Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  I wipe the counter down and a sliver of lettuce sticks to my dishrag.

  Maybe I’m making it too complicated. It could be as simple as me going back to the cemetery on Saturday morning at the same time, assuming she makes a weekly pilgrimage to visit her deceased hubby. All I need to do is ask her where she got the drug and then go to the source. Surely the dealer has heard of me, and I don’t doubt my negotiation skills. Though paying for Faith’s tuition is the priority, I’ve been thinking about expanding my business anyway, so this might be the opportunity I need. People around here are getting sick of brick weed, and the harder stuff is too expensive and not my territory. As I’m running through possible scenarios and persuasion tactics, someone walks through the door of the sub shop. I look up and my heart stops.

  This girl isn’t from around here.

  I know that because I know every girl in D-Town, and they don’t look like this.

  Her eyes grass green, her face without makeup, her wavy blonde hair cut short to her chin. Plain white T-shirt that looks everything but plain on her. She’s got an air of simplicity, an aura of cool, calm, and strength.

  She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Like, so pretty it hurts.

  I nod at her, but play it cool, continue wiping down the counter, sneaking glances as she reads the menu above my head. There isn’t much up there, just turkey, roast beef, Italian mix, chicken salad, and tuna salad, because Ben feels that classic choices are the best policy, even though I know his business is going to tank by the year’s end. I make a prediction that she’ll order turkey with a lot of vegetables on it, because she looks like a girl who cares about nutrition.

  She’s taking a long time to decide.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” I say, finally taking the plunge.

  “What?” she asks, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She’s wearing green stud earrings that match her eyes. I wonder if she did that on purpose.

  “I read somewhere that it takes women longer to make a decision, but they’re more likely to stick by their decision in comparison to men.”

  “Is that true?” Her smile kills me. “Did you know that all human brains start out as female brains?”

  I step closer to the counter and stop cleaning. This new girl’s got game. “No shit.”

  “Yeah shit.” She nods, biting her lip. I get the urge to reach out and touch her face, and I’m sure I’d be able to swing it with a girl from around here, like Erica down the road who does my homework, or Diane who brings me lunch on most days. But this girl seems untouchable, so I’m going to have to earn this.

  “You’re new to Dammertown,” I say, laying down all the confidence I got. Shoulders back, head cocked, a bounce in me even though I’m not moving.

  “You must be old to it.”

  “Feels that way. So?”

  She sighs. I like the way her breath sounds, like it’s brand new to the world. I don’t want to look away, don’t want to miss a detail, but this is so unlike me to be nervous around chicks. Steady yourself, I think. You are Finn. You are you. Strong. Cool.

  “I moved here a week ago. I don’t like it,” she says.

  “I don’t think anyone does. Why did you move?”

  She hesitates. Part of her doesn’t want to share. I see this. She likes her privacy, and I’m okay with that. Did I mention that I’m an ace at reading people? But I really want to know; I want to know everything about her.

  “I’ve got family here and my dad wants a quieter life. New York City gets a little . . . distracting.”

  “Those are good reasons,” I say. She nods. I bore my eyes into her because I know that always has impact. I wait for her to giggle or ask me my name or make some awkward comment about the day or the tattoo that covers the underside of my forearm. It’s of a female cardinal in flight. I’ve always thought female cardinals were more beautiful than the males, because of their muted colors, those subtle tones of red, tan, and gray. I never pass up an opportunity to tell girls this.

  I’m priming myself to drop some knowledge at a moment’s notice: Female cardinals sing a longer and more complex melody than males. When cardinals are ready to get it on, the male finds food and feeds the female by putting the food into her mouth, which looks like they’re kissing. Males will defend their breeding territory so ferociously, they have been known to attack their reflection for hours, believing that it’s another intruding male.

  She pinches her lips together, still scanning the menu. She hasn’t looked at my scar once. “I guess I’ll go with the Italian mix sub. Extra cheese. Extra dressing.” She jams her hands into the pockets of her faded jean shorts.

