The Fixer
Page 8

“My mom’s already running numbers,” Maya commented. “The president wasn’t expecting to appoint a justice this term. It could be a game changer.”
“Maya,” Emilia interjected, cutting off that topic of conversation completely. “Di.” She looked from one girl to the other. “Meet Tess Kendrick.”
“Ivy Kendrick’s little sister?” Maya raised an eyebrow. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”
“Who’s Ivy Kendrick?” Di asked. Her hair was so pale it practically gave off light. Her accent was sharp—and impossible to ignore.
“Remember the time you got me arrested, Miss Diplomatic Immunity?” Maya shot back.
Di tilted her head to the side. “This sounds vaguely familiar.”
Maya gave Di a pointed look, and after a long moment, a realization settled over Di’s face. “Oh,” she said. “That Ivy Kendrick. Is she the one who . . . that thing with Grant?”
Emilia nodded. “I don’t even want to know what she has on the members of the board,” she added, her gaze darting over to me. “Like I said, Hardwicke almost never admits students midsemester.”
I shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Emilia stared at me for three or four more seconds, then gave up on pumping me for information. “We should go,” she decided with the force of a monarch declaring law. “I have Latin first period. The Aeneid waits for no man.”
As quickly as they’d descended upon us, the three girls were gone.
“Emilia’s angling for valedictorian,” Vivvie said almost apologetically. “I’m pretty sure she’s been angling for valedictorian since we were about four. She comes on a little strong sometimes.” Vivvie took a tiny nibble of bagel, then changed the subject. “I’m guessing you heard that Justice Marquette is in the hospital. It was all over the news this morning.”
I nodded but didn’t mention that I hadn’t gotten my information from the news.
“It’s so sad,” Vivvie said softly. “His grandson Henry is in our grade, and I hear they’re actually pretty close. But even Henry’s friends aren’t thinking about Henry. Or his grandfather. I mean, Maya’s mom works for the White House, and they’re already talking about replacements.”
I felt a pang for this Henry Marquette and tried not to think about grandfathers—Henry’s or mine.
“What exactly does Maya’s mom do at the White House?” I asked. Vivvie had said the phrase White House the way that kids at any other school might say City Hall. From the lack of emphasis Vivvie gave it, Maya’s mom might as well work at the local mall.
Vivvie blinked several times. I could practically see her reminding herself that I was new—not just to the school, but also to DC. “Mrs. Rojas is a pollster. She analyzes numbers and statistics, does surveys, that kind of thing.”
I hadn’t even realized that was a job.
“What about Emilia?”
Vivvie tilted her head to the side. “What about her?”
“Di’s father is an ambassador. Maya’s mom crunches numbers for the president. What do Emilia’s parents do?”
Vivvie thought for a moment. “I think they’re dentists.”
Emilia did have remarkably good teeth.
“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—