Susie Yang - White ivy

The stylist rubbed Ivy’s hair between her thumb and index finger. “Is this virgin hair?”

“Yes.”

“Might be tough.” She walked Ivy through the difficulties of lightening black hair—there would be bleach, many processes of bleach, it would take multiple sessions—

“No, it’s got to be in one go.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it. It’ll fry your hair.”

“Can you do it?”

“It’s possible, but—”

“Do it.”

Nine hours later, Ivy walked out of the salon, unrecognizable to herself. Her hair was the color of wheat, an ashy flax that somehow made her face appear sharper, her skin fine and thin over the small bones, her eyes blank and cavernous. The stylist had even colored the eyebrows a nutty brown. Ivy liked it. She looked like an alien—not quite Asian, not quite white, somewhere in the middle, a girl of mixed blood, or perhaps some true freak of nature. She imagined what Meifeng and Nan might say if they saw her now. Probably that she had made herself ugly, disfigured herself in some irreparable way. Austin was depressed and Ivy was irreparable. It’s not your fault, she’d told Nan in the car. She’d only said it to make her mother feel better. Now Ivy knew it to be true. Hair was reparable, but her need to destroy, escape, remake was a darkness the combined forces of Meifeng and Nan hadn’t been able to fumigate.

GIDEON EMAILED HER a clip his employee had recorded of him and Roland accepting the check. The stage behind them was lit fluorescent green. An old woman in a sequined, floor-length gown took the podium to talk about the impact Gideon’s company had had on her country. When she walked over to shake Roland’s hand, she tripped over a wire and stumbled a few steps. Gideon steadied her, making a joke to lighten the mood. Ivy could tell he was enjoying himself, utterly in his element, championing a cause that had nothing to do with him, a purely altruistic cause. There were people in the world who were born that way: altruistic. Not everyone would have stabbed a homeless man rummaging in their house for food. As Gideon leaned in to the microphone to speak, Ivy heard a ripple of anticipation, that sound of people collectively leaning forward and drawing breath. Gideon spoke of making an impact on the lives of others, in bringing about the change you wanted to see in the world, of kindness, of humility, of hope. His voice became impassioned when he spoke about the work his company was doing to improve the lives of the most impoverished. Everyone was mesmerized. Ivy was mesmerized. In the middle of the speech, while he was taking a sip of water, the person recording the video panned to the audience. Dark-skinned men in tuxedos and busty women with perfect blond highlights sat around circular tables laden with silverware and champagne flutes. There were the occasional glints of sparkling jewelry, a bright red lipstick; one woman was dabbing her eyes with her cloth napkin. The camera panned back to Gideon. As she watched him through the screen of her laptop, Gideon had never felt farther away from her—and yet she had also never felt such ownership of him, fingering the sapphire on her ring finger while recalling the way he looked fresh out of the shower, his shoulder muscles rippling as he slid one arm into his monogramed pajama shirt. All of Ivy’s pleasure lay in this gap, that elusive divide between familiarity and admiration, intimacy and enigma.

ON SATURDAY MORNING, she saw that someone had parked their car in her spot in front of the house. It was a black Audi, covered with a fine dusting of snow. She wondered which of her neighbors had come into sudden wealth—perhaps the gangsters across the street had been rewarded by their boss—but mostly she was irritated that they had taken up her spot.

When she walked out to get the mail, she discovered a bubble envelope with her name written on the front in black permanent marker. No return address. She ripped the package open. Out fell a set of two identical keys. There was nothing else. Her eyes wandered to the Audi. She raced inside, dug out her phone from underneath her pillow. There was one unopened text, from Roux: You drive.

SUNDAY. SHE WOKE and immediately checked the forecast. Chance of snow: 100 percent starting at three o’clock.

It was still night, the moon a faint watermark on an ashen sky misty with the pale clouds that would bring the promised snow. She heard the groan of pipes upstairs as Andrea turned on the shower; twenty minutes later, her roommate’s footsteps thudded down the stairs, the front door opened, closed, leaving behind the sudden hushed impotence of an old house.

Ivy sprung into action. She dressed in the clothes she’d laid out the night before: black joggers, old hiking boots, multiple layers of thermal wear, a Red Sox cap she’d dug out of the umbrella closet. She left the light and heater running in her room and closed the door. The air chewed at her exposed skin as she hurried to unlock the car and slide into the Audi’s leather seats, made brittle by the cold. She knew nothing about cars but she knew this one was a beautiful piece of machinery. The seat curved perfectly against the contour of her back; a slight tap on the gas and it sped to sixty without any effort or noise. The sensation of driving an expensive car through a deserted city, with beautifully clothed mannequins staring at her through dark shop windows, tall skyscrapers looming on either side of the broad avenue, and the immovable sense of an earth built for her and her alone, made Ivy feel reckless and free. Roux said cars were a man’s domain, that women, especially Asian women, shouldn’t be allowed near fine cars. As a passenger, yes. As a driver, no. But he’d let her drive this Audi. It was his olive branch.

By the time she got to Astor Towers, the diner across the street was just opening its doors. She put on her emergency lights and texted Roux she was outside. Minutes later, he ambled out from the lobby dressed in loose slacks and a brown fleece jacket. From afar, his face was a closed door, she could read nothing in his gray eyes, narrowed against the sun, or his perfectly set mouth, taking a long drag of his cigarette before tossing it into the gutter.

She’d planned an entire greeting composed of light banter, but he saved her the effort by immediately bursting into laughter after sliding into the passenger’s seat. “What have you done?” he said, touching the ends of her hair.

“Do you like it?”

“What was wrong with it before?”

“You know I’ve always hated my hair.”

“You look like an albino. Or a radioactive mutant.”

“Whatever.” She smiled charmingly and brought her fingers to his jaw. “You shaved.”

“Yes.”

They kissed quite naturally.

“Thanks for rolling out of bed before three,” she murmured.

He pressed his fingers on the back of her skull and gently brought his forehead to hers. They stayed like that a second longer than their breezy conduct allowed for.

What was this feeling? Ivy wondered. Fear, confusion, tender hate, all mixed together and tinged with the sense of impending danger. Like a hostage trying to please her captor. But who was the captor and who was the hostage?

“Well?” said Roux, releasing her. “How do you like the car?” He inspected the gears, opened the glove compartment, patted the dashboard with a paternal air.

“It’s beautiful,” said Ivy. “Thanks for letting me drive it.”

“You can have it.”

“ Seriously? ”

“You’re always complaining about your car breaking down.”

“I’ll ruin this one before long, with my history.” Then a terrible thought struck her. “Is it registered under my name?”

Roux’s eyes flicked over her sardonically, mistaking her agonizing fear for childish petulance. “Obviously not— I bought it—but if it means that much to you, I can transfer the title over—”