“So do you always come here alone?” I ask after a sip of heaven.
“Brooks works a lot. My fiancé.”
“Oh, fiancé,” I coo. “When’s the special day?”
“January. His parents started Jansen Brewing, so he’s also a little biased.” A smile plays on her lips, proud of her sly boasting.
“No way!”
“Amazing, right?” Her eyes are big, smile stretched too far. “They started it in France, and of course you know they ripped Starbucks a new one. They’re ridiculously rich.” Slyness abandoned.
“Wow.”
She plucks a biscuit from the basket on the table and bites into it. “The money’s just a bonus. He’s an amazing guy. Gorgeous. Intelligent. Driven. What about you?” she smacks. “Boyfriend?”
“He’s backpacking across Europe, but yes. His name is Elliott.” I flick a biscuit crumb that flew from her mouth.
She smiles. Nods to my hand. “No ring yet?”
Not yet, I think. I shake my head.
The waitress places our checks on the table. Just as quickly, she has bounced away. Eliza giggles, looking back in her direction. “Did you see her nails? I wouldn’t be caught dead like that.”
How Brooks tolerates her is beyond me. Inconspicuously, I glance at my own. They’re perfect, but I just had them done. Still, it feels foreign, being so concerned with such small details. With time and continued practice, I know it will become easier. Second nature.
A chirp. She looks at her phone and shoots up from her seat. “It’s my mom. I’m late to meet her.” She drops a twenty on the table and smiles. “This was fun, though.”
I smile. “We should do it again.”
“I’d love that! I don’t have many girlfriends.” She frowns, stuffs the phone into her pocket, and throws her purse over her shoulder.
“Really?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. I dunno, I guess I’m paranoid. Brooks is just one of those guys some women would love to steal away, you know?”
I nod. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Coffee tomorrow? Same time?”
“Works for me.”
She treks to the door, hair blowing as she disappears into the sunshine. I smile, knowing eventually she will disappear from Brooks’s life, too.
August 29, 2015
Damn her. Damn, damn, damn. This was not supposed to be a double date with me playing the part of third wheel. If I’d known he was coming, I would have chosen another outfit. Skipped the onion-laced omelet. Given myself a little pep talk in the mirror. Seeing him for only the third time in ten years is jarring.
I remember both other times with such clarity that I can recall even minute details. I was unlucky enough that he’d walked into the Freezer Treats ice cream shop where I worked at, cuddled up all over the bitch. You could probably say I was slowly coming to grips with the fact that I had no chance, that Brooks was moving on with Eliza. But the sparkle in his eyes when he’d realized he knew me had sprouted a seedling of hope.
“Brooks,” I say meekly, wanting to jump off a bridge because I shouldn’t have let him know that I instantly recognized him. Scooping ice cream in a waffle cone hat at nineteen is embarrassing enough. My embarrassment is further cemented by the fact that he’s wearing his Georgia Tech T-shirt. I’m enrolled online through University of Phoenix, but somehow it doesn’t feel as legit. I envy those who go the brick-and-mortar route, but I can’t deal with large groups of people. I get all panicky because of my anxiety. I have to pay for the online classes myself, because my parents are too broke, hence the sophomoric hat and my permanently frozen right hand. Eventually I hope to save the fifteen grand to fix my nose, but that’ll never happen with the minimum wage I make at Freezer Treats.
“Ivy?” Brooks smiles, and Eliza rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.
He remembers my name! I smile back at him. “What flavor would you like?”
He tells me chocolate because he’s simple, and then he fights with Eliza because she’s taking way too damn long to decide on an ice cream flavor. Pretty girls are always so indecisive. He seems different, matured. He doesn’t seem like that boy from high school, but … he is. But God, he’s so beautiful with his perfectly messy hair, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as they sit at a tiny table near the door and laugh together. His tongue licks ice cream off his spoon, and my panties get moist as I wonder how it would feel between my legs—his dark chocolate hair to go along with his chocolate ice cream tongue. I wonder if all virgins are this horny.
