Blue

by L. E. DeLano

“You’ll have to get me in touch with his mother,” she says. “What’s his name again?”

  “Devon. And I already asked him. His mom doesn’t like selling stuff.”

  “Then I definitely need to talk to her, because what we do isn’t selling. It’s educating. It’s engaging.”

  I hold up a hand. “Save the sales pitch. You’re making me late.”

  “Blue, we need to talk.”

  I’m almost at the door. My hand is on the knob.

  “It’ll have to be later.”

  “After school, then.” She calls out.

  “Can’t. I have detention with Mrs. Ramsey.” I can’t believe I’m suddenly grateful to be saying that, but I am. I open the door but before I can make my escape, she walks up behind me.

  “I know you got a letter from Jack.”

  That freezes me in my tracks, and I slowly turn to see her holding the letter in her hand.

  “You went in my room?” I ask in disbelief.

  “I was looking for laundry,” she says with an innocent shrug that I don’t believe for one minute. “I recognized the handwriting, of course.”

  “On the letter? In my desk drawer? Which was closed?” I retort.

  She glances down at the letter. “Well? Are you going to write him back?”

  If I tell her no, it’s going to be a whole big thing. If I tell her she’s a nosey bitch, it will only get worse.

  “Why are you snooping in my room?” I demand.

  “You’re not handling things very well, right now!” She actually raises her voice, waving the letter in the air. “Secret boyfriends, fights at school, I have no idea what’s really going on in your life!”

  “No, you don’t!” I shout back.

  We stare at each other a long moment, both of us breathing hard from the spike in blood pressure. I don’t have the time or mental room for this discussion.

  “I’ll talk to Jack when I’m ready. I’m still thinking about what I want to say.”

  “Why don’t you start with ‘I was glad to hear from you and I miss you’?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Bl—”

  I shut the door before she can even finish my one syllable name. Snooping in my room! She was probably looking for signs that Devon and I were using her adult products on each other.

  My fuming gives way to a moment of panic as I start my car, wondering if maybe she had some specific way of stacking those adult products in that bin. Could she tell that we had been in there? I’m trying to figure out if I find that humorous or mortifying. Probably a little of both.

  Mom went for that letter because she knew that Jack had written to me because she told him to. I mean, she ordered him to call me, and when I wouldn’t pick up, she ordered him to write me, too.

  Why does she have to push so hard? Of course I miss Jack. I miss him a lot. I wish he was here so I could punch his stupid face. Repeatedly.

  And when I’m done with that, I’ll wait in fear to see what sort of horrible prank he plays on me in retaliation. He’d probably post a really ugly picture of me online or something—catch me sleeping with my mouth open, or video me dancing with Mojo.

  I smile a little bit at the memory. I was dancing Mojo around the room, bobbing up and down with the beat—badly, because I can’t dance. Jack startled me when he ran in screaming that he was recording me and I squeezed Mojo a little too hard. He ended up peeing on me. All of that caught on video, of course. Jack posted it right away. People were passing me in the hall school the next day making sniffing sounds, and asking me if I wanted to borrow some perfume or if I needed a puppy pad. It was really shitty of him.

  Good times—when that was the shittiest thing I had to deal with in a school day.

  As I drive to school, my mind keeps returning to Jack. I bet he’s wishing for a good old shitty school day too.

  I don’t have any friends here, and none of my friends back at home visit. I think they’re afraid for anyone to know they have contact with me. Like I’ve got a disease or something.

  I know things are awful for him, but that disease is contagious. They stare at me because they can’t stare at him right now. They stare at me because I share a building six and a half hours a day with the other girl who caught the same disease from him. And we’re all stuck in our respective lives.

  If only Jack hadn’t gone to that party. If only he hadn’t tried to drive home. If he had just been five minutes later on that damn road, or five minutes earlier. I can wish all I want for if but I know it’s useless. Jack knows it’s useless, too.

  After I punch his stupid face, I really want to hug him.

  21

  I'm still not in the best mood when Mrs. Linza tells us to pair up and rehearse talking about our chosen books with each other. She seems to think this will help with our presentations, giving us the practice of re-telling the story to someone.

  I pair up with Devon, and we push our desks to the back corner of the classroom. Like I said, I’m already in a bad mood. I really don’t want to do this. Luckily for me, Devon has his usual level of enthusiasm.

  “So it’s a book about a seagull?” I ask, letting my disinterest show. “He eats garbage off the boardwalk and craps all over people. It doesn’t sound terribly exciting to me.”

  Devon leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Jonathan Livingston Seagull is about the soul.”

  I look at him with dead eyes. “The soul of a seagull. A rat with wings.”

  “That’s the beauty of the story. Who would think for one second about trying to get inside the mind of a seagull? They eat, they poop, they sleep, and they reproduce. Basic animal functions—or bird functions. But this book?” He taps his finger on the cover of the book, sitting in front of him on the desk. “This book shows you what it means to fly. To really challenge yourself. To open yourself to all the possibilities in your life.”

  “As told by a seagull.”

