The Evolution of Ivy: Poison

by Lauren Campbell

  “Dude, that sucks,” Deacon says. “We missed the entire ending of the movie.” For once, Deacon is selfish. But that movie sucked anyway, so I couldn’t care less that we missed it. If anything, Eliza saved us from having to watch the rest of it.

  “Maybe I should go in. She might need help.” He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a key.

  “Don’t,” I tell him. “She was gagging on the phone. Give her some time.”

  He sighs, but stuffs the key back in his pocket. “You’re right. Well, I’m gonna come back and check on her in a while. You guys want to get a drink and kill some time?”

  October 9, 2015

  On the walk to the bar, my mind races. I never got a chance to ask Eliza what had happened with Emily. The party was a clusterfuck, and on the way to the movie she was on the phone with her Maid of Honor, Rachel. Rachel lives in Washington, so they don’t get to talk much. When they do, Eliza shuts out the world.

  I’m sort of pissed Eliza wouldn’t open the door. There’s no way I’m going home tonight without checking on her again. I’ve considered the possibility that she may not even be sick. Emily seemed unsure, and they both had the same dish. Maybe Eliza’s mad at me. Maybe I inflamed her when I sat next to Emily and didn’t understand her request to switch seats until after she had sat down.

  Sick or not, she would be utterly beside herself if she knew that Emily was coming along with Deacon and me to the bar, but she has nothing to worry about. Yes, I am attracted to Emily. I’m human. And yes, I feel some odd connection when I look at her. And yes, I felt something weird in Colorado, but as far as I know, that’s entirely one-sided and completely in my head. Regardless, I don’t want any of it. Not at all. And I have every intention of blowing it out like a candle, one-sided or not. I want to focus on Eliza, on building our future, and stupid shit like what we’ll name our kids, so ultimately I need Emily to go away if I can’t learn to control my mind … or my dick.

  The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that my shock at seeing her on the staircase at the party was not just confusion as to why she was there. It was … recognizing her … deja vu. I think. I need to explore this sense of familiarity I believe I’m mistaking for something else and figure all this out so I can bury it. I want to stomp the life out of this connection like an unwelcome pest in my house. I need to get to the bottom of this, because we have met before. I’m almost positive.

  I follow behind Deacon and Emily as we enter the pub, and I get a whiff of her perfume again. I hate my Y chromosomes. If I could pluck all of them out like ingrown hairs, I would. Her dress hugs her body, and I do my best not to look at it. I want to be good, and not that it’s an excuse, but … biology and primal instincts want me to be bad with her. Christ, I want to stop thinking these thoughts.

  Emily orders water. Deacon and I order beers. I tell her she should have one, too, and she relents. If my instincts are right, maybe a buzz will loosen her up enough to tell the truth if she’s lying, or maybe it’ll jog her memory if she isn’t. The way she looks at me says she knows me. Unless I’m certifiably insane and am imagining all of this.

  “Cheers,” I say, after the beers are brought.

  “Can’t wait for the bachelor party, man,” Deacon says. “It’s gonna be awesome.”

  “Yeah. Not far away.” I have never been into the whole bachelor party thing. It’s just not my style, getting wasted and hanging out with a bunch of strippers. I’m sure Eliza will call me every ten minutes, and then not speak to the next day because she will have convinced herself that I cheated.

  “Where are you boys headed?” Emily asks.

  “Cancun. Eliza’s going to Vegas,” I say.

  “Oh, I know. I’m going, too. Can’t wait!”

  And this is just getting worse. “Oh, cool,” I lie. “Guess I didn’t think of you going since they booked the trip months ago. Keep an eye on her.”

  Deacon’s lips purse together. Remnants from his ordeal with Kara fill his eyes. “Well, this is news to me. I won’t ask you not to go, but be careful, okay?”

  “Deacon.” She smiles. “I’ll be with, like, ten other women.”

  “Yeah, but you’re all hot women, so the sharks will come out.” Poor Deacon, worrying she’ll be whisked away on a two-day vacation.

  Emily laughs, and she looks at Deacon, then to me. And there it is again. It’s … something, something in her eyes.

