The Evolution of Ivy: Poison

by Lauren Campbell

  “Brooks, wh-what the fuck are you saying?” She grabs a fistful of my shirt, an effort to hold on to me if she needs to.

  Horror sets in on her face, like she watched someone die. I’m so disappointed in her, in how she’d acted. I walked in here with doubt that nagged at me all night—doubt about our future. But I’m a sucker. I can’t bear to see the hurt in her eyes. She looks defeated—broken.

  I softly grip her the sides of her face and pull her close to me. “I’m not saying anything. I love you. All I want is for you to tell me that wasn’t you last night, that you weren’t yourself.” She doesn’t answer immediately—just stares at me before her eyes finally glaze over, staring at the air between us. “Babe?” I lift her chin, forcing her to look at me.

  She collapses in my arms, her body crumpled paper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, babe.” Her breathless words are muffled in my chest between her sobs. “It’s just … the wedding, the planning. I feel like I’m having a nervous breakdown. I took it out on her, I did. But you know I’m jealous. Hearing about your old feelings just set me off, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “I know, babe. I know.” She vibrates against my chest as she whimpers. “Maybe one day we can help her.”

  “What?” She pulls back from me, her eyes wide in astonishment.

  “Well … you do hold some responsibility for the way she looks, Eliza. I know it was an accident, but that doesn’t mean you can just forget about it. That’s what pisses me off. Who knows what kind of breathing problems she must have, too,” I say. “Your parents should have paid for surgery. It’s actually pretty shitty that they didn’t.”

  She looks offended, but then her expression relaxes into understanding, her arms hugging me tighter. “Yeah.” She really does seem sorry.

  And she should be.

  The last time I saw Ivy was years ago, but her nose was still shockingly curved, almost into a letter “C.” I’ve felt guilty at times. I know I’m not the one who swung the bat, but I did proceed to date the person who did. I’ve thought about sending her money somehow, but I always stop myself—after I’d heard her parents had died, I figured it probably wasn’t a good time for her to be worried about it. Maybe one day.

  Eliza stares at me, regret etched in her face. She kisses me—a sincere, apologetic kiss. My hands pull off her clothes, then my own. I contemplate sex on the floor, but the raccoon-slash-domestic-violence-victim eyes are distracting. I carry her into the shower, wipe the smudges from her face, and fuck her against the wet tile. Intrusive thoughts of Emily’s tits enter my mind, but I force them out. Instead, I focus on my dick sliding in and out of Eliza’s warmth instead. The grip of her around me. How wet she is. How much she needs me inside of her.

  Then I come, feeling like a good guy for not imagining sex with Emily while making love to my fiancée.

  We dry off and dress again. “You talk to Emily this morning?” I can’t help myself.

  “Not yet. She was probably up all night having sex with Deacon,” she laughs. “He came to check on me last night, then went to her apartment.”

  A hard lump reaches up my throat, grabbing onto my tongue and rendering me mute. I shrug and take a deep breath. As much as I don’t want to care, I find myself … caring. It wouldn’t be such a problem. Eliza doesn’t keep friends for long. But with Deacon interested in Emily, that won’t matter, because she’ll be around anyway. I don’t like that I’d started to think of her when Eliza and I were having sex. I suddenly feel like a cheater, even though I’m not. This is the first time I’ve ever had these kinds of thoughts. But I feel some odd connection when I’m around her, and I’m not doing a great job of ignoring it. Any other guy would tell me that of course I’m going to get worked up over a hot chick falling onto me during a game of Twister, and of course I’m gonna notice she has perfect tits. And they’d probably reassure me that it’s normal to be jealous at the thought of Deacon getting to nail her last night, too. After all, I’ve only been with two girls in my life. Perhaps it’s just innocent curiosity for me to wonder how she feels—how she tastes. A normal guy thing.

  I hope.

  The metal edge of the door digs into my arm as I hold it open. Eliza floats past me, searching The Flying Biscuit for Emily—already here and looking gorgeous in hot pink jeans and a baggy sweater. They embrace, hair mixing, cheeks touching, before Emily and I awkwardly engage in a quick side hug. She smells like heaven.

