August 1998
“Psst,” Travis, a redheaded, freckled boy says. His arm dangles over the middle of the aisle, a folded piece of paper clutched in his near-translucent fingers.
I look to the front of the room at Mr. Archibald. Tire belly pressing uncomfortably against the desk. Eyes fixed on a stack of papers he’s grading. A difficult teacher, he loves drawing big red X’s over anything and everything. One time, after scratching through the first answer I’d given on a test, he simply gave it back to me with a gargantuan X over the entire thing.
Hesitant, I take the note from Travis and unfold it.
You have really pretty eyes, it says.
I cut my eyes to him and stare at him blankly. We’re friendly, but I’d never expect this type of note from him. His eyes widen. “It’s not from me!” he whispers roughly, motioning past himself with his thumb.
Leaning over my desk, looking past the mop of red curls and mosaic of freckles, my eyes settle on Brooks, who had to switch seats because Mr. Archibald said we talk too much. His face is flushed, and I worry my own face is red.
The bell rings, the shriek of it causing me to jump. Brooks is out the door before I can even finish putting my things into my backpack. I sigh, wondering if he really does like me or if it’s some kind of joke. Boys can be weird, and no one has ever liked me before. I don’t think. I’m not popular, and that’s what boys like. Why would he like me, anyway? Some of the girls in our class are really pretty. Their moms do their hair every morning. Their clothes always match. They’re name brand. Brooks and I have talked a lot since he started going here last week, but … maybe he’s just really nice. Or maybe he’s gay. Or—
“Ivy!” Brooks tugs on my arm after I step into the hallway.
I spin around, and I realize how amazing his eyes are. “Hey.”
“You wanna sit together at lunch?” He shakes the hair out of his eyes. He looks embarrassed.
He likes me. Brooks Jansen likes me! “Sure.”
Our arms stay connected on our trek to the lunchroom, and his flesh touching my flesh gives me goosebumps. Then, his hand reaches for mine, and it doesn’t let go. It’s the warmest, bestest hand I’ve ever felt in my life, and I get those butterfly things again.
“Oh!” Letting go of his hand, I pull my backpack to my side and unzip it. “I almost forgot.” I pluck a piece of paper from inside and pass it to him.
Brooks takes the paper, staring at the pencil-drawn panda surrounded by babies. “Wow,” he finally says. “This is so cool. How long did it take you to draw this?”
“Not long,” I fib. In reality, it took around six hours, which was way longer than it would have taken had I drawn it for myself. Since it was for him, I wanted it to be perfect.
“I love it. Wow. You’re so creative.” His mouth curls into a smile as we reach the cafeteria doors.
I blush. He stops, sandwiching the drawing carefully between two pages in his Social Studies book before plunging it into his backpack. Over lunch he asks a bazillion questions about my skills: when I started drawing, did I practice a lot or is it just natural talent. For the first time, I feel like I’m special. Like I’m not just any other kid. For the first time, I like a boy. And he likes me back.
Later at home, I write Ivy and Brooks Forever all over my notebook. I daydream about him, wondering if maybe one day we can travel to Chengdu and hold pandas together.
September 19, 2015
Eliza and I wake, and Brooks and Deacon are gone.
Where are you? she texts him.
He replies. Deacon couldn’t sleep. Fucked up over Kara. Took an Uber to my place.
She frowns before letting out an exaggerated sigh. She’s disappointed in him. It’s wonderful.
We walk to The Flying Biscuit, and order more food than we could comfortably eat, but she needs grease to settle her stomach, she says.
She smacks loudly after the plates come, ignoring all the manners she probably learned in the etiquette school she probably went to. “I can’t believe he just left like that. It’s so rude. Fuck Deacon and his problems. He’s a big boy,” she says. “This is when they start doing shit like this … after they put a ring on it, after they get you.”
I want to say that she’s the one who got him, that he’s the prize, and I want to tell her about her clingy tentacles. But I opt for slow sabotage. “It is kind of messed up. He could have at least left a note. Something.”
