Cheat Day: Two Envelopes

Chapter 1 - Two Envelopes

Ivy Marsh laminated the chart on a Sunday, which tells you most of what you need to know about Ivy Marsh.

She slapped it onto the fridge door hard enough to rattle the magnets. Twelve columns, one for each week. Two rows, one for each of them. A strip at the bottom for stickers, because a chart without rewards was just a list, and Ivy did not do lists.

"Twelve weeks," she said. "Weigh-ins every Sunday. Whoever loses the most by July first..."

"...picks the trip, loser pays." Sasha Reed didn't look up from the sofa. Her legs were draped over the armrest, a bag of chips balanced on her stomach. "You've said it four times, Spreadsheet."

"Because it matters." Ivy was twenty-three, five foot seven, a hundred and twenty-eight pounds, and a junior analyst at a finance firm who colour-coded her sock drawer. Her plan, in her own words, was colour-coded too.

Sasha was twenty-two, five foot five, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, and ran the counter at a vinyl café. Her plan, in her own words, was vibes.

"You made a chart," Sasha said.

"I made a laminated chart."

Sasha held up one finger with a chip pinched in it, like a tiny salty gavel. "You've won every bet we ever made, Spreadsheet. Not this one." She ate the chip. "One condition. Somebody else cooks."

Ivy crossed her arms and thought about it the way she thought about everything, as if it were a spreadsheet she could win. "Fine. Someone professional. Nothing fried. Nothing you'd enjoy."

"And when I win, we go somewhere with a buffet that never closes."

"When I win, we hike."

The doorbell rang.

"Prep Talk!" sang a voice through the door. "Who's ready to feel amazing?"

Ivy turned slowly. "You booked her already?"

Sasha licked salt off her thumb. "Before you finished laminating."

* * *

Sol Vega was twenty-three, with a pastel pink bob under a red bandana and a white chef jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and she unpacked their fridge like a magician pulling scarves out of a hat. Fourteen containers each, stacked and labelled.

"Fourteen meals each," she announced. "Labelled, macro-counted, loved."

Ivy picked one up and read the label the way other people read love letters. IVY · LUNCH · 450 kcal. "Four fifty. Acceptable." She turned it over. "Protein thirty-one. Fibre eight." She set it down. "Per the data, you're hired."

Sasha lifted a lid and sniffed. "Who broccoli'd my dinner?"

"Green is a flavour!" Sol said.

Sasha's hand drifted into Ivy's container and came back with a cherry tomato. Ivy slapped her wrist without looking.

"It's one tomato."

"It's my tomato."

Sasha popped it in her mouth anyway and flopped back onto the sofa, and that was when Ivy held the front door open for Sol with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

"I'll walk you out."

* * *

The hallway was quiet. Ivy eased the door shut behind them until the latch clicked.

"Hypothetically," she said.

Sol waited.

Ivy lowered her voice and glanced at the door. "Her meals. Can you make them... richer?"

Sol tilted her head, perfectly sincere. "Richer how? Like... emotionally?"

"Butter."

From the other side of the door came Sasha's voice, muffled and cheerful: "Ivy! Ask her if she does dessert!"

For one second Ivy's hand hovered. She looked at the door. She thought about Sasha on the sofa with chip dust on her fingers, about every party where Sasha had been the one people remembered, about the chart.

Then she held out the envelope.

"She'll never know," Ivy said. "The labels say four fifty."

Sol took it. "Prep Talk is a full-service kitchen."

Ivy went back inside. Sol stood alone in the hallway, peeked into the envelope, and her eyebrows climbed all the way up to her bandana.

"...Oh," she whispered. "Oh, I can do so much richer."

* * *

Prep Talk's kitchen was a rented space with steel counters, a stove older than Sol, and a corkboard where a red notice said RENT · OVERDUE in letters Sol had stopped looking at.

On Wednesday night she propped her phone against a stockpot for the weekly check-in. Both women filled the screen, side by side on their sofa.

"How are we feeling?" Sol chirped.

"Real talk, chef," Sasha said. "Can the green stuff taste less... green? Like, taste like it's not a punishment?"

