It shows the two of us hugging like crazy, beaming at the camera. For a moment, I’m there, Callie’s hair splashing in my face, the smell of her shampoo and raspberry lip balm. Callie’s dad took the shot just before we went for that walk.
I say, “God, we’re gorgeous.”
“Whatever.” She smiles, though.
I show her a different photo of the two of us sunbathing in her yard, and say, “Your hair looks good your original colour, you know.”
“You sound like my dad. I like it like this.”
“At least let me paint your nails over.”
“What, you don’t like dark blue?”
“I like the colour but it’s chipped.”
“Now you really do sound like my dad.” Callie looks out the window. “You can see my front door from here. Look, there’s Mom and Cosmo. They’re going for coffee with these baby twins. Mom’s really into the whole baby thing.”
“Is she?” I glance out. Her mom is pushing a stroller down the street, facing away from us. She walks like Callie—slightly stiffly, her shoulders up. She never liked me. She writes about love and compassion in her picture books, but I never saw much evidence of that. Maybe this time around I can convince her I’m a good person. I say, “What’s Cosmo like? I wanna meet him.”
“I dunno. He cries a lot.”
“If you won’t let me paint your nails, at least stop staring out the window and help me with this, will you?”
Callie stands beside me as we wrestle an extra clothing rod into the wardrobe. Once it’s in place, we hang my dresses. She bends over to start unpacking the last of my gigantic suitcases and pulls out a dress with tiny straps. “Wow,” she says. “It’s like a spiderweb. Is it silk?”
“That old thing? Have it. I never wear it anymore. I wear white. Can’t you tell?” I glance at the row of dresses we’ve just hung. All of them are white or cream.
“Really, I could have it? It’s beautiful.”
“Stuff weighs you down, right? Time to start over.”
Callie says, “You sound a little sad.”
My left shoulder lifts and drops. “Sorta.”
“Come on, you can trust me,” she says. “You know that.”
“I was in love with this guy in Kansas City.”
Something opens in me, like a hole where a tooth used to be. I probe it and feel the absence.
She says, “Kansas Pearl? You lived in Kansas City, then?”
“That’s where we were for the last year. Before that, San Francisco—Mom even tried to fire it up with my dad. Online. Just for a few months. You can imagine how that worked out.”
“Not good?”
“We don’t have to pretend.”
“Don’t we?” Callie suddenly won’t catch my eye.
“You never told, right?” I say. “Not Kevin? Not even your mom?”
“Course not.”
“I knew you probably hadn’t told Kevin or he wouldn’t have us back.” Callie was always loyal—you can see it in her, like you can in a horse. I mean that in the best way—a fine, loyal horse. It makes me want to do something for her, like fix her hair, or get her some decent clothes. There aren’t so many loyal people on this earth.
“Are you happy to be in Edenville?” she asks.
“I didn’t want to leave Kansas. Understatement. I—” I touch my chest, over my heart. “Can we change the subject? Why don’t you try the dress on? Then we could go to a bar tonight or something.”
She laughs. “Ivy, we’re too young to get into a bar.”
“We look way older than sixteen. You’re telling me you haven’t been into a bar? What? Ever?” Now I know what I can do for Callie. She totally needs to get out more—her mom was always too controlling. I say, “We’re going to have so much fun.”
“I don’t know,” she protests weakly. She starts folding a towel she’s picked up from the floor.
“It’s summer vacation. You deserve this. Tell you what, I’m going to be your ticket to the best summer ever. Like it was supposed to be last time.” I pull off my dress and chuck it onto the floor.
“Okay, um …” She looks away.
Yep, she totally needs to loosen up. “Are you blushing?” I ask.
“Course.”
“You’ve seen it all before.”
“We’re not kids now.”
I shimmy across the room.
“Ivy!”
I giggle. “What?”
Callie smiles. “Nothing. Put some clothes on.”
“If you let me paint your nails. And if you promise to wear my silver dress—”
Her phone rings and cuts me off.
Callie
Mom’s calling. Whoops, I forgot to text her and I’ve been at Ivy’s house for ages.