“Exactly! This is why I love you. You get it.” Her phone rings, and she rolls her eyes before saying, “Hey, Mom!”
I wish my mom could call me. I wish she wasn’t just a skeleton in a casket six feet underground.
“Mom, you can’t be serious! What—” A pause. “But it’s too late. What about—” She hangs up a minute later, upset.
“What’s wrong?” I nod yes to the waitress who asks if I want a refill of my orange juice.
“The wedding,” she says. Her face grows almost as red as that day we ran together. It’s a red balloon on the verge of popping. “My parents are making me move up the date.”
Something goes wrong as I’m taking a sip of my juice. I feel it pooling in my throat, trying to invade my lungs, and it sends me into a violent coughing fit.
“Shit, Em. Are you okay?” She starts to stand, prepared to whack me on the back, but the juice clears, and I nod that I’m fine.
“Went down the wrong pipe,” I say, desperately fighting the urge to cough again. “When’s the new date?”
“The week after Thanksgiving.” Her forehead falls dramatically to the table. She slams her fist next to her plate, and the salt shaker rattles.
Are her parents crazy? That’s only two months away! “What? Why?” I choke out.
“Because my sister is pregnant. She was due in February, but now the doctor wants to induce in January, just two days before the damn wedding. My mom is all like, ‘We don’t want to choose between you.’ They’re insisting on November so I still get the whole Colorado winter wedding thing, and ‘the whole family will already be together.’ We always get together around that time at a cabin we own there.”
She calls Brooks about it, and I hear him tell her the sooner he can marry her the better and to cheer up. Her posture gives away the fact that she’s softening and no longer mad at him. Not good.
I don’t bother trying to argue about how she can get her parents to change their minds, because there’s no way they will. A first grandchild is paramount to a second daughter’s wedding. This is falling apart. I just lost two months in the blink of an eye.
We finish our meal and ask for coffee. Eliza pours in enough sugar to turn it into coffee-flavored soda, and at this rate she’s never going to lose her skinny fat. I’m not as talkative as I was, and her mouth is a 1-800 number that won’t shut up and let you skip to the damn menu. I just keep going mmmhmm or uh huh. I have no idea what she’s saying, because all I can think about is how fucked I am and how little time I have and how I need to kill off Elliott. Fast. Like, today.
Eliza says we should go shopping for bathing suits and go for a swim at Brooks’s later. “Everything is cheaper since it’s almost fall,” she adds.
We finish our coffee and drive over to Phipps—a mall for the rich and pretentious—and go in Bebe. We both grab some bikinis to try on, and Eliza insists we go into the dressing room together so we can model them for each other. I don’t want her to get offended by saying no, so I oblige. She takes off her clothes, and her tits are smaller than mine were before I got the new set. She has more cellulite than I expected, too. Maybe Brooks isn’t that shallow after all. But she’s still beautiful. I can’t deny that. And I have to remember I had a little professional help, so I guess it’s not fair to compare. But damn it feels good. Her panties drop to the ground, but I don’t dare glance at her vagina. I wouldn’t be able to stomach seeing the disgusting place Brooks undoubtedly puts his mouth and thrusts his cock. That, and I’m not a lesbian, so what do I care if she has lunch meat or one of th
ose unicorn pussies you see in porn? Those neat little slits that only exist to make you hate your lunch meat.
I take off my clothes, too, and catch my reflection in the mirror, smiling involuntarily. My breasts are perfect. My spray tan looks great. She has to know I’m fair competition.
She pulls on her third suit before I can even get on my first one. She’s obviously had more shopping experience.
“What do you think about this one?” And it’s ugly, really ugly—an abstract mess of puke colors.
“It looks amazing on you,” I lie, and she decides on that one.
But she doesn’t take it off. Instead, she rips off the tag and stuffs them behind the mirror. Then, she proceeds to put her clothes back on over the puke suit.
“What are you doing?”
