Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  “He’s at D-Town County Jail?” I ask gently. I feel slightly bad that I reamed her out, feel even worse that Bryce landed in the clink.

  “Yes,” she says, sniffing, hugging herself with her arms wrapped around her waist. Most likely Bryce will pay a fine. Two joints isn’t enough to buy you jail time. I’ve got some funds to bail him out, so this is not the main problem. The main problem is that this is not going according to plan. The bust at East Ave isn’t the first incident that’s leading me to believe they’re buffing up law enforcement. Just the other day, I heard about another drug bust went down in Jiminy Park—a safe haven for users, until now.

  “Go bail him out,” I say, not making eye contact.

  “With what?”

  “Get in your car and wait. I’ll come out with the cash.”

  She pouts; I look up. Her tears have done a real number on her made-up face. Why am I in such a rage? The oxys should have evened me out by now.

  “I think we should drop the search. It’s just not worth it,” Penelope says, getting closer. “Too much heat.” I drag my fingers through my hair, trying to ignore the warmth radiating off her body as she craves comfort and touch. I inch away and she notices, glowering at me.

  “Fuck that, we’re not dropping anything. Forget it, Pen—you can give up, miss out on the fat stacks, but I’m not giving up,” I say, putting my hand over my heart.

  Penelope squeezes her lips together. “What are you doing that’s so great?” she yells. “You came back empty-handed too, right? I don’t see you celebrating. You suck. I suck. We. All. Suck.” She bites her fingernails. I’m back to not hearing a thing she’s saying. Thinking about how I’m going to make this up to Bryce—seems like all I’m doing for the rest of my life is damage control.

  “I’ll come out with the money. Just get in your car, okay?” I sigh. The money from my dealing is under my bed, under one of the floorboards. When she walks out the door I yell, “And the next time you set foot in my room, take off your damn shoes.”

  I press my fingers against my temples and lean back against the wall. It was so sunny the day of the yard sale—what if it hadn’t been so bright out? What if it had rained instead? I take another oxy—it’s the only answer that will suffice.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It’s an hour after Penelope’s departure with the cash to bail Bryce out when Faith comes into our room, wrinkling her nose. I sit up from the bed and gauge her mood. It’s hard to tell her deeper emotions when she looks so put-together. There isn’t a crease on her skirt, and her hair clip matches perfectly with her purple platform shoes, whereas I’m wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt with a hole in the armpit (a look complemented by the bruises on my neck). Such a stark difference that won’t change any time soon. No worries, girls dig my style.

  “Smoking up with the window closed?” she asks.

  “Penelope.” That’s all I need to say. Faith doesn’t like her, says she’s got no respect for humanity and no love for herself.

  “She’s yet another stain in your life.”

  I brace myself for another lecture, but she stays quiet. After she throws open the window, she picks up an envelope that I hadn’t noticed because I was too busy rummaging around for an OC. Which, by the way, is smoothing me out nicely, finally. That extra one was all I needed.

  “What the hell happened to your face?” she asks, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “Tiger pit. You should see the other tiger.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  “Good,” I say, leaning against my headboard.

  When she opens the envelope, she barely glances at what’s inside, then tucks it under a stack of books on the floor. I think I see the Harvard insignia on the header of the letter. I’ll have to check this out when she’s not around.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you lately,” she says softly, sitting down on her bed.

  I perk up a bit. This is new.

  “I haven’t exactly been a darling myself.” Is my voice slurring? I hope it’s not slurring. I’m glad she’s not close enough to see my red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. I can just play it off as allergies if she asks.

  “The pressure of everything, you know? This is the end of high school,” she says.

  “The end of an era.” I let the statement hang. I think it’s a good one. “You should stop worrying about me for a while. I’m worried about you.” There is a hint of a sad smile on her face. I want to take care of my sister, give her back the shelter of the fort with the kitten, the quiet, and the comforting stream of cat facts.

