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She didn’t need them to confirm what she knew to be true: she was Vivian’s daughter.

It was one thing for everyone to pretend when she was little, but she was eighteen now and done with pretending.

She was tired of Enid, of the Rutledge house, of the boys she’d dated, of Ruth.

She was tired of her lying, dull parents.

She was even tired of Mme Forrest and her complaining.

If Madame disliked Enid so much, she should convince her husband to take her somewhere else.

And if he wouldn’t, what was stopping Madame from going herself?

More to the point, what was stopping Ivy?

It would take a week, she calculated, for everyone to get over the shock of her leaving. She’d wait out that week in Dallas, which offered a degree of familiarity. Her mother had taken her and Ruth there once to shop for fancy dresses for the Spring Fling.

Sandra had recently learned about George’s plane, and after Ivy mentioned the upcoming shopping trip, she said, “Wow. Your parents must be rich.”

“No richer than yours,” replied Ivy. But later she thought about it. No one else they knew had an airplane. Some families didn’t even have two cars, while, if you counted Grandma Adele’s, the Rutledges had three.

That night at dinner she asked, “Are we rich?”

“ We are not,” said Adele. “But your mother is.”

This didn’t make any sense. Their mother didn’t have a job. Where had she gotten money?

“From your grandfather. And your mother invested it in your uncle Frank’s company and made more. No, George”—Adele held up a hand to stop her from interrupting—“you should tell them. It’ll be theirs someday, after all.”

But Ivy didn’t want it. Not if it came from a bunch of liars.

Liars who didn’t even know how to spend it.

They were rich, but she and Ruth had to share a bedroom.

They had to wait for sales at Herzberg’s to get new shoes.

Their mother constantly hounded them about the length of their showers, the size of the water bill.

Every now and then George did something expensive and unexpected—like taking them shopping in Dallas—and Ivy thought maybe she’d turned into someone more exciting.

But then she went right back to being her predictable, motherly self.

Ivy ditched school at lunchtime and caught a bus to Oklahoma City.

From there she headed south to Dallas. She’d planned to sleep during the bus ride, but her brain jittered with too much adrenaline.

They reached Dallas just before midnight.

Ivy deboarded and promptly locked herself in a stall in the ladies’ room.

She craved sleep, but it was too late for that now.

She had to stay awake, in case a night watchman checked the bathroom.

If she could remain hidden until daylight, she’d freshen up and find a boardinghouse—someplace cheap but clean.

In the morning she bought a doughnut at the station, then strolled through Dealey Plaza, then up Commerce Street.

She spotted the Baker Hotel, where she’d stayed with George and Ruth on their shopping trip.

The Baker was well beyond her means. Someday, she thought, remembering the plush carpeting and drapes, the soft bed she and Ruth had shared.

She turned down one side street after another, searching for boardinghouse signs.

She passed run-down, seedy hotels guarded by old men in webbed lawn chairs.

The men smacked their toothless gums as she hurried by.

At last, she spotted a house with a Vacancy sign in the front yard.

The man who answered her knock leered at her with such open lasciviousness that she almost jumped back. “Sorry, wrong address.”

When the sun dropped behind the skyscrapers, she retreated to the bus station.

The woman in the information booth called out, “Need help, hon?” She probably kept a list of places that rented rooms. Ivy started to approach, then swerved off toward the ticket line.

The lady probably also had a list of people to be on the lookout for.

A list that might include Ivy. She waited in the ticket line until the information lady was occupied with someone else, then darted into the bathroom and locked herself in a stall for another night.

The next morning, she walked in the opposite direction.

She’d done what she could to clean up at the bathroom sink, but she felt grimy.

Her heels were blistered from walking. She’d packed light, but even so, the strap of her satchel bit into her shoulder.

She didn’t see any Room for Rent signs, and she couldn’t face another night in a bathroom stall.

She headed back to the bus station and bought a ticket to Houston.

While Vivian rattled and clanged in the cramped kitchen, Ivy examined the cramped, dimly lit living room.

The shabby sofa smelled of cigarettes at one end.

The cushion sagged at that end too. This must be where Vivian had her evening smoke-and-think.

In Enid, she had it outside in the glider.

Ivy sat in the smoke-and-think spot and inhaled deeply.

Maybe she’d take up smoking. She’d tried it a few times and had felt neither here nor there about it.

But then, she felt neither here nor there about many things.

What she felt strongly about was knowing who she was. She was Vivian’s daughter. And if Vivian had given her up—handed her over to George and Tom—she must have had a reason. A reason Ivy deserved to know, even though she feared it.