  Eliza and I cram into the booth, and she hooks her arm through mine. Despite the reminder of her ownership—of the love we have built for a decade, brick by brick—I can’t quell the voice in my head asking me if Emily got fucked last night. My eyes glance over at her. Not a strand of hair out of place. Her makeup looks fresh. No traces of red lipstick smudged around her mouth. It’s stupid. You can’t tell if someone just had sex by looking at them.

  Eliza starts to ask Emily a question, but then a redheaded waitress stops at the booth. “What can I get you guys this morning?”

  The waitress is hot, and I get the idea to try to imagine sex with her. If I can get it up over this girl, then maybe I’m simply developing those wandering eyes even faithful men seem to have. I imagine I have her on the table—the restaurant empty. She’s sucking my cock like a vacuum, and … this is doing nothing.

  “And for you?” she asks me.

  “I’ll take the, uh … the eggs and bacon.”

  “And to drink?”

  “Coke.”

  Laughter makes its way across the aisle, dragging my attention to a hot girl and her slightly less hot friend. Maybe a threesome would do it. While Eliza and Emily talk about dieting and how many calories are really in the food, I imagine taking both of the randoms into my bed and fucking their brains out. The less hot of the two would be on my cock riding me. The other would sit backwards on my face while I lick her pussy and she kisses her friend and plays with her tits. But I’m not getting hard. Nope. Not even a little bit.

  It doesn’t make any sense. I was hard as a rock over Emily, yet fantasizing about a threesome or wondering if the waitress’s rug matches the drapes does nothing for me. Is it the weird connection I feel with Emily that I’m horny for? I feel like such an asshole. Eliza is the best thing that ever happened to me. So what, she was a bitch in high school. I was a dick, too. When my parents got rich, that shit went to my head, and I’d acted like any other spoiled asshole kid for a while. Eliza got over herself when college started, and what I saw last night was just nerves and anxiety and stress. I shouldn’t hold that against her. Deep down, she probably feels terrible about what happened with Ivy. So maybe it’s understandable she would shrug it off, that she’d try to pretend it didn’t even happen.

  “Soooo,” Eliza says. “What happened last night with you and Deacon?” I’m not sure why girls feel the need to share every intimate detail of their lives. It’s like they believe it is a requirement of friendship.

  I hold my breath, not wanting to hear her answer.

  “Nothing,” Emily says.

  “Mmmhmm. Don’t lie,” Eliza says, dipping her biscuit into Emily’s jelly.

  “No, really. Nothing.”

  My shoulders relax at the sincerity in her voice, and I’m ashamed of myself for being invested in her response. I can’t have this girl around. I have to figure out a way to drive some distance between her and Eliza.

  “Sure, sure,” Eliza mocks.

  “Okay, maybe we’re going out tonight,” Emily says. “He insisted on a real date. He’s taking me to Sun Dial.”

  “That’s a great place for a first date,” I offer, faking encouragement.

  “Lucky,” Eliza says. “Brooks and I haven’t gone on a solo date in a while. Too much wedding stuff going on. Speaking of, I know it’s last minute, but … one of my bridesmaids had to drop out, so now there’s a space. I don’t know if you’d be up for it, but—”

  “I’d love that!” Emily beams, looking up from her food.

  “Great! And
you’re smaller than the other girl, so the dress could easily be altered.”

  “Yay!” Emily smiles, clapping her hands together quietly.

  “Oh, oh!” She turns to me. “Can Em and Deacon come with us to Colorado?”

  My jaw tightens, but I say, “Of course.”

  “You have to come—you and Deacon,” Eliza says to her. “We have to pick out cake and flowers ASAP. Come with us. It’ll be fun!”

  “When?”

  “Friday. Coming back Sunday,” Eliza says.

  “You know I’m in,” Emily says.

  Eliza squeals, then nudges me. “Talk to Deacon!”

