First We Were IV

by Alexandra Sirowy

  Her eyes flitted from our joined hands to my smile. “Hold on to this feeling, Izzie—the ‘we’re going to be in each other’s weddings, live next door and have a thousand cats, and celebrate holidays together’ rush.”

  I crinkled my brow. I liked but didn’t understand where she was going. She pried her hands free. “I failed at my first plan. I have another. More diabolical.” She was fraying the hem of her dress. I watched for a minute or two, until she looked up, determined, and said, “You promise you won’t stop loving me?”

  I pulled on a thread she’d been working to free; it began to unravel the hemline. “I promise.”

  “I recorded them telling us their secrets,” she whispered as one blast of dishonest air. Her eyes ticked to the armoire. “My cell was on top. At first I was doing it to keep us safe. Like if one of them betrayed us, we’d post their secret on the news blog. And maybe, maybe, a little of it was because I thought Amanda might say something I could use against her.”

  Viv had called trying to incite a fight between the girls for her first plan. But recording the secrets had come before the rebellions and rites. Mere days after homecoming. How hard had Viv really tried to make their group explode knowing the ace she kept in her back pocket?

  “But then Amanda’s confession,” she said. “Sex with Conner’s brother, right after Conner broke up with her, and while his dad creeped through the crack in the door. It’s . . .”

  “Gross. Awful,” I said.

  “Yes. Disastrous, too, if it got out.”

  “But Viv. That would be—”

  “Slut shaming. I know. I would never make a girl feel bad for having sex with whomever she wants. Really, I wouldn’t normally. But this is Amanda.” Her shaking hands appealed to me. “This girl has tried to ruin my life.”

  “Viv—this—it’s beneath you.”

  She wagged her head. “Maybe I’ll be doing her a favor? The secret is just as much Bowden and Sebastian Welsh’s. Everyone will know.”

  “Bowden lives at school. I guess it might get his dad in trouble, which he deserves. But when celebrity sex tapes come out, the guys get high fives and the girls get called names. That’s what you’re counting on. If people weren’t going to say nasty things about Amanda, it wouldn’t be worth doing. You’ve already thought it through.”

  She dropped her head, nodding. “I have.”

  “So why haven’t you done it yet?”

  She peeked at me, avoiding facing me head on. “If I post the video, even though I’ll do it anonymously, she’ll squeal about the Order because she’ll know it came from me. Maybe she’ll tell people all about the Order. Maybe only the parts she didn’t have a role in. But we’ve been signing all the rebellions—we go down for one, we go down for them all. Even the stuff we didn’t do, like the beach curfew signs and Harper’s car.”

  My mind raced. The Order wouldn’t just end. We’d be in trouble. Police trouble. Destruction of private property. Trespassing. Worse. My mind had wandered these avenues at night. The secrets we had on the initiates wouldn’t protect us if they were under duress—questioned by the police, cornered by a suspicious parent. I had settled on a solution: insurance.

  “She doesn’t have a death wish, figuratively speaking,” I said. “She won’t tell on us if it means taking herself down with us. We need proof that she’s involved, more than just us claiming it’s so. We can hang that over her head. She’d have to keep her mouth shut.” I stopped to collect my thoughts. “I’m not saying you should share her secret. It’s wrong. But I was already thinking about getting more leverage. We’re committing crimes. We aren’t safe unless Amanda and all of them believe their fates are tied to ours.”

  I scooted closer. “But promise me you’ll think about it more, Viv. Sharing a video of a girl talking about sex only to embarrass her and get kids to call her slutty makes you a certain kind of girl. That’s not who you want to be.”

  Her lashes brushed her cheeks for the barest second as she tipped forward, ashamed. I could see my eyes reflected in hers, the candle flame dancing in our breaths. There was nothing between us. She’d laid all her secrets bare.

  I went home soon after, angry at everyone in the world but Viv. Graham, Harry, and I should have anticipated how far she’d consider going to hurt Amanda. We should have sensed how hurt and reeling she was. I believed Viv would decide on her own not to shame Amanda.

  I knew Viv—didn’t I? Even at that late hour in October I experienced certainty in my bones. I knew her better than anyone, which I understand now is saying nothing at all.

