by Kara Storti
“Red,” I say, surprising myself with the quick response. “Different shades of it.” My mind is shooting off names of red birds as I say this, flame-colored tanager, pine grosbeak, vermillion flycatcher, red-faced warbler. Can you imagine if they all darted by at once? What a brilliant display that would be. Avian sparklers. Winged fireworks brightening the sky.
“The amygdala is a part of the brain associated with emotion—and they did this study where the amygdala becomes overresponsive to pictures of angry faces, compared to people with calm faces,” she explains.
“You’re going to make a great doctor,” I say, not even trying to quell the sarcasm in my voice. I should have known this was a lost cause, this as in me and her, her and me.
“I am,” she says, ignoring my tone. “So what are you serious about?”
Is she for real? Did Faith put her up to this? “Hey listen, Stacey, I’d love to continue this scintillating discussion, but I’ve got work to do, you know?”
She takes my glare and holds it, makes me give her my full attention. “Finn,” she says, her voice like honey. “I’m here because we were both part of a monumental thing—I mean, all that blood? And you’re getting me to the nurse and persuading me to go to the hospital? And the fighting between you and Jason? I needed to acknowledge it with you. I wanted to know what was going on inside your brain.” She doesn’t sound mad at me, just genuinely curious, and it makes my heart twist that she sees we were both part of this thing, too.
“Trust me, Stacey, you don’t want to know what’s inside this brain of mine. But to be completely truthful, I was worried. About you. It’s not every day you see a girl you kind of dig covered in blood. Does something to you, you know?”
She’s a little startled, uncertain—but not altogether displeased.
I’m not punking her, this is for real, as real as I ever get. She leans into the space between us, picking through my weeds, digging into the dirt of my heart. I let her. She can see what’s there. She can decide if it’s worth salvaging. I’m leaning, she’s leaning, we’re magnets.
“Can I take you out to dinner tonight?” I ask. I can’t believe I’m asking. Balls out, I say. Balls out. But my heart is thumping in my ears, everything racing, my pulse, blood, nerves, running the sprint of their lives.
“You’re asking me out?” she says. “After my father handcuffs you for assault?”
Though I maintain a façade of confidence, I feel like crawling under the counter next to the day-old rolls of bread.
But she won’t let me go. “Why should I? Convince me,” she says.
She opened the door again and my confidence comes rushing back. “Because I will create a night for you that you’ll always remember,” I say enthusiastically. “You’ll look back and think it’s one of your best memories. You’ll want to relive it over and over again. Nostalgia will hit as soon as the night is over.” I snap my fingers. “Like that.”
She smirks and crosses her arms against her chest. “Really? That’s all you’ve got? That might work on your other—well, anyway, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
Tough crowd. I think hard. It’s got to be good, what I say, the best I have.
“I went bird watching a little while ago.” I can’t believe I’m admitting this to her. “I saw this bird. Like no other. Its beauty was out of control.”
“What was it?” she asks with what seems like real interest. Only Faith has ever gotten what I feel about birds. And maybe Mrs. Klaski.
“An albino sparrow. I wish you could have seen it. You know, it’s a beauty worth sharing, like everyone needs to see it, and maybe the world would turn into a microscopically better place.” I’m getting all emotional about the damn thing, my chest and throat are tightening. “The colors were crazy. White, gold, pale yellow wings. An iridescence that you see on a sunny day in a pool of oil? You know what I’m talking about? That shit can get pretty gorgeous if you forget what it is for a second. Anyway, the bird stayed in view just long enough for me to feel really sad when it was finally gone. I haven’t seen it since. But you know what?”
Stacey is silent, but a listening silent.
“When I saw it, I knew that it was a sign of good things to come. And then, almost right after that, I’m talking that day, I met you for the first time.”
Her head tips down. I can’t see her eyes. Maybe I’ve said too much. I always say too much. I await the verdict.
“Pick me up at seven. I swear if you’re late, I’m not answering the door.”
Hallelujah doesn’t even cover it. She tells me her street address as I hurriedly write it down in case she changes her mind. Please don’t see that my hand is shaking, please don’t see . . .
“Should I wear something fancy?” she asks. Her voice is even, but I’m sensing she might be looking forward to our date, at least as an experiment.
“Nah, what you got on is fine. It’s perfect, actually. Just bring a sweatshirt. In case the night air gets chilly.” Her outfit is perfect, in fact. Jeans, comfortable shoes, a girly colorful top that isn’t too showy.
“The night air, huh?” Then she turns around and leaves without looking back, thank God, because I’m smiling like an idiot and blushing all-out. Until the panic starts because I have a lot of planning to do, maybe too much, but I can call in a few favors and get the job done right.
Chapter Twenty-one
The craving for dope hits me hard. I imagine myself showing up at Stacey’s zonked out of my mind, trying to be charming, bloodshot eyes, rock bottom just around the corner.
No. I command myself.