  My shoulders slump a little at the lost opportunity to share some cardinal wisdom. “Is that your final decision?” I soften my voice—I’m practically crooning—and give her my trademark smile. Crooked, just enough teeth, distracts from my scar. It works. Every. Single. Time.

  “Yes,” she says, digging through her purse for money, not even giving me a glance. Is it my scar? Do I smell too much like cigarettes? I make her sandwich in silence, trying to come up with another strange fact to share to get her attention.

  At the cash register I hand over her wrapped-up sub, secured with masking tape, “IM” written on the top in my chicken scratch. I tell her the price; she gives me the money. Our fingers don’t even touch. The register dings open.

  “So, you’ll be at D-Town High?” I ask. My last chance.

  “I start on Monday.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.” She turns to leave, her hair swinging as she moves. I slam the register drawer closed a little too aggressively. She looks at me over her shoulder. “Do you know your brain generates so much energy in a day that it can power a lightbulb?”

  It takes all my effort to conceal my happiness over the fact that our conversation isn’t over. There are crumbs on the counter; I swipe them off with my hand so I’m doing something other than ogling.

  “How do you know?” I ask. I look at her but try to keep my face neutral.

  “I want to be a doctor.”

  Whoa. There isn’t any doubt in her voice. No hesitation. She walks out the door, the smoothness of her legs distracting, the disappointment of her leaving even more so. When the door shuts, I feel closed in, claustrophobic, and surprised at my missed opportunity. I didn’t even ask her name.

  Definitely not a girl who belongs in Dammertown.

  Definitely not a girl who belongs with me.

  Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s nine o’clock on that same night, and people are trickling in the front door. I land the perfect spot for my party: Taylor Kinn’s four-story suburban palace while her parents are out of town for the weekend. It’s in the nicest neighborhood in Dammertown, next to a sprawling golf course with a view of the Mohawk River. The neighbors aren’t too close, and there’s tons of land. Everyone at D-Town High wants to go. I got my pitch prepared to incite intrigue around the new drug, which involves the words miraculous, transcendent, and ethereal.

  Bryce, a friend from school, gets his older brother to buy the alcohol. Bryce is stoned twenty-four hours a day but is the friendliest guy you’ll ever meet. My best friend, Peter, has put together a thoughtful playlist of songs that induces ecstasy and staves off bad trips (trust me, he did the research): a mix of rap, hip-hop, and several chick tunes that are guaranteed to get a few guys laid.

  Peter is an important fixture at all my parties. Though he’s quiet and reserved, he puts off a vibe that makes people feel comfortable. He’s the perfect person to be around when you’re having a bad day. Takes the demons out of everything. He’s also been my buddy for years, more than years, we went to kindergarten together and bonded over finger painting and coloring books. It’s not often that you find a brother who isn’t blood.

  Several girls bring the party snacks, and a few others bring lava lamps, strobe lights, and someone m
anaged to scrounge up a disco ball, but Taylor won’t allow them to hang it on the dining room chandelier.

  “Finn, where should I put this?” Diane holds up a giant bowl of Cheez-Its. Her shirt rides up so high I can see her belly button ring sparkle in the dim blue light. I’ve been giving orders for the past hour. Put the dip on the coffee table, off center, to the left. What were you thinking with that lava lamp? Not on the floor, on the fireplace mantle. Start off the set with hip-hop and not rock, duh. As for Diane’s Cheez-Its, I gesture over to the dining room table overflowing with bottles of vodka, cheap beer and wine, rum, and Frangelico, which Peter must have brought, because he knows it’s Faith’s favorite. She’s not a huge party girl, but she’s been known to hit up a kegger or two.

  Taylor is sidling up to me. “Isn’t this great?” she asks, looking around at the pre-party spectacle, handing me a shot of who knows what. I down it in a gulp. Diane gives Taylor the evil eye as she sets down the bowl.