She smiles. “I spend a lot of money in here. I practically pay for Bebe to employ these people.” She shrugs, her hand motioning to the store area before grabbing for her shirt. “So sometimes I just … you know … treat myself.”
“Eliza...”
She snatches her purse from the hook on the door and spins around. Rolls her eyes at me. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t do it,” she says, slipping on her shoes.
“I don’t.” It’s true. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I don’t know why her confession and the brazenness of her actions surprise me. She stole Brooks, so why not a bathing suit? And then she cheated on him, anyway.
“Well, relax. They’re not even allowed to do anything about it here. It’s company policy. They can’t accuse anyone.”
I pay for my bathing suit, because I’m a good person, and then we drive in silence to the address she gave me for Brooks. He lives in a quaint blue cottage with an entry gate, and I key in the numbers she tells me. After we pull through the gate, she reaches over and blasts the horn obnoxiously. Brooks opens the door, shirtless and in jogging shorts. Deacon follows behind but is clothed.
Eliza jumps out of the car while I put it in park and shut the engine off. Before I can even get out, she’s jumped into Brooks’s arms and is shoving her tongue in his mouth. His hands are on her ass that is inferior to mine, and Deacon is looking at me, shrugging with a smile on his face. He’s actually really hot. His skin is that same caramel tan as Brooks’s, but his hair is slightly lighter—more of that golden-brown Brooks had when he was younger—and is curly. Long enough for a man-bun. His eyes are an enviable feline-green, and he’s baby-faced, whereas Brooks seems to prefer stubble.
“Okay, lovebirds,” Deacon says.
Brooks sets down Eliza, and she tries to reach his mouth for another kiss like an eager teenager. Her effort was in vain, because he smiles and tells her to stop.
“You ladies want some lunch?” Brooks asks.
“I could eat,” I say, even though I’m still full from breakfast. Eliza agrees.
We walk through his posh bachelor pad that screams modern sophistication, and exit onto his deck that overlooks a pool and hot tub. Deacon says he’ll grab the steaks and some veggies, and Brooks fires up the grill.
“Come on.” Eliza grabs my arm. “Let’s get our swimsuits on.”
We go in separate bathrooms this time, and I linger a while after struggling to tie my bikini. There’s not going to be a better opportunity, so I create a fake Google account and send myself an email.
Emily,
I don’t know how to say this. I got really drunk last night and did something I’m not proud of. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. You deserve the best. Plz don’t hate me.
-Elliott
I stare at myself in the mirror, screwing my face up into a mess of sadness. I let my mind soak up all the tragedies of the past … of Ivy’s past. I think about the day Brooks and I had to say goodbye to each other. About my dead parents. About how ugly I used to be and how much crap I was dealt because of it. About Brooks ending up with that bitch. Tears flow freely from my eyes, and I step onto the deck. Eliza asks what’s wrong. Brooks stops putting steaks on, and Deacon stops passing him steaks, both of their heads turning to me expectantly. I hold my phone out to Eliza. Her eyes move back and forth over the fake email, and then she hugs me like a good friend would. Except she can’t be a good friend, because she’s not a good person.
“Sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she says. Tears stream down my face as I cry for the Brooks I used to know—the Brooks I know he can be again. Fuck Eliza, because the only heartbreak she’s ever experienced was saying goodbye to her sidepiece.
“What’s happening?” Brooks asks.
“Elliott cheated,” she tells him. I’m glad this isn’t a real situation, because the idea of gentleness doesn’t even occur to her.
“I’m gonna get you a drink.” She nudges Brooks and whispers for him to make me feel better. She’s not a very good whisperer.
“Man, I’m sorry. What a dick.” Brooks steps gingerly toward me, and before I can comprehend what he’s about to do, his arms are around me, and I’m crying into his shoulder like I did before he moved away. I breathe him in, remembering this feeling like it was yesterday. I’m catapulted back to that day, back to the tear he shed, and then I realize I’m half-naked in his arms. I want to rip off this bathing suit and have him take me on the table.
