Kaleidoscope

by Tracy Campbell

  “I could see that,” I mused. “But I bet if I had a sibling, it would make it easier to...”

  I faded off as anxiety seized my tongue. I hoped not to be too obvious in my sudden urge to flee the room as I swallowed the feeling back. “...to remember things from your childhood.”

  I hope I didn't say too much or sound too stupid, I thought. Anger stemmed inside of me. I was angry at myself and my inability to handle simple social situations, like this one, with someone I enjoyed talking to. I hated agonizing about every word I said and every action I made, hoping not to expose the flawed pieces that were an unwelcome part of me. I hated every gut-wrenching stab of anxiety, every shortened, inhaled breath as I grasped for solid ground again. I hated it all.

  And yet, the conversation went on as normal while I wrestled with my inner demons that remained, for now, invisible.

  “That's true,” Austin replied matter-of-factly. “I don't have the best memory, so I rely a lot on stories that I'm told by people who were there too. When they tell me, I can usually remember, but on my own I can be pretty useless in that department.”

  “Yeah...me too...”

  The handsome boy beside me looked outside the window before his eyes fixed on an item that made my heart stop.

  “What's this? Don't tell me you're a writer too!” He motioned towards the leather-bound journal that, in my whirlwind planning, I'd forgotten to stow away. It sat in plain view on my nightstand, where it always resided.

  I lurched forward. “No!”

  I reached for his arm with a firm but gentle grasp. Stopped briefly by the warmth of his skin radiating through his sweater, I hoped I hadn't broken some kind of boundary rule. But this was more important, and I didn't care at that moment.

  Austin looked down at my hand as it gripped his arm and slowly moved it away. He looked concerned more than frightened at my reaction, almost as if he were afraid he'd broken a rule, too.

  “I'm sorry, it's just...it's very personal,” I lamented, slowly releasing my hand and bringing it back into my lap. My mind was racing a million miles a minute as I tried my best to read his reactions to my outburst.

  “No, I'm sorry, I didn't know.” There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on forever. “I mean, I should have figured it was probably a diary of some kind. My sisters used to go nuts over that kind of thing when I was younger. It was actually pretty fun to mess with them about it.” He grinned.

  “It...it's fine. I just hope I didn't...scare you off or anything.”

  His captivating green eyes fixed on my own, looking serious. “Jade, it takes a lot more than that to scare me. I grew up in St. Louis.” He winked. “I just hope there's nothing bad about me in there!”

  I looked down and smiled. Was that a glimmer of hope in those eyes, something that wanted me to think about him enough to write in a secret, heartfelt diary? Perhaps I was imagining it.

  “No, no, nothing like that. It's uh...well, just some memory exercises I'm working on. They're very private to me.” It's about as honest as things were going to get, for now at least. I raised my eyebrow at him, scanning his well-structured face for any signs of judgement. There were none to be seen.

  “Memory exercises...sounds vague and interesting.”

  Austin sidled a little closer to me. His hand was close to my own, so close in fact that I could feel its heat on my fingertips. The feeling made me uncomfortable, but at the same time, it was refreshing and heightening in a way I don't recall ever feeling. His tan features were cloaked in a kind of gentle seriousness as he looked at me. I gave him my full attention, mesmerized by his gaze.

  “Hey, I want to tell you something,” he began. “I didn't always used to be as open as I am now...it took a lot of life experience to let myself be confident enough in who I am to not care so much what other people thought. The truth is, I used to care a lot. I've been knocked down my fair share of times, and for a while it made it really hard for me to trust people.”

  I could feel my eyes darken with suspicion for a moment before I pushed it away.

  “You seem to be a really interesting person Jade, but I wonder about you sometimes.”

  I hesitated. “You wonder about me?”

  “Well yeah...I mean, you're pretty quiet most of the time. You're kind of guarded.”

  I withered into a slump.

