The Death of Us

  If I were Ivy, I’d call right away. So I do it.

  A woman answers, “Ana Stevens. Artstarts.” Kids yell in the background.

  My hands get clammy. “I’m calling about the job.”

  “That’s great. Hold on. I can’t hear anything in here.” I imagine she’s put her hand over the receiver, because her voice is muffled as she says to someone else, “I’ll just head out for a sec, okay?” A door bangs shut. It gets quieter. Ana says, “So, we run a program at the gallery over the summer and it’s very popular. Our student helper quit on me and I, well, I hate to say it, but I desperately need someone to provide another pair of hands. Crowd control.” She laughs.

  “Sure. So you’re at the gallery?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I love the gallery.”

  “Okay, tell me more about you.”

  “My name’s Callie Carraway. Um, I start Grade Eleven in September and art is one of my subjects. And, I like little kids.” At least, I think I do. Although, as I say it I realize I never really do anything with Cosmo, but then again, he’s a baby. Little kids are way more fun, always asking questions and stuff.

  Ana says, “Could you swing by tomorrow? Ten in the morning? For an informal interview. I’ll tell you what we pay, and we’ll get to know each other. If it goes well, we might have you start right away. To be honest, we pretty much need someone, well, ASAP.”

  “Okay, sure, great,” I say.

  As I get off the phone with Ana, Ivy bursts into the café. That’s the right word for it. She bursts in, the door swinging shut behind her, and I swear there’s a slight pause in the conversations, a moment when the other customers assess her, the men taking a longer look than necessary, the women feeling slightly less comfortable than they did before. I wonder what it would be like to have that effect on the world, to always have people look at you and size you up, to have jealousy and desire fluttering around you like small dark shadows.

  Ivy smiles, her white teeth emphasized by a hot pink lipstick that matches her bright nails. Oblivious to people watching her, she calls across the café, “What do you want? My treat. I’ll get us Green Tea Lattes. No, how about a Berry Burst Smoothie. That sounds healthy.”

  “I was gonna have coffee.”

  “Trust me—this is way more delicious and you’ll feel better afterward.”

  The hot guy at the counter with the dreadlocks, the one who never even raises his gaze to me, fumbles her change.

  Her perfume floats over like a fine mist as she joins me at the table. “So, how’s your granny?”

  “I dunno, frail.”

  Ivy says, “She’s gonna be okay, though?”

  “I hope so. It’s not like her to be in bed in the day. She’s always been on the go, cleaning up your cup before you’ve finished drinking your tea, chatting about adventures she plans, trips, ideas, wanting to learn how to text when my phone buzzes. She was a war bride—ran away from everyone she knew to come here. Her being in bed is like … like me table dancing in here.”

  “I’ll get you table dancing.” Ivy taps the back of my hand with her middle finger.

  I say, “I like your ring.”

  “Diego gave it to me.”

  I follow her lead. “Who’s Diego?”

  Her eyes gleam. “Oh, Callie. There’s so much you don’t know.”

  I say, “I want to know about the boat trip. How was it?” Details, texture, moments that have now slipped away forever; I want them recreated by Ivy for me so I can feel the wind in her hair. Would Kurt have kissed her? Look at that pink mouth—of course he kissed her. Our drinks arrive, froufrou concoctions of yogourt and berries, cold, and admittedly good. I suck loads of mine down, thinking now about how we once spent an afternoon making smoothies in my kitchen. Ivy came up with the recipes and together we blended, tasted, giggled and invented ridiculous names for our drinks.

  Ivy says, “I wish you’d been there. Xander’s nice, but, uh, the three of us. Kinda weird. Kurt blatantly wanted it to be just us two, but there isn’t much room on a small boat. Oooh, I have a great idea. You’d love Xander. Let’s double date. Tonight. You and me, and them. God, Kurt’s just my type, like Diego.”

  “‘Kay. Tell me already. Who’s Diego?”

