The Death of Us (3 page)

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Wake up, wake up.”

I sit up and lean out the window. Ivy’s standing on the grassy median in the middle of our street. She’s wearing tight black shorts and an equally tight white workout top. No one else I know could
make that look good. She’s jogging on the spot, waving up at me.

“Come on, Callie.”

“What are you doing awake so early?”

She yells, “Our first project is to get the weight off.”

I may not have Ivy’s fashion-model body, but still. “Um, no thanks.”

“Not you! Me! Paranoid much? But I need a jogging partner.” She keeps jogging lightly, moving from foot to foot as if the ground is too hot.

“You’re already skinny.”

She spins and taps her slender butt. “Gotta keep it up. My thighs are
huge
!” She jogs in a little circle, then another, looking up at me after each one and smiling.

“You don’t need to lose weight, Ivy! Anyway, I’m not even out of bed.”

“I won’t take no for an answer. Come on.” She starts doing jumping jacks.

“Oh my God! The whole world will see.”

“Get up! Like now, or I’ll have to serenade you.”

I laugh. The breeze is fragrant with our neighbour’s roses, and some sort of happy-vibe hits
me. “Okay. Why not? Give me ten minutes. Only, don’t sing!”

She sings, “
When the saints go marching in
…” One thing Ivy has never been able to do is carry a tune.

I duck away from the window and get out of bed. I don’t think I have any clothes that’ll remotely work for jogging, but Mom has one outfit for Zumba. I pad into her room to sneak it out of the drawer. She’s not in bed. I expect she’s tucked up with Cosmo in his room, which is painted with glorious, colourful fish. I hope she slept better than me, but I doubt it. Cosmo doesn’t exactly sleep. I slip out of my PJs, squeeze into Mom’s top and tug on the sweatpants.

I look at my parents’ unmade bed. I don’t have to wonder where Dad is. He works random hours to fit around Cosmo and Mom. I never know when he’ll be home from the university. Looks like his day started even earlier than mine. I check my phone. I’ll easily be back in time to go see Granny.

I slip on socks and my old sneakers. I look ridiculous.

Ivy sings loudly,
“All things bright and beautiful, / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and
wonderful, / GO JOGGING IN THE MORNING!’’

I have to go before she wakes Cosmo.

The first part of the jog is absolute torture. Within twenty paces I feel like my lungs might catch fire. I can’t get my breath. I try to keep up with Ivy, who’s bounding ahead like a graceful deer, the soft light making her look like the lead in a Hollywood movie, and making me feel like the overworked camera-dude who carries the heavy equipment. I slow down, but Ivy doesn’t seem to notice, so I force my aching legs to keep going. I check my phone, which has been bouncing around awkwardly in my pant pocket. We’ve been running for only four minutes and I’m going to die. Even when I go slower, the burning in my lungs gets worse and I feel a stabbing stitch.

“Ivy, stop,” I gasp.

She skips back and grabs my arm so I can’t collapse in a heap. She urges, “You’ve got to push past it. Keep running. At least keep walking. Trust me. Come on, we haven’t even started.”

She times us as we walk for two minutes, and then she encourages me to start jogging again. We go a little slower. This time, my lungs are okay, and although I’m really sweating I feel a bit more like I can handle it.

We alternate between walking and running, turning along streets I have never paid attention to, passing pretty clapboard houses I hardly remember seeing before. I feel like Odysseus travelling to exotic lands, and I wonder where the Lotus-Eaters are, or where the Cyclops lives. I’m a nerd.

Ivy interrupts my thoughts. “You’re doing really well.”

“My legs feel like jelly. How long do we run for?”

“Another minute, then we’ll walk. Think you can handle it?”

“I had no idea I was so out of shape. This is killing me. You okay?”

She shrugs one shoulder. It’s a gesture I remember perfectly. “Course. You’re not much competition.” She shoves me lightly.

“Yet. Give me a little time.”

Now she’s sailing ahead. “Just a bit longer. Nearly there. Nearly. Okay— NOW.”

She slows and I stop, bending over at the waist to suck in air.

“Start walking. It’ll feel better.”

I lift my head and obey. We’re in a neighbourhood that’s not far from my house, but because I’m normally in the car, speeding through, I’ve never really paid attention to the different coloured doors, the small mailbox decorated with boats, the tiny white dog who barks at us with surprising ferocity, the meticulous garden with its froth of lilies. It must be the endorphins, or whatever, because suddenly I’m high.

That’s when I see Kurt Hartnett coming out of an untidy yellow house, broken toys scattered in the front yard, a garbage bag lying unattended by the front door, one of the windows boarded up, the other semi-covered with what might be a pillowcase. He picks up the garbage bag, not noticing me; I’m glad because I’m a sweaty mess, my hair sticking up and yesterday’s mascara (mascara being the only makeup I ever wear) probably streaked down my face. I wonder why he’s here because Kurt doesn’t live close to me; he lives on a big fancy acreage just outside town.

Ivy nudges me in the ribs with her elbow. “He’s, like, cute.”

“You think so?”

