Macey eyes me warily, but she doesn’t move away. “You need pie?”
I hug the bag to my chest. “You have no idea how much I need pie.”
For the longest time, Macey tugs at the cuffs of her hoodie while I clutch the grocery bag to my heart. At last she walks back to her kitchen, where she pulls something out of her backpack. “Then I need your help.” She holds up a T-shirt. “I went to the bake-off meeting, and the event organizers handed out these. They want us to wear them on the day of the bake-off, and …”
I take the shirt from her, my fingers wrapping around the short sleeves. “… and your scars will show.”
“… and that’s the only thing people will see.”
“So wear a long-sleeve shirt underneath.”
“They won’t let me.” Macy’s chalky face turns gray. “They’re taping the whole thing, and parts of it will be used during the televised national bake-off. They want us all to match.”
I don’t bother turning to Kennedy for answers, because we don’t need the ghost of a dead girl for this. “Like I said, Macey, everyone has scars, and some of us are just better than others at covering them up. After school today we’ll go buy makeup.”
Macey’s entire face contorts in a frown. “Are you suggesting I cover the scars? That I hide them? What happened to being true to you?”
“You’re not lying to yourself. You’re not pretending the scars don’t exist. You’re just being selective about who you show your true self to.”
Macey continues to roll the hoodie fabric around her hands. “Don’t you have a track meet today?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t start until four. We’ll have plenty of time for a makeup lesson at Bella’s.”
IF I BELIEVED IN A HIGHER BEING OR SOME GREATER force that determined my fate, I’d be pelting him or her with sharp objects.
Nova won’t go.
I sit on my scooter in the parking lot at Bella’s Discount Beauty Supply and crank the ignition switch again. Nothing. Dead battery? Dead carburetor? Dead something. I check my phone. The track meet begins in fifteen minutes. After getting makeup to hide her scars, Macey left Bella’s and went to the farmers’ market, and I’m supposed to be on my way to school. A city bus pulls up to the intersection a few doors down. Jamming my scooter key into my pocket, I dash to the corner. As I reach for the door, the bus belches and lurches forward.
“Come baaaaack.” I wave, but the driver chugs off in a plume of smoke. No time to swear. I take off my flip-flops and run.
I arrive at school sweaty and winded, a stitch cramping my right side. As I jog through the parking lot near the gym and sports fields, I notice all the cars. Today’s track meet is the qualifier before regionals.
After I change into my orange and yellow sporto outfit, I jog to the field and spot Coach Evil standing near the scoring table. “Sorry I’m late. I’m sorry, really, really sorry. My scooter died.”
“Later, Rebel.” Her hand swishes the air near my nose. “I’m reworking some numbers.”
“Where should I go?” I ask.
She shows me the palm of her hand, so I jog to where Pen’s standing with a group of Cupcakes. “Where do you want me? What should I do?”
Captain Pen’s bottom lip quivers, but she says nothing. One of the Cupcakes settles her hand on Pen’s shoulder. Another angles her body, as if protecting Pen from me.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
A Cupcake waves a hand at the judging table. “You got DQ’d.”
“DQ’d?”
“Disqualified.”
“You failed to show for your 3,200-meter race.” Pen’s voice is like cracked ice. “There’s no way we can get top seed going into regionals without those bracket points.”
Swear words fail me. “I’m so sorry.” Forget the Rebel nickname. Call me Sorry. “What can I do to make it up? Do you want me to run another event? I’ll even try the discus.”
“Leave, Rebel. We don’t need you.”
On the walk home from the track, I pass Bella’s Discount Beauty Supply. When I’d been there earlier in the day helping Macey find makeup to cover her scars, I hadn’t noticed the giant pink posters announcing 50-percent-off deals in the windows. I’m not a shopper, not the sort of girl who needs a little retail therapy when slammed with wrecking balls, but since I don’t smoke anymore, I need more hair dye. Nate needed prom. The track team needed promptness. And I failed to deliver. I screwed up because I don’t understand the rules in this world; I don’t fit in. From the moment I landed in Tierra del Rey, I had troubles fitting in, at school, in Uncle Bob’s family, on soccer teams. I told myself it was fine, because being me was “fine” and the wrong would come when I stopped being me. I figured if they didn’t like me, then I didn’t need them. I’d spent the past six years pushing people away. Now Nate had pushed me away, my mom’s family pushed me away, and the track team pushed me away. The other end of push-back hurts.