  “As told about a seagull. Jonathan is no ordinary seagull. He wants to be more. So he pushes himself to get just the right angle on his wings, just the right curvature on the tips, pushing his limits to go just a little bit faster, just a little bit higher. He fails a lot before he accomplishes it, and even gets kicked out of his flock for being a non-conformist, but he becomes the best at flying. And then he gets even better than that. It goes all existential—I won’t spoil it for you, but it’s some deeply philosophical stuff.”

  “Carpe diem? Or the seagull equivalent?”

  “Exactly.” He thumps the book again. “Squeeze every single second out of your life. Toss aside all the stuff that’s bogging you down and holding you back. Push forward and fly higher.”

  I dictate out loud as I write in the notebook in front of me: “Should be preserved as the foundation of a new religion based on garbage-eating scavenger fowl.”

  He smiles at me. “Okay, I get that it sounds ridiculously life—affirming, but it really is a good book.”

  “You sound like you’re about to sell me a line of diet shakes.”

  I look over my shoulder, and Mrs. Linza is bent over a student, talking to them about their book. I dig in my backpack and pull out a paperback, setting it on my desk. “Speaking of that—”

  “Mindfulness Over Madness: Your Guide to Self-Realization Through Negation Release,” Devon reads. “This is your book?”

  “It’s one of my mom’s. I had to grab something. Should be easy to talk about.”

  His brow crinkles in surprise. “You don’t have a favorite book?”

  “I have a few,” I say defensively. “I’ve been so busy with school and work. I haven’t read a lot lately.”

  “There’s got to be at least one book you can think of,” he says.

  I feel my cheeks go slightly red. “I like to read romanc
e,” I say, dropping my voice down so nobody hears me. “Not like, all the time, just as an escape.”

  He reaches across and puts his hand over mine. “I don’t know why you’re embarrassed about that. Books are a great escape. You like to escape into love stories. That’s no less valid than escaping into a horror story or a sci-fi story, or a story about a seagull who wants to break the sound barrier before he poops out all the french fries he ate on the beach today.”

  “I’m not going to talk about a romance story.”

  He holds up his hands. “Just a thought. So tell me about Mindfulness over Madness. What makes it worth preserving after civilization falls?”

  “It’s going to enable me to step forward confidently into my best life,” I say, with faux fervency. “And if I can empower women to walk a mile in my patterned leggings before embracing their inner boss-babe-radiant-skinned warrior, maybe we can all share a spirulina shake and change the world.”

  He gives me an incredibly earnest look as he grabs his notebook and opens it. “I am intrigued by your premise, and would like to subscribe to your newsletter,” he says, placing his hand over his heart.

  “This brave new world will be our downline. Write that down.” I tap his notebook with my pen, and then I notice the drawing on the open page. It’s a woman’s face—I think. But in some weird, very colorful pattern.

  “That’s interesting. Is it for Graphic Arts?”

  “Nope, just for fun,” he says. “It’s your face but you probably don’t recognize it with the pattern. I borrowed the idea from one of those pairs of leggings.”

  “You gave me legging face?” I didn’t realize I said that so loud until Mrs. Linza’s head turns in our direction.

  “Blue? Devon?” She strolls over as Devon casually flips the notebook page and starts writing notes. “How’s it coming along?” she asks.

  “Good,” I lie. “Really good. I’m going to empower what’s left of our fallen civilization, and Devon is going to discuss the psychology of seagulls.”

  She glances down at our books. “Jonathan Livingston Seagull is a favorite of mine,” she says to him. He gives me a smug look, riding high on her validation. Then her gaze moves over to my book.

  “Looks like you’re interested in self-help,” she says. Her fingers reach out and rest lightly on my shoulder. “That’s a positive step for you, Blue.”

  And just like that, my lousy mood that had started to improve goes right back to lousy again. Everybody in the class is looking at me because they were all expecting her to come down on us for goofing off. Instead, she makes it sound like I’m badly in need of my mother’s crappy empowerment book. I want to throw it at her.

  “She didn’t mean anything by it,” Devon whispers after she moves away.

  “Sure she did,” I grumble. “I’m the psycho sister of the guy who drives around killing people, haven’t you heard? I punch teachers and suppress minorities and I need all the help I can get.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  I don’t bother to answer. The bell rings, so I cram my book into my backpack and walk out. Devon puts his hand on my arm when we get out into the hallway, stopping me.

  “I don’t see you like that.”

  “I know you don’t,” I say with a sigh. “See you at lunch.”

  I walk fast down the hallway, so he won’t notice me blinking back the tears. My nerves are on a ragged edge today, and the tiniest thing is going to push me over. I feel like everybody is staring at me. I feel like I’m a bad sister, and a bad girlfriend, because Devon is being his usual wonderful and supportive self, and I spent half the night last night wondering what sort of dark secrets he’s still keeping from me.

  It’s like I can’t even let myself be happy about the one good thing going in my life. Maybe I read romance because it’s as close as I’ll ever get to a happily ever after.

