The Evolution of Ivy: Poison

by Lauren Campbell

  It’s Tuesday now, and Deacon’s driving is jerky, reckless—dangerously beyond the speed limit. We’ve been back for two days, and he has yet to get a response from Emily, which would be a great thing, except he has nominated me to go talk to her. I said no multiple times, held firm on my answer until he showed up at my door and I saw the bags under his eyes, the pale skin, and his general look of dishevelment. He has convinced himself he was simply confused about Kara and that he really is in love with Emily. Maybe he is. I don’t fucking know. I suggested he have Eliza talk to her, but he insists it has to be me, that Emily and Eliza have had tension lately, and he doesn’t trust Eliza’s coercion powers. He says that I have “business skills.” I couldn’t sleep at night if I refused to help him, when it’s my fault Kara came back into the picture.

  He grips my arm before I get out. “Just … tell her I’m sorry, man. Make her understand. Say whatever you have to. You’re good at this shit. You know how to work people.”

  I nod sympathetically. “I got it.” My hands are clammy as I walk into her building, praying to God Eliza never finds out about this, because she wouldn’t understand. Thankfully, she is doing some shopping with her mom today.

  Reaching Emily’s apartment, I hesitate just before my knuckles hit the door. I take a deep breath and rest my palms on my knees. My throat feels tighter, like someone is holding a pillow over my face. I wonder if this is what a panic attack feels like. Struggling to inhale a deep breath, I tell myself to man-up before I finally knock. I count the seconds that tick by after I shove my hands into my pockets. I’m at seventeen, but my heart may give out before she opens the door—if she opens the door. She could look out the peephole any second. What if it’s obvious that I am nervous, that I can’t breathe, that something is fucking wrong? My heart hammers inside my chest, and my vision blurs. I think I might collapse. This could be a heart attack. What if I died? Then everyone would know I died in front of Emily’s door. What would Eliza think? Fuck, what would she think? I’d be that guy, and everyone would think I’m that guy. I can’t do this. I can’t die in front of Emily’s door. I’m being ridiculous. Really stupid and ridiculous. You’re not dying, dumbass. You’re having a panic attack. I can’t do it. I can’t talk to her. I think I was counting in the thirties, but now I’m not sure because I was too busy thinking. She’s not home anyway, so I’ll just go. At least I can tell Deacon I tried. Thirty-something seconds is a perfectly reasonable amount of time to wait for someone to answer the door. It’s too long, actually. Creepy long.

  I head for the elevator and instantly feel better. My heart seemingly slows down, and I manage to take a full breath. I’m not going to die. I press the button for the ground floor, wondering what I’ll do if Emily opens the door and comes investigating who may have knocked. But she doesn’t.

  The doors open, and just as soon as I had regained my breath and calmed down, I can’t breathe and feel like I’m dying all over again. She’s in front of me, looking confused and surprised. I don’t say anything, and she doesn’t say anything. If I explain to her that Deacon sent me, she’s going to think it’s a total lie, because no one would be this nervous about trying to smooth things over for a friend. Fuck. I’m into her, and it would be foolish to think she isn’t detecting that right now.

  No. I can’t be into her. It’s wrong. I am NOT into her. I fucking love Eliza.

  The doors start to close, and my arm instinctively reaches out to stop it. Emily hesitates, but then she steps out slowly, her perfume following behind her.

  “Brooks,” she says, her eyebrows raised. “What are you doing here?” She’s wearing yoga pants and a sports bra. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and there isn’t a stitch of makeup on her face. She’s glistening, yet she looks sad. The endorphin high one gets from working out seems to have missed the bus. Her eyes are red like she has been crying. She must be just as fragile as Deacon has been. I am such an asshole for doing this to her, for fucking them up because I am not strong enough to control my thoughts.

  I have to make this right. “Can we talk? In your apartment?”

  Her head juts back, unsure of what to make of my question. I don’t blame her. “Um … okay. Sure.”

