The Death of Us (14 page)

Ivy’s waiting at the front door of Toxique. She waves when she sees me, and hugs me tight as soon as I’m within reach.

“Your mom was okay with you meeting me then?”

“She’s fine. Anyway, sorry I’m late. Mom and Dad left Cosmo with me and only just got back.”

“No problem.”

“Maybe you should come over sometime and we could, well, you and Mom could get to know each other better.”

“It’s not like she hasn’t spent time with me.”

“True, but we were different then.” I wonder as I say it how different we were then, how different I actually was. I have a flash of memory: the first time I tipped Ivy’s face down to meet mine and found myself flushed with need, desire, fear. I was so bold.

I follow Ivy into the store. I’ve never been in before. It’s small and boutiquey, way too expensive for me. The clothes are tiny, beautiful things, all lacy and delicate. Almost like underwear. The whole place smells of lavender and there’s busy jazz playing.

I run my fingers over a pair of silver high heels, then I spot the price tag and step away. Ivy grabs them.

“They are perfect. Thanks, Callie, great eye. Along with my dress, these will knock everyone out at BEneath tonight.”

“I wish I could come with you.”

She turns to me and pouts. “What? You really can’t come? But you have to.”

“BEneath is out of the question.”

“What if I come over and talk with her?” She kicks off her shoes and pops on the heels.

“She let me come hang out with you today but she’ll never let me go to a bar. That’s not to do with you, that’s just how things are. Anyway, Kurt will be there with you.”

“Yeah, about him. Or not. He’s been— I guess since that party, well … he’s not really been calling.”

“No? I thought you guys were starting something.”

“Yeah, go figure.” She pulls a face.

“That sucks.”

“That’s why I need the perfect dress—like this. Then he’ll realize what he’s missing. No more of his ‘let’s just be friends’ crap.”

“He said that?”

“He doesn’t mean it.” She shimmies with the dress in her hand and I remember how she shimmied across the room wearing only underwear.

I follow Ivy to the back of the store. The sole
staff member, who is dressed like she’s in a sci-fi movie, opens the door of the change room. Ivy slips in carrying the dress, leaving her purse with me. I step away to admire a rack of beautiful sparkly dresses. Dresses I would never, ever own. I find myself imagining Ivy getting changed, taking off her dress.

From inside Ivy’s bag, I hear her cell ringing. I reach in to grab the phone, intending to pass it to her. Then I see the call display on the screen.
Isabel Cabezas.

Isabel’s
dead.
Ivy told me so.

I answer the phone.

A girl’s voice says, “Ivy?”

“Isabel?” I whisper. “Isabel Cabezas?”

“Who’s this?” The voice is sharp.

“Um, I’m a friend of Ivy’s.” I add, “I don’t really understand. She said—”

“Tell her to send back my purse.” I think of the identity card in my jean pocket. Isabel’s identity card. The girl—Isabel—says, “She called Diego again last night.”

“Diego?”

“Tell her to stay the fuck away from my boyfriend.”

Ivy calls from the change room. “Callie, are you there?”

I whisper, “I have to go,” and end the call, my mind racing. I shove the phone back into the bag and head over to see Ivy emerging, looking fantastic.

She does a full twirl. I make the right noises, but can’t stop thinking about what I’ve just heard. I shudder as if I have been speaking to a ghost. I thought the girl was dead, Ivy told me she was dead, but now, there she was, full of life at the end of the line.

I interrupt Ivy’s fashion show with a lie. “Um, my mom just called. I have to go. I’m sorry. And I really can’t make it tonight.”

“Callie, please come. I need you.”

“I really have to go.”
Isabel’s alive. You lied to me. You told me she was dead.

She picks up her bag and checks her phone. “Did you answer that?” she says.

“No” pops out of my mouth.

“Don’t lie to me,” Ivy says. “I can see from the call log you did.”

“Ivy, I’m just … it’s … kinda hard to … It was
Isabel.
”

“And? That makes it okay to lie?”

“Ivy”—I steady myself against a clothing rack—“you told me she was
dead.
” My voice drops as I say this last word.

A long pause follows. I can’t read Ivy’s expression at all. Then she says, “When did I say that?”

“What do you mean
when
? At Kurt’s party.”

“What did I say?”

“You told everyone that Isabel died when you guys had a motorbike crash, that she died in your arms.”

Ivy laughs. “That’s crazy, Callie. Isabel isn’t dead. She’s …” Ivy catches my look and becomes more sombre. She says, “I was
drunk
at the party. And stoned. I was probably trying to be funny, or cool, or something.”

“You said—”

“She didn’t
die.
Whatever. I don’t know what I said. I’m being honest now, really, and you have to trust me. Diego was the one who lit candles. He was sweet, and kind, and he loved me. And then Isabel stole him.”

“She said he was
her
boyfriend. She said you gotta send her purse back, and stay away—”

“Isabel’s twisting it to make herself feel better. You’ve never even met her, but you
know
me. Why would you listen to her?”

I weigh her up. I’m making too big a deal out of this. I’ve just been feeling so weird around Ivy today. Not myself.

Ivy says softly, “You
know
me, Callie. I was just high. Please?”

I nod. “It was really weird talking to her.”

“I bet.”

“No more secrets, ‘kay?” I say.

She gives me a funny look, but it’s gone so quickly I can’t be sure it was ever there. She says, “Definitely no more secrets.”

