The Death of Us (8 page)

By ten, I’m ready. I go inside to look for Ana. I’m told she’s setting up in the Kids’ Studio at the back, a small room furnished with three round tables and loads of small stools.

A smiley woman with dark hair pops her head out of the storage cupboard. “Callie? You’re here about the job?”

I have a moment of panic. It’s ridiculous to come for a job interview feeling like this, but I’ve been too foggy all morning to figure that out. “Hi, yes, that’s me.”

“Make yourself comfortable.”

I sit on a stool and Ana smiles warmly at me. She has crow’s feet round her eyes that make her look like she might be in her forties, but she has a surprisingly young voice. She says, “So, you enjoy art?”

“And creative writing.”

While we talk, she folds piles of paper in several colours. “And you’re good with children? I need someone to help clean up, help if anyone’s struggling, hold down the fort, that type of thing. You’d never be on your own with the kids; you don’t have to worry about that.”

“That sounds okay to me. It sounds good.” There’s a screen on one wall and it comes on then, flashing an image of colours, weird shapes and some text that reads: “
Surrealism is merely the reflection of the death process.
Henry Miller.”

Ana says, “Do you have any questions?”

I shake my head.

She says, “We run a varied program here. Sometimes we get a few kids, sometimes about twenty. We’ve got a session in half an hour. Do you want to do a trial run? We’ll pay minimum wage.”

“You want me to start now? Don’t you need to check my resumé or references?” I might fall asleep at the table, but I don’t want to let this opportunity pass by.

“I’ll check all that later. If today goes well.” She smiles again.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Absolutely. Perfect—I
really
need the help.” She rushes to the storage cupboard and hauls out a pile of blue paper. “Can’t forget blue! We’re making our own books today,” she says. “Using our hands, our feet, our arms …”

“Sounds cool. Can I just let my mom know where I’m going to be?”

Ana nods.

I call Mom and say, “I got a job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, a trial run, at least.” I hear the smile in my voice.

“I knew you could—tell me! Is it one of the hotels?”

“It’s at the gallery.”

“That’s wonderful! You never even mentioned that you dropped your resumé there. What does it involve?”

“I’ll tell you later. I have to go. She wants me to do a trial run now.”

“Your first job. That’s big news. We’ll have to celebrate.”

“I haven’t got it for sure yet.”

“What’s she paying you?”

“Mom, I have to go.”

Once I’m off the phone, time speeds up. Parents arrive with children and in the end about fifteen kids sit looking adoringly up at Ana. We stitch pages together and I go round noticing who needs help. Each child makes a book titled
The Book of …,
followed by their name. They draw round their own hands and then write about themselves, filling in pictures and pages as they go. My headache fades. I sit down and help a tiny girl with a nest of black curls. I imagine Cosmo as a preschooler and feel an inner pinch. Maybe Mom has a point; I could do more stuff with him to help, and when he’s older it might even be fun to hang out together.

It’s near the end of the class when a couple of boys shriek and run over to Kurt, who has just arrived. He swings them up like they are monkeys, saying hello and kissing them on the cheeks. He nods at me and wanders over with his arms full, saying, “My little brothers, Sam and Adrian. I bring them when I work, then Dad picks them up.”

They look nothing like him with their red hair, little snub noses and freckles. I say, “These two did
a great job of their books.” They squirm out of his arms and plop to the floor, looking pleased. A man arrives, nods hello to Kurt, and the boys rush off with him.

Kurt says, “So you work here now?”

Ana says, “Yes. She does. If everything checks out. Callie, email me later.”

I smile as I say to Kurt, “Then I guess I do. Work here, I mean, since, um, about three hours ago.”

“Cool.” He lowers his voice. “You must feel … yeah … ill.”

Ill?
Oh, embarrassing. He saw me last night, drunk and silly. Except, he hardly saw me because he was looking at Ivy the whole time. “I don’t normally. I mean,” I sputter, “I don’t really drink, um, ever.”

“Not a big deal,” he says.

But getting drunk is a big deal for me. I know in Kurt’s world everybody drinks and parties, but it’s not very
me.
I suddenly remember I saw Kurt kissing Ivy last night, the two of them entangled in the middle of the dance floor, and a couple of people whispering and texting about it. Ivy’s big news already and she hasn’t even started at our school yet.

Kurt breaks me out of my reverie. “Have you got a moment to grab a coffee when I’m done? In about an hour. There’s a place next door. I … yeah … wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Um … sure,” I say.

After finishing up with Ana and the kids, and making sure the art room is spotless, I wander through the gallery and, because I’m a little early to meet Kurt, I take my time looking around the exhibition of Surrealist work. The paintings are like big red balloons would be at a funeral, strange and startling. I admire a painting of a rock stuffed into a hotel room, and one of a suitcase with a shadow of a hand resting upon it. I come to a complete stop at a painting that at first appears completely black until I make out a woman dressed in white lying slumped in the bottom corner. She makes me think of Ivy’s mom. The weight of blackness presses down on her. I chew a hangnail on my thumb.

Kurt makes me jump when he says behind me, “I like this painting best.”

“Yeah. I can see why.”

“It’s dark, but it’s cool.”

“Do you think I could do a piece on the exhibition? For
Flat Earth Theory
?” I ask.

“Good idea. Did you know the Surrealists used to play a game. Exquisite Corpse. One artist started the picture—drew the head. The next one drew the torso. Someone else finished it off—legs, feet. All on the same sheet of paper.”