  I follow her, unable to help but stare at her ass as she unlocks the door, and I sit at her kitchen table. She removes her sneakers and throws them in the closet, then walks to the sink and wets a rag. She runs it over her face and neck, attempting to reach it down her back at times. I want to help her, and I hate that I want to help her.

  But I don’t move. I won’t move. I wouldn’t dream of moving.

  November 3, 2015

  Brooks is in my kitchen. Brooks is in my kitchen. Oh my GOD, Brooks is in my kitchen! I almost jumped out of my skin when the elevator doors opened. I expected to see Eliza, too, but to my delight, she wasn’t there. I have no idea why he would come alone. Unless she knows I was in her apartment, and she sent him to confront me. Fuck.

  My eyes stay closed as I wipe the rag over my skin. I wish I could open them, but they feel like I burned them with a lighter. Apparently, I’m allergic to my sunscreen. Fuck sunscreen and sweating. My hand feels for the faucet, and I wet the rag again, then pat it gently over my eyelids one last time. I finally open my eyes, thanking God the burning is now at a minimum. I stare straight ahead, but peripherally I see him staring at me, like he’s waiting for me to say something, except it’s not my responsibility to break the silence since he showed up to my apartment. He’s motionless, a life-size Brooks replica—either he has something important to say, or I’m just that hot. But I can’t possibly be turning him on with this rag. Can I? Maybe if I pitifully attempt to reach my back, he’ll offer to help, and we’ll end up fucking on the kitchen floor. No, he’d never. He’s a good guy, and that’s part of why I love him. But I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands—going to have to give him a gentle shove. If I’m going to kill Eliza, I need to be sure he’s ready for me first. No more guessing, because once she’s dead there will be no chance to keep up the seduction unless he’s already hooked. Of course, there’s also the fact that I could end up behind bars. Obviously that’s not something I’m planning on, but I’m not too stupid to rule out the possibility. I’d be an idiot to risk going to prison if he’s not ready yet. In that case, I’d just run the heifer over, and it would be a terrible accident. I’d tell her I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hit her, just like she didn’t mean to hit me, except sorry won’t make her legs work again. Then the wedding would be postponed while she recovered, and then I’d have more time to work on him before I got rid of her for real.

  I toss the rag onto the counter after I’m done with it, and I take a seat at the table. I cross my arms and blow a hair from my face that has worked its way out of my hair tie. “Why are you here?”

  “How are you?” His voice, cracked with authentic trepidation, rattles me. Scares me. What the hell is going on?

  I say nothing. His bottom lip slides under his teeth, his eyes needy as they seem to flit down to my chest and back to my face. My stupid makeup-free face. Here I am with this gorgeous man—the first time I really get him alone while conscious—and I’m sweaty, smelly, and sporting a camel toe in spandex. I let my hair down out of my ponytail and lock my fingers together, anxiously waiting to learn the reason behind his visit.

  Our eyes connect again. Sweat seeps from his forehead. His eyes are blue saucers of nervousness and conflict, beckoning and pleading with me to make a move—to lead him. Given his silence and the ridiculously sexy smolder he’s giving me, it’s almost as if … as if he came here for me. Not because of me, but for me.

  Maybe I don’t have to kill Eliza. Nah. She deserves it for what she did to me. It’s not just a means to get to Brooks.

  “Emily, I—the whole thing with Deacon…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.

  Poor Brooks. He’s clearly coming to terms with the fact that he has fallen for his best friend’s pretend ex. It does tarnish his good
-guy persona a little. You know the saying, “What they’ll do with you, they’ll do to you.” But I’m pretty awesome. And we are soul mates, so naturally he’ll weaken faster with me than some random. He just needs the green light, and everything will fall into place. And he needs to know Deacon is nothing to me. “I don’t want to talk about him,” I say as I get up from the table.

  He nods, stands up, and approaches the door. Where is he going?

  DAMMIT! SHIT! FUCK! Is Deacon seriously the reason he came here? Maybe he doesn’t need a gentle shove. Maybe he needs a fucking hard push. Do all the moments we’ve shared mean nothing to him? Every look, every touch of our skin. And he saved my life! From the moment we “met,” he’s looked at me like there’s something tugging at him on the inside, so why is he denying what’s in his own heart? Am I crazy? Am I only imagining it all? Misinterpreting?

