No. No. She knew I was behind her? It wasn’t an accident, like she claimed. Like I believed. Like everyone believed. She didn’t become a bitch until high school—or so I’d thought.
Dear Diary ~ Ivy is back at school and her nose is broken and it’s SO UGLY NOW OMG!!! I wish she had just DIED so I didn’t have to look at it but at least she hates me now and isn’t trying to talk to me anymore.
My tears turn inky blue as they collide with the wickedness on the pages. I snap the book shut. I can’t read any more. I’ve lived the past sixteen years of my life ashamed of my own reflection. Knowing it was on purpose is a knife in the gut. Before that day, I was ordinary, but after that day I was hideous. Brooks was gone already, too, so her actions only amplified the isolation I’d felt. Every day had been a struggle. I know we would have been together if it weren’t for her, and I can hardly blame him for not wanting me anymore. I couldn’t stand to look at my own face in the mirror.
She’s evil—pure evil. This is bigger than the character flaw of her stealing. Bigger than a tryst with a high school sweetheart. And maybe that’s what my primal determination to overthrow her has hinged on. Perhaps, subconsciously, I’ve known all along that what she did was deliberate.
I snap photos of the journal entries, just in case everything falls apart—everyone will know what kind of person she is.
Nineteen minutes. I open the high school box, looking for another journal. There are four inside, labeled by grade. I grab the one for junior year, knowing just what I seek. Flipping quickly, my eyes move rapidly before I settle on what I’m looking for—a question I may get an answer to.
Dear Diary ~ Welp, I did it. I got Brooks to dump Kate! Yay! I can’t believe how easy it was. He totally fell for it. He was really upset, but he’ll get over it, because he’ll have ME!
I snap a picture of that, too. I’d always suspected Eliza had written that note, but I wasn’t positive. I’d have much rather watched Brooks and Kate together than Brooks and Eliza, given the choice. But no one would have believed me without proof, so I’d kept my mouth shut.
I scan through the rest of junior and senior year, despondent over the fact that there’s no evidence of Tenth Grade Guy’s existence other than some innocent entry about missing him. Carefully, I put everything back in its place. Not wanting to leave any stone unturned, I open her drawers again. Look under the bed. Almost jump when I see the cat’s eyes glowing at me.
I sigh, shutting the door to her apartment behind me. I have a brief moment of panic as I wonder if I closed all of her drawers.
Doesn’t matter. I smile. I don’t even need pictures of her and Jared now. I’m going to rid the world of a bad guy and save Brooks from a lifetime of torture. I’m going to make things easy. I’m going to kill Eliza James.
Jared is waiting when I get off the elevator. “Here.” He passes me a box of chocolates and a card. “I got the cheap shit. It’s all they had, but the card is from the heart.”
I pass the chocolate back to him and open the card, ignoring the trite commercial message and going straight for his handwritten scribble: Since it’s your birthday, can we have birthday sex? JK. Happy birthday! Your friend, Jared.
I smile and roll my eyes. Take the chocolate back.
“For the record, it’s been more than fifteen minutes,” Eliza says.
Our heads turn to her, and Jared’s arm instinctively pulls me close to him. Kisses me smack on the lips and slaps me on the ass. “She’s all yours now. I apologize. My quickies aren’t always quick.” He winks.
Eliza screws up her face in disgust. “Ew. Well, I have something for you, but it’s at the house. I’m gonna go grab it, but then I’m going to bed. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll die.”
Can’t have that. Would take all the enjoyment out of doing the job myself.
Jared and I wait inside, and she returns with a giant cherry cheesecake.
“Did you make this?” I ask.
“I can’t make boxed macaroni,” she says pointedly. “I got it from a bakery in the city.” She carries it to the counter. Pulls out a few boxes of candles from a bag in her hand and begins plunging twenty-six of them into the cake.
Jared gives me a questioning look of shame for his participation in light of her cake offering. But he doesn’t know her. I won’t let her store-bought cheesecake soften me. He doesn’t know the endless taunting I’d suffered at her hands, that she’s a thieving snake. That she’d cheated on Brooks.