She says, “I’m on my way home now.” Her voice is tight.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your granny fell off that dreadful step. I knew she would. The hospital called.”
“Hospital?”
“Your dad’s tied up, just for an hour. I need you to watch Cosmo—please, love.”
“Is Granny all right?”
Ivy pats a spot next to her on the bed and says softly, “You okay?”
Mom says, “Where are you? Aren’t you at home? Is that Rebecca?”
“I’ll be there in two minutes, don’t worry. How’s Granny?”
“She’s all right. I think. Shaken. Look, I’ll meet you at home right away.” Mom ends the call.
I sit next to Ivy, heavy suddenly. “My granny fell.”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so. But I have to go. I have to babysit Cosmo. I’ve never done that before.”
“A baby can’t be that hard to figure out. I’ll come help.”
“Um, I think Mom would prefer it if I …”
Ivy shuffles closer. “I understand. Family.”
I lean in to hug Ivy goodbye but she’s doing that European kissing thing. On the bed, we semi-hug but Ivy ends up kissing my hair. Awkward.
Then I’m out of there. I hurry down the back alleyway, the dust of summer on my sandalled feet, the dirt of the day grimy on my clothes and hair, the silky silver dress clutched in my hand.
The morning after Ivy walked back into my life, I’m awake early. Not that I really slept for worrying about Granny. I keep reminding myself that she was released from the hospital, so it can’t be too bad, and that Mom and I are going to see her after breakfast. A warm breeze drifts through my open window, lifting the curtain, as if the day is peeping in. The sky is already bright although it’s not even seven. I love the light in Edenville.
A line floats into my head. She asked you to stop by the river when the world cracked open like an egg. This happens to me all the time: words drift like bubbles in my mind, but I never write them down. I guess I feel like they’ll look different, stupid somehow, if I do. At least I can write stuff for Flat Earth Theory; non-fiction feels more straightforward, as if there’s a right way to do it. Mom’s always eager when I write for the zine, overexcited, over-proud. I know, poor me! I should be pleased she’s so interested in my writing but instead it makes me feel pressured to write something amazing, which makes my imagination curl up and die. A voice floats up outside my open window.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Wake up, wake up.”
I sit up and lean out the window. Ivy’s standing on the grassy median in the middle of our street. She’s wearing tight black shorts and an equally tight white workout top. No one else I know could make that look good. She’s jogging on the spot, waving up at me.
“Come on, Callie.”
“What are you doing awake so early?”
She yells, “Our first project is to get the weight off.”
I may not have Ivy’s fashion-model body, but still. “Um, no thanks.”
“Not you! Me! Paranoid much? But I need a jogging partner.” She keeps jogging lightly, moving from foot to foot as if the ground is too hot.
“You’re al
ready skinny.”
She spins and taps her slender butt. “Gotta keep it up. My thighs are huge!” She jogs in a little circle, then another, looking up at me after each one and smiling.
“You don’t need to lose weight, Ivy! Anyway, I’m not even out of bed.”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Come on.” She starts doing jumping jacks.
“Oh my God! The whole world will see.”
“Get up! Like now, or I’ll have to serenade you.”
I laugh. The breeze is fragrant with our neighbour’s roses, and some sort of happy-vibe hits me. “Okay. Why not? Give me ten minutes. Only, don’t sing!”
She sings, “When the saints go marching in …” One thing Ivy has never been able to do is carry a tune.
I duck away from the window and get out of bed. I don’t think I have any clothes that’ll remotely work for jogging, but Mom has one outfit for Zumba. I pad into her room to sneak it out of the drawer. She’s not in bed. I expect she’s tucked up with Cosmo in his room, which is painted with glorious, colourful fish. I hope she slept better than me, but I doubt it. Cosmo doesn’t exactly sleep. I slip out of my PJs, squeeze into Mom’s top and tug on the sweatpants.
I look at my parents’ unmade bed. I don’t have to wonder where Dad is. He works random hours to fit around Cosmo and Mom. I never know when he’ll be home from the university. Looks like his day started even earlier than mine. I check my phone. I’ll easily be back in time to go see Granny.
