The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2)

by Lauren Campbell

  I slouch against the tree, my head slamming repeatedly against it in frustration as I decide I’m being watched. I run my hands over my face. Dial Jared.

  After a few rings … “What’s up?”

  “I need you to come over. Right now.”

  “The hell happened to you?” he asks when I open the door, holding a mug of coffee for him.

  I look at my knees, dark from the dirt. “Yard work. I was pulling weeds.”

  “Did you pull them with your teeth?” He takes the coffee.

  My eyes roll as I realize I must have dirt on my face, too. “Funny.”

  We grab croissants from the kitchen, and carry them to the stone patio out back. Lucy gallops away to maul a baseball in the yard. I pick at my food, and Jared listens patiently, inhaling his croissant as I tell him about the car and how it has shown up twice in such a short time.

  “Well,” he says, popping the last bite of bread into his mouth, “just my opinion, but you didn’t even see the person in it, so how do you know they weren’t looking in another direction? They could be watching someone else. They could be watching no one. They could just be scoping the area because they’re interested in buying a house nearby.”

  “So, you think I’m paranoid?”

  “Bingo. Stop worrying.”

  I suck in a deep breath, and exhale as I absorb his advice. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “I am. By the way, tell me about your date. Give me the scoop.”

  Lucy growls at her ball as she attempts to shred it in the distance. I put my feet up on the chair next to me. “I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

  “Uh oh. That bad, huh?”

  “No!” I snap. “Okay, to be honest, I don’t know.”

  “I’m intrigued. Spill, woman.”

  I roll my eyes. Tell him about our night, leaving out Brooks’s name, and that he initially came over to play Mr. Handyman. “And when he was leaving, he said it was good ‘catching up,’” My fingers curl into bunny ears. “Hasn’t texted or called since.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Bad?” I grimace, preparing for the worst.

  He reaches across the table and swipes my half-eaten croissant. “Not necessarily. Maybe he’s busy, or even dead. I can’t imagine him not wanting to see you again.”

  “Or it could be because it’s complicated.”

  “How so?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Fuck, it’s not Deacon, is it? You seeing him again?” He glowers at me, and I shrink in my chair.

  Lucy appears and nudges me, the baseball slobbery between her teeth. I pat my lap, and she jumps up and settles down. At almost six months old, she’s big, but still small enough not to completely crush me. “Good girl,” I say, my fingers running through her hair.

  “Emily...” Jared coaxes. “Is it Deacon? Or that weirdo who chatted you up in Target the other week? I honestly don’t know which would be worse.”

  I shake my head. “No, neither of them.”

  “Then who? Come on, you know you can talk to me.”

  “Fine.” I stand Lucy up, holding her under her front legs, hiding behind her cuteness, and hoping it quells any potential lecture. “Brooks.”

  “Brooks,” he whispers. “Shut the fuck up! Wacko Eliza’s Brooks?”

  I release Lucy. Scoop up the baseball that she’d dropped to the patio and throw it into the yard for her to fetch. “He isn’t Eliza’s Brooks anymore. He’s a free man.”

  Jared shrugs. “I guess that’s fair. How’d you two hook up?”

  “Saw him in the park the other morning. Just happened.”

  “Interesting. Well, personally I think you should stay away from him. I don’t think anything positive can come from that situation.”

  My nostrils flare, my lips pressing into a hard line.

  “Or not … I mean, if that’s what you want to do, you’re going to do it anyway. You’re stubborn.”

  I smile. “So, do you think there’s any hope?”

  He bites his lip. “I don’t know. I guess with the history between you, he wouldn’t have taken you to the bar if he wasn’t interested.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I mean, probably.” He stands. “I gotta run. Gotta get to the gym before noon.”

  I smile. “Thanks for coming.”

  He kisses my cheek and squeezes my shoulder before disappearing into the house. I open my phone. Despite knowing nothing will be there, my disappointment increases at the absence of a missed call or a text. But what the fuck have I gone through all this for if I’m not willing to suck it up and contact him?

  I take a deep breath, my fingers trembling over his name in my text list. I press it. Hesitate before typing anything. Lucy licks at my leg, her tongue lapping against the dirt particles still stuck to my skin. “Go,” I command her. “Get!”