Because maybe, right from the beginning, Vivian had sensed something ... off about her. That Ivy wasn’t like other people. Girls, especially. But then, neither was Vivian. Why did everyone refuse to admit the truth when they’d been so clearly caught out?

“Here you go.” Vivian handed her a plate. She’d cut the grilled cheese sandwich horizontally, rather than diagonally, the way George and Adele always cut it. The pickle was a gherkin, not bread and butter slices. Every family, she reminded herself, did things differently.

“I know I’m not theirs,” she said between bites of sandwich. It was undignified to have this conversation while eating, but she was ravenous.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Vivian. She picked up her cigarettes, then put them down again just as quickly. “Terrible habit,” she said. “Don’t you ever start.”

“I’m the only one not being ridiculous. Everyone else just keeps lying, lying, lying. I thought you might be the brave one. The one willing to tell me the truth.” Having delivered this eloquent and convincing argument, Ivy allowed herself the gherkin.

“This is nonsense, Ivy, and I don’t know how it got into your head.”

“Little pitchers have big ears. And grown-ups who drink don’t watch what they say.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vivian glanced longingly at her cigarettes, wrung her hands in her lap.

“Your friend at the airport? The one dressed up like Jackie Kennedy?”

“Elliot? She was drunk. And even when she isn’t, she’ll say just about anything for attention.” She slid open the desk drawer, dropped the pack of cigarettes into it, and shoved it closed.

“I know they’re not my real family. I’m not like them—not at all.”

“Every teenager feels different from their parents. It doesn’t make you special—it makes you normal.”

“Liars,” said Ivy, polishing off the sandwich. “Every single one of you.”

The next day, while Vivian was at work, Ivy searched the apartment.

In the desk drawer under the cigarettes, she found an envelope with her name on it and $200 inside.

She fanned out the bills on the desk, then put them back in the envelope.

She took a cigarette from the pack and put it between her index and middle fingers, pretended to take a drag.

She tucked the cigarette into her rucksack and returned the envelope to the desk drawer.

Vivian had assigned her some chores. It didn’t take long to tidy up the apartment, to shop and prep for their dinner.

If she worked carefully, Vivian might ask her to stay.

After dinner, Vivian flicked her lighter open and closed.

She glanced at the phone, and Ivy understood it was only a matter of time before Vivian called her parents and told them she was there.

That morning she’d tried to lure Ivy to the airfield.

To get her into her plane. There was no way Ivy was falling for that.

She was about to try again to get her “aunt” to tell her the truth when the phone rang.

Vivian lunged for it, and Ivy prayed it wasn’t her mother.

It was a man—Ivy recognized a boyfriend call when she heard one.

While she talked to him, Vivian lit a cigarette as if she’d forgotten Ivy was there.

She had a life. And she didn’t want Ivy to be part of it.

She wasn’t going to claim her. Ivy’s eyes filled with hot tears.

She turned away from Vivian and swiped at them.

“Sorry,” said Vivian as she hung up. She opened the window and swished the cigarette smoke with her hand. “I’ll put it out.”

Ivy waited until Vivian began snoring to slide open the desk drawer and take the envelope.

She tiptoed out of the apartment and down the stairs.

Out on the street, she walked fast, pretending she knew where she was going.

In Enid the sidewalks were empty at night, but plenty of people were out and about in Houston.

Most of them men. She felt their eyes following her as she strode along.

She picked up her pace. Footsteps echoed in her wake, just well enough behind her that she couldn’t tell if she ought to be worried.

At the next corner, a cab stopped at a light.

Ivy practically jumped in front of it, waving her hand to flag it down, just as she’d seen people do in movies.

“The bus station, please,” said Ivy.

“You’re almost there,” said the driver. “Sure you wanna ride?” Looking back over her shoulder, she saw no sign of anyone trailing her, but she was certain she hadn’t imagined it. “Yes.”

The bus leaving the soonest was bound for New Orleans.

All she knew about New Orleans was that it was in Louisiana and that Newcomb College was there.

During Ivy and Ruth’s junior year, Aunt Helen kept talking up Newcomb College, urging the girls to apply.

But their mother hadn’t gone to college, not for long anyway.

Neither had Aunt Helen or Vivian or Grandma Adele.

Girls who wanted to go to college, in Ivy’s experience, were either squares or looking for a husband.

Ivy wasn’t the former and had no interest in the latter.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. You couldn’t go to college if you never graduated from high school.