  “And I get that completely,” Austin went on, sensing my defeat. He looked down and ran his fingers over his slicked-back hair. “It's not my place to ask why, but I just wanted to say that I hope one of these days, I can earn your trust. I won't push it or anything, I just wanted to let you know. I see a good friend in you.”

  My face softened, and I looked away again. I felt ashamed. I felt an inexorable amount of self-loathing—this boy was one of very few friends I'd made over the past several years. He was so kind, and understanding, and his presence was a beautiful wave of calm that collapsed the calamity in my head when I spoke with him. And yet, here I was, so distrustful of him and his intentions that he caught on enough to actually say something to me about it. Why, why did I have to be like this? Somewhere inside of me, I felt enough crushing anguish to knock over a brick wall.

  But instead of experiencing it, the soothing numbness of my apathy bathed it in ice, stifling the pain that I would otherwise have to face, but leaving behind the disgust and anger with myself that took over my mind and body like a wildfire. I felt as though I was outside of my body watching it ignite from the inside, waiting for the dangerous backdraft that would pull me away for good.

  I inhaled slowly, pleading with the forces inside me to not eat me alive. After much deliberation I returned my gaze to him, swallowing the lump in my throat. My muted sense of emotion must have left my eyes dark and empty—not the sort of appearance that you would expect or hope for in response to being so forthright with someone, especially someone you were just getting to know. I did my best to hide it and to be honest...just be honest for once.

  “I...I hope for that too,” I said. And I meant it with everything in me. “You, uh...you've been great, and I'm glad you wanted to hang out with me today. I see a good friend in you too.”

  I wanted to babble apologies to him, beg for his forgiveness at being so broken, plead for him to not hate me because I couldn't help it and I was trying my best. Instead I simply said, “It's a work in progress.”

  I smiled hopefully, desperately wanting to move on to a different conversation, a different place...a different universe, if at all possible. Austin returned the smile and patted my hand. “It sure is,” he said. “Just like a painting.”

  “That's...actually a really good way to look at it.” I knew there had to be something special about him when I saw him on the bus for the first time.

  A sound from downstairs caught both of our attention; it was the front door opening, then whooshing closed as it sealed away the cold air outside. There were a few footsteps hitting hardwood floors, and then an airy, cheerful yell billowed up the staircase and flooded me with relief.

  “Jade, I'm home! Happy Halloween...did we get any kids this way yet?”

  I strode to the staircase and squatted down, peeking my head through the maple-colored railing that matched our floors. “Not yet...well, one. Sort of. My friend is here...do you want to meet him?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I set to work pan-searing the chicken and putting vegetables to boil, auto-piloting myself around the kitchen as I listened to my mother talk to Austin in that overly interested, interrogating, loving mother kind of way. Mom was so absorbed in her conversation with him that I'd all but taken over the cooking.

  “So, you're nineteen and a half, and you're working a job at the pub down on Bryant Street as a cook!” I heard her gush as the two sat at the dining room table behind me.

  “Yes Ms. Lauderdale...I've been there for about eight months now. I'd like to be a professional chef someday, maybe even own my own restaurant,” Austin replied. The conversation had so far remained
pleasant and lighthearted, much to my relief.

  “Oh please hon, you can just call me Allison. Or Allie for short, whatever you prefer. A man who can cook...now there's a dream come true!”

  I could feel her eyes burning into me as I toiled away on the task at hand. I refused to turn around lest she saw my face, flushed with embarrassment. Forget about my issues. If anything drives him off it'll be my Mom trying to get us married before New Year's.

  “You mean you don't work at like a retail store, or in accounting or anything like that?”

  Austin outright laughed at my question. “An accountant! I am an artist,” he declared. “Why would you think that?”

  “Oh, just...I mean, your hair, I've never seen it all...it looks nice,” I stammered. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him grinning at my attempt to compliment him. I shuffled to face back towards the stovetop, cursing myself inwardly for being so...ugh.

  “Well, I'm no chef, but I'm hoping dinner will be pretty tasty,” I continued, changing the subject. I flipped the browning chicken with a fork and stirred the broccoli and cauliflower in its skillet, soaking up the butter and spices.