"She's fine," Ivy said. "It's fine."

But behind Sasha's head, where only the camera could see, Ivy mouthed one word, slow and clear.

Richer.

Sol leaned into the phone with a smile like a cat at a fish counter. "For you, Sasha? I'll make it taste like a crime."

The butter went in first. Then the cream, a whole jug of it, folding into the sauce in slow white ribbons. Then something golden and glossy that Sol described, to nobody, as a sauce she wasn't legally allowed to name. She tasted it off the spoon with her eyes closed.

"Mm," she said. "Professional."

On the lid of Sasha's container, the label still said 450 kcal. Below it, in print so small you'd have to squint, a little asterisk had appeared. Per serving. Serves 3.

* * *

Sunday weigh-ins happened in the bathroom at eight a.m. sharp, because Ivy had put them in both their calendars with an alarm.

Ivy stepped on first in her emerald sports bra and leggings. The scale beeped. 127.0.

"Minus one," she said, and pumped a fist. "That's one to nothing. Me."

Sasha stepped on in her yellow sports bra and bike shorts, holding her breakfast oatmeal, because she refused to be hungry and weighed at the same time. The scale beeped.

127.0.

"...Huh," said Sasha.

"Ooh," said Ivy. "Plus two."

Ivy put a gold star on her own row of the chart. She put a sad face on Sasha's.

"You bought stickers," Sasha said. "You bought stickers for this."

"It's called being prepared."

Sasha lifted her chin. "It's water weight."

"Of course it is."

* * *

By the second week the salads were a problem.

"Spreadsheet," Sasha said through a mouthful, cross-legged on the sofa. "Why is this salad so good?"

It was a very good salad. It was ranch, mostly, and candied pecans, and a generous handful of bacon that the label described, in its tiny print, as a garnish.

"Must be the dressing," said Ivy, eating her own plain one at the counter.

Sasha put her fork down. When she spoke again the drawl had gone out of her voice. "I'm hungry all the time now. Is that a me thing? Is it the job?"

Ivy didn't answer right away. It was the only time all week she didn't have an answer ready.

"It's your metabolism," she said finally. "There was a study. Yours is waking up."

"...Okay." Sasha picked her fork back up, relieved. "Good. You'd tell me."

Ivy looked at her own salad and said nothing at all.

Sasha leaned back into the cushions, and the button on her denim shorts gave a small, strained creak.

"Don't you start," she told it.

The button started anyway. At the next weigh-in Sasha stepped on and off the scale three times, then tapped it with her toe as though it might apologise. 130.0. 130.0. 130.0.

"Gum," she said. "I had gum. That's the gum."

"Plus five," said Ivy, already peeling off her second gold star.

"I ate salads, Ivy." Sasha flung her arms out, a muffin in one hand. "I ate SALADS."

"It's called discipline."

"It's called witchcraft."

* * *

At 1:12 in the morning, Sasha stood in the light of the open fridge.

She hadn't meant to. She had meant to get a glass of water. But Ivy's containers were stacked right there on the middle shelf, labelled in Sol's neat hand, IVY · LUNCH · 450 kcal, and Sasha was so hungry it felt like a sound.

The first one went down standing up. The second went down sitting on the kitchen floor with her back against the cupboard, the fridge humming over her shoulder like it was in on it. Somewhere down the hall, Ivy murmured in her sleep, "...two to nothing... me..."

Sasha put the empties back with the lids on and the labels facing out, exactly the way they'd been. She closed the fridge door with her hip and licked her thumb.

"...She'll never know," she whispered.

* * *

Sol did her midweek drop out of the trunk of her car in the parking lot behind their building, and on Wednesday of the third week, a voice behind her said, "Psst. Chef."

Sasha was leaning against the car in sunglasses, with an iced coffee that was mostly whipped cream.

"Ivy's meals," Sasha said. "Make them... heavy."

Sol tilted her head with the exact same sincerity as before. "Heavy how? Like... spiritually?"