  “Hey, man, would you mind getting another round?” I ask Deacon. These questions simply can’t wait anymore.

  “Sure. Corona?” I nod, and he squeezes between patrons at the crowded bar. He’ll be waiting at least a few minutes with all the rowdy college kids waiting for their refills.

  “So…” I lean in to her. “I know this is awkward, but I have to ask you. Back at the theater you said we’ve never met. Right?”

  “Not that I know of,” she says. She smiles and plays with her straw, dipping it repeatedly into her glass of water.

  She’s lying. I can tell. A tremble of her lips and evasion of eye contact are all I need to know that. Or she’s super into me and wants to fuck. Either scenario is a problem. “C’mon. I know that we have. I’ve been thinking about it a lot today. I’m almost one hundred percent sure. I just can’t place where.”

  A long moment of silence. Finally, her jaw slackens. She drops the straw in the glass, leans back in her chair, crosses her arms. “Okay. You’re right. But it was a long time ago.”

  I look back at the bar, ensuring Deacon is still waiting on the round, before turning back to her. “Where? When?”

  “My family spent summers here. You were at a concert in Chastain Park once. It was forever ago … years. You flirted a bit, and that was the end of it.”

  She studies my face, her eyes hesitant. I almost expect her to flinch.

  Chastain Park. Concert. Concert in Chastain Park. Think, think, think. I drum my fingers rapidly on the table. I’ve only been to a couple concerts there, and all but one was with Eliza. Then it comes to me. “Holy shit,” I say. “Which concert was that … uh … Journey, was it?!”

  “That was it.” She smiles.

  “I totally remember that. Why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you deny it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want anything to be weird with Eliza. I mean, it was a long time ago, and it was nothing, but…”

  She has a point. I doubt I could have figured it out on my own, but I definitely remember dancing with a hot chick between Kate breaking my heart and meeting Eliza.

  Emily plays with her earring. She’s probably nervous that Eliza will suddenly feel better and waltz in, wielding a machete, find us in the middle of what looks like a date, and hack us to death. “It’s also embarrassing that I remembered it.”

  “Nah.” I shrug. “It was a fucking Journey concert. That makes it memorable on its own.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Now, when I look at Emily, I won’t mistake it for connection, because that feeling was just familiarity. We flirted one summer night, and now I’m pretty sure I even jerked off to the thought of her after the concert was over. It all makes sense, and now I can move on with my life. But I still need her gone, because apparently my dick still wants her. No matter who she is.

  October 10, 2015

  I wake to the sound of Deacon’s snoring just as the sun comes up. I’m nuzzled against his neck, his hair tickling my cheek. After Brooks called it a night and headed back to Eliza’s apartment, Deacon came back to my place. We had sex for the second time, and I imagined he was Brooks. I almost feel like a terrible person for it. Almost.

  Speaking of Brooks, I hate lying to him. Good relationships can’t be built on lies. I’m well aware of that, so I’d like to keep the tally as low as possible. But it was more a lie of omission, because there really was a girl that night at the Journey concert. And he really was flirting with her. And he really did see me.

  Everyone was there. I’d gone with my parents because they’d dragged me. Out of my comfort zone, I
awkwardly tried to dance and enjoy myself. Before a minute could pass, a pretty girl-next-door type made eye contact with me and commenced whispering to her friends. It was mortifying. So I slipped away from my parents, determined to sit out the rest of the concert away from the crowd. I was almost to the walkway when I saw him then, jamming along humorously with friends to “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Feet glued to the cement, I was a statue in the middle of flailing bodies moving to the music. He kept cutting his eyes to some chick nearby. Eventually, I watched in anguish as he walked over. Introduced himself. Pulled her over to his group and danced and laughed away the rest of the concert with her. Their googly eyes made my stomach feel greasy and my throat tight. I so badly wished to be her in that moment.

  My dad came rushing up behind, angry that I’d run off. He was screaming so loudly that Brooks and the girl and his entire group turned around and made eye contact with me. Ignoring my dad, all I could do was smile my closed-mouth smile and pretend like I’d been dancing and not staring at him like a desperate girl. But he didn’t smile back. There was pity in his eyes before he turned back around and continued dancing with the girl I wished I could be.