  Emily smiles, then gulps down the last of her juice, while I gulp at how bad this situation is. I can’t help but watch the movement of her throat, and it turns me on. I imagine her mouth on my cock, sucking it dry. I must get rid of her. She’s a threat to my character. Dangerous.

  Poison.

  October 1999

  Brooks has been gone a couple months now. I haven’t talked to him, not even once. Three days after he left, I’d punched in all the numbers he’d written in my yearbook, but some French lady answered. According to my mom, I’d spent five minutes and thirty-eight seconds trying to understand her and trying to make her understand me, and my mom whipped my ass and almost made it bleed for calling France and costing her billions of dollars. And then she took the phone away, so I don’t know if he’d tried to call me back or not.

  My parents made me join the church softball team, because I’ve been so down since he left. I hate sports. I don’t want to play softball, and I think I really suck at it. It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t improved much at all. I almost never hit the ball, but I’m really good at catching and throwing, so the coach put me at short stop.

  A girl named Eliza is on the team, and I think we’re becoming friends. I recognized her from school, but we had never talked before. She’s pretty nice. I asked my dad to drop me off early today, because I want to ask if she’ll help me practice batting. She’s really good at it.

  Nearing the cage, I see her swinging away, hitting balls pitched by an outfielder.

  “Eliza?” I call, moving the net to step behind her.

  I don’t think she heard me. She didn’t respond, and the crowd cheering on the team at the field nearby drowned out my voice.

  The pitcher yells something. Eliza takes a prep swing. Now the pitcher is walking forward, her hands in the air, but I can’t hear what she’s saying because of all the noisy parents yelling and chanting. I think she’s talking about me, maybe trying to tell Eliza I’m here, or maybe she’s telling me to get out of the cage.

  “Eliza!” I yell, and finally she turns around. Smiles. The pitcher walks back to the other side.

  “Do you think you could help me practice my batting? You’re so good,” I say. “I’d like to get better for the team.”

  “Sure. I guess,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  The outfielder pitches her another ball, and she hits it.

  And then another.

  And another.

  Eventually, I lose count at how many she’s hit.

  When the bat is down again, I tap her on the shoulder. “When do you think we can practice?” I ask.

  “Watch me a couple more times first. Pay attention to how I hold the bat. Stand right there,” she points.

  I move to where her finger pointed, and I wait. Study her stance and the position of her arms.

  That’s all I remember. Everything after is a blank. All I know is at some point the bat cracked against my skull and shattered my nose.

  Shattered my life.

  It’s the first day of seventh grade, the day I get to see Brooks again. The last year has brought major changes to my life. First, he went away. And then, I … changed.

  The rest of sixth grade was tough after the accident. My nose healed like the doctor had said it would, but I kept hoping he would be wrong when he told my parents it would never look normal again without surgery. Plastic surgery. Really expensive plastic surgery. But he wasn’t wrong. It’s still crooked to this day. It never straightened out, and the left side still looks almost caved in. After it had happened, kids started treating me differently. They whispered whenever they saw me in the hall, and everyone talked about what Eliza did. But instead of comforting me, they’d comforted her. Everyone kept telling her how sad it was, what had happened to me, but it wasn’t her fault—it was just an accident, and she shouldn’t beat herself up.

  But I hated her. I hated her even though she’d cried and apologized repeatedly. I hated her from the moment I knew I would have to look like this forever.

  I just hope Brooks doesn’t hate me because I’m different now.

  I’ve waited for this day for so long, and it seems like it has taken forever for it to get here. I’ve both looked forward to and dreaded this day, because I’ve been so scared of what he will think when he sees my face. But then I remind myself that we’re in love, and I know everything will end up fine. Mom and Dad say love conquers all. I waited for Brooks, so he can wait for me—the old me. One day I’ll get it fixed, and I’ll be the Ivy he remembers. Normal.

  My nervousness grows as most of the day slips by. I haven’t seen him anywhere. I’ve scoured the halls, the cafeteria, even peeked in the windows of all the seventh grade classrooms. But he’s nowhere.

