Sparks

by S. J. Adams

  “Well, no,” said Emma. “You have to pay, like, two grand to learn that stuff.”

  “What’s transcendental meditation?” I asked.

  “It’s this meditation technique the Beatles went to India to learn,” said Tim. “But they all left really early on. One of them decided the Maharishi guy who ran it was full of shit.”

  “John,” said Emma. “It was John.”

  “Is that the same guy who runs the Maharishi Vedic University out in Fairfield?”

  “That’s him,” said Emma. “Or it was, before he died. There are still people who swear by Transcendental Meditation.”

  “Yeah,” said Tim. “People gamble a fortune on it. Who’s going to want to admit they threw that much money away? It’s how Scientology works, too.”

  “That’s why I keep my prices low,” said Emma. “Five bucks for salvation, and it’s guaranteed to offer a blissful afterlife or triple your money back.”

  “Even if the people go to Nebraska when they die?” I asked.

  Emma shrugged. “Even those people probably end up some place near the Omaha Family Fun Center. That place rocks.”

  “Heh,” said Tim. “Welcome to eternal damnation. Enjoy the Skee-Ball!”

  “Yes!” Emma laughed. “You can get into heaven if you win enough tickets!”

  “Can’t you do some other kinds of meditation for free?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Emma. “Meditation is just breathing and relaxing. All you do is sit up straight, breathe deeply in and out, and focus on your breaths.”

  “Am I supposed to say ‘ommm’ or something?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” said Emma. “But it’s not, like, a requirement.”

  “You can shout out a few more swear words, if that’ll relax you,” said Tim.

  I didn’t want to scream anymore. Frankly, I just don’t like loud noises very much, even if they’re coming from me. It had stopped a major panic attack, but I preferred to calm myself down doing something quieter, if possible.

  I straightened up against the car seat and tried to focus on my breathing. It didn’t give me instant bliss or relaxation or whatever was supposed to happen, but it did calm me down a little, I guess. Maybe slightly more than counting to twenty-five. But I associated counting with stress so much by then that it was totally useless as anything other than a signal-jammer.

  And this “covering my thoughts in case mind readers were present” shit was a habit I needed to break.

  By the time we finally made it off of Cedar, I at least wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.

  I scooped another cheeseburger out of the Burger Box bag and nodded. “Think these are still okay to eat?”

  “Go for it,” said Tim.

  “I already had two,” I said.

  “Gluttony isn’t one of our seven deadly sins,” said Emma. “I mean, look at me!”

  Tim sighed. “You look fine,” he said. “You still need to eat one, come to think of it.”

  She sighed and patted him on the knee. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll have half of one for now.”

  “That’s a start.”

  She took a bite at the first stop sign, and Tim and I both breathed a sigh of relief.

  We drove into the Triangle, the part of old downtown formed by Venture, 72nd, and Douglas Avenue, which is the diagonal street that forms the hypotenuse. The local hipster kids loved this area, but I didn’t. It was like everything else in my neighborhood—small, cramped, and old. I liked big, spacious shopping centers with brighter lights and fresher paint.

  Emma found a parking place—which was no small task, because another stupid thing about the old downtown is that none of the places have parking lots—and we walked up to Earthways, the little hippie store next to Sip Coffee.

  “What do they sell in this place, anyway?” I asked. “I’ve never been inside it.”

  “Hippie stuff,” said Emma. “Incense, aromatherapy oils, candles shaped like wizards.”

  “We buy a lot of incense to cover the smell in the car,” said Tim.

  “Let’s pick some up, then,” I said. “I’ll borrow some money from my mom if she’s here.”

  Earthways was dimly lit on the inside, and had this strong vanilla musk scent hanging in the air. There was some slow flute music playing, along with some forest sounds—chirping birds, a babbling brook, and things like that. I don’t know why forest sounds relax some people so much. They always make me feel like I’m about to be eaten alive by mosquitoes.

  Most of the store really was made up of tables full of incense sticks, crystals, candles shaped like wizards, and stuff like that, and little gold Buddhas on springs. I guessed this was where they got the one that they’d painted blue.

  There was also some crazy artwork on the wall, along with some stuff that I guess was the New Age equivalent of that “footprints” poster they always have at Christian bookstores. Behind the counter was a whole corkboard full of bumper stickers that said stuff like Question Authority, Why Be Normal? and Minds Are Like Parachutes: They Have To Be Open!

  Up at the front of the room was a group of women sitting in a semicircle, cross-legged, in tight-fitting clothes like leotards and sports bras. There was a woman standing behind them, leading them in some sort of breathing exercise and raising her arms up toward the ceiling.

  In the center of the group sat my mother, who was being wrapped up from the neck down in some sort of scarf while a couple of other women waved palm branches above her.

  “That’s her,” I said. “The one who’s all wrapped up.”

  I was about ninety percent sure that it would turn out that Emma and my mom were old friends, but Emma didn’t seem to recognize her.

  “What in the heck are they doing?” Emma asked.

