The Death of Us (6 page)

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.”

“Callie, you need to sit down,” Kurt says, leaning to talk into my ear. “Want some water?”

Ivy smiles and brushes by to say something to Kurt. I can smell her perfume. Her skin is silky. She catches my eye, indicating with a glance that this is a good time for me to talk to Xander. I nod and say, “Xander and I could, um, get drinks.”

Xander seems to hear me and he mouths the word
Drinks.

We walk away from Kurt and Ivy. Their absence is like a cool liquid seeping through my dress. A line pops into my head:
The space you never filled, a water glass spilled.

I glance back. They’re huddled together. Ivy shrugs one shoulder. God, I’d love to be like that, so provocative yet comfortable, so sexy. Maybe I
could
be like that. In the heat of bodies around me, squeezing between the sweaty dancers, I realize I’m drunk. I’m dizzy, delirious drunk. I take a
couple of dance steps, leaving Xander to get the bartender’s attention, and move closer to Ivy, who stops talking to Kurt and starts dancing.

I hear myself laugh. “This is fun, Ivy!” I yell.

She cups my ear and yells back. “We’re only just getting started!”

X
ander checks his phone. Looks down the hospital hallway. Stares at the floor. Mrs. Foulds perches on the couch. The lamp on the small table flickers, a single blinking eye. With the old couches and the cartoons blabbing on the TV, the waiting area looks like my birth-mom’s living room. I remember when I was no bigger than that TV. Eating fries. Dipping them in ketchup. The rug had a hole in it. I stuck my finger through.
Mom lay next to me, half asleep, giggly. I loved her most like that. I stroked her black hair. She pushed me off, growling, “Don’t get ketchup on me.” Then there was that knock on the door.

My head hurts. I sit on the other couch. Look around. Touch the dollar around my neck. Rest my chin on my hands, which are pointed upright as if I’m praying. I’m not religious, don’t go to church or anything, but deep down I know someone’s there. There’s gotta be. Xander withdraws and pads off down the hallway. I’m left with Mrs. Foulds. The hum of the hospital is my soundtrack. I need a cigarette. Or a pen. Something in my hands.

Can’t help wondering about the last few minutes in the car and how they ended up going off the bridge. Did they know what was coming? Or was it stomach-lurching-through-the-eyeballs shock, like on a roller coaster.

This is sick.

A doctor approaches. White-haired, odd eyes—each a different colour. He says, “Mrs. Foulds, come with me, please.”

She nods, raising one hand to her mouth.

He gives nothing away. The sound of their shoes echoes down the hallway as they retreat.