  So, in essence, I didn’t lie. Of course, I’ve lied to him about growing up in California and about my parents, but some lies are unavoidable in this situation. Emily can’t have Ivy’s past, and Ivy can’t have Emily’s future. Ivy is dead. So, I have to create Emily’s past—to paint it as it’d be if I’d been one of the lucky ones.

  Carefully, I peel the covers off me, brush my teeth, take my pill, and get dressed. I quietly slip out of my apartment and walk to Eliza’s. I knock softly, unsure if she’s in there. I knock again, pressing my ear against the door, and hear footsteps.

  The door opens to something androgynous with an unruly, falling bun. If it weren’t for the slept-in makeup with mascara flakes peppering her cheeks, I may not know it was her.

  “Can I come in?”

  She hesitates, then steps away to the couch and falls down on it. Turns on her side. Pulls a pillow between her legs. It’s best that she doesn’t know we went to the bar last night, so I don’t ask about Brooks coming to check on her again.

  I close the door, then stand around awkwardly. “Can I get you anything?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Are you really sick, or were you just paranoid about being there last night?”

  Her eyes fly open. “I’m sick. But you better not ever tell anyone about that,” she hisses. “I swear to God, if you ever tell Brooks or anyone about that...” She loses momentum and closes her eyes again. She must not trust me. You don’t warn someone you trust, because there’s no need.

  “Of course I wouldn’t. We’re friends. Let me get you some water or something.”

  She nods.

  The kitchen is clean this time. I fill a glass with water, then plunder through her medicine cabinet for some pain reliever, because I feel slightly hung over. I’m reminded of the boxes in her closet. Wonder if I can sneak back there and sift through them.

  I set her water down on the table next to her, then sit on the loveseat. I need an excuse to get back there. She’s still in her green dress. Maybe it’s my opportunity.

  “That can’t be comfortable. You want some shorts or something?”

  But she shakes her head no.

  I sit there, the minutes slinking by until I’m confident she’s asleep.

  “Eliza?” I say softly. She doesn’t move.

  Tiptoeing slowly, I hold my breath until I reach her bedroom door. I push it open. It squeaks loudly. I freeze. Fuck creaky doors. My heart pounds as I prepare for her to come barreling around the corner and ask me what the hell I’m doing. Shuffling quickly over to the guest bathroom, I exhale a long breath and wait.

  But she never comes.

  I go back to the bedroom door. Push it open. Relieved it doesn’t creak again. Walking past her bed, I scurry to her closet, looking over my shoulder and keeping my ears alert for any sounds. I move the top three boxes to the floor in order to get to one of the two boxes labeled “Eliza – college.” Opening it, disappointment washes over me as I lift her framed degree and subsequently fan through nothing but insignificant papers and photographs and—

  Before I even hear the cat’s strangled meow, I’m being attacked. It scratches at my legs, pawing at them ferociously before darting under the bed. I stifle a scream. Drop the box. Wince at the beads of blood oozing from my leg.

  “Emily?” Eliza calls, her voice weak but urgent.

  Fucking shit! She’s going to barge in here and catch me going through her boxes. I panic. Scramble to pick up the box and shove it back in the corner. Quickly stack the others on top. I sprint out the bedroom and into the guest bath. Switch on the light, and stand in front of the sink. Chest pounding, but safe, my breath escapes me like a popped balloon.

  “Em?”

  “Right here,” I say. “In the bathroom.”

  My phone rings. It’s in her closet, and it sounds so far away, because it is so far away. There’s shuffling on the couch. I run for her bedroom again, eyes scanning for the stupid cat, and snatch my phone, silencing Deacon’s call. Eliza appears just as I step back in front of the guest bathroom again.

  My hands shake as I shove the phone in my pocket. She looks at me with curiosity. She knows. There may be nothing sinister at all in her closet, but she knows I was just in there, and she knows I was going through her things. I’m done for.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Are you gonna turn the light off?”