He leaves without saying goodbye, and it enrages me, but I blame Eliza. She still has her greedy tentacles in him—clingy like lint on a black shirt. Even though I’m ugly, she perceives me as a threat.
Two years ago was the second time I saw him. After graduating with my degree in graphic design, I had started my own home-based business—best for my social anxiety. I hadn’t been prepared, however, for how frustrating working with people who could hide behind a computer could be. After getting pissed off at one particularly difficult client and almost breaking my computer, I’d decided to go out to dinner and calm myself down. I’d ended up at a steakhouse—spending all the money I had to my name after my student loan payment—and was chomping away sloppily, not caring about the steak juices running down my mouth when I had heard his unmistakable voice.
“Man, I dunno,” Brooks says.
“You think she’s cheating, bro?” An unknown voice.
I wipe the juices from my chin. Turn my head around. Almost piss my pants because he’s sitting right behind me with two other friends who are hot, but not as hot as Brooks. I quickly turn back around before he pulls his head off the table and out of his hands. I even stop chewing my steak, because fuck chewing and its loudness inside your head when you’re eavesdropping.
“Maybe,” he says. “Fuck, I don’t know!” He proceeds to tell them about how he’d gotten off work and had called her repeatedly because they were supposed to meet up for dinner, but she didn’t answer, and when he’d finally gotten ahold of her she was acting strange. “She just sounded off. And ever since Kate fucked me over—I mean, I know it was just high school—but I just haven’t been able to get over it. I’m always worried Eliza is going to do it, too.”
My heart drops into my stomach a little, hearing him so upset over my enemy.
“I’m telling you, bro. That’s why ugly chicks are the best. They aren’t going anywhere, and they’ll do anything, man. Anything,” his disgusting, stupid friend says. I want to march over there and tell him that his insides are just as ugly as my outsides, and that it’s the inside that counts, but I don’t, because his words are true. I would do anything for Brooks, anything he wanted, if it meant we could be together again.
“Nah, man. I can’t do ugly chicks.” And my heart cracks into a million pieces, because Brooks is a mean person.
“Well,” his even more disgusting and stupid friend says, “there was that time in fifth grade…”
“That joke is so old. She wasn’t ugly yet. I wasn’t even old enough to care that much about looks. It was fucking fifth grade.”
Brooks is a bad person, and I’m glad that Eliza might be cheating on him. He doesn’t deserve my loyalty, and I want him to choke on his croutons.
Now, Brooks is before me yet again—a diamond in a world of simulated stones—walking toward me with the bitch who caused me to go to all these extremes. Eliza waves. Pulls Brooks along with a huge smile as they weave through the tables. My heart pounds against my ribcage, and my hands clam up. One of my boobs feels higher than the other. I reach in my bra and quickly lift the offender into a better position. Apparently there’s a learning curve to having big tits.
They stop at the table. Eliza turns to Brooks, and then to me. She’s beaming, and her makeup is beautifully understated, and suddenly I feel like a clown. “This is Brooks, my fiancé. I hope you don’t mind if he joins us. He surprised me this morning.”
“Not at all.” I push
the omelet to the side. Run my tongue over my teeth, feeling for pepper. If I didn’t know this was reality, I’d blink a few times. Make sure this isn’t a dream. Panic bubbles inside me, that familiar dizzying breathlessness and tightening of my throat.
Eliza sits, and Brooks follows like a loyal puppy. Smiles are exchanged. It takes every ounce of willpower to ignore the glory of his face, to appear unaffected. Unaroused. Save for the deepening of the lines that cross his forehead, he looks the same as the last time I saw him. He’s dressed down, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Hair slightly out of place, like he surprised her just like she said, except in bed.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Emily.” I smile, but my hands stay leisurely on the table, because I’m uncertain whether a handshake is appropriate.
“Brooks.” His name stuttered almost imperceptibly out of his mouth, because I am fucking hot now. Eliza didn’t notice, and her eyes are fixed on the menu. His arm finds its way around her shoulder, and giddiness flows from her. Sickens me. I reflect on the time I saw Brooks at the steakhouse, wonder if his suspicions were justified and what happened afterward. Instincts are typically correct, so she probably was cheating and ended up with a ring anyway, and Ivy couldn’t even get a first date. Life is cruel.
