The Understory Read Online Free Page B

a picture of a little yellow chick, dirty and covered with hatchling droppings, and the words, A Little Birdie Told Me Your Life’s in the Crapper . . .
    And when Ivy opened the card, it said, Don’t worry. “Life is only a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
    Ivy Powers stared at Story, and let out an irritated sigh.
    Story chewed the last bit of her blueberry bagel and said, “It’s Shakespeare, Boss.”
    “It’s depressing.” Ivy stared her down. “And don’t call me that,” she said, still staring. “Please.” And then Story heard Ivy speak again. “Such ugly words,” she mumbled, “from such pretty lips.”
    Though Ivy had turned down the Life’s A Craphshoot series, Story knew someone in the printing department (a lady who had handed Story toilet paper from the third stall a couple of weeks prior), and so, unbeknownst to her boss, Story had already had each card in her ten-card series printed up with crisp, matching envelopes, and decided to carry them with her as a small victory, proof that sticking it to the man (or woman) provided savory retribution.
    Before exiting the cubicle, Ivy asked, with folded arms and a forced Monday morning smile, “How’s the Grief and Loss series coming along?”
    “It’s hilarious, Boss,” Story said. “Know anything that rhymes with condolences ?”
    “Less than a week,” Ivy reminded her as she waved her makeshift wand—a bright yellow happy face on a stick—and made her way toward her next victim. Ivy often got nervous when deadlines drew near, but Story knew it didn’t matter if she had one week or three months—she was beginning to take less and less pleasure in other people’s grief.
    The moment Ivy left, the phone rang, and as soon as Story picked it up, the other authority figure in Story’s life said, “Darling, is this a bad time?”
    “Actually, Mom, I’m kind of in the middle—”
    “Great. Look, I expect you to . . .” She stopped herself and rephrased, but not before a long, irritated sigh. “I mean, I’d really love it if you could attend my gala party this Wednesday.”
    Story wanted to point out that using both “gala” and “party” was redundant, but remembering that her mother thrived on being redundant, she decided to let it go.
    After a pause, Beverly Easton, the woman who gave birth to Story, said, “You do remember about the anniversary party, right?”
    “Of course, Mom. It’s the anniversary of you embracing your . . . greatness. What’s it been? Fifteen years?” And after a snicker, she added, “Forever?”
    But Story knew her mother was talking about another anniversary. Her mother’s twenty-year-old company, Socra-Tots®, a little operation once run out of Beverly’s basement, had become a household name, the end-all-be-all of early childhood educational products. The company, which was now a mega-corporation, peddled books, DVDs, CDs, and toys, and was rooted in finding clear, concise answers to lofty questions by way of Socrates himself. All products employed the Socratic Method, a model which focused on asking sharp, pointed questions like “What do you mean by that?” and “How do you know?” to promote discussion and debate.
    “What do you mean by that?” Story’s mother asked, as she had so many times before. Silence filled the next five seconds, but Story continued to conjure up the questions she’d heard since childhood. What do you mean by “The doggie is sad”? How do you know the zebra is black and white? What makes you think the sun is hot?
    “Look, Mom, I’m not sure it’s a good idea I come. I’m hardly the poster child for what a Socra-Tot should be when she grows up.”
    Calmly, her mother said, “How do you know ?”
    “Ugh!”
    “Okay, no more questions,” her mother promised. “Okay?”
    “That’s a question.”
    Another sigh. “How will it look if my only daughter doesn’t show up to help me celebrate my life’s greatest