I buy three boxes of dye at Bella’s, Electric Blue #1111, a splash of color that screams I’m okay with different. I’m okay with being a trapezoid in a round hole. I am not Kennedy Green. I am Rebel Blue.
This is me. This is good. And why not spread the goodness? I almost laugh out loud. Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy. You’re still hanging on. I failed to help the track team today, but I can do something nice for a fashion diva who desperately wants blue hair and who is going to get it when school’s out next month because Nate promised to smooth the way with his parents. Nate the Great doesn’t fail.
Still in my tennis shoes and track outfit, I jog from the strip mall to Nate’s house. Nate’s oldest sister, the one who plays the violin, answers the door. “Nate’s gone.” She starts to close the door.
I wedge my shoulder into the doorway. “I’m here to see Gabby. Is she around?”
Nate’s sister raises her violin, as if warding off danger.
I show her the bag from Bella’s. “I have some hair stuff she wanted. That’s all.”
She taps her violin against her thigh and finally steps out of the doorway. “Gab, someone’s at the door for you.”
I wait in the entryway, the toe of my tennis shoe tracing the mosaic of colored tile. “Gabby,” I call out.
Something thuds at the back of the house. I follow the twisting maze of brightly colored rooms. Tia Mina’s at the kitchen table talking on the phone. Saint Boy sits at a desk playing a computer game featuring a talking tomato. I find Gabby in a back bathroom. She sits on the toilet, her head wrapped in a towel.
“Go away,” she says, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“What happened?” I lunge across the bathroom and squat before her, grasping her hands. “Are you okay?”
She yanks her hands from mine. “Go away.”
On the counter sits a gallon of bleach, the kind Aunt Evelyn stores in the laundry room, the kind used to get diapers snowy white. “You used this on your hair?”
A sob tumbles from her mouth.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve been doing this dye stuff for years. We can fix it.” I reach for the towel on her head. “Let’s—”
She twists from my grasp. The sudden motion loosens the towel, which falls to a puddle on the floor. Shock steals every word racing up my throat. Locks of frizzy orange hair hang down either side of her face. A chunk of hair is missing from the back of her skull. The top of her right ear is red and blistered. “Oh, Gabby, let me—”
“Piss off!” Her hands curl into tiny shaking knots of rage.
I need to get her to a calm place. I hang the towel on a hook and wink at her. “Don’t swear. It’s not attractive and will keep you out of heaven.”
Her cheeks flare with fiery red. “Go to hell!”
The words punch me in the gut, and I stumble backward. Gabby stands, pushes me out of the bathroom, and slams the door. The lock turns.
Something stands in the corner at the far end of the hall, but it’s not a statue of a saint. It’s Saint Boy. “I don’t think she wants you here,” N
ate’s youngest brother says.
Unwanted = Me.
I run from Nate’s house in a blur of pink shoes. Burly clouds rumble in the sky as a gray mist starts to fall, but I continue to run. My throat aches and lungs burn, as if I smoked a hundred cigarettes, but there’s no sweet peace or nicotine high.
When I reach the mudflats, I stop and catch my breath. Automatically I look for sea swallows. The mist has thickened into a fine drizzle, and the sky wraps about me like a heavy, sodden cloak. I squint through the gray but see no birds.
Where the hell are the birds? They should be here. They belong here.
Right here. Right now.
No, Kennedy, I can’t deal with you right now.
Settling my back against a fence post, I slide to the ground. Pasty mud sucks at my running shoes. I yank off the shoes and awful orange socks. The shoes weigh heavy in my hand, like a pair of discuses. The drizzle thickens, and a raindrop plops onto my head. Another smacks my big toe. Within seconds, water pours from the heavens. Even the polyester track outfit abandons the fight. The shiny fabric coats me like a second skin, and still I sit with the stupid shoes in my hand, shoes that failed to just show up.
