Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  She shimmies her hips slightly, and her smile is a spotlight in the room. “My number one guy.” Mike winks at her and shoos her along; her slippers scuff against the floor as she leaves.

  Now that I can pay attention to my surroundings, I’m struck by the state-of-the-art stove, stainless steel appliances, the granite countertops. The cabinets are a dusty blue and antiqued to achieve that shabby chic look girls always talk about. I guess I see where Mike’s money goes—in here and straight to his stomach.

  “Nice kitchen,” I say.

  Mike looks around, surveying his kingdom. “Yeah, it’s special to me. Put in the cabinets myself.”

  Luck must be on my side, because I’ve never seen Mike this chipper before. Got to be partly because of his engagement to Victoria . . . now that I’m thinking about it, she does have a nice appeal to her, she seems to be a decent person, good vibes, what have you, someone you wouldn’t mind shooting the breeze with on a park bench. Nelson opens the refrigerator and grabs himself a beer, cracks it open on the edge of the counter. Oh, big mistake, buddy. Mike dagger-eyes him hard. Nelson raises his hands apologetically.

  “Sit,” Mike orders me, pointing to the huge oak kitchen table. It’d probably take up half the space in our trailer. When Mike settles into his chair, he says, speak, so I start telling him a fabricated story about how I found the drug at some party in Dammertown Heights, took a hit of it, and had an experience so real, so supernatural, that I’m a changed man.

  “Is that right? A changed man? How do you know it’s not acid?” Mike’s lips twitch, and by that I know that I don’t have much time with my sales pitch. As it stands right now, he’s not kicking my ass because I’m entertaining his. But who knows how long that will last.

  “This isn’t acid,” I say, shaking my head. “When I came out of it, I have never felt happier in my entire life. No withdrawal, just peace.”

  I let the story tell itself. I let it all out with conviction, describing every smell and sound, every sight and touch, and how content I was, how I reached a true state of nirvana. I really go crazy with some high-level Buddhist monk shit, motioning toward his Buddha statue in the living room, hoping that I’m not laying it on too thick. But I go on about it, in true Finn fashion, saying I wanted nothing more in that moment, nothing less. I go as far as telling him about the pine smell on my hands.

  He cuts me off. “Why the fuck do I care?”

  I’m not expecting this. I’m liking the weight of the knife around my calf right about now. “We could make a killing,” I say. “I just wish I knew who was dealing it.”

  “We. I’ve never liked the sound of ‘we.’ Even if I knew, why would I tell you? If I knew, I could make a killing all by myself.”

  “You supply, I push. Our usual arrangement. If this stuff is organic, which I’m betting it is, you could learn how to grow it, green thumb you are. Plus, I know your crop isn’t doing so swell this year. The potential is astronomical, and people are already champing at the bit for it—I’m telling you.”

  There’s a woven place mat on the table, and he’s tracing his finger along the edges of it contemplatively, though it’s hard for me to decipher if he’s considering my offer or if he’s deciding the best way to beat me up.

  “How about you try this miracle drug, then you can see for yourself.”

  Mike doesn’t say anything, he just looks deep in thought.

  I continue, to fill the silence. “With your connections—and mine—I have no doubt we can track this down and start making ourselves some sick dough. All of New York State is looking for something new to drop—”

  Bam. Fist against the table, rattling the glass in the cabinets. Mike appears pleased that I recoil. I swear, it was like, the tiniest bit, but my nerves, man, they’re not the soldiers they used to be. I don’t want to admit that it might be me overusing, amping me up, turning me into a rubber band about to snap.

  “Shut up, kid. What do you say, Nelson? Should I try this shit or what?” His hand is still in a fist, and he’s looking at me instead of Nelson.

  “I think you should,” Nelson says, nodding, taking a pull from his beer.

  “We both try it,” Mike says. “Me and Flynn over here.”