  “It’s like that scrambler ride we went on as kids,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  She laughs to herself. “You know, the one at the amusement park in Lake George?”

  I can’t believe I forgot. It was an actual family outing, one where we all had fun. You’re in these two-person cars shaped like different kinds of animals, circling around the arena while other riders are circling around you. There are flashing lights, loud music, a projection of stars splashed across a domed ceiling—it’s a great acid trip without the acid. Good ol’ fashioned fun used to be enough.

  “We’re going to get off that chaotic, dizzying ride, Finn. We’ve been so used to everyone in D-Town circling around us for years. We know the pattern, we know what kind of crazy to expect. But once it’s over, there’s a whole new crazy to contend with. Are you ready for that? I’m not.” Her fingers trace a seam on the patchwork quilt she made that covers her bed.

  “Huh,” I say, scratching my chin. “I never thought about it that way. How about this instead? We’ll create an anti-tinamous clause.”

  “What in God’s name is that?” A gentle breeze slips in through the window, whispering through the curtains, lifting wisps of her hair.

  “I’ll tell you what that means, sister.” I sit up a little straighter. It never fails to amaze me: just mentioning birds makes me stronger, gives me that extra dose of I know what I’m doing so listen up good. “You cannot, under any circumstances, as stated by the clause, act like a tinamous. It’s an insecure bird that panics. They creep about at ground level keeping out of everyone else’s way. But once they think they’ve been spotted, they panic. They shoot upward in a manic, high-speed flight. Like super-duper-über fast. They don’t look where they’re going, so a lot of them die—crashing against trees, falling into water—and mind you, they can’t swim. The danger they’re trying to escape from becomes less of a problem than the danger they put themselves in.” I let that sink in.

  My sister looks down at her purple-polished toenails. “I know I can’t panic. It’s not like I don’t know that.”

  “You’re brilliant, sis, I get it. But hop on this next ride and let it carry you. Don’t fight so hard against it. Don’t think it’s the enemy. Take your meds, keep talking to your therapist every once in a while. Talk to me. If you feel yourself tweaking out, I’ll remind you of the anti-tinamous clause.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  I nod, agreeing with her. Yes, indeed. But I know I can help, I have to.

  “I know I haven’t been the best brother. But I’m telling you, if all else fails, I’ll shield you from hitting the tree, I’ll pull you out of the water. I got your back like nothing else.”

  Even in my oxy-induced stupor, I’m adamant and passionate about this—and it comes through. Her jaw clenches, and I know she’s pushing back tears by the way she turns her head so I can’t see her one good eye. She holds both of her kneecaps for a couple seconds, then stands up, self-assured. We exchange bright smiles, the brightest, but when she leaves, doubt slithers back in, its slime a dark trail on an otherwise pristine surface.

  Once I hear Faith talking to Mom in the television room, I scramble for the envelope Faith shoved between her books. Sure enough, it’s a packet from Harvard giving instructions on submitting Faith’s acceptance of admission. You’ve got to ride the ride, Faith. We’re tall enough for it.


  As I feel around for my laptop underneath my bed, my fingers graze the dulled corners of the Audubon book. My bible. How did that Klaski woman understand the secret of my heart? It’s disturbing, it’s stirring, it’s embarrassing—I barely know her, she’s as old as dirt, yet somehow she feels close. Is she aware that the original Birds of America book was huge because Audubon wanted to paint his birds life-size? Does she know that many of the birds’ poses are awkward in order to show off their best features? I bet she’s familiar with Phoenicopterus ruber, Audubon’s rendering of a pink flamingo: beak about to nip the water, neck bent impossibly, grotesquely, but just right.

  The rightness of my decision is a warm palm against my cheek. I fire up my computer and type in the website the letter instructs Faith to visit.