  “Oh, I'm sure it'll be delightful,” Mom replied, “but of course, I'm just happy I don't have to cook!” She chuckled. “Maybe next time we can have this gentleman prepare a fine feast for us!”

  I rolled my eyes, ignoring her commentary, and set out to get plates. “Dinner is served. Rolls are in the oven, everyone serve yourselves.”

  Our meal, which received good feedback even from the budding chef in our midst, was peppered with decent conversation and got occasionally interrupted by a knock at the door as eager trick-or-treaters gallanted down the street. Some of the groups had a chaperone with them, who often looked as though they'd much rather be at home drinking, but most of them consisted of slightly older children between the ages of nine and thirteen. All three of us took turns opening the door for them until we'd finally finished our food and got the dishes in the sink. At that point, the responsibility fell on Austin and I alone.

  “I have a few numbers to crunch on the calculator before I relax for the evening,” Mom said casually, gliding off down the hallway towards her cave of solitude. “Why don't you guys pick a movie or something to watch off Pay per View?”

  I looked towards Austin uncertainly, awaiting his approval as the guest.

  “I could go for a spooky Halloween flick. It's the weekend, I have nothing going on tomorrow, and the more time I can spend away from my mom and sister on a Friday night, the better.”

  As I plopped on the sofa and scanned through the available movies for rent straight from the television, Austin continued his earlier detailed scrutiny of the pictures on the living room wall just beside the television set.

  “I'm guessing this one is you and your mom, right?”

  “You're relentless about those family photos, aren't you?”

  I slowly got up, unhappy about having to do so just as I'd gotten comfortable, but eager to please so Austin didn't become bored during his stay. I saw he was looking at a picture of my mom and I which appeared to be taken right before we moved. The kitchen in the background of the photo differed from the one behind me now, and I recognized it right away.

  It pulled on my heartstrings. Though I didn't remember when the picture was taken, I always felt a little homesick when I thought of our old home. Of the few things I could recall about my past, most of them were made in that house. Moving to a new place almost made it seem like those memories were gone forever, inaccessible and unimportant.

  I also noted that in the picture, I didn't appear to be very happy. The sadness in my eyes and in my blank expression was apparent and contrasted sharply with my mother's beaming face, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Judging by how old I looked, I guessed this picture must have been, indeed, only months or even weeks before we moved. I bet that was why Mom looked so jubilant--while I cherished my memories there, Mom had a lot of bad ones. Her memories of our old house were filled with stupid mistakes and bad people she'd met, including my father. She had left behind a burden, and I would leave behind everything I'd ever known. It fully explained my crestfallen expression.

  I looked from the picture to Austin. “It sure is. I'm guessing it was taken around the time we moved.”

  “You sure look kind of miserable in this picture,” Austin said, glancing between me and the picture for a comparison. I hoped the two versions weren't too similar right now. “How long ago did you move here?”

  “Oh, two or three years...somewhere in there,” I replied in what I hoped was a nonchalant fashion. “It's...hard for me to remember specifics.”

  “Oh, right, memory exercises,” he recalled, then placed the picture back on the wall.

  A steady barrage of costumed children at the door interrupted us, and Austin volunteered to cater to them. I resumed my seat on the couch, choosing the classic Nightmare on Elm Street from the Pay per View selections. The flashy and somewhat cheesy introduction graphics began just as Austin sat beside me on the sofa. He removed his sweatshirt as he did so to reveal the rest of his olive green shirt and a pair of toned, strong-looking arms. One of them, his right one, had a small tattoo on it that I couldn't quite see from where I sat.

  “Oh, you have a tattoo?” I inquired.

  “What? Oh, yeah! Sorry, I almost forget about it sometimes,” he said, rubbing his hand over the black design on the outside of his forearm. “I have a couple actually, but this was my first one. It's a nautical star...kind of cheesy now, but at the time it meant a lot to me. See?” He turned himself towards me, tucking his foot under one leg on the sofa as the other rested on the floor, and placed his arm in front of me.