Our waitress appears. Refills my water. Brooks and Eliza order. I sneak a Xanax out of my purse and pop it. I know I’ll need it as the minutes tick by, because my heart is already speeding up.
Breakfast is quickly disappearing from their plates between coffee and insignificant chat, but the rest of my omelet remains untouched. Brooks’s flexing muscles and the fullness of his lips are all I need. My panties are so wet I’m convinced it would be visible through my tight white shorts. Eliza mentions my fake boyfriend, Elliott. Talks about his backpacking. Goes into wedding chat. Then, she and Brooks squabble over exactly how much she’ll spend on her dress versus the honeymoon.
“Babe, whatever your parents don’t cover, mine will. Just go crazy.” My panties dry up. He has no idea what it’s like to live in real life, and I want to slap him for being so showy with his money.
The waitress takes our plates. Drops the checks on the table. Brooks pays for both and earns a brownie point.
Eliza smiles at me. Pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes. “Want to go for a run in the morning?”
“I’d love to!”
They stand, and Brooks nods politely. “Nice meeting you.”
“You, too.” My smile is small and quick, nothing more than an acknowledgment.
“We should do a bar night soon,” Eliza says.
“See you tomorrow,” I say.
I watch them walk away, him grabbing for her hand. The sweet smiles they exchange as their fingers meet. I imagine it’s my hand, and I remember my wet panties. Then, I go home and touch myself to the picture of him I discreetly snapped when he said goodbye.
August 1998
The clearing of Mr. Archibald’s throat shifts all eyes to the front of the room. “Class,” he says, moving close to the first row of desks. “We have a new student today. I want everyone to make him feel comfortable and welcome here at J. Stewart.”
He motions to the door, and it’s just any other day, so I gaze back at my paper. Whispering starts, and I look to the front of the room again. A beautiful, magnificent golden-haired boy makes his way over to Mr. Archibald, and suddenly it’s not just any other day. Something weird happens in my stomach, a stirring motion maybe, and I wonder if it’s the butterflies people talk about on TV. I look around at the other girls to see if they look normal or weird, but I can’t tell, because they’re just ... looking.
The boy saunters over to Mr. Archibald. He doesn’t look nervous or scared, and how can he not look nervous or scared of being new on the third day of fifth grade? He’s so brave! But I guess it can’t be that scary or hard when you look like that. His eyes are bright, but I can’t tell if they’re blue or green from this far away. His skin is tan, so he must have spent a lot of time at the beach or outside over the summer, which kind of makes me sad because I’ve never been to the ocean. I’ve never been anywhere.
Mr. Archibald leans down and whispers something to the boy, and now the boy is stepping closer to the desks.
“Hi, guys,” he says. “My name is Brooks Jansen, and I’m new here.” He smiles, cool as a cucumber.
Brooks Jansen, I sigh. Ivy Jansen. Brooks and Ivy Jansen.
“Tell us where you’re from, Brooks, and what types of things you like to do so we can all get to know you better.”
“Oh, I’m from here—Atlanta,” he says. “I’m just new at J. Stewart. I like playing football.” He shrugs. He’s so cool, and he doesn’t even look like he’s worried about being new.
All eyes are still on him, that magnificent boy.
“Okay, class. Now it’s your turn. Starting with this row, everyone is going to introduce themselves to Brooks and also say something they like … hobbies, food, etc.
I listen nervously to everyone’s introductions, and when it’s my turn, I feel scared for some reason, but I don’t know why.
“Ivy?” Mr. Archibald says.
All heads in the classroom turn to me. “Um...” I say. I try to say my name, but it’s sticky like peanut butter.
“Ivy!” Mr. Archibald snaps.
Brooks looks back at Mr. Archibald, and then back to me. He is wide-eyed, but then he smiles at me, and it makes me want to tell him my name a hundred times.
“Ivy. My name is Ivy. Ivy Hobbs,” I stammer, my voice barely louder than a whisper. Now I feel stupid, because no one else said their last name. “I like ... I like school.”