Once again, I’ve proven I’m only good at being bad.
Maybe Pen’s right. Maybe I’m incapable of doing good.
No, I’m not going to give her that. I spent the past month doing small and not-so-small acts of goodness. I’m saving sea turtles and endangered birds, feeding the homeless, cleaning up beaches, starting a charity to supply children with art supplies, learning sign language to interpret for the deaf, and planting Red Rocket crepe myrtle trees.
“You see that, Pen? I’m good!”
But not when it comes to dealing with people.
I jump to my feet, and mud squishes through my toes. My hands curl around the shoes, crushing them. I spin and spin, winding up and gaining speed. At last I fling Pen’s shoes out of my life and stumble to a stop so I can watch the shoes sink into the ocean, but I don’t even get that satisfaction. The shoes smash into a stand of bushes, which scream and shiver and explode.
I cup my hands around my eyes, keeping the rain out and watching as birds, not leaves, fly from the bushes. There are dozens, maybe even a hundred, all with orange beaks. My heart stutters and takes off at the speed of fluttering wings. The sea swallows have finally arrived. A single thought rushes through my head: I wish Nate were here.
He’s not because you pushed him away.
Because he wanted to go to a stupid dance. I don’t need stuff like proms. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone.
But you need him.
Says who?
You. You needed him after that second detention, and you needed him to help with Gabby. Just like you need Macey and Percy and a family, you need Nate.
I jump to my feet and slip on a rock, scraping my heel. “Get out of my head!”
You want his arms wrapped around you, and you don’t want “temporary.”
“Get out of my head, Kennedy Green. You have no right to be there. You’re dead!” Tears well behind my eyes, and through the gray drizzle in my head I hear another voice.
I’m not Kennedy Green, you moron.
Boneless, I sink back to the mud. It’s not Kennedy’s voice. The last flutter of wings tapers off, and bits of gray fly back into the shrubs. A leaden pressure settles on my chest.
The voice is mine.
“You are so not normal,” I say with a choked laugh. Normal people don’t have conversations with themselves and dead girls. I press my fingertips into my eye sockets, rubbing until I see white and black splotches.
No, I’m not normal. I’m my mother’s daughter. I march to the beat of my own 275-piece marching band. I can pull off blue hair and bare feet.
I stare at my feet, slick with mud and tears from the sky because I don’t like shoes that pinch, shoes that bind, shoes that slow me down. That’s where all of this starts, with shoes.
I’m a barefoot girl in a world that wears shoes.
And a month ago, I was fine with that. Now, for the first time in my life, that thought crushes me.
I want to dance in Nate’s arms, I want to play on a team, I want to sit and eat dinner with a family. I want to belong, but the cold, hard truth is, no one wants me.
“Damn you, Kennedy!” I lift my face to the sky. “And damn your stupid list!”
AT SOME POINT, THE RAIN STOPS. THE CLOUDS split open, and a lance of light cuts through the gray. The light is bright, deeper than yellow: gold, a heavenly gold. My sobs give way to a creaky laugh that tumbles from a raw, gut-deep place.
“You don’t give up, do you, Kennedy? And you will continue to annoy the crap out of me, even from the grave.”
I pull myself upright and watch the golden light spill across the sky like an upended paint bucket. “Are you waiting for me to admit it, that you and I were destined to meet? That I was supposed to complete your list because something needed to be done? Or that I subconsciously was drawn to your list because it was full of things I desperately wanted?”
Kennedy doesn’t answer. Nor does the sky.
But I don’t need their answers, because the answers have always been in front of my face, written in twenty neat lines on a dead girl’s bucket list. Almost all of Kennedy Green’s bucket-list items deal with connecting with people: family, friends, even strangers. And I don’t need Macey’s shrink to tell me that my world was sorely lacking in those areas. What I don’t understand is how the list ended up in my life. Was something deep in my subconscious hard at work? Was I nudged by a higher being, force of nature, God, or a guardian angel? I have no idea.
