The Evolution of Ivy: Poison

by Lauren Campbell

  No one speaks up to take responsibility.

  “Very funny, guys,” Mr. Breck says. “If I find out who did this, that individual will receive a zero for the exam.” He pulls me aside and lowers his voice. “Do you have a change of clothes?”

  I shake my head.

  “Go to the bathroom and try to clean yourself up,” he says.

  I spend forever in the bathroom scrubbing the chocolate from the ass of my pants to the point that it looks like I sat on spilled coffee. When I return, the kids are quiet, staring at the voting cards for prom queen and king.

  I briskly walk to my seat again, and Eliza calls my name. I look at her, two rows to the back.

  “Maybe we could add another option for you,” she whispers, gesturing to the card. “We could call you The Shitty Princess.”

  The kids around her laugh quietly, and I sink down in my chair.

  November 3, 2015

  I have no idea what just happened. My mind is absolutely racing. That was a total mind fuck.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow before getting back in Deacon’s car, trying as hard as I can to maintain my composure. His eyes are hopeful and expectant. They anxiously await good news, except I have none to give him, because the girl he loves just kissed me. And—if only for a fraction of a second—I kissed her back. But the worst part of all—worse than the extremely short seconds of reciprocation? I liked it. Loved it. But I can’t tell him that. He can never know. No one can know.

  “Well? Was she home? Did you talk to her?”

  “Yeah,” I croak. “Yeah, man. I think she’s gonna think about it.”

  “Really?” His hopeful expression morphs to one of excitement. I deserve to get cancer. I am a shitty friend.

  “All you can do is be patient at this point,” I manage.

  Eliza texts, and I’m grateful for the interruption. Miss you, babe. Going to do some shopping with my sister now. See you tonight.

  I don’t respond. I can’t. I feel like I just fucking cheated, even though I didn’t. I mean, for a second I did, but does that really count? Emily kissed me. I didn’t kiss her. Had she not kissed me, there would have been no kiss. Nothing would have happened at all. I would have told her what Deacon wanted me to say, and then I would have left. But my tongue was in her mouth, and only I am responsible for that. I should have backed away the second her lips touched mine. But the truth is—the truth that I wish not to be true—I have never had a kiss like that.

  Men don’t get butterflies. Men get excited, aroused, but they don’t get fucking butterflies. Women do. Girls do. Boys can. I had them once, when I had my first kiss, but that can be chalked up to nerves and sadness about moving away from my first crush. But I’m a man now. Yet, I felt them today. And it wasn’t nerves. It was feelings.

  The slump of her shoulders when we sat at the table me made me want to hold her. The redness in her eyes made me want to comfort her. And the tears when I broke away from her made me want to kiss her. Again.

  November 4, 2015

  Day-old mascara runs down my face and splashes into my bathwater, making little ink clouds that instantaneously disappear.

  I haven’t checked my phone since Brooks left yesterday. Can’t bring myself to do it, though that’s what he expects me to do. He expects me to reconcile with Deacon. But I can’t muster the strength to bother with the sham relationship I’ve built with him. Maybe he’ll disappear if I ignore him long enough. Maybe they all will—even Brooks, because I live for him. Sometimes I wish I could slit my wrists and bleed my love for him until it’s all gone, because it consumes me. Controls me. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow, and this will all have been a bad dream. Maybe I’ll have never met Eliza, and then maybe I won’t have become … whatever I am. Maybe my parents will be alive.

  My parents.

  I miss them so much. They left me with Mom-and-Dad shaped holes in my life that can’t be filled by anyone else. Brooks left one as well, but I’ve eternally fucked that up. I can’t imagine what’s been going through his mind since he walked out the door. I’m sure he thinks I’m completely psycho. Probably hopes he never sees my face again. But maybe not. Guys can get over shit. And they gravitate like a magnet toward the women willing to fight for them. Only Brooks is not like other guys, so I’m probably doomed—coffin sealed with a kiss with a kiss.

  I lean back in the tub. Stare at my razor on the edge of the bath. I could grab it. Could drag its sharpness across my skin, and it would all go away for sure. But I’m too chicken shit to do that. I’m a coward.