  “You know it. Thanks for offering up your house.” I run my fingers down a strand of Taylor’s brown hair; she covers her mouth as she giggles. Her face is kind of plain, but she’s got a banging body and that’s fine, because she doesn’t realize how cute she is. She pours some more shots, and we take them at the same time. She thinks it’s funny for some reason, our impeccable timing, so I laugh with her. My throat burns and the tension in my neck fades. Didn’t know it was there in the first place.

  “Hey, I was thinking—” I start to say to her, but Peter is suddenly next to me, nudging me in the side.

  “I’ve got something important to tell you.” He sounds eager, effervescent.

  He pulls me away from Taylor and pushes me into a corner. The music is loud, and the house is really starting to fill up. I’m feeling the body heat, smelling the warm beer. There are faces I don’t recognize, and it’s all turning somewhat blurry now. I shouldn’t have started drinking the moment I stepped inside. I’ve got an agenda to fulfill, and I should have started off by telling Peter about the new drug I stumbled upon. He’d be all over it; he’s helped me push weed before to make an extra buck. Like me, he comes from a family who isn’t exactly rolling in it.

  “What’s up?” I say, punching him in the shoulder. Peter doesn’t flinch but his glasses slide down his nose. He slides them back up.

  “I got into Ithaca College, man,” he says, beaming bright. “Full ride. Can you believe it? Full ride.”

  A second or two goes by, and then I nod with a big, no, huge smile. My reaction feels forced, and I feel like a jerk for faking it. But this isn’t Faith telling me she got accepted to Harvard. This is Peter, my bro for life. I’d thought we’d stick around D-Town and rule it to the end. I guess now isn’t the time to strike up a conversation about drug dealing when Peter’s got the dean’s list and summa cum laude twinkling in his eyes.

  “Well look at you. Big man on campus. Maybe you’ll finally lose your virginity,” I say.

  “Dick.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it, like, I’m kind of freaking out right now. I haven’t told my parents, I haven’t told anyone, except for you.”

  I punch him in the shoulder again. My force is a bit too hard but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “That’s great,” I say again, trying to put as much enthusiasm as I can into my voice. “That’s really great. I’m proud of you. Little Peter. Going into the big scary world. Being smart and shit.”

  Someone has turned on the strobe light and it’s going a million miles a minute. I feel dizzy. Why did they even bring it? I lean against the wall to balance myself.

  Peter continues, “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly sure what I want to study. You can claim your major at the beginning, or you can do an exploratory curriculum. I think I’m going with exploratory because I want to try out some different things.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a psychiatrist,” I say without looking at him—his excitement is overwhelming, maybe a little annoying. Two of my friends walk in—he waves and she blows me a kiss. I give them a quick nod. They make a beeline to the drinks table where Taylor is playing bartender, spilling cranberry juice and vodka everywhere. How rude would it be to ditch Peter right this second and join them?

  “I did. I mean I do. I just want to leave my options open.” Peter takes a sip from his red cup.

  I just can’t do any more cheerleading at this point, so I raise my own cup to him. I attempt to steady my hand. I wonder if he’s picking up on my sourness toward him, toward the whole situation. We’re boxed in by a group of girls who are screaming at each other. What do you want to drink? Rum and Coke. What? Rum and Coke. What? You want me to what? An eruption of laughter.

  And then it comes, the question I knew he would inevitably ask. “What about you?” Peter says. “It’s not too late to apply. You’re too smart to not go. Imagine all the chicks you’ll meet.”

  “Why are you up my ass about this?” I snap. I should have left him and joined Taylor. Parties aren’t meant to be venues to discuss career paths; they are meant as a means to forget about them, to forget about the rules and the five-year plans, Christ, shoot me in the head.

  Peter looks hurt. “I’m not trying to insult you, Finn. And I don’t want to tell you what to do. I’ve just always thought that you’d see Faith doing awesome and want some awesomeness for yourself.”

  “Awesomeness? Shit, I’m telling you, brother, you’ll be impressed with what I’ve got cooking right now. Once I tell you, you’re going to be begging for a piece—”

  “Honestly, I don’t want to know,” he interrupts. “I’ve been hearing about your plans most of my life. Can this wait?” He’s looking around him, probably hoping to see a glimpse of Faith. I’m insulted—I know I’ve had my pipe dreams, but this one is legit. Now I get the brush-off? The holier-than-thou?