  The computer keys against the pads of my fingers are so connected to the future, every click is ticking out the hours until Faith can go to college and become somebody. I picture her in a large, amphitheater-style classroom—some shit that makes you want to get your Aristotle on—deep in discussion, arguments, analytical thinking, damn, it almost seems possible to make the world a better place. If anyone can, it’s Faith. And there is no better place to start than at Harvard. Not at some community college where the campus is as big as a postage stamp and teachers go to AA meetings around their course schedules and know fuck-all about anything.

  I enter all Faith’s personal information. I know her social security number ever since that night at the hospital—seemed like something a twin should have memorized. I’ve never typed so fast, and for a moment I pretend that I’m the one going to Harvard and that I’m bursting with joy and anxiousness to study poli sci or philosophy or some shit that isn’t applicable in the real world. The real world that tries to take a dump on me on the regular.

  Faith is heading back down the short hallway now, toward our room, her heavy shoes announce themselves even on carpet. I scramble to put the envelope back where she left it. I return to my laptop and minimize the tab with Harvard’s website. She bursts through the door.

  “Forgot to change my eye patch,” she says, rustling through her bureau. She pulls out a fancy one—purple with glitter around the edges. “I’m off to the movies. I’ll see you later.”

  “Remember,” I say. “Thou shalt not tinamous.” I’m relieved she isn’t aware of my plot.

  “A-freaking-men, brother.”

  I do the sign of the cross over my chest, which causes her to laugh. It’s like being blessed, that sound. Once her heels make a faint thump thump, I click my mouse toward Faith’s destiny, toward my own. I have no choice but to find that miracle drug.

  Welcome to Harvard! The computer screen announces.

  Tuesday, April 16

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s only a few days after my run-in with Mike. The bruises around my neck are purple and yellow, and I’m positive that some girl in class is going to ask me about it, is going to secretly think it’s sexy. In my car I do a couple quick lines of coke in the school parking lot. There’s a reason why I tinted my windows extra dark. I sit for a moment listening to some Led Zeppelin, as the chemicals do their dance in my veins, maybe a foxtrot, something bouncy for sure. My hook-up is giving me a good deal on cocaine lately. His price won’t go down on heroin, though. That’s good. I wish he’d jack it up even more to discourage me from buying it. Although to be honest, it would probably wouldn’t.

  Commotion as soon as I step inside D-Town High. Screeches. A few oh my Gods. Sneakers squeaking and the shrill voices of girls. Students and teachers are rushing around this way and that, it’s bananas, it’s not even time for the first class of the day. An exposed fluorescent tube light flickers above my head, a few lockers slam. I follow the hall down to the end, where the crowd is the thickest. I see what’s what.

  Red. Everywhere.

  On the lockers. On the floor. On the floor something else.

  A body.

  Stacey.

  My response is immediate. I push through the crowd, pushing whoever, it doesn’t matter, and see the school nurse, Ms. Caven, hunched over Stacey, my dream girl Stacey, and a teacher standing nearby, his face ashen and somber. Stacey has blood smeared over her arms and splotched all over her jeans. There’s a streak of it across her face. My heart is a cannonball ready to launch.

  “What happened?” I ask whoever is listening.

  Ms. Caven is holding Stacey’s hand. “She’s okay. The blood isn’t hers,” she says. “It’s from her locker.” I look up. The locker door is closed. “Can you do me a favor, Finn? Will you get everyone away from here? They won’t listen to me.”

  “She’s okay?” My voice cracks. “She is?”

  Ms. Caven nods.

  Act first, questions later.

  I’m on it in a flash, raising my voice, backing people up, telling them y’all need to bounce. Everything’s okay, it’s not her blood, go about your business, please and thank you . . . “Well, whose is it?” they ask. “Why’s it here?” “What is happening?” I don’t know, I say, this isn’t CNN, I just got here, fools. I tell them they’re only making the situation worse, poor girl, poor new girl, and they best be getting on their way. Someone says sarcastically, “Finn to the rescue,” while a few of the others snicker and I have to amp it up a notch, so I all-out yell.

  “Would you motherfuckers get the fuck out of here?”