  Retrieved from deleted data of Graham H. Averbach III’s cellular phone

  Transcript and notes prepared by Badge #821891

  Shared Media Folder Titled: IV, Wed., Oct. 23, 11:52 p.m.

  Video start.

  G. Averbach sits inside. Shelves of books at his back. “I’ll likely delete this once I’m done. Some things have to be said. You can’t hold them in.”

  He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just lied to you, Izzie. I texted you driving home from Trent’s. I said my theory was bunk. A lapse in judgment. Too embarrassing to share.” He points to his own face. “Liar.

  “My theory panned out. They usually do. You’d call me arrogant right about now. Yeah. I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not usually right.”

  He raised a glass, ice tinkling as he swirled it. “I’m going to pretend I’m talking right to you. Get it out. Delete it. Move on. Here is what I know, Izzie. Have you ever noticed Conner’s bruises? For the last year I’ve been noting a correlation between days he has physical injuries and days he goes after Harry. He had a split lip the last time he hassled him about his lunch tray. He walked with a limp the last time he shoulder-checked Harry in the halls. Yesterday, Conner had bruises across the knuckles of one hand and his lower lip was swollen, and despite our truce, he baited Harry. They almost went at each other. I suspect that Sebastian Welsh hits his son. I think Conner’s older brother used to go after him too. Conner didn’t used to be a bad kid. Played fair. Was kind of quiet. I theorize that’s before the abuse started. And now, feeling maligned and like the victim brings Conner’s mean streak out, and wham, he goes for Harry.

  “Sebastian Welsh.” He says the name slowly. “Abusive dick does not always a murderer make, I know. But then there was Conner’s secret. He ran away from home after his mom died. Camped up in the tunnel. And I got to thinking, didn’t his mom pass away in middle school? Wasn’t it at the end of sixth grade?”

  He sips his drink. “I loosened Trent up with my flask and got him talking about it. Really, he likes the sound of his own voice as much as I do. So Conner’s mom died one month before your Goldilocks, Izzie. Trent seemed to remember it was a few weeks after Conner’s mom’s death that Conner told him he was running away from home. Trent was a good friend, kept his mouth shut as long as he could, but when Sebastian Welsh finally noticed his younger son was gone, he bullied Trent into spilling. Sebastian went up the hill to find Conner. Trent wasn’t allowed to see him for weeks, had the naive idea that Conner was sick or something, needed to stay in bed. When Trent finally got to go over, Conner had some stories about a group of girls who babied him up there in the tunnel. Kept him for two days like their pet, fed him, dried his eyes when he cried about his mommy. Trent thought Conner was full of shit.

  “That’s what I know.” He slid his glasses back on. “Here’s what I suspect. Sebastian Welsh marched into that tunnel. He laid into twelve-year-old Conner with his fists. Goldilocks and her ilk saw. A couple days later, Goldilocks left at night, told the others she was going to the gas station because they’d try to stop her if they knew the truth. She was going to check on that poor little kid with the daddy who beat on him. Knows where he lives from spending all that time with him. She cuts through our neighborhood, maybe even makes it to Conner’s house to see if he’s okay. Sebastian Welsh chases her down in his German luxury vehicle. Hits her. Maybe he means to. Maybe he’s
just trying to scare her and he goes too far. Regardless, she’s got to die when the car doesn’t finish her off. She knows who he is. The rest, we all know.”

  He stares at the middle distance. A minute later he refocuses. “You don’t know how bad I want to tell you, Iz. Here’s your murderer. Your ultimate villain. But the other night, at my house, when you showed up all breathless and scheming, even without a plan fully formed, I saw it in your eyes. You’ll want to hurt this man who killed a girl. The Order has made it possible.

  “I’m afraid you will hurt him. I’m afraid you’ll go too far or I’ll go too far because I’ll know it’s what you want.” He shook his head. “I’m frightened you’ll get hurt or do something you can’t take back.”

  He drags a hand over his mouth.

  “You used to say there wasn’t a line with all our dares. I pushed you. You pushed me. You think I don’t look when I jump. Maybe not. But I always look where you’re going to land. And this is the line.”

  Video stop.