  “Finn,” I say automatically but with no real power behind it. Mike waves me away. I shift my weight in his antique wooden chair, sweating a little, not knowing where this is going to go. Sometimes I shoot before I aim, and I don’t want to admit that this could be one of those situations. From one of the hand-built cabinet drawers, Mike takes out a coke spoon and shoves it in my face. It’s rusty, cool, and heavier than I would have expected.

  “You first,” he says.

  “It’s all about you, my man,” I say.

  He shakes his head, smiling slyly. “No, no, no, you’re not seeing how this works. You, then me. You’re in my house, and you’re going by my rules.” He places his wide palm over his broad chest.

  Something tells me I very well might end up dead in a ditch, but this is the risk I’m willing to take. Right? The spoon is shoved in my hand, so is the baggie. I search inside myself to find more excitement than fear—yeah, okay, I’m not going to argue against experiencing the best memory of my life again. In the name of this quest, I can let go and give in to its magic. Take me back, man, please take me back. I actually wouldn’t mind just tripping out for the next three days on this. It’d be so much better than the poison of the other drugs I’ve been doing.

  “What’s this kid doing?” Mike asks, waving his hand over my eyes. “You already wasted?”

  I snap out of it. “Nah, drug’s that good—it starts hittin’ before you even try it.” Mike glares at me, and Nelson shrugs. Come on, I want to say, can’t blame a guy for being eccentric.

  I look up to the sky, murmur a prayer for Faith, and snort. I hand the coke spoon over to Mike who watches me carefully. As my mind is pulled backward, I try to resist the freefall to see his next move. Got to scope out his next move . . . but . . . but . . . blurred edges. Unmoving figures. Immediately I know I’ve made a stupid decision. I don’t see him reaching for the spoon.

  In my peripheral vision, something begins to take shape. My mind is swooping backward, tumbling, and there’s nothing I can do but ride it out. I don’t want to, I’m getting a bad feeling, a syrupy darkness to accompany my anxiety. I’m trying to swim back toward shore, but the undertow’s got me, it’s just under, under, and . . .

  I’m outside in front of my trailer. Sunny day. My sister is smiling. I know this day so well. The past sprints back so hard it pounds me like a fist.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s deep into the summer, when the wind pushes around hot air, when the grass is so crisp it hurts to walk on. I’m carrying out giant boxes from the trailer, and my sister is helping, though she’s mumbling under her breath that this isn’t a good idea.

  Mom’s been spending so much money on junk that all we eat for two weeks straight is macaroni and cheese from a box, and a few nights we go without even that. Pop is never home, and I stop wondering where he is. Mom is calling in sick a lot, although today she’s gone to work. The couch has holes, the microwave doesn’t work, and our clothes are too small and too ratty. One day it hits me. All these boxes, all these new things, all these people in trailers around us who need new things and need them for cheap.

  When I pitch the idea to my sister, she immediately says no, that Mom would flip and Pop would lose his temper, like he’s been doing more and more. His drinking has reached all-star levels every day, and more often than not it’s Jack Daniels straight from the bottle.

  I don’t listen to my sister. Big brother knows best. I tell her that if she helps me, I’ll buy her French fries and an ice cream cone every Friday. That sold her because all her friends have parents who take them on routine excursions to Friendly’s or McDonald’s. The last time we went out for dinner was for Pop’s birthday, and he got mad that Mom took us to a place where he couldn’t drink a beer.

/>   We set up a table and chairs and make a sign with bright magic markers that says YARD SALE. Unpacking the boxes is fun—it’s Christmas and it’s a surprise every time. Even Faith starts giggling and ooo-ing and aw-ing, I bet she’s wanted to do this for a while now, I bet—like me—she’s fantasized about this very moment. From the most boring looking package, I uncover a set of beautifully hand-painted Russian tea dolls, which I line up neatly across the table in front of a tackle box. More surprises appear—a blender that doubles as an ice cream maker. A miniature glass house that lights up from solar power. A life-size rooster you use as a tomato planter. I do see the appeal in all these things, but I also see how the appeal is short-lived.

