The Life of Ivy Katz

Ivy's life is a bit of a soap opera. Her father left before she was born. Her teenage mother died giving birth to her; she was raised by her mother's best friend. When something happens that changes Ivy's life forever, she has to go to Camp Half-Blood. Will she ever know who her father is? --Sparrowsong 19:19, December 21, 2009 (UTC)

Chapter One
I was always the type of girl nothing very exciting or interesting ever happened to. I went to school. I had friends, boyfriends, and enemies. I got detention for slacking off, sleeping in class, being late, and pranking the teacher. Until I was fifteen, I was pretty normal.

It was Saturday. My favorite day of the week. I was doing the usual Saturday stuff - lazing around, playing video games, pigging out on ice cream, texting my friends, shoplifting, etc.

"You look a lot like your mom, Ivy," Hannah said.

I nodded.

"She had your same dark hair and brown eyes..." Hannah trailed off.

My mother died giving birth to me. Her name was Claire Katz, and she wasn't much older than I was now. Ever since then, her best friend (Hannah) always took care of me. She often pointed out that I looked like Claire. But strangely, she got sad and sometimes didn't even answer when I asked about her. She hates to talk about my father, too; she won't even tell me his name.

"Ivy, you have every right to hate your father," Hannah once said to me, when I was about nine or ten. "It's partly his fault that Claire died."

And I did hate my father. I didn't know him and probably never would, but I hated him for leaving my mother and I hated him for being the reason that I existed. I hated myself, too. I wish I never existed. If it weren't for me, Claire wouldn't have died. If anyone, it should have been me that died. Poor Claire. She was too young to be having a baby. She was just a kid, really. And now she is dead.

"I'm going to go out and garden, okay?" my godmother announced. "You know what to do if there's an emergency."

Those were Hannah's last words.

"Ivy, can I watch TV with you?" Amber asked.

Amber was Hannah's eleven-year-old daughter. Her father left before she was born, just like mine. It was easy to forget that we weren't real sisters.

"Sure," I replied, turning on Gossip Girl.

All of a sudden, we heard a piercing scream. We ran outside to see Hannah, lying in a pool of blood. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, her face was turning blue, and there were claw marks all over her body. And a huge wound in her chest. I could see her organs.

Amber screamed and started crying.

"Mom!" she wailed. "No!"

I gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, but it didn't help much. I was crying, too, for the first time in years.

Since our house was out in the country, we lived very close to the woods. That might have been where the animal that killed Hannah came from. What was it, though? A wolf? A bear? A coyote?

We buried Hannah by some trees and flowers. She would have liked that; she was always very outdoorsy and loved nature. On the gravestone I made for her, Amber and I wrote "R.I.P. Hannah Rebecca Mizrachi. Loving mother and friend. You will be missed. January 13, 1976 - June 1, 2009."

After we held an unofficial funeral for Hannah (the only guests being myself, Amber, and some wildlife), we went back to the house. My heart felt like a boulder.

This was awful. Hannah was a good woman. And she was only thirty-three. Who would do this to her, and why? I had a feeling it wasn't just some animal. Five minutes ago, she was alive, and now she was dead. I couldn't believe she was gone.

More hatred for my father burned in my veins. I could feel it, boiling in my blood and turning what was left of my heart to ice.

Yet another reason to hate him. He wasn't here to save Hannah. He should have died, not her. Just like how I should have died on May 7, 1994 instead of Claire.

"What are we going to do, Ivy?" whimpered Amber.

I hugged her.

"I don't know," I whispered. "I don't know. I...I guess we should run away now."

She nodded and wiped her eyes.

"Mom," she blubbered, packing her things.

I shoved my makeup bag into my backpack, along with clothes and food and everything I could think of that we would need. Just before we left, I also shoved a picture of Claire and Hannah into there. Claire looked just like me, only she was older and had a baby bump; she must have been pregnant with me. So young to have a child, and so young to die so horribly.

"Let's go," I said, taking Amber's hand in my own.