“Got a lighter?” she asks.
“I got ya covered,” Jared says. He walks across the hall to his place, then comes back with one and lights each candle. “Hey, everybody,” he shouts as he turns down the music. “We’re all gonna sing to the birthday girl. Happy birthday, Emily.” He smiles and kisses me on the cheek. Jared is actually a pretty cool guy. He just likes a variety of women at his disposal. And to keep their panties.
Eliza stands next to me, our bodies skin-to-skin. Goosebumps cover my arms as I’m overcome with emotion. It’s surreal knowing I’ll be the one to decide not only when she dies, but how.
Jared stands on my other side, his arm casually around me. I blink away the salty mist that begins to build as I realize he’s my second real friend ever. Strangers belt out “Happy Birthday,” and I wonder if it’s always this embarrassing.
“Make a wish.” Jared nudges.
I freeze, briefly contemplating whether it actually helps to ask for something whilst blowing out candles. But I’m a good sport, so I think of Eliza and her numbered days. Then, I blow my cheeks up and make my wish.
I hope I get away with it.
After everyone is gone, Jared grabs a garbage bag and begins plucking up all the trash left behind. Smoke still lingers in the air. I hate smokers. Smoking is nasty, selfish, and too damn expensive. That money could feed a hungry kid a meal. A hungry kid like I was sometimes when my parents didn’t have enough money between paychecks, forcing us to survive on grits and peanut butter one week out of the month, while kids like Eliza and Brooks had theirs prepared by private chefs.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Never better.”
“Right,” he says. “I’m still confused as hell about what’s going on.”
“It’s not important. Not anymore.”
Not since she’s going to die.
July 15, 2014
My birthdays suck. Ever see those sad social media posts about kids whose parents invited the whole class, yet no one showed up? Then, suddenly Facebook is Jesus and multiplies the bleeding hearts of the internet, and boom—kid has a thousand friends and even more presents? That’s me, except without the happy ending, because the internet was too young to save me when I was in need.
The only good birthday I’ve ever had was mere days before Brooks moved away from me, before our love was scattered like confetti across the Atlantic. I’d waited at the creek for him on that hot July day, standing around for what had seemed like forever to a prepubescent. I’d lain on a rock, dangerously close to the water, and fallen asleep. I’d woken up to him shaking me, and when my eyes weren’t fuzzy anymore, I’d regarded him curiously.
“It’s not a cupcake,” he says. “It’s a muffin. With Cool Whip. Sorry, it’s all we had.”
“You made this?” I take it, marveling at it.
He nods. “It wasn’t hard. Just had to add milk.”
My cheeks feel warm, but I’m not sure if that’s abnormal, considering it’s the middle of summer. “Thanks.”
“Happy birthday, Ivy,” he says, sitting down next to me.
I nibble on the cupcake muffin in silence, savoring each crumbly miniature bite. Offer him half, but he shakes his head.
“You eat it.” He pulls two popsicles from his shorts and waits for me to finish the cupcake. Then, he passes me one of the popsicles along with a note he fishes from his pocket—folded and tied with string. “Don’t open it until I move.”
And I’d promised I wouldn’t.
I wi
sh now that I’d been more vocal of my appreciation for him. Looking back, Brooks was aware I was different. He knew I didn’t live in a big house. He knew my parents couldn’t buy me everything I wanted—or even needed. His cupcake muffin was his pure attempt to ensure I knew he cared about me on what is supposed to be a special day for any kid. I had no idea at the time just how much that cupcake muffin would come to mean to me over the years. It turns out, Brooks is the only other person, aside from my parents and teachers, to wish me a happy birthday. So yeah, my birthdays suck.
I’ve always celebrated, though. Each year since Brooks left, I’ve made myself a batch of cupcake muffins—my own reminder to myself that Brooks thought I was special back then. And I can be special again. I’m meant for something. I just don’t know what yet. The butter knife glides over the last in the cupcake muffin batch, the Cool Whip slipping freely with each wave of my wrist. There’s a knock at the door, so I pull a plastic container from the cabinet and stuff them inside. I always make extra for my parents, and they’re taking me out for dinner tonight.