  She sprints for the grass. I crack my knuckles, and take a deep breath. Put on my big girl panties, and hope they fucking fit.

  Deacon hovers over his club, his eyes squinted in concentration. He adjusts his grip, draws back slowly, and explodes through the swing. He holds his pose as if that will somehow magically guide his ball back on trajectory. The ball hits the back of the green, releases, and rolls into the rough. “Fuck!” he shouts, striking the club against the ground. He paces, then wipes the sweat from his brow.

  We hop in the golf cart and zoom down the fairway. When we come to a stop, Deacon grabs a hat and puts it on, then carries his club over to his ball.

  “If I make this shot, you’re buying lunch,” he says.

  His mouth curls into a smirk, face turning red with focus as he adjusts his grip. Finally, he raises his club a bit, a slow whoosh before it connects with the ball, which then rolls quickly across the green. The thud and subsequent spin inside the cup precede Deacon’s raised fist and single jump in the air.

  “Yes! That’s what I’m talkin’ bout, baby!” He slams the club on the ground in excitement.

  “Nice shot. Ramen sound good?”

  “Fuck you,” he says.

  I walk to my ball, which sits only a few inches from the cup, as Deacon gets back in the cart. I hit it lightly, knocking it in.

  “Dude, your phone rang,” Deacon yells.

  I cross the green, my shirt sticking to me because I am drenched. I sit in the passenger seat, grateful for the excuse to be in the shade, and he reaches in the back of the cart and grabs a couple beers. I swipe my phone off the seat, routinely holding my thumb over the home button to unlock it before my brain processes the alert of a missed call from Emily. Emily. Fuck. One glaring unread text, too, but it doesn’t mean it’s from her. I rotate my shoulder a bit so Deacon doesn’t have a front-row view of my screen.

  Totally just butt-dialed you. Sorry.

  I swallow the swelling lump in my throat before locking the phone and shoving it in my pocket.

  “Was it the realtor?”

  “Uh, yeah. Gonna meet up later.” Deacon and I are going in together for a lake house—somewhere we can take off for the weekends and forget the bullshit without worrying about renting. My parents’ properties in Myrtle Beach and Florida are only a plane ride away, but flying is a pain in the ass for a weekend trip.

  “Cool. What time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know yet. She’s gonna get back to me.”

  “The one with the private dock? Or Steep Driveway House?”

  I crack open my beer and gulp down half of it, trying to come up with a topic of distraction when my phone chimes and vibrates—another text, fuck. “Yeah, the private dock.”

  He laughs. “Well, I need to know if we’re meeting so I keep the day open.” He gets out of the cart. “Be right back. Gotta piss.”

  I drink the rest of my beer as I watch him climb the hill, and then open my phone again.

  Her text says: Anyway, hope you’re having a good weekend :)

  I stare at her words, unsure if I should reply. What was I thinking—rea
lly—when I had dinner with her. I liked touching her a little too much at Nelly’s when I helped her out of the booth. I wanted to fuck her. I was honestly thankful for Kate’s interrupting text when Emily invited me to come inside her house. It isn’t like it has been four years since she dated Deacon, for fuck’s sake. It has only been four months. A connection with her probably isn’t worth losing a friendship. That type of thing never works out. Sounds like a steep, uphill battle—one I am not ready to fight.

  But I don’t want to be a dick. So, I text her back.

  Golfing. Killing it. And against my better judgment, I add, How about you?

  Deacon trudges down the hill now as a typing bubble appears, indicating she’s responding. My eyes dart from my phone to Deacon.

  Have fun! I just worked out. Getting in the shower.

  The Jaws theme song seems to play in my ears as Deacon is a mere twenty or thirty feet away now. The shower. Mmm, fuck. What I wouldn’t give to see that.

  I grit my teeth as my fingers betray me. Nice :)

  I ordered a pizza as we left the country club, and am surprised to see the delivery guy as we pull toward my gate, repeatedly punching the call button. I get out of the car and walk up to his window.

  “Sorry, man. Didn’t expect you to get here so fast.”