  “It’s probably something to get ‘centered’ or whatever,” I said. “Either that or they’re making her into a mummy.”

  “I’m gonna say mummy,” said Emma. “I hope they don’t yank her brain out through her nose, like they used to do in Egypt.”

  “Or grind her up and make her into paint,” said Tim.

  I walked up toward the group and said “Hey, Mom,” as politely as I could.

  Mom opened her eyes. “Debbie!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to borrow your spare keys and a couple of bucks,” I said. “If that’s okay.”

  The group leader stepped up toward me. “She’s a bit busy at the moment,” she said. “Can you give her a minute or two? This is a very complicated exercise.”

  “I’ll be there soon, Debbie,” said Mom.

  I sort of wished they would pull her brain out through her nose and grind her into paint.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my mom and all. I definitely wouldn’t want her to spend eternity getting tortured by guys with goatees and pitchforks. But the woman drives me insane. If Emma had asked me to get wrapped up in a scarf while she waved a leaf at me, I would have walked away right there. Mom, obviously, didn’t have that much sense.

  Emma and I stepped away to wait for them to unwrap my mother. Obviously, until we did, she wouldn’t be quite mobile enough to get me anything. We wandered down an aisle full of incense, oils, candles, and other shit that was supposed to smell good.

  “What sort of smell relaxes you?” Emma whispered to me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought about it.”

  “Try this one,” she said, holding a stick in front of me. “It’s called ‘morning rain.’”

  I smelled it.

  “Eh,” I said. “It makes feel like I need to go make sure my car windows are rolled up.”

  “Noted,” said Emma, putting it back. “How about this one? Nag Champa.”

  I took a whiff of that one—it sort of smelled li
ke the store smelled, only without the vanilla.

  “I guess that’s okay,” I said.

  Emma smiled and picked up a few sticks.

  Finally, the women in class stood up and started to stretch. They unwrapped my mom, and she got to her feet and shook her head around.

  “Oh, wow!” she said. “That was wonderful!”

  She hugged one of the women who had wrapped her up, then noticed me standing off to the side. I honestly think she had been so focused on being centered or whatever that she’d forgotten I was there. She seemed surprised to see me all over again.

  “Debbie!” she said. “I sure didn’t expect to see you here!”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “And who’re your friends?”

  “This is Emma Wolf and Tim Sanders.” I said. “Emma, Tim, this is my mom, Barbara.”

  “Do you two come here often?” my mother asked.

  “From time to time,” said Emma. “To stock up on supplies and stuff.”

  “Do you ever take any of the classes?” asked Mom.

  “Not really,” said Emma. “By the end of school, I’ve had enough of classes for one day.”

  “Oh, but these are so much better than school classes!” said Mom. “You can let chemists take care of the chemistry for you, but you have to take care of your own chakras, you know.”

  “Totally,” said Emma.

  I made a mental note of that for when I had to get my chemistry progress report signed.

  “I’ve always wanted Debbie to take some classes here,” said Mom. “I’ve always thought that she had some innate psychic ability that she just needs to develop. But she doesn’t seem interested, and I try never to interfere with spiritual paths.”

  I decided that I had to keep talking, and not let Emma get a word in edgewise. In spite of my own tendency to shirk off anything that smelled like religion, I really was sort of getting a kick out of the whole Church of Blue thing. It was a neat way of looking at the world. But if Emma mentioned it to my mom, Mom might want to join up. If I was going to start doing holy quests with Emma, I wanted it to be my thing. Not another one of hers.

  “I was actually thinking about learning transcendental meditation,” I lied.

  “You know,” said Mom, “I’ve never tried that, because it costs so much, but maybe we can get a mother-daughter group rate. I know that there’s a retreat this summer in Fairfield. We can go together!”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Emma, what’s your path?” asked Mom.

  “Mom, that’s not polite!” I hissed. But Emma

  ignored me.

  “I forge my own,” said Emma, confidently.

  “Those can be the best paths of all, can’t they?” said Mom, as my chest began to tighten. “But you should really have some sort of spiritual guide for your journey. It makes the whole thing much easier. I tried to make my own a few times, and it just falls apart after a while.”

  I quietly breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It’s been smooth sailing for us so far,” said Emma, defensively.

  Mom looked at Emma, then reached out and put her palms on Emma’s cheeks. “You have an old soul, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I think it’s aging pretty well,” said Emma.

  “She got an old one because they’re cheaper used,” said Tim.

  Mom laughed and put her hands back at her sides.

  “Listen, Mom, I need to borrow my car keys from you,” I said. “I left mine in Lisa’s car this morning.”

  “Sure,” said Mom. “I’ll just go get my purse.”

  “And can I borrow some cash for incense?” I asked.

  “Sure!”

  Just then, the woman in the leotard running the class called out, “All right, ladies, let’s reform the circle.”

  “Can you give me ten minutes?” asked Mom. “We have one more exercise to do, then I’ll dig my purse out. I’ll be off-center all weekend if I don’t finish up!”

  I sighed. “Whatever.”