  Jules catches up with me just before third block. We’ve got an assembly today—Theatre Arts club is doing a showcase of songs from the upcoming spring musical. It also gives them a chance to advertise their Valentine’s Day fundraiser—singing telegrams.

  “I mean it,” Jules says. “I’m going to wear a red shirt and blend right in with all of them as they deliver their singing telegrams. Then I’m going to start screaming death metal in people’s faces.”

  “You are not right,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I can alternate between Maggot Dreams and Anal Anarchy,” she suggests.

  “I would pay cash money to see that.”

  “I know, right?”

  We slide into our seats in the auditorium, choosing the back so we can talk as the chorus takes the stage.

  “So—still together?”

  I turn my head to glare at Jules. She’s asked me that question every day since Devon and I got together.

  “Yes. Stop asking me that.”

  “Has he let you inside his secret abode?”

  “He’s Batman now?”

  “You tell me.” She looks at the performers on the stage. “I hate this song.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. But I hate it. Did you and Maya decide on a club?”

  “No. We didn’t get anywhere last time. Mrs. Ramsey had us discussing our hobbies, so we can find a shared passion,” I say with a good deal of disgust.

  “Don’t you already have one of those? Though what either one of you see in Austin I’ll never know. He always has sweat stains on his underarms.”

  “He plays football,” I remind her.

  “Every minute of the day? The boy’s never heard of antiperspirant?”

  “Well, now Maya and I have two things in common,” I say. “He’s her ex, too.”

  Jules turns her head to look at me. “Wait—they broke up?”

  “You didn’t know that?” For once I know something that Jules doesn’t know. This has to be a first.

  “Who told you?” She demands.

  “Maya did. She says he’s boring. And she’s right.”

  I guess I didn’t realize it before, because I didn’t have much to hold him up against. I haven’t had the greatest track record with boyfriends—until recently. I am never bored with Devon. Never.

  Jules’s entire face crinkles into one giant question mark. “Wait—you’re talking to Maya?”

  “Sort of,” I say uncomfortably. “I mean, not like we’re friends or anything. She just kind of mentioned it.”

  “When you were talking.” Jules is staring at me now.

  “She just made a comment, that’s all.”

  “So I guess the great afterschool detention experiment is working, then.” She looks at the stage again. “You know, I think I hate this song more.”

  “It’s bad.”

  “Her voice is totally wrong for it.”

  “Totally.”

  Jules slinks down in her seat and closes her eyes, clearly intending to nap through the rest of the assembly. I look around the auditorium, and see Maya talking to Haylee, sitting on the other side and a few rows ahead of me. I wonder how the weekend went. If her sisters had a good time at their party. I hope so.

  So yeah, the great afterschool detention experiment isn’t a total bust.

  Devon pushes his way down our row, and flops into the empty space on the other side of me. He leans in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek before he says:

  “Man, I love this song.”

  He takes my hand, threading our fingers together and I think to myself, maybe this year is looking up.

  Mood: officially improved.

  22

  "Mrs. Ramsey is ill today, girls,” Mrs. Logan says brusquely. “I have a parent meeting, so I won’t be able to step in for her. I’m afraid we’re going to have to reschedule today’s session.”

  “Great,” I grumble. “We get
to stretch it out even longer.”

  “Waste of time,” I hear Maya say as I’m walking toward the door. I don’t realize she’s following me until I get out to the far parking lot—the only spot I could find this morning because Jules overslept and made us late. Maya calls my name as I’m unlocking my door, and I jump because she’s right behind me.

  “Shit! You scared me.”

  She holds out a grocery bag. “Here,” she says.

  I take it from her, and a frown creases my brow as I look inside and see two of the goody bags that Devon and I put together for her party, as well as the extra pairs of leggings.

  “You didn’t have to give me back the leftovers,” I tell her. “If somebody didn’t show or whatever, your sisters can keep the stuff. How’d it go?”

  “These are my sister’s bags,” she bites out. “You left one of your mother’s business cards inside that inner pocket. My mom found it and had a total meltdown.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Oh my God. Maya—I’m sorry!”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Was this your way of getting back at me?” She demands. “Using me to slap my mother in the face? Was it fun for you to imagine her screaming at my sisters, throwing the bags up against the wall? Did you enjoy that?” Her fury makes her voice crack on that last question.

  “I didn’t—Maya, I didn’t know!” Dammit, why didn’t I check? Why didn’t I check the bags? I should’ve known Mom would do that!

  “My mother spent the rest of the night crying in her bedroom,” Maya snarls. “So thanks again for giving my sisters a really memorable birthday. You must be so proud—attacking me and hurting a couple of kids who never did anything to you.”

  “Maya, it was a mistake. I didn’t—”

  “Save it.” She throws her hand up dismissively and turns to walk away. I grab her shoulder and spin her around to face me. She knocks my hand away.

  “I was trying to help you,” I remind her. “I didn’t know my mother put her damn business card in there. I wouldn’t have done that on purpose! And while we’re at it, who are you to talk about attacking someone who never did anything to you?”

  “Don’t even go there! Your family screwed us all over hard, and you know it!”