  His silence and the roll of his eyes tell me what he’s thinking. Generously, I hold out a twenty for him, and he snatches it from my hand before practically shoving the pizza box at me and backing out.

  Inside, Deacon and I binge and reload on the booze, exhausted and parched from four hours of being in the sun.

  “Mind if I save the last slice for Janie?” He motions toward the box.

  “She can’t eat fucking pizza, man. She’s a dog.”

  “Pfft. She had some two days ago, and she was fine.” He holds up a finger, shaking his hand. “Though, she did shit on my favorite rug.”

  “Well, I hope it left a stain. How’s she been otherwise?” I haven’t seen my dog in two weeks. I try to visit, but not too often. The last thing I want to do is confuse her. I miss her, but it wasn’t fair to her when I was paralyzed with grief and staying drunk in bed all day. Now, it’s just half the day. Deacon is still grieving, too, except he gets up and does shit, some of it a little shocking, but it is probably better than staying in bed watching reruns of Friends.

  “Awesome, as usual, but dude—the hair. This week I found it in my butter … that was in my fridge. My damn butter.”

  I laugh. “You’ll be finding it for months after she’s gone. Maybe years.”

  “You ready to get her back?” I can’t figure out if his question is one of hope or worry.

  “Not quite. Maybe another month, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine with me, dude. She’s a cool bitch.” He puts his plate on the coffee table and leans back into the couch, closing his eyes.

  “What about you, though? I feel like I haven’t asked you how you’re doing in a while.”

  He speaks to me with his eyes closed. Shrugs. “Still a little fucked up.” After a minute, he sits up and walks over to where we left the cooler after bringing it inside. He pulls a beer from it, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “You okay?” No response. “Sorry I asked, man. I know it’s rough.”

  “It’s cool.” A long pause. “It’s me who fucked shit up. I guess that’s why I’m still not over it. I still regret blowing her off for something that had already failed.”

  Shit. He’s more gutted over Emily than Kara. One more reason to feel guilty. Jesus.

  “Anyway, it is what it is.” He turns, facing away from me now. “Hey, the girl Eliza got pissed about made that for you, right?”

  “What?”

  “The panda thing.” His finger points toward the framed sketch on my bookshelf. “The night we all went to dinner and you two got into it after Emily asked you about your first love.”

  “Oh.” I walk over and pick it up, the innumerable pencil strokes delicately and perfectly forming three pandas surrounded by bamboo. “Yeah. Same girl.”

  “Sounded pretty dramatic.”

  “It was.”

  “What happened?”

  I bite my lip and set down the picture, thoughts of Ivy winding through my mind. “It’s a long story.”

  August 1998

  We exit the office, and my mom smooths my shirt. “Have a good day, sweetie. New school, fresh start.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She hugs me before fixing my hair. “All the girls are going to go crazy over you. Have I told you lately that you’re handsome?”

  I shake my head and smile. “Twenty times a day.”

  “Call me if you need me.” She passes me my schedule. “Good luck, honey.” With that, she turns, her heels clicking against the tile as she heads for the front doors, bracelet jingling as she swings her arms in that stuck-up way she sometimes does.

  I glance at the paper. First period is Archibald, room 201. Once I find it, I knock. The teacher is expecting me, the secretary had said. He opens the door—chubby and … bald, just like his name. Funny. And he’s wearing a thick sweater, and it’s Georgia, and it’s August.

  “Brooke Jansen, right?” he whispers, his breath reeking of eggs and onions.

  “Brooks, sir,” I reply, tucking the schedule into my back pocket and breathing through my mouth.

  He clears his throat and walks to the middle of the classroom. So many kids. I feel a little bit sick. “Class,” he says, approaching the front row. “We have a new student today. I want everyone to make him feel comfortable and welcome here at J. Stewart.”

  Great, now I’m really embarrassed, I think, as he motions toward me. The kids start whispering to each other as I step closer to him. Everyone is staring at me, but whatever. I got this. So what, I’m new? Big deal.

  Mr. Archibald bends down to whisper to me again. It’s really weird how he keeps doing that. “Go on and introduce yourself to the class.”

