The Death of Us (5 page)

The room is dark, curtains drawn. No one’s watching but I check around anyway. I put the bottle to my lips and hold it there. Then, slowly, I take the bottle away from my mouth. I
won’t
drink. I’m
not
like her
—see how easy it is, Mom, not to drink?
We’re the result of the choices we make every day and this is my choice. I pour the bottle out into the sink, wishing she didn’t always find a way to get more. But I’m not going to waste energy thinking like that. I count
one, two, three, four, five.

I’m ready for the boat trip. Summery dress for a sunny, summery day. Kurt beeps the horn again. I’ve made him wait long enough, poor boy. Men are like dogs, they need training, and every dog needs a reward when he’s done good. Kurt has been very patient. I pop gum in my mouth, step down the porch stairs and slide into the back because there’s another guy in the passenger seat—a thin guy with a beard and glasses, crouched over because he’s so tall. He swivels to face me.

“Hi,” I say to him, “I’m Ivy.”

He nods a hello. “Xander.” I’m guessing he’s everyone’s friend—the one who fixes stuff if it’s broken.

“Callie can’t make it,” I say. I’m bummed she’s not coming, leaving me on my own with two cute guys. Nothing I haven’t handled before, of course, but it would be a million times more fun with her. I ask Kurt, “Can I smoke in here?”

He shakes his head. “My dad’s car.”

“I should probably quit anyways.” I
love
to smoke. Love everything about it, especially that first, fabulous drag. But as the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize it’s true. It might be time to quit. New town, new life.

Xander asks, “Where you from, Ivy?”

Kurt starts the car. He looks like Diego from this angle. My heart sputters. I don’t know how I didn’t see it when we met, but sitting here, Kurt could
be
Diego. A better Diego, softer features, fuller mouth. I say, “I was living in Kansas City for about a year. Then a tornado brought me here—just like Dorothy.”

“So this is Oz?” Kurt asks.

I say, “Without the wicked witch.”

“And you like it?”

“I lived here three years ago but just for the summer. Before that, I lived in Paris, Lille, New York, Madison, Calgary, Fort McMurray, uh, a few other places. I like it here as much as anywhere.”

Kurt says, “How come so many moves?”

Mom says the best way to talk to men is to let them do the talking. Stay mysterious. She may not be the best mother in the world, but she sure seems to be able to find boyfriends. “Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me about this boat.”

Mom’s working, Cosmo hanging from her in his sling, the keys tap, tap, tapping away. I imagine her usual bad music playing in her headphones. I watch her for a second. When I was little, I used to play on her office floor, waiting for her to finish an illustration. We used to look at her work together, long before she started publishing and sharing it with everyone else. I hover by the office door. I should just ask her if I can go see Ivy, who must be home from the boat trip by now. Mom pulls out one ear of her headphones.

“What, Callie?”

Her tone doesn’t encourage me. I say, “Nothing.” I return to my bedroom and text Ivy:
Whatcha doing?

We arrange to meet up in a café that didn’t exist three years ago called Mystical Java. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. I peek out of my room. Mom’s on the phone—blah, blah, some problem with her artwork, the design’s too busy and needs streamlining, something. I tiptoe past her office, sneaking down the stairs. Just like that, I’m out the front door. Cosmo starts yelling with perfect timing. I let out a tight breath, my heart boombumpity in the breezy sunshine.

I cross the street under the overhang of leaves that arch from huge, old trees. A cat startles and yowls, scurrying for cover as I head past the first couple of stores that begin yuppified Pine Hill Street, which is full of cafés, bars, restaurants, yoga studios and expensive clothing stores. I pass the cupcake counter of Cakes for Two, and open the door of Mystical Java to the smell of roasting coffee and fresh baked goods. It’s full of people typing on laptops or chatting on their phones. The
lineup is too long for me to join right away, so, as I’m early, I decide to wait for Ivy before ordering coffee. I sit at the magically free table by the window and drum my fingers.

I catch sight of a flyer pinned to the wall. Underneath the word
ARTSTARTS,
brightly coloured doodles surround the smiling face of a preschooler. The flyer reads:
Assistant Wanted for Art Classes for Kids.
I wonder if I could do that. I do need a job. I key the number into my cell, but I don’t call. Instead, I check my email, check the time, watch a couple of videos my friends have posted.

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 garbage 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.