  Once I get some music pumping, it doesn’t take long for the neighbors to come, and the trailer park twitches and comes alive with stay-at-home moms, unemployed husbands, bored kids, curious elderly. They touch and pick through all the crap on display, remarking at the price of this one, the quality of that one, like they know what they’re talking about, like they’re QVC experts. Maybe they are.

  My salesmanship is in full throttle. I sell a twenty-dollar Crock-Pot for forty to a pale woman who tells me she wants to start cooking soup for her husband.

  “You know you can use your Crock-Pot for things besides cooking,” I say, setting my stance wide, my hands on my hips. I admit, I read the instructions that included alternate uses.

  “Is that so?” She raises her eyebrows at me. She’s not expecting an articulate eleven-year-old in a trailer park. It satisfies me that I’ve impressed her, so I want to impress her even more.

  “It is. You can use it as an air freshener. Just throw some water in there, turn it on, dump a couple cinnamon sticks in the water, and let the steam do its work. You can also use it to make lotion, but I’m unclear on how to do that.” I hold up the Crock-Pot so that it hits the sunlight just right—good lighting really does go a long way.

  When the Crock-Pot-loving woman traces her finger along the top of the lid, I know I have her. She hands me two twenties, and it’s a done deal. The Crock-Pot looks so big in her arms, she’s carrying it like a newborn, hoping it will—and I start imagining scenarios—make her husband love her more, make her feel like she loves being a housewife, make her eager to cook a well-balanced meal. I see the sadness in this, and for a moment I feel bad for being so convincing.

  Faith is having success too, especially when it comes to anything that has to do with fabric. She can tell the exact thread count of brand-new sheets, she knows whether a quilt has been handmade, she figures out a way to turn an everyday shawl into a cool-looking skirt. We’re quite the duo, and it comforts me to hear her voice next to my voice, even though we’re talking about different things . . . If you like this hand mitt, you’re going to love the matching dish towels . . . I’m going to do you a favor today, and it’s only because you’re my favorite neighbor . . . with this night-light, your kids will never wake up crying again . . . we’re on a roll, our salesmanship becoming even more persuasive, and everyone who passes through is so charmed because we’re smarter than we should be. By four o’clock, everything is sold except for my old bike without a seat. That was a long shot. We made one thousand dollars. One thousand. That’s more money than I had ever seen in my life, and immediately Faith and I are talking about groceries and how we won’t have to worry about having food to eat for a while.

  We’re knocking back the last root beers from the fridge with our feet up on the table, watching the shadows of the trailers lengthen, when Faith asks, “Mom and Pop are going to be happy, right?” Her uncertain smile is a warm spot over my heart.

  “No doubt they’ll be happy,” I say, leaning into the chair, lacing my fingers together against the back of my head.

  “We can buy some deli cheese—not the kind that comes individually packed. What about lemonade? That sounds good right now.”

  “Think bigger,” I say.

  “Cake.” Faith pulls her sunglasses below her eyes. “I would die for some cake.”

  “Now you’re talking.” We clink our root beer bottles together, watch the day sigh into late afternoon. I took care of business today. I took care of my family. Now Faith can have cake, and I can buy it for her.

  Pop is driving up the road toward us, his green truck kicking up dirt and dust. It’s surprising that he’s home early; actually it’s surprising he’s home at all. My heart starts pounding in my ears, and anxiety pinches my stomach uncomfortably. Immediately I know I’ve done something wrong. Faith does too.

  “It was my idea,” I say to her firmly, setting my bottle down.

  “I went along with it.” Her voice getting all panicky isn’t doing much to help my own nervousness, which is quickly escalating to fear. Dad won’t necessarily be angry with the fast cash; he’ll be angry that I didn’t ask his permission.

  I grab her wrist. Hard. “You don’t say anything. I’ll do the talking. You had nothing to do with this.”

  “Phineas, we both—”

  “What did I say?”

  I stand up, broaden myself as much as possible and wait for him to approach. He jumps down from his truck and wipes his hands on his pants. He’s been looking especially jacked lately, really hitting the gym hard, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was taking steroids or drinking alcohol-spiked protein shakes—other dads don’t look this ready to fight.