I lick stray Cool Whip off my pinky before opening the door, the container of muffins clutched in my other hand.
But it’s not my parents.
It’s two looming men, both clad in black, their eyes peering through my soul. They’re wearing uniforms—they’re officers. What have I done? I wonder.
“Miss Hobbs?” the taller one asks, his forehead slick and creased.
“Yes?” Shit. Did I file my taxes properly? Run a red light? Maybe I forgot to pay for something in the checkout line at the grocery store.
The officers exchange glances, then frown back at me. Not good. I think I did run a red light several weeks ago, but I could have sworn I made it over the line. I must not have. I can’t believe it. I’m about to be arrested. On my birthday.
“I hate to tell you this, ma’am, but your parents have been in an accident.”
“My parents? But I thought I—” I stare at them, their words not registering before finally sinking as far as they can sink. “My parents?” I breathe again, my next word barely audible. “Accident.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry, but they, uh … they didn’t make it.”
“Dead,” I heave. The Tupperware falls from my hand, cupcake muffins spilling at my feet, smudging my shoes with Cool Whip.
A guttural scream rings from my throat.
I don’t remember how I got here, but … yes, I’m definitely in a hospital room. I’m alone. I try to get up, but I can’t move. My arms are restrained.
My brain is unreliable—intense waves of firm memories moving against a black hole of lost time. My birthday. I remember the officers. They came to the door. Told me something. Something awful. But I can’t remem—oh, they … they told me my parents … they told me they died. Oh my God, my parents. It must have been a mistake. I burst into tears, pulling and pushing my arms in effort to break free of the restraints. It had to be a dream—my parents can’t be gone. They’re still here, I know they are.
What day is it? Is it still my birthday? I scream—as loudly and for as long as I can.
A woman in scrubs rushes through the door, shushing me to be quiet. “Miss Hobbs, please calm down. You’ll disturb the other patients.”
“Where am I? Where the hell am I? How do you know my name?” I demand.
“You’re at the hospital, ma’am.” She places a hand on my arm, her eyes melting from annoyance to sympathy. “Do you remember what happened?”
“No,” I lower my voice. “My parents. Where are they?” Maybe I was the one who was in an accident, my mind playing tricks on me, making things up. Maybe I’ve been in a coma—the officers part of a dream.
Regret fills the nurse’s eyes. “Your parents passed away, honey. I’m so sorry. They were in a car accident. Do you not remember?”
Anguish and disbelief froth from the pit of my stomach. I can only stare back at her, terrified.
“The police went to your home and told you of their passing.”
A tear escapes one of my eyes. “Yes. I remember, but—I thought it was a dream. They can’t be … gone. This has to be a mistake. Julie and Kevin Hobbs. They need to check. They need to be sure.” Her eyes don’t stray from me, but she says nothing. Just reaches for my hand and squeezes it, a silence assurance that it’s not a mistake. They’re dead. My parents are dead. “But it’s my birthday!” I say, as if your parents can’t die on your birthday.
“That was two days ago, sweetie. A neighbor saw you sitting on your parents’ lawn, drinking and staring at the house. The next time they looked, you were unconscious. You almost didn’t make it.”
I close my eyes, not wanting to accept reality. I just want to go back to sleep. I just want my parents.
It has been eight months since Kevin and Julie Hobbs died and left me entirely alone in this world, and it has been one day since I became a millionaire. The void inside me is bigger than I could have ever imagined, and money can’t fill that. I knew they’d die one day. Everyone dies. I just never anticipated it being so soon, and at the hands of a meth head who got a measly eight years. There’s literally no one in this world for me to talk to, vent to, cry to. They were all I had.
Perhaps even more painful than the fact that they’re gone is that having a child was their only accomplishment in life—and I’m a failure. If I had died on their lawn, my headstone could have read, “Ivy Hobbs: Unloved Owner of Crappy Apartment and Struggling Business.” It was supposed to be different. My parents couldn’t have a shitty life, and then have a daughter with a shitty life, too. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. But at least they had love. Something I can only dream about now.