Then another set of arms wrap around the both of us, and Deacon says, “Group hug!” Eliza steps out of the house and laughs, and then her arms are around us, too. They’re both pressing Brooks into me even more, and I swear I can feel his cock … and that it’s getting hard.
May 1999
Today is fifth grade graduation day. I’m sad I won’t get to spend as much time with Brooks, but I’ll still get to see him over the summer. Since my dad is the head janitor, he still has to come to work every day to keep up the building. Brooks said if my dad lets me come along with him that we can meet at the creek behind the building. And we can still talk on the phone every day like we do after school.
Our class sits together in the cafeteria, waiting for our names to be called, when Brooks taps me on the back from the row behind me. His eyes aren’t looking at me, and his usual smile is nowhere to be found.
“What is it?” I whisper. I know it must be bad, because his eyes look sad.
“We’re moving.” He frowns.
“What?” I gasp.
He nods, his eyes drooping. “My parents just told me.”
“When?”
“A few days, I think.”
“Will you still go here?” A frog is trying to climb my throat, and something stirs in my stomach, but it’s not butterflies this time. It’s … fear.
His blue eyes look darker than usual, like all the happiness has been vacuumed out. “We’re going to France.”
“Quiettt!” a girl whispers.
I ignore her. “France?!” But … he can’t move! I wrote Ivy Jansen in my notebook millions of times, and if he goes to France, I’ll never be Ivy Jansen for real!
I’m about to cry. I feel my lip trembling, and he must see it, because he rests a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t cry. I don’t want you to be sad. We’re coming back. It’s just for a year for my parents’ coffee business.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, but knowing he’ll be back doesn’t make me feel much better, because a year seems like forever. What will I do without him? He’s my best friend. My … my boyfriend. Who will I say good morning to every day? Who will I eat lunch with and play footsie with under the table? Who will help me with my sculptures and drawings in art class? Who will pass notes to me?
“Ivy!” Brooks nudges me. “They called your name.”
“Oh!” I dart from my seat and climb up the stage, taking my certificate from Dr. Williams. I flash a fake smile for my parents, my mom snapping a picture before they both wave goodbye because they have to get back to work.
I exit the stage, and then slouch against the wall of the cafeteria while I wait for Brooks to get his, except he doesn’t stop and smile for his parents. His eyes are empty. Face e
xpressionless. Shoulders slumped. He gallops down the stage, and after calling the rest of the kids’ names, Dr. Williams announces it’s time for yearbook signings. I don’t sign anyone’s but Brooks’s, because I’m too sad, and no one asked me to anyway. But I can only bring myself to write my name and Have a great summer. If I write anything else, I know I’ll start crying and never stop. I wait for him and watch as girls thrust their own yearbooks into his hands, and he signs them but keeps glancing my way.
“Here,” he says, bringing my yearbook back to me, but then his parents pull him away from me, and he follows them twenty or so feet away.
I open my yearbook, his signature one of the four it contains.
I will never forget U Ivy! Call me in France! Ivy & Brooks 4Ever! A long string of numbers follows after his signature, and he drew a little panda head beside it. It’s not very good, but it’s the best panda head ever because he drew it. I close the book and hold it close against my chest. I’ll call him every day.
It feels as if I’ve been waiting forever. He’s still talking to his parents, and now he’s starting to smile. I wonder what they said to him. I’ve never seen him smile so big. How can he be happy when he’s going away? How can he be happy when he may never see me again after today? How can he smile when it will be a whole year before he gets to come back?
He’s running over to me now, his parents looking at me before exchanging words with each other and shaking their heads, a reaction I don’t understand.
“Ivy! Ivy, Ivy, Ivy!” he says, reaching me and taking me by the hands. “We’re not going for another month!”
My cheeks hurt from the smile that spreads across my face, and I squeeze his fingers so hard that it hurts mine. “Really?”
“Yeah, really!” he says, shaking the hair out of his eyes.
He wraps his arms around me, hugging me as we jump up and down, and I wonder how I got so lucky.
September 19, 2015
The Evolution of Ivy: Poison Page 5