  I don’t want to, but it’s not like I have a choice. I move even closer to the desks and decide to pretend I’m only talking to myself. “Hi, guys. My name is Brooks Jansen, and I’m new here.” I smile.

  “Tell us where you’re from, Brooks,” Mr. Archibald says, “and what types of things you like to do, so we can all get to know you better.”

  “Oh, I’m from here—Atlanta. I’m just new at J. Stewart. I like playing football.” I shrug and look back at the class again. Everyone is still staring at me. The boys don’t seem to care much, but most of the girls have that weird kind of smile they get when they like you … or, me.

  Mr. Archibald tells everyone to take turns introducing themselves to me now, instructing them to go by row, and I half-listen as each kid says their name and something they like or like doing. I think it’s over, but I missed the girl shrinking in her seat at the back of the room. She’s staring blankly at me, mouth half-open.

  “Ivy?” the teacher says loudly.

  “Um...” she says, but then her mouth stops moving. She’s obviously nervous or something.

  “Ivy!” Mr. Archibald yells.

  I look up at him. The way he shouted her name sounded pretty mean, like he doesn’t like her. What a dick! I’m not supposed to say that word, but whatever. I can think it, because he is one. My head turns back to her, and I smile. She sits up straight, and I notice something—a big, faded stain on her shirt near the shoulder. And then I realize she isn’t wearing one of those hair bow thingies like the other girls, either. It’s hanging straight and messy, medium brown. I peek at one of her shoes, which is jutted out in the aisle. It’s white, but not bright white. Dirty and old. She’s different, not like the other students in the room. She’s … poor.

  Just like I used to be.

  Her eyes are stuck to mine. They’re dark, but I can’t tell what color from this far away. I feel naked, like she knows I used to be poor, too, but I think she just—

  “Ivy,” she says, her voice shaking like she’s
scared of Mr. Archibald, or like maybe she doesn’t wanna talk to me. “My name is Ivy. Ivy Hobbs. I like … I like school.”

  Everyone laughs. Some stop after a couple seconds, and some keep going. I smile because I don’t know what else to do. I have to find a desk to sit in, and there are three I can pick from. One is right next to her. I walk to the back and sit down in it—next to Ivy. These kids all seem like jerks, and she looks lonely. Or maybe she is the jerk and hates everyone, and that’s why she doesn’t talk. I can’t help but stare at her as I set my backpack down on the floor.

  She’s been looking down at her paper, but now her eyes turn to me. My mouth turns up in a grin, and hers does, too, but then it disappears, and twists into something else. Anger? Do I gross her out? I don’t know what I could have done.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” I whisper.

  She turns to me, her eyes big now. “Nothing. Forgot my homework.”

  “Sorry. Homework sucks.”

  “Yeah,” she says back, and then she reaches into her backpack.

  I swear I think she just balled up her homework, but maybe not. Or maybe she did. She seems nice, but she is kind of weird. Maybe she just … likes me? Maybe that’s why she was looking at me and couldn’t get her words out. Mom said that’s what some girls do—get all embarrassed and shy when they like someone.

  The girl—Ivy—is tapping her pencil on her notebook paper, and I spy something familiar on it.

  I point to her notebook. “Did you draw that?”

  “No!” She rips out the page, and shoves it in the back of the book.

  I jerk it from her desk before I really think about what I’m doing. She looks at me, the notebook clutched in my hand. Her eyes glare at me for a second. She looks mad—really mad. I smile at her like I’m sorry, because I am. I didn’t mean to make her mad. She smiles back—whew!—and I jiggle the notebook until the paper falls out. The page floats down to the floor, blank side up. She lunges for it, but my hand gets there first, and then our eyes are glued together, the paper in my hand, and hers empty. She smells good, like that cherry-almond shampoo my brother’s girlfriend uses. Her eyes are, like … whoa. They’re deep blue, like the water at Myrtle Beach. They’re the prettiest ones I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m only twelve, so it’s not like I’ve seen a billion, but they’re the best. The rest of her face is pretty, too. Not like the normal pretty girl or what a lot of other guys would say was pretty, but a unique kind. A shy kind.