Kurt is broad shouldered, fairly tall, with cropped hair and almost-black eyes. Rebecca doesn’t think he’s cute, not rugged enough for her. Tilly thinks he’s okay. I like the way he heads an editorial meeting, tapping his pen on the desk while waiting for us all to settle, then listening when someone has an idea, even if it sounds like a stupid one at first. I don’t know if I find him cute, though. I just think he’s cool. Today, he’s wearing a blue T-shirt, short sleeves rolled up, showing off his biceps, and I spot a tattoo. As we get closer, I see it’s Greek lettering:
. I wonder what it means. His muscles tighten as he heaves the garbage bag into a Dumpster.

He sees us. We’re right near him on an empty street at really too-early o’clock. Also one of us is stunning and dressed in tight running clothes, her blonde hair luminous.

Kurt wipes his hands on his jeans and says, “You two look, yeah, energetic.” He adds, “Hey, did you email me the piece yet?” His voice is soft and deep, like the low notes of a cello.

I say, “I’m going over it one last time.”

“Perfectionist.”

Ivy nudges me, then fills the silence I’m creating. “You two”—she waves a hand in my direction—“know each other? Come on, introduce me!” She flicks her hair with one long, tanned finger, the nail obscenely pink. The way she’s looking at him, peering up through her eyelashes, it’s like he’s the only guy in the universe. He doesn’t stand a chance.

“This is Kurt Hartnett. He goes to Edenville High. Year above us.”

Ivy says, “I’m new around here.”

“I guess so,” he says, arching an eyebrow.

“So, what are the most fun things to do in town?” says Ivy.

“Depends what you find fun.”

“Good music, parties, the usual.” Ivy’s phone beeps. She untucks her phone from her bra and checks it.

Kurt says to me, “I’ll send you a couple edits on the scholarship article. I’ve got stuff to do, so we can’t meet later.” He glances at the rundown house, the tatty front yard. Then he says, “The board’s discussing it first week of August, even though it’s
summer. You just know those douchebags—They’ll pass it while everyone’s looking the other way.”

“I knew that piece wasn’t quite ready. I should have waited to send it to you.”

“It’s great. Minor edits, that’s all.”

I wrote the piece on a wave of outrage. The scholarship program at our school gives a bursary to a kid who can’t afford to go on to university, someone who shows merit. Many of the students who’ve received it in the past have gone on to run their own businesses, work in government, teach; one of them even became a brain surgeon. The school wants to cut it because of “funding difficulties.”

I say, “First week of August?” I check my phone for the dates. “I’ll make sure I’m there. Do a follow-up.”

Ivy looks up from her phone and cries, “What piece? What are you guys even talking about?”

“Nothing. Come on, let’s go,” I say.

“It isn’t nothing. It’s big,” Kurt says. He turns to Ivy. “It’s an article for
Flat Earth Theory.
”

Ivy laughs. “Now I’m really confused.”

I say, “I’ll tell you later.”

“Hey, we’re going down to the lake tomorrow,” says Kurt. “My friend Xander and I are taking my boat out. We could pick you up.”

“You have a boat?” Ivy asks. She casts a puzzled eye over the house.

Kurt tenses, ever so slightly, but I’m not sure Ivy registers. He says, “Yeah. My dad grew up sailing. So, wanna come?”

I’m about to tell him that we can’t because my mom would never let me, no way, but Ivy speaks first and tells Kurt we’d totally love to. Then she gets his number, touches him lightly on the arm, tugs at me and starts jogging in a casual sexy way, looking as if she’s completely at ease. Which I guess she is. I follow, then glance back at Kurt, who’s shielding his eyes against the sun and watching us leave.

I call out, “Bye then.”

Ivy jogs back in my direction. “Come on,” she says.

Kurt nods slightly and goes into the house. I almost lose my footing on a rogue piece of sidewalk, and I twist around, flailing my arms and catching hold of Ivy before I fall.

She laughs and holds me up. “You okay?” She hugs me. “He’s, like, delicious. I love the subtle type. He’s so going to help me get over everything. You’re the best.”

When I get home, Mom’s standing in the kitchen, bleary eyed, with flushed cheeks. Cosmo is in his sling hanging off her like a bald koala, nuzzling gummy-mouthed into her shoulder, and the first thing she says is, “You should have left a note.”

My earlier buzz of pleasure is replaced by post-jog irritation. I say, “I didn’t think you’d notice I’d gone.”

Mom stops slicing the bread and deliberately puts down the knife. “Callie, stop.” It’s code for me to backtrack and gives me an easy out, but I’m not in the mood for an easy out. She adds, “I need to know where you are.”

“I’m not a preschooler.”

Cosmo must sense the tension. He squirms, then yells out, getting red in the face and arching his back, struggling within the soft material of the sling. I look at him, wondering, as I’ve wondered
before, how it’s possible that this tiny, grouchy, colicky creature could be related to me. It’s hard to imagine myself as a baby like this, although the photos show I looked almost exactly like him at three months old.

Mom tickles Cosmo under the chin. Abruptly he stops crying and smiles. The emotions of a baby are so changeable. It seems to me that perhaps Cosmo and I have more in common than I’d thought, because I’m suddenly not irritated, just tired.

“I went jogging. I know, not like me.” I smile, inviting conversation. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so grumpy.”

Mom’s not listening. Cosmo is all big openmouthed smiles as she tickles. “Who’s a happy baby now?” she says, casting me an apologetic look. “Hurry up and get ready, Callie.”