  “Oh.” I turn around. Flick the switch. “Sorry.”

  “I can’t blow all the money my parents give me on electric.”

  “Sorry. I better get back. Deacon was asleep when I left, but he just tried to call.”

  I follow her back to the living room.

  She turns abruptly. “How are things with him, by the way?”

  This is my opportunity to talk him up. “Really well. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way this soon.”

  A smile plays on her lips. “Really?”

  I shrug. “He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, the sex is amazing, and he’s sweet. What more could I ask for?”

  “In your life?” she says. “I don’t know about that. I mean, he is very good looking, but...” She wants so badly to argue with me, to say Brooks is hotter, because she’s a one-upper.

  “To me, he is,” I smile, stepping into the hall. “See you later.”

  August 2002

  My stomach has hurt since I woke up this morning. My throat is thick with acid, like gobs of glue dripping from a preschooler’s artwork. Today is the worst day of the year. I wish I could go back to bed and hide, but … you know, truancy laws.

  My dad parks our beater van, and the glue climbs higher, but I fight it and swallow it down. Privileged kids pull up, one after another, in their gleaming statement cars that cost more than my parents make in two years’ time.

  My dad opens his door and steps onto the pavement, laughter and gossip invading this space once the door is open. “Sweetheart, you have to get out of the car. You’re going to be late on the first day.” He zips his janitor jumper, which was unzipped on the drive over here because we have no AC and can’t afford to fix it.

  “I’m coming.” I hesitate. Suck in a deep breath before opening my door and entering the pits of hell.

  “Have a good day, sweetheart.” He sprints ahead, late to get started because of the traffic we’d encountered. That’s Atlanta for you. Kids greet him and smile, the same kids who tortured me last year in eighth grade, and for the two years prior to that—ever since the accident. But I’ve always stood out, even before that terrible day. It’s not hard to fish out the poor girl in a sea of rich kids.

  I stare at my shoes, a too-tight Goodwill find, and make my way across the parking lot, aware of the many eyes on me. The whispering begins. I have a habit of humming to myself to drown it out, so I do that. When laughter p
ermeates my humming, I speed up. Entering my first class, the expression on my new teacher’s face—a balding man in his fifties—registers in my mind. Surprise. Pity. I scurry to the back of the classroom, making eye contact with no one, and take my seat. New outfits, fresh haircuts, and confidence burst from this room, this concrete prison where the kids are the wardens, and I’m on Death Row.

  I steal a peek at the girl to my left, a girl I recognize from last year but never had a class with. I feel a pang of regret. Regret that I have to be poor, regret that I had to be born. But most of all, I regret that I have to look like this, that my gloriously plain looks were gone in an instant.

  I’m not sure how some are so lucky and others so … not. How is it possible that a mere ten minutes down the road there are kids who have nothing to eat and no electricity, yet the girls at this school undoubtedly live in mansions with parents who provide them with everything they could ever want or need in excess?

  The girl I recognized catches me looking at her. I realize I was staring. She grimaces, but then replaces it with a quick smile.

  “Quit staring at Kate, freak. Are you a lesbian, or what?” an outspoken cunt on the other side of her asks.

  The teacher shouts at her to be quiet, and Kate does her best to maintain a straight face.

  It’s an unspoken rule, but I’m not allowed to sit anywhere in the cafeteria. Whenever I did so in the past—before learning my lesson—my hair was a bullseye for food. Kids would pretend to stumble so they could spill their milk on me, and sometimes they’d walk by and take my tray and chuck it in the garbage. After a while, I realized I wasn’t welcome. Started eating my lunch in the bathroom, which is pretty much what every outcast has done ever. My dad doesn’t know, and I’ll never tell him, because it would just make things worse. The last thing I need is his pity—anyone’s pity.

  After hanging my backpack on the purse hook in the stall, I place a wad of those toilet cover things down and make myself comfortable. The forkful of spaghetti is halfway to my mouth, when I hear the voice of a familiar teacher talking to herself as she enters the stall next to me. I pause, but then take a bite just as she begins having explosive diarrhea.