“Why’s it called Exquisite Corpse?”

“It’s from the word version of the game
—The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine.
Something like that. Someone starts the story on a sheet of paper, folds it over. Hiding what they’ve written. The second person writes the next sentence, folds it over again. Someone else finishes it up. None of them know what the others have written until they read it out.”

“It sounds, um, surreal.”

“Yeah, look at these.” He gestures to a glass case against one wall. There are about eight drawings of mixtures of strange heads and bodies, multiple legs, spots and swirls. He scuffs his sneaker against the floor. “So, yeah, about last night …” he says. “Did you and Xander … get to talk?”

“Xander’s nice.”

He studies the drawings again. A tiny frown crosses his face. Peeking out from beneath his black shirt is a leather cord with a silver dollar hanging from it. I say, “I like the necklace. I mean … I know guys don’t call them necklaces, but …”

He smiles. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Nice. So, you wanted to talk. About the piece for the board? You haven’t emailed the edits yet.”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“Is it about Ivy, then? It’s—”

“I’m being … whatever.” He checks his phone. “I should go.”

“Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, and leaves me standing there alone.

At supper at home, Mom’s distracted by Cosmo, who is “teething,” um, yelling his head off. She tries to ask me about the job, but I don’t get much of a chance to reply. Ivy texts asking me to come over. I head out, ignoring Mom’s protests, telling her only
that I’m going for another walk. I’m surprised she buys it, her radar
must
be on, but she must figure either that I wouldn’t lie to her, or that I need the space.

I go straight to Ivy’s, exhilarated by the fact Mom doesn’t know where I am. Ivy’s mom is out with Kevin so the house is still and quiet around us, like a feather duvet. I’m comforted by the silence. My house is always too loud with Cosmo wailing, or a gaggle of his baby friends around, filling up the living room, jumping in the Jolly Jumper and bashing away at noisy toys. Various mommies and their children drop by, people wanting my mom to sign books or to get involved with some charity or other. It’s perfect, really: she’s a successful children’s book author and illustrator, and now she has a baby. Only problem is me, the teenager who doesn’t quite fit the picture.

Ivy snaps me out of my sulk. Tells me to put some music on. As I scroll through, I realize I don’t recognize any of the bands on her phone. They’re all foreign and exotic sounding. I pick one at random, curious now. An accordion starts to play, backed up with heavy drums and some other instrument I
can’t identify. I dock the phone as a laconic voice hums, then says,
“They’ll only let you down.”
The voice switches to French. It’s weird music, not something I’d associate with Ivy. She’s lying on her sofa, skimming through a magazine, wearing a white tee and peach-coloured jeans. Her bare feet are crossed at the ankles.

The music plays for a moment or two longer, and she says, “That’s me.” I must look confused, because she continues, “Singing. I’m the singer.”

I shut my eyes and listen. The girl singing can
really
sing but Ivy’s the worst singer ever.

“There’s no way, Ivy. You’re tone-deaf.”

She laughs. “True.”

“It’s not you?”

“Come, sit down.” She doesn’t raise her eyes from the magazine.

I flop on the sofa. She puts her feet in my lap.

“So you’re not the one singing?”

“Caught out. I just wanted you to think—” She flicks her gaze to me. “That I was cool, or something.”

“Of course I think that!”

“Sorry. It was stupid. I shouldn’t pretend to be
someone I’m not. How about you give me a massage and then I’ll give you one.” She wiggles her foot.

“A foot massage?”

“What? My feet are clean.”

Her toenails are painted five different tones of pink. I take one foot in my hand, press my thumbs into the flesh.

She says, “That feels good” and stretches out like a cat. “Sorry I’m being strange. Mom’s drinking a lot already. Normally when we move we get a, well, grace period. Time off.”

“That’s awful.” I sound naive but I don’t know what else to say.

Ivy lets her head fall back on the arm of the couch and talks to the ceiling while I massage. “Kevin literally has no freaking idea how much Mom drinks. He thinks she’s fun—a live-wire, makes him feel young, whatever. And Dad’s too busy being a swanky investment banker to give a flying—”

“Are you in touch with him?”

She lifts her head. “He sends money. In his head that makes up for it. He remarried, a twenty-two-year-old,
so I guess he doesn’t need me. Gross. Like, so predictable of him.” Her phone interrupts her. She checks the screen. “Oooh, it’s Kurt.”

She yanks her feet away and jumps up. Her voice suddenly husky, she answers the call, heading out of the room, closing the door. I check through my own phone, waiting, looking at some photos Tilly posted of her family at the cabin.

When Ivy comes back she says, “We’re going out on the boat tomorrow. You’re coming.”

As if Mom knows what Ivy’s just said, she phones. I say to Ivy, “Hang on.”

Mom says, “Hey, Callie my love. Where are you? Why don’t I meet you? We could walk together. Cosmo’s sleeping. Your dad’s here. I’ve got my coat on already.”

I feel a pang for when Mom and I used to spend time together. It’s followed by a spool of anxiety that she’ll figure out where I am. As far as I can tell, I’m still
forbidden
to see Ivy.

“Actually, Mom, I’m just coming down the street now. I’ll see you at home.” I get off the phone and say to Ivy, “I’m sorry. I gotta go. Mom needs help with Cosmo.” Lies get easier and easier. “I’ll
call you about the boat. I don’t think I should go, though.”

Ivy stands to hug me goodbye. “You’re coming.”

“Okay. I definitely am.”