I slip on socks and my old sneakers. I look ridiculous.
Ivy sings loudly, “All things bright and beautiful, / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / GO JOGGING IN THE MORNING!’’
I have to go before she wakes Cosmo.
The first part of the jog is absolute torture. Within twenty paces I feel like my lungs might catch fire. I can’t get my breath. I try to keep up with Ivy, who’s bounding ahead like a graceful deer, the soft light making her look like the lead in a Hollywood movie, and making me feel like the overworked camera-dude who carries the heavy equipment. I slow down, but Ivy doesn’t seem to notice, so I force my aching legs to keep going. I check my phone, which has been bouncing around awkwardly in my pant pocket. We’ve been running for only four minutes and I’m going to die. Even when I go slower, the burning in my lungs gets worse and I feel a stabbing stitch.
“Ivy, stop,” I gasp.
She skips back and grabs my arm so I can’t collapse in a heap. She urges, “You’ve got to push past it. Keep running. At least keep walking. Trust me. Come on, we haven’t even started.”
She times us as we walk for two minutes, and then she encourages me to start jogging again. We go a little slower. This time, my lungs are okay, and although I’m really sweating I feel a bit more like I can handle it.
We alternate between walking and running, turning along streets I have never paid attention to, passing pretty clapboard houses I hardly remember seeing before. I feel like Odysseus travelling to exotic lands, and I wonder where the Lotus-Eaters are, or where the Cyclops lives. I’m a nerd.
Ivy interrupts my thoughts. “You’re doing really well.”
“My legs feel like jelly. How long do we run for?”
“Another minute, then we’ll walk. Think you can handle it?”
“I had no idea I was so out of shape. This is killing me. You okay?”
She shrugs one shoulder. It’s a gesture I remember perfectly. “Course. You’re not much competition.” She shoves me lightly.
“Yet. Give me a little time.”
Now she’s sailing ahead. “Just a bit longer. Nearly there. Nearly. Okay— NOW.”
She slows and I stop, bending over at the waist to suck in air.
“Start walking. It’ll feel better.”
I lift my head and obey. We’re in a neighbourhood that’s not far from my house, but because I’m normally in the car, speeding through, I’ve never really paid attention to the different coloured doors, the small mailbox decorated with boats, the tiny white dog who barks at us with surprising ferocity, the meticulous garden with its froth of lilies. It must be the endorphins, or whatever, because suddenly I’m high.
That’s when I see Kurt Hartnett coming out of an untidy yellow house, broken toys scattered in the front yard, a garbage bag lying unattended by the front door, one of the windows boarded up, the other semi-covered with what might be a pillowcase. He picks up the garbage bag, not noticing me; I’m glad because I’m a sweaty mess, my hair sticking up and yesterday’s mascara (mascara being the only makeup I ever wear) probably streaked down my face. I wonder why he’s here because Kurt doesn’t live close to me; he lives on a big fancy acreage just outside town.
Ivy nudges me in the ribs with her elbow. “He’s, like, cute.”
“You think so?”
Kurt is broad shouldered, fairly tall, with cropped hair and almost-black eyes. Rebecca doesn’t think he’s cute, not rugged enough for her. Tilly thinks he’s okay. I like the way he heads an editorial meeting, tapping his pen on the desk while waiting for us all to settle, then listening when someone has an idea, even if it sounds like a stupid one at first. I don’t know if I find him cute, though. I just think he’s cool. Today, he’s wearing a blue T-shirt, short sleeves rolled up, showing off his biceps, and I spot a tattoo. As we get closer, I see it’s Greek lettering: . I wonder what it means. His muscles tighten as he heaves the garbage bag into a Dumpster.
He sees us. We’re right near him on an empty street at really too-early o’clock. Also one of us is stunning and dressed in tight running clothes, her blonde hair luminous.
Kurt wipes his hands on his jeans and says, “You two look, yeah, energetic.” He adds, “Hey, did you email me the piece yet?” His voice is soft and deep, like the low notes of a cello.
