The Savage Girl - Alex Shakar [131]
“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Ivy asks.
Ursula looks around. “You have a hot plate in here? That might be dangerous.”
Ivy gets up, steps over the bomb, and walks toward Ursula, her hands in front of her as though she were carrying a tray. “Here you go.”
“Oh. OK, Ivy.” Ursula pretends to pick up a cup from the imaginary tray. “Thanks.”
“Milk?” Ivy says, smiling brightly and motioning with her head at the space between her hands.
“No thanks,” she replies, returning the smile.
“Sugar?”
“No, plain is fine.”
“Lemon?”
Settling into the routine, Ursula reaches into the space Ivy indicates with her eyes and pantomimes picking a lemon wedge out of a bowl, then squeezing it into her tea. She strives for verisimilitude. It’s almost even fun. It reminds her of the games they played as kids.
“How is it?” Ivy asks.
Ursula brings her hand to her mouth, tips it, swallows, licks her lips. “Good,” she says. “Hits the spot.”
Ivy nods.
“You going to have some?”
“No,” she says. “I’m not going to have some. Because there isn’t any!” She throws up her hands. “You’re so full of shit, Ursula. Look at you!”
Ursula looks at her hands, still daintily poised in front of her, holding the imaginary teacup.
“Why are you so full of shit?” Ivy shouts. “When did you turn into such a phony? Look at you, sitting there all prim and proper in your blue suit. All made up for the cameras! Your big day as a star!” She lets out a long, cackling laugh, then screams, “You look like a fool!”
Ursula drops her hands, her eyes filling with tears. She suddenly realizes that this is exactly how the whole world must be seeing her now—as the less successful, aging, camera-hungry sister who took the time to dress up like a Barbie doll while her younger sister was threatening suicide. How can she explain she’s been wearing this fancy suit since yesterday? She could never explain. It would sound like an excuse. And to top it all off, she’s starting to cry.
“Ursie!” Ivy says, in a wholly different tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t be sad. Please.” Ivy plops down on the bed and puts her skinny arms around her. “Hey, I didn’t know it was you. I thought they’d gotten to you. I thought you were one of them. I thought they put a chip in your head. But it’s you! I’m so happy it’s you!”
Ivy hugs her tightly, and Ursula knows that this is the moment, that all she has to do is grab Ivy and push her to the wall, and the door will come crashing down and this farce will be over, and she’ll be the hero after all. But even as the hero, she’ll still be the fool, she’ll never shake the humiliation. She lets her arms hang uselessly, lets herself become an even bigger fool, sees in her mind Agent Dellaqua cursing her, sees the experts explaining her failure in tedious detail on the nightly news. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to go back out there, now or ever.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Ivy whispers. “You can help me now.”
Ursula wipes the snot from her nose with the sleeve of her twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit. “Help you how?” she mumbles.
“Help me deliver my message. Will you do that, Ursula? Will you help me? We can do it together!”
Ursula looks up. Ivy’s smile is so hopeful that she can’t help returning it with a miserable smile of her own. She wipes her eyes. “What do you want me to do?”
“Here,” Ivy says happily. “Lie down next to me on the bed.”
Ivy lies down on her back. “Hey, dickface!” she shouts at the ceiling. “No funny business! I got a big-ass fucking lighter and a lit candle and a bomb right here next to the bed!” She turns to Ursula again, pats the space next to her. “Right here,” she says softly, “on your back, like me.”
Totally docile, Ursula lies down on her back. The ceiling, she notices, is covered with little glow-in-the-dark stickers of stars, moons, and shooting stars.
“OK,” Ivy says. “Now look into that camera right there.” She points out the ceiling camera. Ursula stares at its luminous, recessing, glassy eye.
“They’re all watching us now,” Ivy