Sasha
I climbed to the top of the diving board. Bounced once, twice, jumped, splashed, sank. Only when I was underwater did I let myself scream.
Fuck.
Ivy.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Ivy.
Ivy had known I could hear her. She’d wanted me to hear her—she was staring at me over Xavier’s shoulder the entire time. When she said the word “pussy,” we’d locked eyes. She’d smiled.
And Xavier had no idea.
I pushed off the bottom of the pool. When my face broke through the water, I took a deep gasping breath.
But Ivy was wrong about one thing. She said she knew just what I was up to.
She had no fucking clue.
My eyes tingled as the tears collected. Because under the anger was something else, something so embarrassing I could barely even admit it to myself: in the past ten days, I had actually started to like her.
I had felt as though maybe I’d been getting to see some secret hidden piece of her. Maybe all along she had been covering up the most real part of herself. Like so many of us. Like even me sometimes.
But more than that, worse than that, worse than anything . . .
There had been times late at night, when I was by myself in my house, in my bed, and texts from Ivy had made me feel less alone.
I pressed on my eyelids, forced the tears back in.
It was fucking pathetic.
I looked around. I was the only one in the pool. The three guys who’d been talking about me in the grossest ways were in chairs near the edge, watching me. Did anyone at this party other than Ivy understand how sound travels? That other people have ears?
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 person 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.