  “He was, like, my soulmate. Here’s a pic.” She gets her phone from her bra and shows me a blurry image of a guy looking over his shoulder at the camera. His black eyes smoulder and he’s all poser-pouty. He wears a leather jacket and I think he’s sitting on a motorbike. I reach for the phone but Ivy holds on to it. She says, “Cute, hey? Do you think he looks like Kurt?”

  “Not really.”

  She considers the image. “I think he does.”

  “So, how long were you and Diego together?”

  She slides her phone away. “Forget Diego. We should live in the moment. Tonight sounds good, okay?”

  “I don’t know about double dating.”

  “It’ll be great.”

  “Where are we going?” I don’t know why I’m asking. There’s no way Mom will let me go. I’m not even allowed to be at this café with Ivy. As I think this, I also know with sudden ferocity that I don’t want to miss out. I don’t want to lose Ivy again by always having to say no. I say, “Actually, don’t tell me. It’ll be easier to lie to Mom.”

  “Why lie?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll sneak out. Somehow.”

  Ivy frowns.

  I ask, “Have you got something good I can wear?”

  I’m helpful around the house for the evening. I play with Cosmo, even changing his disgusting diaper. Mom and I aren’t exactly speaking, but we’re not shouting at each other either. She must assume that now she’s laid down the rules, I’ll simply follow. She didn’t even notice that I went out earlier. She’s so wrapped up with the new book, she thought I was in my room the whole time. She gets like this toward the end of a project. A bit fuzzy round the edges.

  Dad’s busy too. The university is on summer break, has been for a few weeks, but he’s organized some conference on oral storytelling. Two smartly dressed women and two bearded men arrive at the house to talk about the influence of Greek epics on contemporary poetry. Together they burble off to the conference. Dad gets back around ten, singing quietly to himself, and thumps up the stairs to his office in the attic.

  I lie in bed listening to the floorboards creak up there. Will he never go to sleep? I’m fully dressed under the covers. I’ve never sneaked out at night before. I’ve read books where characters do it, but—ridiculously—I’ve always been scared they might get caught, and never dared to do it myself.

  I flick through the pages of Bonjour Tristesse, not really reading. With a sigh, I turn back to the beginning. The book is so short, I should have finished it already, but I can’t concentrate at all. Lines spring out at me … I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow … That summer, I was seventeen and perfectly happy … tall and almost beautiful, with the kind of good looks that immediately inspires one with confidence … Finally, finally I hear Dad’s clumping feet on the wooden stairs from the attic to the main floor. The faucet, the buzz of his electric toothbrush, the flushing of the toilet, then the bedroom door closes. Cosmo cries out, but is soon quiet.

  I make myself wait another twenty minutes. I push back the covers and line up a couple of pillows to make the bed look like I’m still in it—nerd that I am—then I open my window. A tree waits gracefully there, the branches inviting me, almost accusing me: Why haven’t you done this before, Callie?

  I haul myself out, scratching my hand on a sharp twig. I suck in a tiny cry of pain, wait until I’m sure I’ve woken no one, then pull myself easily into the tree. I twist around and lower the window so it’s only open a crack, making sure I can lift it again later, then I clamber down the rough bark of the trunk, my heart racing, and pad onto the grass. The yard at night is softer, somehow, and yet spooky. Ghosts lurk here. There’s a loud rustling by the garbag
e can and I almost have a heart attack. A cat slinks away. Calm down, girl. I don’t even glance back at my house. I’m free.

  I text Ivy: On my way.

  She texts back: Cool, along with a picture of her wearing a short dress, one in her usual white. There are artful folds around the waist and neck. It offsets her tan and glittery gold makeup.

  I get to Ivy’s front door. Through the window, I see her mother watching TV in the lounge. She’s thin and beautiful, wearing a flimsy pale shirt and jeans. She looks, I realize, like Ivy. I haven’t seen her since that day three years ago, and now the memory is vivid. My skin prickles as I force it away, best forgotten; it has no impact on the present.

  I knock gently. There’s a pause, then Mrs. Foulds opens the door. A strange metallic sound buzzes around her. It’s hard to place and it’s only as her eyes widen in recognition that I realize the sound is coming from her phone. She’s lifting it to her ear, not saying hello to me but to the person at the other end, and then, as she turns away, she slams the door in my face.