  “Emily,” he starts. And I see it then. There is a mixture of something that flashes across his face. Sex. Desire. Need. “Before I go … please. It’s important that you know—”

  Yes, yes, yes!

  My opportunity, plated in gold. I grab his face, pull him down to mine, my fingertips reveling in the roughness of his stubble. Our lips connect, his own quivering ever so slightly, and his cologne invading my breath. My body trembles from the ecstasy of his mouth—the fullness of his lips and their soft yet somehow rough texture pressed against my own. My lips part, ready to taste him and let him taste me, petrified that he may pull away and that I may never explore the piece of heaven existing before me. But he doesn’t push me away. Instead, he surrenders. He does want me. We are soul mates. His tongue finds mine, and it’s the silkiest tongue imaginable, and it tastes like cinnamon. I stupidly wonder if he had oatmeal for breakfast, and then hate myself for wasting a millisecond on what may have been in his mouth versus where his mouth could be on my body. I’m becoming dizzy and light. Wonder if this is what a person means when they say they’re on cloud nine. I feel even if we knew we were facing death that we wouldn’t fear it, because we’d have reached our peak happiness in life in this very moment—so very in love and finally able to express it.

  His hands grab my shoulders, ready to yank off my sports bra and rip off my clothes. But I’m shoved away from him … hard. Hard enough that I almost have to brace myself. I wait, poised for another shove, but he doesn’t move. He must like it rough. It’s not uncommon. I step toward him, prepared for him to push me again, but a scowl lines his face, and oh…

  He stares at me, perplexed. “Emily—what?” He’s gasping as if he’s just finished an Olympic race.

  Oh no. I fucked up. But he opened his mouth. I didn’t make him do that. He could have pushed me away immediately, but he didn’t. Oh God, he wasn’t ready. I moved too quickly. He’s too good, too much of a stand-up guy. I knew this.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s all I can say.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t … what was—” Holds his hands up questioningly. “What was that?”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. This is bad. I should never have let him into my apartment. I’m too impulsive, too careless without my pills, and haven’t taken them in two days because I’ve been so focused on Eliza.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I—”

  He backs up closer to the door, his feet slow and eyes narrowed as if he’s disgusted. “I came here to tell you that Deacon has been miserable without you.”

  “What?”

  A mixture of emotions well in my eyes. Tears of elation, because I’ve just experienced the best seconds of my life. Tears of sorrow because I’m now experiencing the worst seconds, too. He did only come here to talk about Deacon, and I managed to fuck up everything up in a matter of seconds.

  “Yeah, he—he wanted me to talk to you, to tell you he’s sorry because you never responded to his texts.”

  I didn’t answer his texts because I didn’t need him anymore. I thought I was just going to kill the bitch and figure out the rest later. “Oh, I … I haven’t checked my phone in a while.”

  “Well, talk to him if you want.” He shrugs. “Or don’t. I have to go.” His jaw is tight, face red, and tone stern. Never have I been more self-loathing than I am in this moment. I may never have him again now. Brooks could waltz right over to Eliza’s and tell her that I kissed him, though it’s doubtful since I’m betting she doesn’t even know he came here—no way would she let him come alone. He must think I’m a terrible friend and an even more terrible slut. I should have let him lead the conversation and explain why he showed up first, because love is patient. But damn! It’s been over ten years! How patient do I have to fucking be? How long do I have to sit back and watch while he’s with the wrong person? How long am I supposed to suffer?

  “Brooks, I— ”

  “Don’t,” he interrupts. If words could kill, I’d already be dead. He pulls the door open. “Just don’t tell him about this—Deacon.” Steps into the hall and looks back at me. “Or Eliza.”

  The door slams shut, the air from the force of it blowing against my skin, sending a chill down my back. He’s gone. I’ve ruined everything.

  I’m broken.