  “Can I help you, Ivy?” Mrs. Lundy in the office asks.

  “Brooks Jansen. Is he here?”

  “Brooks Jansen?” She looks confused, and I realize she probably doesn’t know Brooks since we were on the elementary campus last year.

  “A boy,” I clarify. “He should be here.”

  “Let me look,” she says, pulling her glasses down over her eyes.

  I spell his name, and then I wait, keeping my eyes on the hall in case he passes by.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s no one here by that name,” she says.

  “There has to be,” I say, looking over the desk.

  She shakes her head, but turns to the computer again, her fingernails clicking way too slowly. “I’m sorry, it’s not a mistake. There is no Brooks here. No new students with a last name starting with ‘J,’ either.”

  I move back from the desk, staring past her at the air.

  “Can I help you with something else?” she asks.

  “No.”

  I walk out of the office and into the crowd of kids. They must have decided to stay another year, I think.

  Eighth grade seems like eight years away.

  September 26, 2015

  I pace back and forth, tugging at my left earring. Anxious about tonight, I can’t shake the feeling that this is all going to go wrong, that Brooks will marry Eliza no matter what I do, and that our love will be wasted. What if Brooks and I never happen, and what if Deacon and I do happen? I can’t deny we have some chemistry. Or do we? I’m new to this, after all. Regardless, he’s interested, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t feel good. I haven’t been close to the opposite sex since I was twelve years old. Still, Deacon is supposed to be temporary. If he ends up being some weird consolation prize, I’ll have to be around Brooks the rest of my life—whiskey dangled in front of an alcoholic. It would be a lifelong self-inflicted punishment. But if I’m honest with myself, my biggest fear at this point is that he’ll find out my secret—that I’m really the throwaway girl. On the flip, if everything works out the way I want, I’ll have to walk on eggshells until I’m dead, because he can’t know that I’m fake—no … custom made just for him.

  At least I’m sane enough to know if he did find out, he’d probably think I was a special breed of psycho unicorn, and he’d never talk to me again. I’m sure he’d try to have me arrested for something, though I don’t know for what. Or worse, I could be committed to a mental institution against my will, stuck in a padded cell forever because people don’t understand true love. He can never know that I’m Ivy Hobbs. And I’ll do everything I can to prevent him from find
ing out.

  The hum of an engine gets my attention, the tires of Deacon’s black BMW coming to a screeching halt. He hops out, looking adorable in his tee and blazer. Jogging around to the passenger side, he opens the door for me. It’s nice to know he’s a gentleman. That’s apparently pretty hard to come by these days, from what the movies say. Sex with him should at least be enjoyable.

  “That dress … wow.” He smiles. “Red is your color.”

  My cheeks grow hot. Deacon possesses the ability to make me feel good, but then I feel bad. At some point I’m going to have to break his heart just like his bitch ex-girlfriend did. But at least it’s all for a good cause. True love is worth anything in the world. He’s an important pawn in this game now, this quest for recovering what was lost.

  We arrive at Sun Dial, a rotating restaurant atop The Westin, peppered with wealthy dicks who think a two-hundred-dollar dinner for two is normal, and to hell with the starving kids in Decatur. We’re seated in the outside perimeter and have a fantastic view of the city. Eduardo is our guy tonight. We order roasted chicken and ribs. And, after a five-minute speech detailing what must be every possible wine on Earth, he has our drinks out in no time.

  The chicken is the best ever. Deacon is sucking his ribs down to the bone. He intermittently licks his fingers, which is gross, but he’s so attractive and nice that I can’t even be disgusted.

  “When’s your birthday?” he asks.

  There’s so much to consider when you become another person. I keep chewing, buying myself a few precious seconds of thought. “Halloween,” I say, though my real birthday is July fifteenth. My mom had always told me I could be whatever I wanted on Halloween, and now I’m what I’ve wanted to be since before I even became ugly—a pretty girl.

  “Nice,” he says. “That’s not far away. Anything in particular you want?” He licks a finger again, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

  “You.”