We bike home slowly, me following Ivy so I can keep an eye on her because she seems a bit wobbly. As soon as we’re in the driveway, she jumps off her bike and runs inside and starts throwing up in the downstairs bathroom. She’s still wearing her bike helmet. My dad is usually the one who has throw-up duty, but my parents aren’t home from work yet.

I go into the bathroom and rub her back. The smell of puke makes me gag.

“I feel so awful,” Ivy says just before she hurls again. “Boy, I didn’t chew very well. There are whole Skittles in there.”

“Gross!”

“Look!”

“Ivy, seriously, you’re going to make me throw up, too. How much junk did you eat?”

She takes a deep breath and hurls another loud, sloppy gush into the toilet.

“I lost track. Everyone put their stuff in the middle of Sam’s towel to share, and I was so hungry I ate most of it. They thought it was funny.”

“Micah didn’t stop you? He knows better than to let you do that.”

“He was too busy flirting with Sierra.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm.” She leans back on her heels and wipes her mouth with her hand. “I think I’m done.”

She reaches forward to flush and watches her half-digested treats swirl down the drain.

“I feel dizzy.”

“Just sit here for a minute.” I get her toothbrush from upstairs and bring her some water in her favorite tiger cup.

“I’m too big for that.”

“Since when?”

She shrugs.

“Just take a sip.”

“Ew, it tastes weird.”

“Water always tastes weird after you puke.”

“How come?”

“I have no idea. Brush your teeth and you’ll feel better and the water won’t taste gross.”

I help her up, and she brushes her teeth.

“Turn around and let me get that helmet off you,” I say.

“I can do it,” Ivy says, reaching to unhook the strap. Sometimes she seems like such a tiny kid, and other times, I can see that soon she won’t be.

“C’mon, I’ll set you up on the couch and you can watch SpongeBob,” I say.

“I’ve outgrown it, remember?”

“Whatever.” I find her pillow and a blanket and her tiger cup. The pillow is this old ratty thing my grandmother made as a housewarming gift when my parents moved here. It used to be white, but now it’s more “grime,” with soft red letters embroidered on it that say Home Is Where the Heart Is. When Ivy was a baby, she used to rub the letters with her fingers to help her fall asleep. Now, it’s “her” pillow whenever we sit on the couch. It’s also kind of disgusting, so no one else wants to touch it anyway.

We decide to change things up and put in an old Scooby-Doo DVD.