After the shopping trip with Ivy, I spend the rest of the day home sorting through photos of Granny. I notice how, when she was young, Granny and I were identical: same jawline, same slight awkwardness, same eyes. And I notice something else: Granny was really pretty.

I check my phone to find a message from Kurt:

Wanna go over ideas for the profile pieces?

Mom comes into the room, so I don’t text back. She passes me Cosmo and I jiggle him up and down while he reaches chubby baby fingers clumsily to my mouth. He tilts his head to try and catch my eye. I look at him and he breaks into a wild smile. Who knew I was so funny!

Dad arrives home and insists we have a family movie night. We always have to watch non-violent, animated things because Mom and Dad don’t want to distress Cosmo, although he’s so tiny I’m not sure he can even see the TV. I sit there, pretending to enjoy the film, the three of them nestled on one sofa, me alone on the other. I think of Ivy getting ready to go to BEneath, then, as it gets later, I imagine her making her spectacular entrance.

The movie finishes and Dad says, “I thought the name of the muse of poetry and storytelling was a perfect name for my daughter, but I’m not sure now.”

“What?”

“Calliope was wise and honest and brave. The wisest of the Muses … but maybe I should have named you after a main character instead, like—”

“Let’s not spoil the evening,” Mom says, putting a hand on his arm. She must have caught the look on my face.

He pulls her close to him. “Whatever you say, lovely. Gimme a smooch.”

The rest of my family go to bed so I head to my room and find myself thinking about a fly trapped in a house. In my head I juxtapose the word
jagged
with the word
flight
and I think about the phrase
letting your guard down.
The lines are turning into a poem, maybe. I rifle through my desk. If I find a blank sheet of paper, I might
actually
write. Instead, I come across an old photo of Ivy and me. It’s the same one she had in her room, the one of the two of us hugging, and I can see in my expression that I’m completely happy, almost unrecognizably so. As I look at the picture, the poem slides from my mind to be replaced by thoughts about Ivy. The taste of her mouth, that vanilla smell of her hair, her smooth skin. Thoughts I haven’t had for years. Thoughts I haven’t let myself have for years. Thoughts I can’t seem to stop now. I picture her in the dress at Toxique, her sadness when she told me about trying to kill herself. A little voice says from
deep inside me,
Careful, Callie.
But it doesn’t stop me thinking about Ivy trying to kiss me at Kurt’s party. And didn’t Ivy mention that things weren’t really happening with Kurt? She tried to kiss
me
the night of his party; surely that means something? I could sneak out of the house, climb down the tree, be with her. But then I remember Mom’s face when Granny died and I know I won’t go.

I
can’t.

Except, I can’t stay home either.

I slip on the silver dress that Ivy gave me. It skims my body, silky and luscious. My skin tingles as if a tiny spider is creeping along my upper thigh. I push open my window and throw a pair of low heels and my purse to the ground. They thud, one after the other, the contents of the purse spilling, and I listen for my parents or Cosmo, sure they must have heard, but the only sound is the soft breath of night, and then the rustle of the leaves as I haul myself out the window and climb down by the branches to land like a cat on the grass.

It’s warm underfoot. The night is like a peach, fuzzy and delicious on my tongue. I slip on my heels and check I have Isabel’s ID in my purse.

The idea of owning the ID card of a dead-not-dead girl creeps me out and I quickly tuck it back into my wallet.
Don’t think about it. Just move.
Guilt slides into the space that the creepy feeling opened up and I glance back at my window. Mom would be so upset with me if she knew what I was doing. I walk away from my house, night and summer in my hair.

I walk a couple blocks, turn the corner and see BEneath up ahead. It feels like the witching hour, the time when everything and anything is possible. Music from inside thrums through the air. I stop in the shadows.

X
ander watches Rebecca Lane head down the hospital hallway. I drum my palms on my thighs, restless. I can’t figure out how much time has passed—it could have been minutes, hours. I seem to have lost my phone, so I can’t check. The world has stopped making sense.

I think again about my birth-mom at that party when I was trashed when I was fourteen. She saw me. Stared. Then she dropped the guy’s hand.

Shoved her way over. Seized my arm. My birth-mom’s a small woman but her grip was steady. She said, “Get your shit together, kid.”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” I said, or something like that. I can’t remember exactly, but I know it was hard to speak. My tongue was fat in my mouth. My buzz had levelled off.

I remember what she said next. Perfectly. “You’re better than this, Kurt.” From her neck she took a leather cord with a silver dollar dangling from it. Tied it around mine. “You’re
better
than this.”

“Whatever.”

But her words stuck into me. And something shifted. I’ve worn the silver dollar ever since.

Xander rests his head on his hands. Like it’s too heavy for his neck to hold it up anymore. I want to tell him it’s all okay, but that’s not true. Unlike my mom, I can’t think of the right words to fix this. The right words don’t exist.

TWO DAYS EARLIER

I see the boys in the booth at BEneath. “Hey, Kurt, Xander, everyone.”

Kurt says, “Hey. I thought you said Callie was coming tonight.” He tips back his beer bottle to drink.

“Yeah, well, she can’t make it …” Why’s he asking about her? Maybe something happened between them at his party when I was high. Is
that
why he’s not interested in me?

I take a slow breath. Jumping to conclusions is like jumping into fire. I head to the bar and come back with tequila shots. Fire one down. Hand out the rest. “Let’s party,” I say, and raise a second glass to my mouth. The drink burns my throat. I say in my mind:
I’m not like my mother. I’m just having fun.
I slide next to Kurt.