  Fuck me.

  Rap. Rap. Rap. I jump. Loud, urgent knocks on my door. I rack my brain, wondering who could be at my door at nine at night. Jared is out of town on business, and surely Brooks wouldn’t come back after the way I behaved. It must be Deacon, who just so happens to be the last person in the world I want to see right now, even after Eliza.

  RAP RAP RAP RAP RAP! “Emily!” Eliza’s muffled voice carries through my apartment. “Are you in there?”

  Shit. Maybe he’s not the last person. Brooks told her, didn’t he? He fucking told her.

  “It’s an emergency, Emily. Please! Please open the door if you’re there.”

  What emergency could she need me for? I doubt a serial killer is trailing her in the hall with a butcher knife, which would be a most welcomed scenario. But … what if something happened to Brooks? What if he was so upset when he left here yesterday that he got into some terrible accident because he was so rattled? Unlikely, but … anything is possible. She knocks again. Curiosity always kills the cat, so I stand up, jerk the towel from the bar and wrap myself quickly. Leave a trail of water from my soaked hair as I make my way to the door.

  “There you are!” she says when I open it. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I don’t have time to respond before she pushes past me.

  “Did you flush your phone down the toilet? We leave in two days, for God’s sake!” She drops her purse and coat on the floor.

  I tug on the towel, pulling it tighter around my body. “I don’t know if I can go.” I have a murder to plan. I can’t be wasting time in Vegas.

  She whirls around, her eyes menacing. “Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you fucking do that,” she points. “You’re coming.”

  Eliza is perhaps the most confusing person I’ve ever known. One minute you’re her best friend, the next you can’t even bother her to meet you for coffee, then demands you still make the five-hour flight to her party. I don’t know how Brooks handles it. At least I’m consistent.

  “I gotta pee,” she says, and swaggers to the bathroom I was just in. Maybe she’ll slip on all the water I tracked out of the tub and hit her head on the vanity. I cock my head, lift a brow at how great of a method that would be, and I add it to my mental list of ideas.

  My eyes move to the small puddles of water that have collected around me, and then to her purse and coat. I crouch down, pick up the coat, and use it to wipe up the water. Toss it back on the floor, which knocks over the purse, causing her wallet to tumble from it. Something is sticking out of it, something I’ve seen many times before. It’s hard to miss them when they’re plastered all over television and Facebook. It’s creased on the end like it didn’t quite fit. I pluck the wallet off the floor, open it, and almost throw up. A black and white photo dated yesterday, the classic first trimester white gummy bear chilling out in the middle—eight weeks and two days written in the upper corner. My hand flies to my face. I’m utterly speechless.

  The man I love more than anything in this world is going to be a dad. She’s having a boy—a little Brooks. A little baby boy who Brooks will love more than anything. A little baby boy he’ll take fishing, wrestle with, teach to ride a bike. A little boy who will one day become heir to the Jansen empire. A little baby boy who will cement Brooks and Eliza.

  Forever.

  I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms until I’m sure I’ve broken the skin. I can never kill her now. I may very well b
e insane, but a baby killer I am not. My eyes stay fixed on “Baby Cole,” typed across the photo and followed with a cheery smiley face.

  The toilet flushes. The sink begins running.

  But … but wait. She’s barely eight weeks along. It’d be impossible to know the sex. Maybe it’s not even hers. But why would she have it? It has to be hers. It makes no sense, how she’d already know the sex, unless … unless it’s a last name. Unless … unless this baby isn’t his. My mouth drops.

  This. Changes. Everything.

  The water stops. I put the photo back in the wallet and button it shut. Stuff it back into the purse. I bolt to the couch just as she opens the bathroom door, unconcerned that my towel is soaking the couch.

  Everything is coming together. That night at the theater, her running off probably had very little to do with Bebe and everything to do with actually being sick. But not from the chicken. The depression, the mood swings, her lack of drinking. Cole is neither her last name, nor Brooks’s last name, so I’m ninety-nine percent sure the baby isn’t his. But now that I think about it, I do remember hearing about some new blood test that can reveal the sex in the first trimester now, so maybe … no. Most people don’t even find out they’re pregnant until six to eight weeks. There’s no way she had her blood drawn and sent off and got her results back all before the ultrasound. No way. That bitch is pregnant … and with someone else’s baby.

  Eliza sits down on the couch. Starts babbling about Vegas, but every word disintegrates before hitting my ears. Instead, I mmmhmm and uh huh, my way through the conversation. My mind swirls with thoughts of her baby. Who is the father? Is she going to try to pass this baby off as Brooks’s? What does this mean for the engagement, the wedding? This is exactly what I needed, what will bring Brooks back to me. This baby is a blessing, like baby Jesus. Baby Cole, whether male or female, is the messiah who will sacrifice itself and deliver us all from the evil that is Eliza—liar, thief, and two-faced cheating cunt. No, cunt is too good for her. She’s a cunt booger.

  She snaps a finger in front of my face. “Are you even listening to me? Go get some clothes on. You’re soaking your couch.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” I stand. “I was just thinking about all the fun we’re going to have.” I smile.

  I’m back in control. Her own child will be her undoing. I couldn’t have imagined a better ending.

  Deacon stands in front of me, pleading for a second chance. Apparently, he’s been camped in front of my door since the wee hours of the morning. I found him sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall and half asleep.

  “Deacon, I told you. It’s over.”

  His clothes are wrinkled, and his eyes look tired. “Emily, please. There has to be something I can do. Everything was going so well.”

  I pick a piece of lint off my shirt. Smooth it out. “Yeah, it was until you broke it off to go back to Kara. How’d that work out for you? Not so well, I guess.”

  “I love you, Emily. I fell in love with you. I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. Please.” He steps closer to me, so close I can smell the whiskey he drank. “Please tell me what I can do. I’ll do anything. All I ask is for one more shot.”

  Love. Love is a roadblock. How will Brooks ever want me if this guy loves me? It’ll be difficult enough for him to date his best friend’s ex, but if he loves me? Hooking up with Brooks after he’s single when Deacon is in love with me would be wildly difficult. I never meant it to get to this point. I have to get rid of him—permanently.

  “I want you to get the fuck away from me right now.”

  “Wh—what?” He puts a hand over chest as if to check that I haven’t ripped out his heart.

  “I said get the fuck away from me. I want nothing to do with you.”

  “How can you say that? I don’t—”

  “Because you disgust me!” I hiss. Two men walk by, hand-in-hand. My gut reaction is embarrassment for this public argument, but there’s no better time.

  Deacon steps back, looking confused and sucker punched. “Disgust you? Emily, I made a mistake. I admit that. But that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Oh. Oh, okay.” I cross my arms. “So, is being a drug dealer also a mistake?”

  He stumbles back. “Drug dealer? I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  “No. Just no.” I hold up my hand in protest.

  His eyes answer me like his lips cannot. “Emily...”

  “You’re a drug dealer, Deacon. You’re the scum who enables people like the guy who killed my parents.” Immediately, I realize my mistake, but I can’t take it back.

  “Your parents?” he says. “They’re dead? I thought you said—”

  “Yeah, well, it feels better to pretend they’re alive, okay? The fucker who killed my parents was high on meth.”

  He slowly shakes his head, places his hands on his knees, and takes a deep breath. “I’m … my God. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” His hand reaches for mine, but I slap it away.

  “Don’t you dare touch me!” I point at him. “Just keep your distance, and I’ll keep mine, and if we happen to end up in the same room together, you’ll just smile and pretend all is normal. Do you hear me?”

  “Emily, please,” he begs.

  “Tell me, Deacon,” I raise my brows. “Are your parents in on it, too? Is that why your mom seems so fucking off? Is that where all their money comes from? Is that what happened to Kara? Did she find out?” He says nothing. Again, it’s my answer. “If you don’t want to go to jail—if you don’t want your whole fucking family to go to jail, you’ll respect my warning. Got it?”

  His lips press into a hard line as he closes his eyes, then gives a nod.

  I calmly grab my suitcase handle and walk past him, leaving him alone with his thoughts in the emptiness of the hall. I have a plane to catch.

  November 6, 2015

  Worst bachelorette party ever. Of course, I have nothing to compare it to, but I can’t fathom it being much worse.