Something that maybe, just maybe could become reality again.
Eliza has everything I want. Everything I crave. Then I wouldn’t need these pills anymore. Pills that I can’t seem to stop taking without feeling crazier. Money can’t buy back lost time. But it can buy me a future with Brooks.
Halloween 2015
We kept things low-key yesterday after settling into the hotel. Spent the remaining daylight on the shore. I was in control of my thoughts again. It was akin to hitting the reset button—my fresh start, clean slate, whatever you want to call it. Nothing but the salty air and hot sun garnished with drinks that never stopped coming. That is, until my buddies wanted to surf. All the water kept reminding me of Emily in the lake and how close she had been to dying. I think Deacon had thought I was missing Eliza, so we had left the shore and stopped in a tourist bar. Got so drunk I couldn’t have told you my own name, and then we crashed early.
But tonight is wild as the locals are gearing up for the Day of the Dead celebrations. I let my friends drag me to the strip club, but I do nothing I shouldn’t, not even partaking in the standard bachelor trip to the VIP room. Deacon stays behind with me, while the other guys are in VIP, his excitement waning as he participates in a text-fight with Kara. He orders more shots, and he grows more inebriated as the minutes tick by with his hasty consumption. He is silent, fingers pecking away on his phone in between mesmerized glances at passing pussy. I am beginning to wish I had skipped the whole trip.
“Fuck it,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“Kara. Fuck her,” he slurs. “She doesn’t wanna work on shit, then I don’t wanna work on shit.”
“But—”
He rises from the table before I can finish the question. Then, he staggers toward VIP as two of our friends walk out with smiles on their faces like they just got their dicks sucked—which I’m fairly certain did happen.
“Let’s hope Kara doesn’t find out about this,” my friend Jax says, craning his neck around to see Deacon disappear inside.
“Don’t think he cares.”
Deacon finally emerges twenty minutes later, escorted by a man in a suit with arms larger than tree trunks, who then orders us to get out. Deacon is so hammered I am hesitant to even ask what he did. Outside, I corner him, but he refuses to
talk about it, instead bringing up Emily.
“I fucked up with Emily, dude. I sh—I should have never dumped her.” He stumbles on the uneven pavement, all of our arms reaching out to steady him as he eyes the restaurant across the street. None of us have eaten since noon, but there is no way Deacon would make it over there without falling on his face. We have no choice but to carry him.
Once we get seated, Deacon tries to order more alcohol, but I intervene. “You’ve had enough, man.”
“Yeah, take it easy, bro,” Jax says.
“Fuck you, guys,” he says, though his words are more comical than venomous.
His head drops, hanging over the table, and I slap him on the back. “Hey, you okay, man?”
His face contorts into a silent cry. If I didn’t know he was serious, I would be hysterically laughing. “I miss Emily.”
“No, no,” I say. “Don’t go back there, man.”
“I have to. I fucked up. Me.” Spit flies from his mouth, and sprays me in the face. “I’m gonna text her.” He pulls out his phone.
“Deacon, no! Let it go. You broke it off with her, now just leave it alone. No point in backtracking now.” I won’t hurt Eliza. I made a promise. Asked her to marry me. And soon, I will take vows, and I mean to keep them. But I know that something within me wavers when Emily is around, and I am unsure if I can control myself forever. You can only dangle steak in front of a dog for so long before it won’t be able to help itself.
“I love Emily. Love-uh,” he drags out, his breath stinking of alcohol. He unlocks his phone and starts typing.
“It’s three in the morning there,” another friend, Will, chimes in.
But it’s no use. He texts her anyway. I wrestle the phone away from him—wincing at the groveling, sappy shit he sent. Hope that Eliza is keeping Emily busy and she won’t respond. Pray that her birthday party doesn’t bring her and Eliza close again, that the dissolving of “Demily” will break the single thread their friendship balances on.
The Evolution of Ivy: Poison Page 18
