Chapter 6: Label Maker

Ivy opened the pink box in front of a dozen people and screamed.

"A label maker!"

She held it over her head with both hands.

"It prints in three colors!" she said. "Who knew? Tristan, how did you know?"

"Ms. Stratton made the choice," Tristan said.

"I know. I'm asking how you let her."

Across the table, Dennis Tidwell took a bite of bread and said nothing.

I was learning that this was how he listened.

We were in a loud Italian restaurant with a paper menu and a candle in a bottle.

Ivy sat at the head of the table in a green dress, laughing at her own present.

I sat three seats from Tristan, with a strategy lead on one side and the analyst on the other.

The analyst had not looked me in the eye since Saturday.

The waiter set down a bottle of tequila and twelve small glasses.

"Birthday rule!" Ivy said. "Whoever I pick takes a shot with me, and everybody else gets to be insufferable about it."

The table whooped.

Ivy peeled a label off the new machine and stuck it on the bottle.

TEQUILA, SHARED.

She stuck another on the lime bowl.

LIMES, FINITE.

Then she pointed at the napkins.

NAPKINS, NOT FOR EYES.

"Ivy," I said, "that last one makes no sense."

"It makes sense to me."

She poured a shot, stood up, and looked straight at Tristan.

I watched Tristan's shoulders go stiff.

Then Ivy turned around, took my hand, and pulled me to my feet.

"I pick Vivian," she said. "Because she picked the gift."

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