I say, “I’m going over it one last time.”
“Perfectionist.”
Ivy nudges me, then fills the silence I’m creating. “You two”—she waves a hand in my direction—“know each other? Come on, introduce me!” She flicks her hair with one long, tanned finger, the nail obscenely pink. The way she’s looking at him, peering up through her eyelashes, it’s like he’s the only guy in the universe. He doesn’t stand a chance.
“This is Kurt Hartnett. He goes to Edenville High. Year above us.”
Ivy says, “I’m new around here.”
“I guess so,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
“So, what are the most fun things to do in town?” says Ivy.
“Depends what you find fun.”
“Good music, parties, the usual.” Ivy’s phone beeps. She untucks her phone from her bra and checks it.
Kurt says to me, “I’ll send you a couple edits on the scholarship article. I’ve got stuff to do, so we can’t meet later.” He glances at the rundown house, the tatty front yard. Then he says, “The board’s discussing it first week of August, even though it’s summer. You just know those douchebags—They’ll pass it while everyone’s looking the other way.”
“I knew that piece wasn’t quite ready. I should have waited to send it to you.”
“It’s great. Minor edits, that’s all.”
I wrote the piece on a wave of outrage. The scholarship program at our school gives a bursary to a kid who can’t afford to go on to university, someone who shows merit. Many of the students who’ve received it in the past have gone on to run their own businesses, work in government, teach; one of them even became a brain surgeon. The school wants to cut it because of “funding difficulties.”
I say, “First week of August?” I check my phone for the dates. “I’ll make sure I’m there. Do a follow-up.”
Ivy looks up from her phone and cries, “What piece? What are you guys even talking about?”
“Nothing. Come on, let’s go,” I say.
“It isn’t nothing. It’s big,” Kurt says. He turns to Ivy. “It’s an article for Flat Earth Theory.”
Ivy laughs. “Now I’m really confused.”<
br />
I say, “I’ll tell you later.”
“Hey, we’re going down to the lake tomorrow,” says Kurt. “My friend Xander and I are taking my boat out. We could pick you up.”
“You have a boat?” Ivy asks. She casts a puzzled eye over the house.
Kurt tenses, ever so slightly, but I’m not sure Ivy registers. He says, “Yeah. My dad grew up sailing. So, wanna come?”
I’m about to tell him that we can’t because my mom would never let me, no way, but Ivy speaks first and tells Kurt we’d totally love to. Then she gets his number, touches him lightly on the arm, tugs at me and starts jogging in a casual sexy way, looking as if she’s completely at ease. Which I guess she is. I follow, then glance back at Kurt, who’s shielding his eyes against the sun and watching us leave.
I call out, “Bye then.”
Ivy jogs back in my direction. “Come on,” she says.
Kurt nods slightly and goes into the house. I almost lose my footing on a rogue piece of sidewalk, and I twist around, flailing my arms and catching hold of Ivy before I fall.
She laughs and holds me up. “You okay?” She hugs me. “He’s, like, delicious. I love the subtle type. He’s so going to help me get over everything. You’re the best.”
When I get home, Mom’s standing in the kitchen, bleary eyed, with flushed cheeks. Cosmo is in his sling hanging off her like a bald koala, nuzzling gummy-mouthed into her shoulder, and the first thing she says is, “You should have left a note.”
My earlier buzz of pleasure is replaced by post-jog irritation. I say, “I didn’t think you’d notice I’d gone.”
Mom stops slicing the bread and deliberately puts down the knife. “Callie, stop.” It’s code for me to backtrack and gives me an easy out, but I’m not in the mood for an easy out. She adds, “I need to know where you are.”
“I’m not a preschooler.”
Cosmo must sense the tension. He squirms, then yells out, getting red in the face and arching his back, struggling within the soft material of the sling. I look at him, wondering, as I’ve wondered before, how it’s possible that this tiny, grouchy, colicky creature could be related to me. It’s hard to imagine myself as a baby like this, although the photos show I looked almost exactly like him at three months old.
The Death of Us Page 2