  “Language,” Ms. Caven says half-heartedly.

  I’m mean eyes, powerful voice. They finally listen. Force to be reckoned with? You bet. Look what I did to Mike’s foot.

  I’m back on the ground next to Ms. Caven as Stacey’s murmuring and coming to. Seems like the blood gushed down from the locker after it was open. The gummy feeling of it against my knees and sneakers isn’t going to be a highlight of my day. Thankfully Ms. Caven used to be an army nurse, so I doubt this is the worst she’s seen. We’re both holding Stacey’s hands now, and I’m ashamed of myself because I’m enjoying the feel of her skin against mine even though it’s covered with blood. What’s wrong with me? I’m no hero, but why do I feel like one? One of the teachers fetches some water, and Ms. Caven and I help Stacey sit up slowly, letting her touch the back of her head, watching her try to gather herself and find words.

  “A head. My locker. In it.” She starts to fall back again, but we catch her.

  I look around. Something written out in red spray paint, on the door of her locker.

  OINK OINK

  I cover my hand up with my sleeve and pull her locker open. Someone yells at me, but it’s too late. I gasp. I can’t help it.

  It’s a head. A pig’s head.

  Holy all the swear words in the world.

  I swallow the bile rising in my throat, which only makes more come up, but I get control of myself. I should rephrase that: I somewhat get control of myself. Waves of nausea toss through me.

  “We need to get her out of here,” Ms. Caven says. I close the locker and catch my breath. “Mr. Fitch, can you call the hospital? I think she’s okay, but I just want to be sure she didn’t hit her head on the way down. Then call the cops after that and her parents. Finn, let’s bring her to my office, okay?”

  We both try to get her to stand up, but she’s resisting, she doesn’t want to move, she’s pushing us away, she’s actually saying I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, but then her hand slips on the blood as she tries to get up. She makes a noise in the back of her throat that breaks my heart, so I pick her up, cradling her in my arms, and bring her to the nurse’s office. Though she’s not verbally complaining, I feel her body complain, she doesn’t want to be carried, like some princess who can’t take care of herself. Well too bad, because this is happening, and don’t kill me if I enjoy it a tiny bit.

  In the nurse’s office, Stacey doesn’t lie back on the cot. Her hands are clutched over her knees, and her hair is sticking to the blood on her face. Ms. Caven hands her a cold compress, which she doesn’t use.

  “Come on, honey, it will feel
good on your head.” Stacey pushes her hands gently away.

  “I’m fine. I don’t want to be in these clothes anymore.”

  “When you get to the hospital you can change your clothes. Come with me and we’ll fix you up the best we can in the bathroom.” Her voice is safe, motherly.

  “I’m not going to the hospital,” Stacey says adamantly.

  Ms. Caven lists about a hundred reasons why she should, but Stacey’s just saying no, no, no, hospitals aren’t for her, she’s great, her head doesn’t hurt, she’s not dizzy, no big deal, she didn’t hit the floor very hard when she fell.

  “Wow, you’re stubborn,” I say, leaning against the wall next to the cot. It’s a white painted concrete wall that’s arctic cold against my sweaty back.

  Stacey’s eyes flick toward me. “I’m not stubborn.”

  “You should listen to the woman, you know. A medical expert. You could have a concussion and if you fall asleep you’ll die. Lights out. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. Isn’t that right, Ms. Caven?”

  She shoots me a stop being a smartass look, a look I’ve seen so many times before, but I don’t care, I know that she kind of likes it, probably because I come by often just to shoot the bull. The time she spent in the army she likes talking about and I like listening. Twice divorced, one-bedroom apartment on the west side, the nice side. Some older ladies have important shit to say. Mrs. Klaski. I’m sure she has some gems. Imagine if I heard some of them? It’d be entertaining, I’m sure.

  Stacey needs to go to the hospital and I’m going to do whatever I can to get her there. Even if it means dragging her there myself.