  April 2005

  Neon posters scream at me from the walls of J. Stewart in anticipation of senior prom. I used to fantasize about prom. Would dream of Brooks coming up with some elaborate “promposal” after he returned from France. But now he’s with Eliza, and that dream crumbled faster than stale bread.

  I don’t know what he sees in her. She’s an absolute bitch. It makes me wonder if he was ever a good person if he can love someone like her. And I know he does love her. I want to sew my eyes shut and plug up my ears with acid-soaked cotton, because I’m forced to see them together—to hear how “in love” they are, while he has all but forgotten about me. He must have, because he knows what she does to me, yet seems to overlook it—like he wears goggles that fog out the injustices she inflicts.

  But I can’t place all of the blame on them. He tried to talk to me after he came back, and I ran away like an idiot out of fear. Who knows what he would have said. He may have ended up wanting to pick up right where we left off, for all I know. That is, if he hasn’t become the shallow asshole I painfully suspect he might be. But my heart says he overlooked my mediocrity before when he could have done so much better and that he can overlook my temporary ugliness now. One day my parents will save up enough money, and I’ll be fixed. He has to know that.

  I step onto the field outside the school, and walk to the middle of it to wait for him. If Brooks and I are meant to be, if he is really the person I thought he was, this will prove it. This is the one acceptable time that I can ask him out, the one time I can put my fears to the side and just do it. My mom says I have nothing to lose. She made me promise to be brave, to take a chance on what I’ve been dreaming of.

  He’ll probably think I’m stupid for asking when we haven’t talked in so long, especially since he has been dating Eliza. Even if his answer is no, maybe I can make him see what a terrible person she is. Maybe if I just talk to him, he’ll be so disgusted with her that he’ll dump her.

  A group of jerseys exits the gym, and I know I’ll find him among them. As they get closer, I frown when I realize he’s not there. I spin around, my eyes examining each gathering of kids, searching for him.

  There he is, running up behind his teammates, then whacking one of them on the back.

  “Hey, Brooks!” I call out, in disbelief I’m actually doing this. What a stupid plan. Yeah, just ask out the boy you haven’t talked to in years who has a new girlfriend—one he thinks he loves. Makes sense. The jocks stop in their tracks, their faces turning to me, but Brooks’s the only one I see. “Got a minute?”

  His eyes pierce through me. His jaw slackens, and he whispers something to his friends. They continue walking, periodically looking back at us, and Brooks approaches me. Waits.

  I stand still, a speechless fool who let her mother’s inspirational speech become empow
erment to do something stupid.

  “Ivy,” he says hesitantly, glancing behind him before looking at me again. “What’s up?”

  “I … I … well—”

  “Ivy?” His eyes squint at me.

  Finally, words mumble from my mouth rapidly. “I was wondering if—I mean, I know you’re going out with Eliza, but—”

  “Babe!” Eliza shouts from across the field.

  His head flies around, and he holds up a hand. Looks back at me, apology in his eyes. “What is it?”

  I look past him at Eliza, hands on her hips impatiently. I clear my throat. “I know it’s probably weird because we haven’t talked in so long, but I was wondering—”

  “BABE!” she shouts again.

  “Coming!” he shouts back. “Sorry, Ivy. I, uh … I gotta get to practice. Later.”

  He’s running away from me now. Running, running, running. Into her arms. Her hysterical laughter reaches me as her head darts from him to me. Brooks glances back, his mouth curling into a half-smile before it settles back into a frown.

  Pity.

  I stayed up half the night crying. Caused us to be late this morning because I wouldn’t get out of bed.

  All eyes are on me as I walk into U.S. History and take my seat. When the teacher calls on me to write an answer on the board, maniacal laughter erupts as I make my way to the front. A few students point at me, and a few simply have wide eyes. Most are smiling.

  “Who did this?” Mr. Breck asks. His finger points at my pants. I look down, searching for what could be wrong, but I see nothing.

  “Did you crap your pants?” Eliza gasps.

  I arch my back to look down at my pants. Find a brown smudge with chunks of something. Nuts. It’s … chocolate. Someone put chocolate in my chair. I face the class, my chocolatey pants now hidden from view, and stare at my feet. Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry.