I pulled myself out.
“Wish she’d jump off the diving board again,” one of them said. “Jump for a real long time.”
I made my way toward them, slowly, calmly. They nudged one another. One smiled at me. I didn’t smile back. “Shut the fuck up or the next thing I jump on will be your fucking skull,” I said. The idiots stared at me, openmouthed. I turned and walked away.
I wanted to leave then, to go home to my empty house. To crank up the AC and climb under the covers.
Instead I forced myself to breathe. I headed for the drinks table. I cracked a beer. My hands were shaking. I wanted them to stop shaking. The party was more crowded than before. The music was louder. There was a splash as someone jumped into the pool. A scream and another splash as a girl pushed her friend in in all her clothes. I gritted my teeth, sipped the beer. It tasted like dirt. So I gulped. I looked left and right.
I told myself I would not be sad. I would feel nothing but anger now.
People act like being angry is a bad thing. Calm down, sit down, be quiet, be a good girl.
Fuck. That.
Anger is power. Anger is a weapon and a gift. Anger takes the pit in your stomach and makes it a black hole. And everybody watch the fuck out.
I looked for Ivy. She was standing with Xavier, checking her phone. I knew just what she was checking for.
And in that moment I realized what I’d originally planned wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be enough for Xavier to figure out that Ivy was texting with Jake, then dump her, and be safe and free. No.
I wanted Ivy to suffer.
I wanted to watch her face when she found out that I was the one she’d been telling all her secrets to. I wanted to watch her perfect mask crumble and fall.
I looked around the yard. There were maybe forty people here now. I felt brave and reckless. I felt like I could say or do anything. I knew what I needed then, a body pressed against mine, a mouth on my mouth. Something intense and sudden, to keep me from having to think about what Ivy had said, what Xavier had said in response, to keep me from having to replay that conversation over and over and over in my head until the words were carved so deep into my brain I would never be able to get them out.
There was a girl in a blue-striped bikini standing at the edge of the pool, tall with smooth skin and a soft sexy belly squishing over the waistband of her suit. I took a sip of my beer and started toward her. With guys, it was simple. I knew just how to do it, how to approach them, the smirk, the look. I was less confident with girls, but in that moment I didn’t care.
“Hey,” someone called out. “Hey, Sasha!”
I turned and there was Gwen. I watched as she drank from a plastic water bottle, flinched, and passed it to a guy next to her who took a sip and chased it with a swig of Sprite. He caught my eye and smiled. I’d seen him around before. Steph was his name, I thought. I glanced at the girl with the striped bikini. She had her arm around a guy now and he was kissing her on the neck.
I looked back at Steph. He held the bottle up like, Want some?
He didn’t have to ask me twice.
* * *
Thirty minutes later the water bottle, which had been filled with gin, was empty. And everything was different.
“You remember our song, right?” Gwen was saying. I shook my head, grinning. “How did it go?” She started to hum Frère Jacques, then leaned in and whisper-sang the words we’d made up. “Bon-jour, mon-sieur, mon-sieur le butt,” and just like that it all came rushing back. We’d made up new lyrics, a mix of fake French words and butt words. There was a dance that went with it. Our eyes met and I honked an imaginary butt in the air, part of the dance, and she laughed. It felt good, sitting there laughing with someone at the party. For a moment, I could almost forget everything that was going on. Almost. “We were such little psychos,” I said.
“Were?” she said. And we laughed some more. She turned toward Steph. “We wrote a song in French about butts. We were very sophisticated nine-year-olds.”
His knee was touching mine—it had been for a while. I looked up at him. An accident? He was staring out at the water. He turned to meet my eye.
“Is there a video of this around somewhere?” he said. “Feels like a missed opportunity that you didn’t become viral Internet superstars.”
“It’s truly unfair that there isn’t,” Gwen said.
Steph moved forward, so now our legs were side by side, the outside of his thigh sliding up the outside of mine. I did not pull away.
Suddenly there was a loud banging, a drumbeat. Someone had changed the music and cranked it up, up, up. Then came the flute, an electric violin, an otherworldly voice. I turned toward the sound. Everyone did. And there was Ivy, switching on the extra speakers, a tiny smile played at her lips.
She walked slowly around the edge of the pool, made her way onto a small square of soft grass. She was alone. The sun was going down. My heart thumped hard.
“She’s a pretty fucked-up person, you know,” Gwen said.
“Sorry?” I said. Gwen was watching me watching Ivy. “I thought she was your best friend.”
“She is,” Gwen said. “Which means I know her better than anyone, and I know who she is deep down. And who she is is completely messed up.” Gwen’s face was expressionless. It was hard to tell if she meant this in a good way or a bad one.
“How so?” I said.
Gwen raised an eyebrow. “All the ways you think. And other ones, too.” She shrugged, then turned back to watch Ivy, and so did I.
Steph’s leg was still touching mine, but I couldn’t feel it anymore. By the pink glow of the setting sun, to the sound of drums and flutes and voice, Ivy began to dance.
She turned like a ballerina, around and around. She crouched low and popped back up, eyes closed, chest out, head thrown back. She brought one leg up in front of her, higher and higher until her thigh pressed against her torso. The music was loud and fast, but she moved so slowly now, graceful, like she was underwater.
She didn’t dance like no one was watching. She danced like she knew we all would be.
And she was right—the whole party was staring, caught in a trance. I turned to Xavier, my sweet best friend, who was leaning forward, lip bit, and I thought, I get it. And I understood then that I would never forget this moment, not because of what she said, not because I hated her, not even because of the look on Xavier’s face, but just because it was so goddamn beautiful.
Finally, the song ended. Another one came on, softer. Ivy stopped, her body glistening with sweat. She walked back toward the pool, took off her shorts, and dove in.
The girl in the striped bikini was standing at the edge. “What song was that?” she asked.
“Finbeeyato,” Ivy said.
“By who?”
“By Monster Hands.”
“Who are they?” said the girl.
But Ivy didn’t answer, she had dunked underwater and was gone.
* * *
The party lasted forever. Eventually the clouds darkened and gathered close and blocked out all the stars. Lightning cracked and the rain came down. We got drunker and drunker. Here’s how the night ended: me and Steph around the side of the house under a wraparound porch, his lips against mine, hands fumbling into each other’s bathing suits while the water pounded down. When I told him it was time for me to leave, he begged and begged me not to. “We don’t even have to do anything,” he said. “You’re just so cool . . . I want to hang out more. We can find a dry place to talk.”
I shrugged and pulled away. “Sorry,” I said.
“What about hanging out a different time?” he said. “Like other than now?” He looked at me like I was very precious and was about to disappear. “Could I have your phone number?”
He handed me his phone. There was a loud crack of lightning and a Woo! from the pool. I punched the numbers in, not even sure why I was doing it. I had no intention of seeing him again. Maybe because I was drunk. Maybe I wanted to pretend I was just a normal per
son doing normal things at a party. Maybe it was because by the end of the night I felt powerful and reckless. Like I could do anything. And no one could stop me.
“You can text me,” I said. I put in my last digit, added my name as SASHA WHO HATES TALKING ON THE PHONE. And when I handed his phone back, he was looking at me like I was magic.
August 2, 2:06 a.m.
Jake: When we meet, I’ll play this song for you in person. For now, there’s something I need you to look up
Jake: It’s Finbeeyato by this band called Monster Hands
Jake: Is it weird to say I’m sure you will love it even though I have actually no idea what music you like?
Jake: If that’s weird, instead let’s pretend I said: here’s a song. No pressure to like it
Jake: It reminds me of you. I don’t know why
Jake: Sorry for the longest text chain on earth. I’m a lil drunk
Jake: I guess you’ll see this in the morning
Jake: Good morning
Ivy: 1. Well you were right that I’d love it, I already DO love it. I’ve been listening to it on repeat for the past week. Are you living inside my brain?
Ivy: 2. GET OUT OF MY BRAIN
Ivy: 3. No, I’m just kidding. Stay in here. Someone needs to be the chaperone
Ivy: 4. WHEN WE MEET? Are you serious? Do not mess with me Jake. I thought you said we couldn’t. I thought you were too shy . . .
Jake: What are you still doing up?
Jake: 1. Maybe I’m living inside your brain or maybe I AM you. And you’ve been writing to yourself all along. Did you ever think about THAT?
Jake: 2. NEVER
Jake: 3. Oh, okay good. I’m glad you were kidding. Because I was serious when I said it before. I will say it again: N E V E R
Jake: 4. I know, I was shy, I AM shy. But there are some things worth taking risks for . . . don’t you think?? SO YES I AM SERIOUS
Jake: And by the way . . . get to bed young lady
Ivy: Come over and make me
Ivy: PS good
Here’s the thing about the messages: they were just supposed to be a distraction, a joke, a game for my brain to play while I wait to die. I’m sorry I do not mean to be so DRAMATIC here. I am just a realistic person who is not too scared to admit that that is what all of life is: a bunch of activities we do in a row to pass the time until there is no more time for us to pass.
Look, I am not a dummy. I know how that sounds. I am extremely, fully aware that people are DISTURBED when you talk like that. You have to be careful about who you say things to when you know this. People have a hard time accepting it. It makes them feel BAD, so they decide that knowing the truth is actually a symptom of a DISEASE, as a way to convince themselves that this upsetting truth isn’t just true.
I got forced to go to a shrink once, a long time ago. I thought WELL better to talk than sit there in silence. So I expressed this viewpoint, this very true viewpoint, before I understood that it is always better to keep this to yourself. The shrink said I was depressed. I said, “I’m not depressed, I am RIGHT. Can you argue with anything I’m saying? Can you really tell me how anything matters at all and how doing one thing is different than doing another thing if in the end there will just be nothing, anyway??” I was not crying. I was not even frowning. I was smiling, actually, if I recall. Because it was during school hours and I was getting out of a math test.
She said to me you do not need to feel sad to be depressed. She said are you thinking about killing yourself? I said NO I am not thinking about KILLING MYSELF. She said but if you were how would you do it? And I said what the hell, are you looking for IDEAS? She said I am only checking that you are not lying when you say you are not. I said lordy, if I were trying to lie do you really think you’d get me with your clever THEORETICAL question trick? She looked for a moment very tired, like I was exhausting her. She said well that sounds like depressed to me. I said no I am not depressed, I am not even sad. I am just smart and RIGHT. She said depression lies to you. I said EVERYBODY LIES TO YOU. She said who has lied to you lately and I said I did not even want to get into that. Then we sat there in silence until she said my time was up. I took more than a reasonable amount of gummy bears from the bowl on her table. (What kind of shrink has gummy bears in her office I ask you? Maybe she was colluding with the dentist whose office was down the hall, eh?) And I got the hell out of there.
I learned to fake it better after that. I learned to pretend JUST ENOUGH so that no one would worry. Just enough so that I could go about my life without people bothering me. (And I get it, I get that they were WELL MEANING, but in the end, in a hundred and fifty years, this entire planet will be hosting a new big shitty party full of people and nothing we did or did not do or meant or did not mean will have mattered.)
I am not trying to be fake-deep here. I know that nothing I’m saying is new. What I’m trying to explain is that I really, truly did not think that anything that MATTERED could happen when we started writing each other, because I did not think anything COULD matter. I did not think mattering was a REAL THING.
It was just WORDS at first, WORDS WORDS WORDS, an exercise really. But then somehow something changed and I felt like something was HAPPENING with me and Jake. IT felt like he was (get ready to barf) seeing INSIDE me somehow. It was like there was something even in there to see. And I didn’t feel like I was pretending. I had gotten SO GOOD at pretending, but suddenly it didn’t feel like I had to (well, not in the big ways at least).
I waited for that feeling to pass. I did not TRUST IT. I waited for it to GO. But every morning I went to sleep with it. And every morning when I woke up, there it was, like some soft small animal next to my bed.
When I started out, nothing mattered. I was as sure of it as I was sure of anything. But the problem is now I have something to care about. Which, as it turns out, is so wonderful and so goddamn terrifying.
But the truth, the fucking truth, could ruin everything.
Sasha
Xavier and I hardly ever talked on the phone. Other than the call on his birthday, I couldn’t even remember the last time we had. So when I saw his name flashing on my screen the morning after Nikolai’s party, my first thought was that maybe something bad had happened.
“Hello?” I sat up, suddenly dizzy.
“Oh, hi there,” he said. He sounded kind of normal.
“Is something terribly wrong?” I asked. “Are you dead?”
“Let me check,” he said. “How would I know?”
“Is your heart still beating?”
“There’s something thumping around in my chest, but I can’t say for sure what it is. . . .”
I thought about the night before. What Ivy had said to him, what he’d said back. I felt my face flush. I was glad he couldn’t see me.
“Why are you calling me?” I said. “We don’t talk on the phone.”
It came out harsher than I’d meant it.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I just thought we might try it. It’s not like the very first time or anything.”
“Okay,” I said.
“So how do you think this is going?” he said.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I don’t talk to people on the phone, except when people call the shop. I have nothing to compare it to. And you haven’t yet ordered any copies.”
I got out of bed. It was 9:26. My head was pounding. I had to be at work in thirty-four minutes.
“Did you have fun last night?” His voice sounded strange and, it occurred to me then that maybe he was calling because he was worried I’d overheard him and Ivy at the party. Maybe he was calling to check.
“Yeah,” I said. And then, just in case, I added, “It was fun to get to hang out with Ivy a little bit.” The only thing worse than my overhearing it would be his knowing I had.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And you made a new friend.” He stretched the word out so it sounded like friiiiiiend. He was talking about Steph.
“Oh,” I
said. “Something like that.”
Just then there was a call-waiting beep. I looked at my screen. It was a number I didn’t recognize. “It’s possible he’s calling me right now,” I said.
“Ew,” Xavier said. “Calling you? Is he some kind of psychopath?”
“I don’t know him well enough to know yet,” I said.
The call-waiting beeped again. I sent the call to voice mail.
“Do you liiiiike him?” Xavier said. He was trying to sound teasing and fun, but this wasn’t even how we usually talked to each other.
I thought he expected me to say something about how I never liked anyone, or how Steph was so not my type or something, but suddenly I didn’t want to. You can practically smell her pussy juicing when she sees you. . . . Xavier had defended me. I’d heard him defending me. But in that moment, it didn’t feel like enough. Maybe nothing would have.
“Who knows,” I said. “I had a really good time hanging out with him.”
“Wow,” Xavier said. “He doesn’t seem like he’d be your type.”
“What’s my type?”
“I don’t know. But I mean, that’s great. It’s great if you had fun. That you had fun.”
“Did you?” I said.
“I—” He stopped. “It was all right.”
The more we weren’t saying, the harder it was to say anything at all. Spreading like a flow-er.
“Listen,” I said. “I have to go get ready for work.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Bye,” I said. And we hung up.
I got into the shower. I washed my hair, scrubbed my face. I got dressed. All I could think about was Xavier and Ivy, and what I’d decided the night before, how I was going to confront her face-to-face. And whether that was the greatest idea I’d ever had or the very worst one.
I got into my car and drove to the shop. I was seven minutes late, but it didn’t matter because no one was there.
I sat alone behind the counter for hours, replaying everything over and over in my head. I was bored. I missed Xavier. I was lonely.
The time moved so slowly. I remembered that Steph had left a voice mail. I decided to listen to it just to have something else to think about for a minute.
Bad Girls with Perfect Faces Page 7