  “Finn, I’m sorry, I just—” He tries to put his hand on my shoulder but I flinch back.

  “You just what? You just want to celebrate your victory? I won’t stop you.” I say. That’s my cue to walk the hell away. He’s calling my name, but I can tell his heart isn’t in it. Where did you take Peter, you college-bound prick?

  Taylor is on top of the table, gyrating, hiking her skirt up to display pale yellow, lacy underwear. She’s putting on quite the show, about five guys are gawking at her, yelling out stuff I don’t want to repeat, gulping down warm beer with sly looks and slutty poses.

  What right do Peter and Faith have to judge me? I’m not like them. I don’t make choices like them. I never have. I’m in a mood, and though I’m not sure what kind, it’s diving straight through me like a deep sea creature, squirming, never adjusting to the pressure, just moving deeper and deeper. Someone hands me a cup, don’t know who, don’t care, and I slug it down like it’s nothing, and there it is, the burn that overrides my venomous mood. Taylor calls down to me.

  “Finn, come up here and dance. I know you want to.” Her fingers are beckoning me, long skinny fingers that pull at me as if she’s got a string around my waist. Pull. Pulling. Dragging. That’s quite a string, and I climb up on the table and sling my arm around her. She screams like she’s at a concert and raises her cup in the air, eliciting yelps and whistles. A blue light on the floor goes around and around, not unlike a police light, just a little slower, enough to balance out the spins I have from drinking. Taylor is blue then dark, blue then dark, and her short hair tickles my neck as she slides up and down against me. Thank God for not a lot of light, because I’m getting turned on and to make matters worse, she starts biting my lips, so I grab her with my mouth, and then it’s tongues from here on out. The music pumps into us, loud, the type of thumping that makes your brain throb. The light swoops and the whole room is filled to the brim, hands up in the air, the beer stench strong, Taylor’s saliva running down my throat.

  -----

  We’re in a bathroom. The tile is cold against my bare feet. I’m not sure where my socks went. Taylor has her head bowed over a spoon, heating up t
he underside with a pink lighter, her hair rounded against the curve of her jaw. She’s in just her pale yellow underwear and matching bra. I can’t exactly remember how we got here and why there’s no light except for a few candles that flicker and smell like cinnamon. After the syringe is full, Taylor takes a skinny belt, rhinestone-studded, from a drawer under the sink and cinches it tight around her arm. The vein swells almost instantly and it’s grossly sexual, it grossly makes me want to put my mouth on her skin. There’s so much concentration, focus behind the pin prick. The pushing down goes on forever. I shouldn’t be here. Get out, Finn, get out now. Her grin is wide, mischievous, and then it loosens and melts into ecstasy. She tells me it’s my turn.

  -----

  I’m being dragged onto the dance floor, my feet still sockless, and now my shirt is gone. It seems like all of D-Town High is jammed into this room, a room that’s without pain and so high, it’s soaring up, up, up and I’ve forgotten about my agenda, I’ve forgotten the drama, everything is all right, it’s good. Man, it’s good. I want to tell Peter this. I want to pull him close and say that we’re cool and that I’ve got nothing but love for him. Where’s Faith? I want to tell her this too, I want to say, sister, I’m so proud of you, so you be you and let me be me. It’s settled. We bounce. We crack up. We roar.

  -----

  Taylor is curled on top of me, grazing her teeth along my jaw (the side without the scar), telling me that she’s been waiting for this for a while. Posters on the wall. A Monet print, one I don’t recognize. Andy Warhol’s banana. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling; there’s the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt. My belt is gone. My pants are gone. I strain my neck up so she can have more of it. Can’t keep my eyes off those stars. Her sheets are rough against my skin, sheets that have been overused and overwashed. Taylor is naked, and she tells me it’s okay because she’s on the pill.