The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(10)

“One more question,” I told Vivvie.

She made a finger gunning motion. “Shoot.”

“What,” I said slowly, “exactly is it that my sister does?”

Vivvie’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “You don’t know?”

I gritted my teeth. “I know that everyone around here seems to know her name,” I said finally. “I know that she apparently got Maya out of being arrested. I know that Headmaster Raleigh is a little bit scared of her, and I know that she got a call yesterday morning about Justice Marquette.”

I hadn’t meant to say that last bit out loud.

“Your sister,” Vivvie said delicately, “is, shall we say . . . a problem solver. When important people in Washington have problems, she makes them go away.”

“What kinds of problems?” I asked suspiciously. With a description that vague, Ivy could be a hit man.

Vivvie’s shoulders moved up and down in an exaggerated shrug. “Money problems, legal problems, PR problems—you go to Ivy Kendrick, and—poof—no more problems. She fixes things.”

I thought of Ivy swooping onto the ranch like she owned the place, packing my whole life up in a matter of days. “You’re telling me that my sister is a professional problem solver?” I asked tightly. “She just goes around, solving other people’s problems? How is that even an occupation?”

“Supply and demand?” Vivvie suggested. “Around here, we call them fixers.”





CHAPTER 8

“Are you okay?” Vivvie asked me for maybe the fifteenth time in the past six hours.

That’s one word for it, I thought. A better word might have been irked. Or possibly overwhelmed.

I’d traded American History with Mr. Simpson for Contemporary World Issues with Dr. Clark. We were currently broken into pairs, discussing the effects of internet censorship in East and Central Asia. Or at least that was the assignment. I had a feeling most people were actually discussing Contemporary Hardwicke Issues. Namely me. And my sister. Who apparently fixed problems for a living.

“I’m fine,” I told Vivvie. Her brow furrowed. Clearly, she was less than convinced.

“Would you feel better,” she said seriously, “if I recapped my favorite horror movie and/or romance novel for you?”

“All right, people!” Dr. Clark clapped her hands. “I’m going to assume the sound of chattering means you have strong thoughts on the issue of governments limiting access to information—thoughts that you’ll back up tonight with a five-hundred-word essay analyzing the content of a major news site and the effects of denying access to that content.”

I’d made it through English, Spanish, physics, math analysis, and an elective called Speaking of Words. If it hadn’t been for a free period in the middle of the day, I might not have survived this long.

The second the final bell rang, I slipped out of my chair. Automatically, my brain began thinking ahead. Check the feed. Put in orders. Make sure Gramps eats something. Call—

Reality hit me a moment later. I didn’t need to do anything. There was nothing for me to do. And Gramps—

I cut the thought off at the knees.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Vivvie asked. “The offer about the romance novel still stands.”

My lips took a stab at a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace. Get it under control, I told myself. It was just a stupid Pavlovian response. Hear bell, go home. But I wasn’t going home. Home didn’t exist anymore. Not without Gramps.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Vivvie. Ducking into the hallway, I pushed through the crowd and made a beeline for the bathroom. I just needed a second. I needed to breathe.

The bathroom door closed behind me. I walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. I closed my eyes and, just for a second, let myself listen to the sound of running water.

And that was when I heard it—a hitch of breath.

I turned off the water and waited, and there it was again. I looked back at the stalls. Only one was occupied. I could picture its occupant, hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sound of a sob.

It’s none of my business. I made it halfway to the door, but couldn’t make myself keep walking.

“Hey,” I said, feeling about as awkward as I sounded and wishing I was the type of person who could leave well enough alone. “You okay?”

Oh God, I thought, realizing how much I sounded like Vivvie. It’s catching.

There was another ragged breath on the other side of the stall door, and then: “Go. Away.”

Whoever was crying in that bathroom stall would have wished me off the face of the planet if she could have. It wasn’t the anger in her voice that crawled beneath my skin and stayed there—or the deep and cloying sadness. It was desperation: wild, violent, spiraling out of control.

“I said go away,” the girl repeated, her voice hoarse.

I almost did, but as my hand brushed the door to the bathroom, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t just leave.

“Not a big fan of away right now,” I said instead. No response. I leaned up against the wall and crossed one foot over the other. The seconds ticked by in silence. Finally, the stall door opened. The girl inside was doe-eyed and baby-faced—and not a graceful crier. Everything about her screamed freshman.