There’s so much in this world I don’t understand, stuff that my little human mind will never understand. My face lifts toward the warmth of the sun. So much light. So much world. So much unknown. I’m a tiny speck wanting to be seen and heard.
But for now, I don’t need answers. Right now I need pie.
Macey’s mom takes one look at me and pulls me into the house. “How about a hot shower?” Her tone is light, conversational. She may as well have said How about a cup of chai tea?
I don’t argue. Something tells me she’s seen this type of thing before. Macey’s mom ushers me down a hall, and when Macey sticks her head out of a bedroom, she says, “Macey, dear, why don’t you get Rebel a warm pair of sweats and a hoodie?”
Hot water rushes over my skin, soothing waves of warmth. Macey’s soap smells of strawberries, and I welcome the sweet, clean scent. After I dry off and change, I find Macey in the kitchen, pulling a pie from the refrigerator.
I sit, and she hands me a fork. We don’t bother with plates. The tines of my fork break the flaky crust. Inside is a riot of purple and red. “Is it wrong to be mad at a dead girl?” I ask around a mouthful of triple-berry pie.
“Feelings aren’t right or wrong; they just are,” Macey says as she licks her fork.
“More pie therapy?”
“Nope. That came from an actual therapist.”
My fork plows through a quarter of the pie before I speak again. “So basically the world hates me, and it’s all Kennedy’s fault. Technically, it’s the list’s fault, but since she wrote the list, she shares the blame.” I explain my revelation that by chance or subconscious choice, I took on Kennedy’s bucket list because I needed people in my life. “It’s just a stupid list, right? Carbon on tree pulp. A series of letters and punctuation. But it slammed me. It made me realize how empty my life has been since my mom died. So now I realize I want a family, I want a boyfriend—hell, I even want to be a member of a team. But in the end, no one wants me, Macey. Do you know what it’s like to screw up so bad that no one wants to be around you?”
Macey runs the tines of her fork along a berry on the bottom of the pie plate. “It … uh … hurts.”
I grab another forkful of pie. “Exactly, and it hurts to realize over the past few days that I hurt others. I hurt Nate, my family, the track team, and even little Gabby. Ev
erything’s a mess. I’ve failed at everything.”
Macey shakes her head. “Not the bucket list.”
“Macey, haven’t you heard me? The bucket list is the root of all evil. It set me on this epic journey of failure.”
“But you haven’t failed the list. You’ve completed every item on the list you’ve tried, and as far as I know, you haven’t yet given up.”
I picture all the things I’ve done over the past month, from planting trees to learning sign language, and every day I completed a random act of kindness. She’s right. So I’m saved from complete failure by Kennedy Green. I’m too exhausted to laugh. “But my life is filled with so much broken.”
Crumbs line the pie plate when Macey finally speaks. “You can’t fix everything right away. Some things take time.”
“I know. Peaches.” I want to rest my head on my arms and never leave this table. “But there are some things that need to be fixed right now.” I stand. “Nova’s being attitudinal. Do you have any wheels?”
Macey borrows her mother’s car and drives me to Nate’s house. Nate the Younger opens the door. “Nate’s not here.”
“I’m not here to see Nate. This is for your mom or dad or whoever has to deal with Gabby’s hair.” I hand him a piece of paper with the name and phone number of the manager at Bella’s Discount Beauty Supply. She taught me how to dye my hair, and at one time she worked at the local beauty academy. “I told her about Gabby’s hair, and she said she can help.”
He takes the paper and closes the door.
Macey drops me off at the bungalow, and for a moment I seriously consider hiding out in the attic, but that would just delay the inevitable. Sooner or later I’ll have to face the nuclear fallout. I walk in and find Uncle Bob sitting at the kitchen table. I toss my bag at one of the brass hooks, but it falls to the floor with a sickening thud.
Uncle Bob flicks his wrist with an upward swing. “Bigger arc and a little more power next time.”
Goodbye, Rebel Blue Page 16