  Thoughts burst in my head like bubbles, pop, pop, pop. She just slammed the door in my face. She smells of liquor. She makes me feel like I’m thirteen again.

  The door swings open again and Ivy appears. She swoops me into a hug and says, “Hi, gorgeous. I’m sooo glad you’re here. So, we should, like, get ready.”

  I can sense in the way she rushes her speech, the way she shifts from one foot to the other, glancing over her shoulder, that she’s nervous. Her mother has disappeared.

  I say, “Um, everything okay? It’s just—”

  She cuts me off by waving a hand in the air and pulling me inside. Another thought pops in my head. Ivy’s mom hates me. I’m suddenly queasy.

  Up in her room, Ivy admires the effects of her makeover on me. She has pinned my black hair so it looks like I’ve cut it short, and my long bangs have tiny ringlets that hang seductively on one side of my face. She smudged deep pink along my cheekbones, eyelids and lips, using the same pot for all three and then giving me the pot to keep. She put on two coats of mascara, which widens my eyes as if someone’s told me a juicy secret. Her green silky shift and leggings are tight on me, but they still look good. We have the same size feet so I’m wearing her ankle boots. She’s redone my nails in sparkly silver, nothing like my normal style—I mean, my normal non-style. I admire the girl looking at me from the glass. Who am I?

  My phone buzzes on Ivy’s bed. Rebecca texts me: Home. Can’t wait 2 c u early early early tmr!

  I text back: Great xxx. I tuck the phone into my bra, like Ivy does. It’s the only place to put it.

  Ivy reaches into her wardrobe and pulls out a silver flask. “It’s Mom’s. I, uh, borrowed it. Wanna drink?”

  I shake my head, catching sight of myself in the mirror again. My cheekbones seem more structured in this light, like I have a face shape other than pudgy.

  She says, “We’re going out, we’re allowed to have fun.”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  She unscrews the lid and tips the flask to her lips. She swallows, pulls a face, wipes her mouth and sucks air through her lips. “Don’t worry. I shop like her but I don’t drink like her. I only do it for fun—like tonight.” She holds out the flask. It’s engraved with swirly letters. “Vodka,” she says.

  “Does your Mom still …? I had no idea, really none, when you lived here before.”

  “She hides it well. Practice, I guess. Look, can we talk about something else? How about … how about a drinking game. We could play Truth. You know, it’s like Truth or Dare but there are no dares. Ask me anything. Drink for yes answers.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “It’ll be fun. Look at you, you’re gorgeous and we’re hanging out and everything’s just as it should be except you need to relax a little. Take a deep breath. Tell you what, you go first. Ask me anything.”

  I’m tempted. There’s so much I want to know. “Okay. I guess so.”

  “Go on then.”

  I come out with “Okay. Since you left … did you ever …? With a boy?”

  She’s already sipping from the flask as I ask and she laughs so hard she sprays the air with vodka. “You’re so adorable and innocent. We have to be careful you don’t get eaten alive in the big wild world. If you’re talking about”—she lowers her voice dramatically—“sex …”

  I blush. “It was a stupid question. You go first.”

  “Nooo, this is fun.” She takes a long swig. “And yes, I have.”

  There’s a huge silence, then I burst out laughing. “Ivy, that’s the worst answer ever. You have to give me more than that.”

  “It’s supposed to be yes or no! You want details?”

  I blush harder, but I’m enjoying myself too.

  She says, “First, your turn. Drink now if you want. Get it over with.”

  She passes me the flask, which is surprisingly cool to the touch, and heavy. I turn it from one side to the other, trying to decipher the writing, Latin, it seems. I quickly lift it to my lips and drink. I don’t take one sip, but three, the burning taste hard to stomach, but it makes me want to prove myself more. I’m not the silly little girl I thought I was; it’s time for me to grow up.

  “Yeah, Callie,” Ivy says approvingly. “My turn. Did you ever tell anyone?”