  Ten minutes wouldn’t kill me. The movie probably hadn’t even started yet, and Norman probably wouldn’t actually try anything for at least the first half hour of the movie. I mean, you have to build up to going past first base, don’t you?

  But I was getting more nervous with every passing minute.

  Mom went back to the class area, and Emma, Tim and I started to wander around, looking at all of the New Agey stuff on the shelves. Most of it looked pretty silly to me. Having a candle shaped like a wizard would make me feel like I was some sort of stoner or something. The rune-stone things didn’t seem all that sensible to me, and I’ve never understood why people think crystals have magic powers. They’re just shiny rocks, aren’t they?

  But as I looked around, I thought more about the whole Church of Blue thing. I guess I should have realized it wouldn’t be for Mom, since there was no old Indian guy making money off of it, like most of the other “paths” she went through.

  And if it wasn’t for her, that meant that it could be for me. I’d never really had a religion that I really felt like I was a part of before.

  Going by the idea that there was a “spark” of some kind of magic inside of us all, and thinking of my trip to find my backpack, and Lisa, as a “holy quest,” was sort of working, after all. I’d done things I never would have dreamed of doing before.

  And I liked the idea of telling people I was Bluish. Thinking of myself as Debbie Woodlawn, the Bluist, made me feel a bit stronger, more like I had a purpose, than being Debbie Woodlawn, the weirdo who pretended to be a Methodist to pick up chicks.

  Maybe I hadn’t actually been agnostic or an atheist or whatever—I’d just been, like, a blank slate. I didn’t want to say anything to Emma, at least not yet, but that was the first moment that I started to think of myself as Bluish.

  Meanwhile, the women in the circle were making weird noises and waving their arms.

  “What in the hell are they doing?” asked Tim.

  “I don’t know,” said Emma, “but ten bucks says it’s not as spiritually fulfilling as sneaking onto the top floor of 801 Grand.”

  “Or getting George Washington’s autograph,” I said.

  Emma smiled. “Or how putting my bare butt on the governor’s window is gonna be.”

  “You know the governor’s apartment is actually the third floor, right?” I said. “You’d have to do some real climbing to actually get his window.”

  “Blue will provide.”

  Then I looked up and saw that there was this piece of art on the wall made from carved sandstone. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it when we first came in; the thing was absolutely gorgeous. It was mostly a bunch of squiggles and circles and lines and stuff, but I was sure that it was supposed to represent the creation of the world. I don’t know how I knew that. It was just … instinct. At a casual look, the thing seemed like just a slab of sandstone with some carvings on it, but there was something else about it. Some sort of spark.

  Maybe it was the same sort of thing Emma was saying the Beatles had. A Spark of Blue. And something about it had drawn me in so far that I felt like I was inside of it, a part of it. I’d never felt like that about a work of art before. Now I couldn’t look away.

  “What is that?” I asked. “That sandstone thing?”

  “I think it’s Navajo,” said Emma. “Or Olmec or something. Or someone pretending to be one of those.”

  Tim looked at the little information card next to it. “It was made by six artisans in New Mexico. It’s supposed to represent the creation of the world.”

  “Duh,” I said.

  I absolutely couldn’t imagine how it could be anything other than the creation of the world. It seemed like anyone could look at it and see that.

  “You
ever read any of those creation myths where the creator poops the world out?” asked Tim.

  “A couple,” said Emma.

  “Shh,” I said. This was no time to talk about poop. I wanted to focus on the carving.

  I don’t think I could possibly say what it was about that slab of rock that sucked me in so hard, but it’s like I had just taken a break from all of my senses. Maybe it was a combination of the art and all of the incense and stuff in the room, but I suddenly felt like everything in the world was different, like the world had been re-created just for me.

  I could hear music that I didn’t think was playing when we came in. They must have turned on the stereo in the store, but it seemed to have come out of nowhere.

  Earlier that day, the world had looked different when I emerged from the bathroom into fifth period, but now I knew I’d just been peeking through a crack in a door then. And now it was suddenly wide open.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “The people who made it must have been like the Beatles. It must have been six people who just worked together in that way that makes you bigger than the sum of your parts.”

  I started taking a few steps backward, so I could see the whole carving at once. I was in such a daze that I never even stopped to think that there wasn’t really room to step backward in the aisle. I certainly didn’t realize that there was a huge crystal ball-type thing right behind me.

  I didn’t even realize that I’d backed right into it and knocked it off the shelf until I heard the shattering sound.

  I turned to see a whole bunch of little pieces of glass on the floor—apparently, it had been a crystal ball. One made out of glass, not crystal.

  “Oh, shit!” I said.

  “Bolt!” said Emma. And she grabbed me by the arm and started running. I was still in such a daze, mixed with the shock of hearing the crash, that at first I just stood there even as she pulled at my arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Tim was already out the door. Emma pulled so hard that I had to move to keep from being swept onto the floor.

  The tug sort of brought me back to reality. I’d just broken a crystal ball, one that probably cost a fortune. Way more than I could afford, anyway.

  I ran with Emma to her car, where Tim was already waiting.