"Like a brick, babe." Sasha pushed her sunglasses up. "She's got gold stars and a laminator. I've got sad faces. I've been losing to that woman since the day we moved in." Her voice dropped. "Just once."

She held out an envelope.

Sol took it. "Prep Talk is a full-service kitchen."

"And this never happened."

Three floors up, a window opened, and Ivy leaned out and waved. "See you Sunday, Sol!"

Sol waved back with one hand. Behind her back, in the other, she held two envelopes.

"...Bigger fridge," she said to herself.

* * *

On the next weekly call, two envelopes hung on the corkboard, pinned right over the rent notice.

"Same plan as always?" Sol asked.

"Same plan, Sol," said Ivy.

"What she said," said Sasha. "And whatever that sauce is."

Behind Sasha's head, Ivy mouthed: Richer.

"Fibre eight, minimum," Ivy added, and behind Ivy's head, Sasha mouthed: Heavy.

Sol worked two pans at once that night, a stick of butter in each hand. "Richer," she sang to the left pan. "Heavy," she sang to the right. "Love that for you both."

Two labels went out on Thursday. IVY · LUNCH · 450 kcal. SASHA · LUNCH · 450 kcal. One said serves 3 in its fine print. The other said serves 4.

* * *

Here is how the next three Sundays went.

Week three: Ivy exhaled every molecule of air in her body and still read 128.0. "Zero, overall," she announced. "Still ahead." Sasha, in the doorway with a sandwich, said, "Up two this week, though," and Ivy said, "Overall is the metric," and gave herself a silver star, because draws got silver. "You have silver stars?" Sasha asked. "I have every star," Ivy said. Sasha watched her stick it on, chewing slowly, and smiled at the back of her head. "Enjoy it, babe."

Week four, Thursday: Priya at the next desk looked over at Ivy's creamy pasta and said, "New blouse, Ivy? It looks... snug." Ivy said the dry cleaner shrank everything and that she had emailed them. Sasha showed up at noon with two coffees, singing "Skinny latte for Spreadsheet," and when Ivy stretched to take hers, a button left the front of her blouse with a bright little ping and landed in the latte with a plop. They both looked at the cup. "...Dry cleaner?" said Sasha. "...Dry cleaner," said Ivy.

Week four, Sunday: Ivy was up three. "It's sodium. It's a sodium week. That's a statistical anomaly." Sasha stepped on holding a hot chocolate under a small mountain of whipped cream. "It's mostly air," she said. "It's mostly whipped cream," said Ivy. 134.0. Sasha grinned around her straw. "I won the week. Star me, Spreadsheet." That afternoon a trail map appeared on the fridge next to the chart, taped there by someone who was still two to one and absolutely on plan.

"I'm on plan," Ivy said.

"Same," said Sasha.

* * *

Friday of week five was supposed to be one night off.

Sasha came home with a pizza. Ivy came out of her room with a pizza. They stared at each other across the living room.

"I got us a pizza," said Sasha.

"...I also got us a pizza," said Ivy.

So they had two. They sat on the sofa with the boxes open across their knees and laughed until Sasha snorted soda, and Ivy didn't even check the time. There was a safety pin holding the front of Ivy's blouse together now. Neither of them mentioned it.

"I missed this," Sasha said. "Us, pizza, no chart."

"...Me too."

Sasha took a long bite and didn't look at her. "Be honest, Spreadsheet. Am I getting... soft?"

Ivy glanced sideways. Sasha's sweatshirt rode up when she reached for another slice, her shorts had given up pretending to close all the way, and she looked warm and happy and full in a way Ivy had never seen on her before.

"Honestly?" Ivy said quietly. "It suits you."

Working, Ivy thought.

Sasha's mouth was too full to answer, which was useful, because she was trying very hard not to smile. "Shut up," she managed.

Working, Sasha thought.

They touched slices like glasses.

"To discipline," said Ivy.

"To cheat night," said Sasha.

* * *

On Sunday, Ivy was up three again.

She stood at the open fridge with her fork in her hand and two labels lined up in front of her. IVY · DINNER · 450 kcal. SASHA · DINNER · 450 kcal. Both said serves 4 in the fine print, if you knew where to look, and for the first time Ivy looked.