  My tummy roils. I tell a sort of truth: “No.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She grabs the flask. “Now, you wanted details. Well, it hurt, but not as much as I thought. I was fourteen. Mom was doing her thing, dating some guy. He lived in a craphole called Plato, so we lived there with him.

  “Sooo, the sex. Gross. The guy Mom was dating, well, his son’s name was Riley. He was arrogant, rat-faced, always wore a cap, two years older than me. Spent money quicker than his dad. He bought me a dress and we went up to the top bedroom. He wasn’t a bad kisser, told me to peel the dress off, told me to spin around like I was some sort of porn star, watched me lie back … then we, you know. It took about two minutes.”

  A nasty little worm crawls under my skin.

  She sips from the bottle and says, “Boy number two was great. Raunchy and fun. Number three was perfect, candles, the works. Number three … You have no idea.” She says this with a funny expression on her face, like now she’s an adult and I’m just a kid with no clue. But she’s not mocking me, no, it seems that she’s sad.

  I say, “I feel like a loser.”

  “There’s no rush, really. You should wait. I should have waited. Okay, now you’re warmed up.” She giggles. “Who’s your biggest crush?”

  I drink several sips. The alcohol is warm in my throat. “I thought we were doing yes and no questions?”

  “You changed the rules. So?”

  It seems lame not to have an answer. I scrunch up my face as I try to think of someone. “Um, Kurt’s friend. I mean, I don’t know him well, but I’ve seen him hanging out with Kurt at school and I’ve always wanted to talk to him.”

  She squeals with delight. “Xander? I knew it. He’s perfect. Quirky and sweet and smart. Like you.”

  I feel a little surge of pleasure. “Ego boost.”

  She says, “Pass that to me. Your question.”

  “Has your mom ever got any help?”

  She screws the lid back on the flask.

  “Come on, Ivy. You said I could ask anything.”

  “Let’s just say, if anyone asks, it never happened. Okay?” Her eyes make her look like a baby rabbit that’s been left out in the snow. She says more quietly, “I worry she’ll do it again. You know?”

  I want to say that I don’t know, no, I have no idea.

  The mood has shifted, grown melancholy. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to spoil everything.”

  She manages a smile. “It’s okay. The game was stupid anyway. We should go.”

  Night seeps over us as we walk arm in arm down the alley behind Ivy’s house toward a bar I’ve passed a million times on my way
to and from school with Rebecca. We’d always planned to go together one day, but instead I’m here with Ivy. I shake off the thought. Music pulses from within as we join the short queue below the large silver lettering of the sign that reads BEneath. I’ve burst out of my world into a whole new planet.

  Ivy whispers, “What’s your name?”

  “You forgot me already?” I joke, before I realize she’s passing me something. It’s an ID card with a photo of a dark-haired girl who looks nothing like me. Isabel Cabezas.

  Ivy has a secret smile, like she’s just handed me the moon. ID. I hadn’t even thought about it. I say, “I don’t look like her.”

  “I know.”

  “Who is she? How come you have her card?” I study it. “Isabel Cabezas,” I read. Born Kansas City. I recite her birthdate, making sure I get the year right.

  The queue is moving forward and older people ahead are laughing, chatting, relaxed. I’m never going to get into this bar, I’m too young. There’s no way.

  “Trust me,” says Ivy.

  And in that moment, I do. I have a vivid memory of when we were thirteen: Ivy whispering, “Trust me.”

  The queue shuffles forward more and I don’t even have time to be nervous as the bored security guy checks my ID, looks me over, nods slightly. He doesn’t seem to realize the girl in the photograph is a completely different person. He waves me in. I step forward, the music wrapping itself around me, the vodka in my blood making my confidence soar.

  BEneath is very full. There are lots of older people dancing, pressed together. Blue and white lights ghost over the moving bodies. We walk along the edge. The booths look more like beds, and people lie on them, listening to music, drinking, watching each other.

  Kurt and Xander are standing by the bar. Words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Wow, this place is amazing. I’ve never been here, no … I mean, it’s not even two blocks from my house and I never even knew it was so cool.”