The class erupts into laughter, and Brooks cracks a grin, and then he makes his way to the back of the class to sit down in the empty desk right next to me.
School? I ask myself. He probably thinks I’m a loser.
I peer over at him, and he’s looking at me. I want to look away, but he smiles, and now I can’t. I smile back at him, but my heart sinks at his brand new shoes and his name-brand clothes. I frown at the hand-me-downs my mom got from our neighbor. Sometimes I wish I didn’t go to J. Stewart. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here with all of these rich kids. The only reason my parents can send me here is because my dad is the head janitor and I get free tuition. Yay me!
“Hey, what’s wrong?” a boy asks.
It’s the boy. The beautiful new boy. And he’s talking to me. Oh my God, he’s talking to me. “Nothing. Forgot my homework,” I say.
“Sorry. Homework sucks,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, and I reach into my backpack to crumple it up.
“Did you draw that?” he asks, pointing to the top page in my notebook where I have embarrassingly been doodling pandas.
“No,” I lie, ripping it out and shoving it underneath to the bottom.
He reaches over and swipes my notebook before I can stop him. I want to get mad, but he smiles at me, and I can’t be mad at that smile. He shakes the notebook until the loose page falls, but it slips off his desk and floats to the ground before coming to rest on the blank side of the page. I quickly reach down into the aisle in an effort to grab it, but his fingers snatch it up first. We don’t bump heads like in the movies, but our eyes meet, and we stare at each other, unmoving. I’ve never been this close to a boy’s face before, and he doesn’t blink. It’s like a staring contest. “Can I please look at your drawing?” he asks softly—so soft, it’s almost a whisper.
“All right, all right, stop talking,” Mr. Archibald snaps, but we don’t move. “Ivy! Brooke!”
“It’s Brooks, sir,” he says, and he’s slowly pulling away from me now, my panda paper in his hand.
I sit up again, and Brooks is studying my drawing. I feel weird and embarrassed.
“This is really good,” he says. “You have talent.”
“Thanks.”
“Why pandas?” he asks, passing the paper back to me.
I shrug. “I just like them.” My parents took me
to the zoo for my fifth birthday and bought me a stuffed panda, and I’ve been obsessed with them ever since. It was the only really good birthday I can remember.
“Me, too. Last year my parents took my brother and me to China, and we visited the panda breeding center in Chengdu. It was a lot of fun. They had, like, a billion pandas, and we got to hold them and help feed them. The babies are like the size of a grape.”
“You went to China? Wow,” I say. “I’m jealous. I saw some at the zoo, but I didn’t get to touch one.”
“Yeah, my parents are trying to start a coffee shop chain, so we travel a lot. But your drawing is really good. Will you draw me one sometime?”
My heart skips. “Sure.”
September 4, 2015
Eliza’s feet slow against the pavement. Her hand flies up, and she stops, gasping as she bends over and rests her hands on her knees. “I can’t go anymore.” I don’t argue with her. It’ll be awesome if she can’t fit into her wedding dress, even though she’ll never get to wear it down the aisle.
Her face is tomato sauce red. Wheezes whistle from her throat as she stumbles and walks in slow motion to a bench on the sidewalk. Following suit, I sit next to her. My own breath becomes shallower as I pretend I’m also out of breath, even though I’m not since I completed two rounds of Insanity. I’m an insane Insanity-er! Maybe I’ll loan her the discs when this is all over with. She’ll need to look her best to snag a new man. Her arms aren’t as toned as mine, and her thighs expand when they meet the seat of the bench because she’s skinny fat. I scold myself for the petty thought, but I worked hard for my body, and she doesn’t deserve niceness.
I’ve learned a lot about her over the last week. We’ve had breakfast together each day, and then go for runs afterward. Her favorite color is lime green, but she didn’t have to tell me that, because it’s practically all she wears. Her best friend, Rachel, lives in Washington, though she has never gone to visit. The friend comes to Atlanta instead, because Eliza can’t deal with the cold and the rain. Selfish.
The Evolution of Ivy: Poison Page 3