  Eliza has lived in the bathroom since we got here, throwing up her guts and blaming it on alcohol she isn’t even drinking. Fake sips and forced slurring between pukes. Acting is not her forte. But despite my deep-seated hatred for her, I’ve kept her supplied with Gatorade, because I’m not a bad person, and I do care about her baby. It’s just an innocent little gummy bear. It can’t help that its mother is the devil. Besides, without Baby Cole staying healthy, I’m back to where I was with Brooks before this revelation—rejected.

  Nevertheless, it’s my hopeless romantic nature to think this pregnancy is part of some divine plan. Why else would God have allowed her to get knocked up by someone other than Brooks if she’s supposed to be with him? Babies are never accidents. God doesn’t make mistakes.

  I push open the bathroom door. Eliza’s head hangs dangerously close to the toilet that was already lovingly decorated with a pubic hair when we arrived. Ick.

  “Shit, Eliza,” I say. “Think it’s food poisoning. Something you ate on the plane, maybe?”

  “I don’t know,” she groans. Drool dangles from the corner of her mouth and merges with the toilet water but doesn’t break. I’m afraid she’s going to suck it back up into her mouth and catch some deadly superbug that will harm the baby—my savior.

  I yank a rag off the towel bar. Gather all of her hair in my hand—a little too hard on purpose. She yelps a little, but that won’t hurt the baby, so I don’t feel bad. I lift her head. Bat the disgusting drool away. Put the rag on the toilet seat while I continue to hold her hair. Almost gag because of the orange chunks in the toilet and her atrocious breath. “Keep that under your face,” I tell her. “This is basically a public toilet.”

  She groans again but doesn’t respond. Instead, she starts dry heaving. Still holding her hair, I step over her and sit on the edge of the tub. I’m such a damn good “friend.” None of her other seven friends would do this. I know, because they aren’t. Not one is coherent enough to help me take care of Eliza, the ve
ssel that carries my messiah. They’re laughing hysterically in the sitting area, falling all over each other and running up Eliza’s tab because they keep drinking those ridiculously expensive mini fridge beverages. The maid of honor isn’t even here yet. Made some lame excuse about her flight delaying out of Washington yesterday, so when she finally arrives it’ll be after midnight, and she’ll have to fly home a whopping ten hours later.

  “Someone bring the Gatorade!” I yell.

  I’m about to get pissed off and go check myself before the stripper-looking chick, Tessa, walks in with a bottle and almost trips on Eliza’s foot in an effort to hand it to me. I swear, if anyone causes this baby to jump ship, I’ll go postal.

  “We’re going to Purr now,” Tessa mispronounces, then braces herself against the wall. “Cominggg?”

  The other sluts pile behind her, some bending down to put their too-tall heels on, and some staring at me, waiting on a response. “No,” I scoff. “Your friend—who, by the way, is the bride—is puking her guts out. You all have fun.”

  A few of them roll their eyes, but Tessa at least attempts to fulfill her friendly duties. She steps closer. “Ermmm … Eh-liza…” she stops, points at her sloppily. “Are you K?” Eliza doesn’t pay her any attention, so she shrugs. “Sorry you’re … pooking.” She smiles, seemingly aware of her embarrassing state.

  “Just … go,” Eliza whispers. She gags again. A section of hair slips out of my hand and hangs in the toilet. Gross.

  The shitty friends leave, and I wait, switching hands whenever my arms get tired.

  More chunks evacuate her mouth. I’ve never been pregnant, so it’s all fascinating and magical, but I was terrified over the remote possibility that Deacon could have impregnated me. So I imagine it’s been pretty terrible for Eliza, finding out she’s pregnant just before her wedding. Knowing it’s not her fiancé’s. Being sick to the point it’s disabling, and having to pretend everything is peachy. And if her tits are sore and feel anything like mine did after my breast augmentation, she’s having a rough go of it all around, not to mention the mood swings she has been having. She must hate herself, poor girl. If she hadn’t fucked up my face on purpose, I might actually feel a little bit bad for her, but she deserves every bit. At the end of the day, her misery is a gooey chocolate chip cookie.