  I was fascinated by the design: a simple two-toned, five-pointed star done in black ink that was about two or three inches tall. I'd never really seen a tattoo up close, and I definitely didn't have any myself. Being only seventeen, tattoos were still a bit of a taboo subject in the house—I bet if Mom knew about this, she would flip!

  “The guy went a little too deep, so you can kind of feel it raised up.” Austin looked up at me briefly, then guided my wrist to place my hand over the tattoo.

  The tingling feeling in the tip of my fingers, the one I'd felt before when his hand rested next to mine upstairs, travelled now through my hand, up my arm, and into the center of my body. My sense of touch was in hyperdrive. I could feel the energy radiating from his skin—not just the heat coming from him that told me I was touching another living person, but his actual energy. I know that sounds ridiculous, but there's no other way to explain the beautiful way that these electrons formed a gentle aura that reflected Austin's being. It was as if by actually touching him, I knew that Austin truly was a good person.

  He was right about the tattoo; I could feel parts of its outline under my fingertips as I ran them back and forth over the ink. I was transfixed by it, enveloped in his aura of energy. But, aware that it might be inappropriate for my touch to linger too long, I slowly withdrew my hand. For just a second, Austin's eyes revealed something I'd never seen before. They looked almost pleading, but the expression was so soft and fleeting that I almost thought I hadn't seen it. He replaced it with a soft smile.

  “And you have more? You're only nineteen, when did you get them and how many do you have?”

  “Well...like I said, this star was my first. I got it when I was...” he lifted his eyes for a moment and counted on his fingers. “Either fifteen or sixteen. My oldest sister Renee actually took me with her and her friends when they were getting theirs done, and they told the tattoo artist I was eighteen. He believed them because they were all older than that. He only ID'd one of the whole group!”

  I lifted my eyebrow skeptically. “And you still got it done from them? Sounds legitimate.”

  Austin laughed. “I know, I was young and dumb, and it was free to me because Renee paid for it. I just wanted to be cool like my sister.”

  “And...the others?”


  “Oh, the others I've all gotten more recently and paid for myself. There's only two more--”

  He rolled up his sleeve on the same arm, exposing a much more well-done image of an anatomical heart, emblazoned on his skin in red and black ink with striking realism. Black roots extended from the bottom of the heart and wrapped around the top of the star tattoo. The rest of a tall, thin tree trunk could be seen protruding from near the top of the heart before it extended again into a wide network of branches above.

  “That's beautiful,” I remarked. I had the urge to touch this one as well, but instead I simply drew close enough to see all of its beautiful details. The faint smell of a deep, rich-scented cologne wafted faintly to me.

  “Thanks! I designed this one myself,” Austin said with pride. “It's...well, I don't want this one to sound cheesy too, but the idea is that I'm rooted to the earth. My heart beats in time with the beat of the world. I'm part of it, and it's part of me.”

  I was mystified by his insight and the beauty with which he described his philosophy. “I can completely resonate with that,” I whispered. I was almost afraid of how much I identified with that very concept. “It's why I draw and paint so many nature-based things.”

  Austin nodded in understanding. “And my other tattoo,” he went on, “well...I can't show you that one.” He smirked, gesturing to his hips below where his pants rested on them. I flushed at the indication. “But, it says “Luceo non Uro”. It means 'I shine, not burn.'”

  “Those are very thoughtful,” I replied. “I've often thought about getting tattoos because I love art, but I just wouldn't know what I'd want on me forever. I'm so young still, and I'd like to think I have a whole life ahead of me to make experiences worthy of memorializing forever on my body.”

  “That's one way to look at it, and I kind of agree. For me, tattoos are like a scrapbook of my life, written on my skin instead of in a photo album. I might not like the same things forever—I probably won't actually—but I can wear them as a reminder of where I was at that point in my life, and then see how far I've come. Theoretically, of course.”