"Plus three," she said. "Again. On four-fifty meals." She pointed the fork. "Did you put something in my meals?"

Sasha laughed. "Ha. Ha ha." Then her face did something complicated. "...Did you put something in mine?"

It came out of them all at once, the way old things do.

"I don't have to cheat to beat you, Reed," Ivy said. "I never have."

"There it is," said Sasha. "You've kept score on me since the day we moved in. I want to win one thing."

"You win everything that counts!" It came out too loud. Ivy heard it after she said it. "Everybody likes you. You don't even try."

Sasha went very still. "...Ivy."

The doorbell rang.

"Prep Talk!" Sol beamed in the doorway, cooler bags on both shoulders. "Who's ready to feel amazing?"

"Did you change the recipes?" said Ivy.

"Chef," said Sasha. "Did you mess with my food?"

Sol put a hand on her heart. "Same recipe as always!" She set the bags down and backed out the door, and very quietly, as it closed, she added: "...since week three."

* * *

That night, two phones rang in Sol's kitchen within a minute of each other.

"Sol. It's me," said Ivy, in her room, with a pudding cup. "Don't tell Sasha I called. I yelled at her. I'm up three, two weeks running. If I lose this too..." She stopped. "Whatever you're doing to her meals."

"Chef. It's me," said Sasha, in hers. "Is she listening? No? Good." A pause. "'Everybody likes you.' Like that's a trophy. Just once, I want to watch her lose. Whatever you're doing to her meals."

At the same moment, on opposite sides of the same wall, they both said it.

"Double it."

Sol stood between her two phones with a spoon in the stockpot and didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she uncapped her marker, wrote DOUBLE under both names on the corkboard, and wrote PAID across the rent notice in big happy letters.

"...Prep Talk," she said, "is a full-service kitchen."

* * *

The week six weigh-in was a dressed one, because they had brunch at ten.

"Clothes weigh nothing, Spreadsheet," Sasha said, holding a cinnamon roll the size of her face.

The scale said 141.0.

"Hold on," Sasha said, sucking in. The button of her shorts strained like a held breath. "Hold on."

It let go with a POP and shot past Ivy's ear. Ivy flinched. "Sasha!"

A second later, just above the safety pin, a button on Ivy's blouse gave up with a quiet little ping.

Sasha looked at the gap. "...Dry cleaner?"

Ivy stepped on with one hand holding her blouse shut. "One. Three. Seven?"

They stood side by side at the bathroom mirror afterwards, each holding her clothes closed, and for once neither of them made a joke. Ivy, a hundred and thirty-seven pounds, up nine. Sasha, a hundred and forty-one, up sixteen. The mirror showed two women softer and rounder than the two who had made a bet on a laminated chart six weeks ago.

"...Huh," said Sasha, very softly.

"...Huh," said Ivy.

They shook hands over the sink like diplomats.

"No more cheat nights," said Ivy.

"No more cheat nights," said Sasha, while her free hand crept toward the cinnamon roll.

* * *

At two in the morning, Ivy stood at the fridge in her pajamas with a spoon in a container from the doubled delivery.

The door across the kitchen opened.

"...Cheat day?" said Ivy.

Sasha stood in the other doorway with a spoon already in her mouth. "Cheat day."

They ended up on the kitchen floor in the light of the open fridge, side by side, each with her own container, the chart glowing faintly above them like a scoreboard nobody was reading anymore. Sasha's label said 450 kcal, and in its tiny print, serves 6.

Ivy chewed, frowned, and looked into her container. "...This is fried."

"Nothing you'd enjoy, huh?" said Sasha sweetly. She scraped her spoon around the edge. "Same time tomorrow?"

"It's a plan, Reed."

They ate in companionable quiet for a while, each smiling into her own container, each absolutely sure she was the one who was winning.

"Six weeks left," Ivy said. "I'm still ahead."

"For now, Spreadsheet," said Sasha.

End of chapter one. Next: Double It.