  28

  Look at that fascist,” Graham spat. One of the security golf cart squad deserted his vehicle to chase down a kid in a IV armband. During the first half of Wednesday’s lunch, we’d seen six other kids asked to shed apparel bearing the mark. Graham snapped a picture on his cell of the security goon hooking the kid by the neck of the T-shirt. “They’re just stoking the flames.”

  “Two kids were pulled out of first period and sent to the office,” I said, snapping the lid back onto my untouched salad. A pressure built deep in my stomach. Anticipation. Hunger. Not for food.

  “Armbands?” Harry asked.

  “No. IV in Wite-Out on their backpacks.” My eye snagged on Viv’s nails decorated with IVs. The school admin didn’t catch subtle clues. Her eyelashes made a slow drop, then snapped open as she shifted into a less comfortable position. I imagined she had stayed up late the night before, guilty and sad.

  “The squad burst into my second-period class and hauled Henry up from the seat like he was a criminal. Henry, from the Brass Bandits,” Graham said. “The kid’s never even gotten a warning for being late.”

  “Was he wearing a IV?” I asked.

  “Headband—commando style. I swear, that kid has spirit.”

  Harry’s brow became a ledge. “He come back?”

  “I saw him by the band room in between third and fourth. Get this.” Graham slapped his own knee. “They questioned him.”

  I dropped the laces of my sneaker I was in the middle of retying. “About what?”

  “What do you think?” He held up his hand, thumb folded in. “Full-on interrogation. Henry tried to explain it was a civil liberties issue; he wasn’t actually associated with IV, just you can’t outlaw wearing a Roman numeral and not expect people to cry foul.”

  “Poor Henry,” Viv said.

  “Poor all of them. They’re dragging everyone they catch with a IV in for questioning,” Graham said.

  “I heard they set up an interrogation room in one of the deserted portables near the tennis courts,” Viv said, fighting off a yawn.

  “What?” Harry said sharply.

  “Yeah. No joke.” She gave a weary smile.

  “Is that allowed? Questioning students without their parents?” I wondered.

  “If the police aren’t there and they’re asking about activities on campus. Actually”—Graham scratched his head and threw up his hand—“I don’t have a fucking clue. They’ll probably drag you in soon.” Wave to Harry. He elaborated, “Harry’s been writing about IV’s activities. Harry’s been interviewing people. He’s quoted anonymous sources. He’s one of the few people in the position to make an educated guess about IV’s identity. Of course, putting this all together would require the school admin to use reason. Not their anthem.”

  Viv blinked at him. “Anthem?”

  “It’s slang.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m just surprised you do.”

  Harry removed his headphones from his backpack. He stared down at his knuckles as they blanched and flexed around the plastic. His hands, the angry focus sharpening his eyes, the shift in his jaw, all made me think Harry was imagining strangling someone. “Let them question me,” he said, voice dead calm. “I’ve got some questions, too, like how come they didn’t question anyone when my dad was attacked on campus?”

  He yanked the headphones on. Tapped his phone to play his music. Graham and Viv went back and forth showing each other pictures of Driftwood and Landmark online. Popping up in their feeds were kids at school posting selfies: showing four fingers; donning IV on their T-shirts; video clips of snickered IV’s gonna get you, Seven Hills on a loop. The drone of Harry’s music was the distant clashing of pots and pans. Angry. Not what he usually listened to. The pressure in my stomach pulsed, taking up a little more volume. I had a bad feeling. Nothing like a hunch or premonition. No. A real hunch lay too far beyond my fingertips. A ghost had slipped in one ear and out the other. The echo of its whisper. Important. There are things happening around you. Don’t close your eyes.

  “We should sear IV into one of the hills,” Viv was saying.

  “Yes. Like a brand on the whole town,” Graham responded.

  Who knows why the authorities bothered outlawing IV. It was useless. Graffiti, trespassing, broken windows, and blood splashed on houses were in themselves acts against the law. Telling lawbreakers that they were guilty of one more minor offense, what did it matter? The adults in charge couldn’t fully comprehend that even if they outlawed the symbol from Seven Hills, it existed a hundredfold in everyone’s cells, laptops, and tablets. A space they couldn’t patrol. Seven Hills couldn’t strike IV from social media feeds and from our thoughts—I brushed my fingers along my T-shirt where my tattoo was—or our bodies.

