a graceful line from head to toe.
Gideon was a season ticket holder with balcony seats. He quickly gathered that Ivy didn’t follow basketball and to make the game livelier for her, he pointed out Boston’s Big Three and framed their journeys as an exciting comeback story: they’d each been transcendent talents on lottery-bound teams until they joined together to defeat the rival Lakers and win a championship in their first year together, ending a decades-long title drought. “It’s the start of a dynasty,” he explained. “That’s why all the games have been sold out, even in the regular season. Our team’s going to win again this year.” Ivy nodded and asked questions. She loved listening to Gideon’s voice. Its natural ownership quality was still there. Even the Celtics belonged to him.
At halftime, she bought them two hot dogs and chocolate bars. “You said you hadn’t eaten dinner yet,” she said, noting that the face underneath the green cap seemed pale.
Gideon thanked her. “You’re so considerate,” he said.
“Just don’t take advantage,” she said.
He smiled uncertainly—a furrowed, stricken smile—and she hurried to laugh, to say it was a joke, he could take advantage of her as much as he wanted, which then led him to laugh and look away.
The Celtics crushed the Nets 118–86. In the post-win euphoria, Ivy had hoped they might hug or Gideon might wrap his arm around her shoulders the way he’d done the other day in front of Tom and Marybeth. Instead, as they gathered their coats and scarves and followed the crowd down the stairs, he turned to her suddenly and asked: “Do you remember the first time we met?”
“You mean, at Grove?”
“Yes.”
“Uh… I remember we had American Lit together.” It surprised her to realize that she didn’t actually remember the exact first time she saw Gideon, despite her terrible infatuation. He’d not existed for her one day, and the next, he was her whole world.
“I remember it perfectly,” said Gideon. “You were the new girl. Mrs. Carver introduced you and asked you to say one unusual fact about yourself. You couldn’t think of one, so she asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up.” He paused to look down at her with a wry smile. “You said you wanted to get a PhD.”
“I did?” She felt her sex appeal shrivel up and die. “How did I even know what a PhD was back then?”
“I was so impressed. I thought you were one of those child prodigies Dad would read to us about in the newspaper.”
“Trust me”—she shook her head—“I had no idea what I was saying. It must have been something my parents planted into my head.”
“Then you sat in the desk next to mine and ignored me for the rest of the year. You were so different from all the other girls I’d known… I can’t tell you how refreshing it was.”
She smiled noncommittally. Was “refreshing” one of those adjectives reserved for “considerate” girls?
They’d finally made it out of the stadium. It was a foggy evening of inky black skies, a wispy, almost invisible moon—a shadow moon, as Meifeng had called it once, when things became possible that had not been possible before. Ivy’s face stung with the sudden wind.
“Do you think I’ve changed a lot since then?” she asked.
“Not really. I was just thinking how comfortable I feel with you. As I get older, I think that a shared history counts for a lot more in friendship than quantity of time spent with another person.” His eyes roamed over her face in a frank manner. “And you look the same. Haven’t aged a day.”
“I can’t believe I used to have a crush on you.”
“Did you?”
The flow of the crowd around them, a sea of green, the celebratory shouts, sounds of beer bottles breaking on cement, gave her a sense of exhilaration, of being anonymous and safe in her anonymity.
“Oh, come on,” she said, pulling her coat closer to her body. “You knew.”
He didn’t refute her.
“Funny how life works,” she said quietly. “Here we are.”
Gideon’s eyes were two gossamer orbs, reflecting her own face back at her. “Here we are,” he echoed.
* * *
IVY CHARGED THE flight to her credit card. It was $575—an overpriced last-minute flight from Boston to Montreal. And then there were the accessory costs: ski jacket, pants, helmet, goggles, new lingerie, a wax, manicure, pedicure—all necessary expenses, she knew, but frightening when added up. She could not look at her bank account. She opened one of those spam letters advertising the latest credit card and applied for the one with the highest spending limit. A temporary onetime Band-Aid, she promised herself.