  Before he can speak I say, “Hey Pop, don’t freak out, but I think you’re going to be really happy about this.” I open up the tackle box and show him the money, and when he reacts with icy silence, I motion to Faith to go inside. She shakes her head, sunglasses shielding her eyes, but I give her my meanest look that always forces her to listen and she leaves. It’s just me and Pop now, looking at the dull green money in the bright-orange tackle box. Sweat stains are forming underneath his arms. He squeezes his lips together and then walks into the house, the back of his neck reddening. I follow. He’s not even in the house all the way when he freezes. It’s a shocker to see so much space in our trailer, so much room to move.

  “One thousand dollars,” I repeat, walking inside behind him. “Pretty good, right? That’s almost what you make in a month.”

  I realize this was a stupid thing to say a second before Pop whips around and slaps me across the face. I hear Faith’s gasp from across the room.

  “You. Don’t. Think,” he says, breathing hard, vapors of nastiness coming off him. As I’m holding my cheek, I hold my breath so I don’t have to smell him.

  “I’m telling Mom you were at the bar. You promised us,” I say, sounding too whiny, too much like a weakling.

  “I had a long day. And it’s gotten even longer.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, stumbling a little.

  “You promised us,” I say again. And he did. He had promised us so many times, me, Faith, and Mom, that he would only have one drink a night. There was a long stretch of time when he didn’t drink at all, but he still hung out with his buddies until late, playing poker, returning home stinking of cigars. Mom would sometimes accuse him of other things, mostly related to women, but I didn’t care about that. I just didn’t want him to be drunk.

  “You’re a liar.”

  Pop lifts his hand again, back, back, back, and swings, this time with his fist. But something happens before the fist connects, something that throws me off balance, I’m being pushed sideways by Faith, what the hell is she doing? I hear the pound, the smack, the bone crack, but I don’t feel the pound. I crash into the wall, and Faith screams. It’s all way too fast for me to understand, to comprehend, to realize. I have to touch my mouth to know that it’s not mine yelling, to know that it’s not bleeding and that I haven’t been hit.

  I pull myself up straight, still confused. Pop is crouched down low, whimpering, moving his hands in the air above my sister . . . above her body. Crumpled and crushed boxes surround him, the packaging strewn all over the place, Styrofoam peanuts, Bubble Wrap.

  Faith’s still shrieking. Th
en I get it. He hit Faith. It was a massive punch that wasn’t ever meant for her, but meant for me (it’s always meant for me). She pushed me aside and took the hit as a savior, a sacrifice . . . all because of my big mouth.

  I go to her, slipping on plastic, hearing the pop of Bubble Wrap.

  My father is apologizing over and over and over. It was an accident, he’s crying. I’d never hurt you, he’s insisting. Faith’s sunglasses are still on, she’s cupping her hands over one eye, and she’s screaming. I crouch down, I speak low and firm, telling her to breathe, saying let me see, let me see. Pop is repeating no, no, no, on his knees now and finally Faith quiets down because she’s gone into shock, or at least that’s what I think. I pull her hands away from her face and see that the force of his punch cracked the lens of her sunglasses into her left eye and there are pieces of it wedged in the skin of the eyelid, in the eye itself, and there is blood leaking down the bridge of her nose and speckled over her mouth and some on the carpet.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Pop says to her, weeping, mouth slick and wobbly. “You weren’t supposed to . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “What did you do?” I yell at him. Attack him. Pound him with my fists. He doesn’t even react. I push him out of the way, and he collapses on his side, his knees tucked up so far they’re touching his stomach, fetal position. Worthless. Little. Pathetic.

  Faith starts screaming again.

  “Call 9-1-1,” I tell Pop. I shouldn’t be the one managing the situation but I am, and he listens for once because I’m the man, I’m the man. Pop scrambles to the phone. I pick up my sister, she’s so light, and tell her to shush, even though she’s stopped screaming now. Her skin is white, and her lips are following suit. I try not to look at her eyes, I try not to hear my father slurring his speech into the phone. Her blood is sticky between my fingers.