  Harry’s phone buzzed where it sat on his backpack between us. My gaze cut down to read Amanda’s name on the screen. My stomach turned. I found her down in the courtyard. Hand hooked on the flagpole, hanging, other hand cupping her cell. The phone quit buzzing. Amanda slid her cell into the back pocket of her jeans.

  If she wanted to talk to us, why not mosey up like she had the lunch before? Unless it was not the four of us or a public conversation she wanted. I shook my head at myself. I was Isadora Anne Pendleton, creator of the Order of IV, an army of underlings at my beck and call. That fierce girl didn’t get jealous.

  “Lemme see.” I brushed Viv’s ankle. She crawled over, pressing her side to mine, scrolling through picture after picture on her cell, tiny little rebellions that we had inspired.

  • • •

  The day went gray. Graham and I hadn’t had a moment for just the two of us, so I’d texted him asking about the camera footage of the tunnel. He promised to run through what had recorded and to text me if he found anything of interest.

  On our way home from school, Graham’s elbows were on Harry’s dash as he scrutinized the clouds crowding the sky. Viv had stayed behind on campus for rehearsal.

  “I walked around the square late last night and bagel girl was right,” Graham said, “no cameras pointed on the knoll.”

  “You might not have seen them,” Harry said.

  “I hope you didn’t look like you were casing the knoll,” I said.

  Graham pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his noise. “I’d see the cameras. And no, I didn’t arouse suspicion. But I want to walk around once more. Drop me off.”

  “We can go around together,” Harry offered.

  “No,” Graham said, hastily gathering up the ever-growing library of books spilling from his bag, dropping a few of the titles, cursing under his breath. “I want to inspect the tracks again and plot our course for tomorrow night.” As he exited without a good-bye or wave, Ritual Madness was braced at his chest.

  “Beach?” Harry asked.

  “Definitely.”

  Harry and I walked along the beach to a spot unblemished by driftwood. He dropped to his knees and scooped out two craters side by side in the sand. We sa
t in them. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and ignored the throb in the injured one. It was on the verge of cold. The wind threw our hair forward and then off to the right in abrupt gusts. Harry’s arm went around my shoulders, shielding me. “I should have brought my portable record player,” he said, close to my ear.

  I wormed my cell from my pocket and balanced it on the top of my sneaker. “What do you want to listen to?”

  He didn’t say anything at first. I swiped through playlists for a long time. I didn’t have anything right. I’d never wanted romantic songs before. “You,” he said. I turned to him, confused. “I want to hear what you think about everything.”

  We lay back on the sand and I told him about how I used to want to be a professional singer, but that I’d always had a horrible singing voice, and I described my grandmother, my mom’s mom, who traveled all over the world and how I didn’t understand how my mom had stayed put for so long. I asked him if he remembered the day we walked home from the barn and he’d said he could tell I was upset and that he’d listen when I was ready to talk. He remembered. I explained about Ina and my dad and my mom leaving, but that Viv refused to believe it was because she’d found out. Her mom and dad weren’t fighting.

  There were grains of sand caught in his eyebrows. When I rubbed my lips together I felt grit on them, too. The stormy sky cracked open, fragments of clouds blew away, and sun seeped everywhere. It turned Harry’s irises amber. I sat up to shrug off my hoodie and looked back at Harry. Arms folded behind his head, a hollow under his chin that my thumb would fit in, his eyes downcast and watching me through fans of brown lashes.

  I focused on his lips. I was pretty sure he wanted to kiss me, too.

  It felt like we were stealing the last bit of the year’s sunshine. Like we were existing as our own little planet, in a tropical solar system Harry invented. And weren’t we, a little? We’d invented a secret order and rebellions and history. Were there any stars we couldn’t touch?

  I knelt over him. He was fighting a smile as I bent to touch my lips to his. He tasted like sand and salt wind. A seagull screeched across the sky. “Isadora,” he whispered. My grown-up, sophisticated name. I kissed him again. No longer self-conscious about my weight on top of him or my breasts pressed to his ribs or my knees on either side of his hips.