Well, my argument isn’t working, because I’m lighting up in my car before I take off. It’s just weed. No biggie. I let the smoke roll through me and keep it in for one beat, two beats, three beats. Exhale. The cool air snatches the smoke out of my window, as I pull out of the trailer park. A red truck I don’t recognize pulls in at the same time, so close to my car that it grazes my side view mirror. I pound the horn and flip the bird. Is this just a random event? Or is this one of Mike’s thugs threatening me?
My buzz is nonexistent. Total fail.
I show up at Stacey’s door at 6:58 p.m. I’m wearing khakis and a button-down T-shirt, untucked. Faith said it looks okay, so that means it is. I’ve never been this nervous for a date, nervous to the point where I’m discreetly sniffing my armpits because I’m sweating so much.
Stacey lives in an old farmhouse about fifteen minutes away from the trailer park, where there are cow fields that flood in the spring and housing developments that started but were never completed. Sagging work trailers, cottages that are really shacks, sheds that are used for outhouses. I can’t tell what’s more depressing: poverty in the city or poverty in the country. Poverty’s poverty I guess, but out here, the air’s a little freer, the cows twitch their ears and tails, and it seems like hope grows when it’s got the room.
Not that Stacey lives in poverty. The house is old but nice, the yard is really kept up, with lots of flowers in the front, and there’s a minivan parked in the driveway, coated in yellow pollen. I want to write my initials in the dust, but I restrain myself. Don’t need to mark your territory wherever you go, do you Finn? Especially since this is her father’s territory. The man of the house who I’m not ready to face again.
I grab the bunch of daisies lying on the passenger seat and go up to the front door, which is a dark orange color, and knock, and when I say knock, I mean I use the brass knocker because there’s no doorbell. It’s straight-up charming, I admit. I hear her footsteps coming, light, quick; I clench my jaw and try not to squeeze the Gerber daisies in my hand too hard. The door opens. I flash my best smile.
It’s her.
The other her.
The old lady her.
I’m holy shitting all over the place. Here is the Klaski lady with the nostalgia drug or memory drug or whatever the heck you want to call it drug, she gave me the mirror, the bird book, a scolding, she may or may not ruin my
life. Here she is, standing in the doorway, looking just as surprised as me.
“Um,” I say. “Am I at the—”
She slams the door in my face.
If shock could achieve perfection, this would be it.
A robin flies past my head and perches on a branch of a Japanese maple. Robins like sweets, and are drawn to berries, fruits, and even pastry dough. The song of a male robin is often the last bird heard as the sun sets, like a desperate last call. Is this mine?
The door opens again.
It’s Stacey this time, she’s apologizing, grabbing my hand, Jesus her skin is soft, and pulling me inside a narrow hallway with an old worn-out rug.
She just touched me. We touched. God, Finn, would you shut up? But that lady . . . what is she doing here? I’m just about hyperventilating, and this is just about the wrong persona I want to be projecting.
I look around to calm myself. I’m not ready to say anything in case my voice comes out in a squeak. Paintings on every wall, paintings of birds and flowers, not cheesy art, this is real, meaningful stuff, I know right away. My observation is confirmed when I gaze upon it. Directly to the right of me is a print of a plate from The Birds of America—Audubon’s indigo buntings. There are three of them in blue—the males are always showier—and one of them in brown—the lone female. The male buntings are a vivid blue, dark, brooding, matched for midnight. A few flowers are downturned around them like little bells, but the blue buntings are the true flowers of the painting, blooming from vines that wind and loop around themselves.
“I’m so sorry about my grandmother. I’m—” I’ve never seen Stacey embarrassed before—even when she came to during the pig’s head incident, she was more shaken up than ashamed.
“Seems nice to me,” I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible. I give her the daisies, she accepts them with a bright smile. A dimple on one of her cheeks. Why didn’t I notice that before?
“Yeah. Right.”
“Is your father . . .”
“He’s not here tonight.” And that’s all she says about that. Too bad I’m never going to be the guy you proudly bring home to your dad. The house phone rings; it startles me. Immediately it has me thinking about the hang-up call I received.
“Why don’t you take a seat in the morning room?” She gestures to the space to my right, illuminated by the setting sun. The bottom of her tank top flutters gracefully.
“Morning room?”
Stacey laughs, and it sparkles. “That’s what Mimi calls it. She’s got a name for every room. It makes us feel elegant.” The phone continues to ring; she disappears around the corner.
I sit down on a light-blue couch with dark wood lion’s feet legs. Shelves overflowing with books are built into the walls, and the coffee table in front of me has been well-worn but well-loved.
When the old lady—Mrs. Klaski, Mimi—enters the room, I’m not sure what to do. I ready myself to speak, but my words come out as ums, I-I-I, well, so . . . shit, I’m a mess, might as well say do re mi fa sol la ti . . . God help me.
Without hesitating, she sits down next to me, smelling like lavender and lemons, folding her hands in her lap. White bony fingers against the black of her pants. Her hair is an unstoppable puffy cloud.
“You can call me Orah,” she says, shaking my hand. “I had a feeling this was going to happen,” she adds without inflection.
“Must be fate, Orah,” I say.
“I suppose I can’t argue with that. Suppose you’re still after what you’re after.” She purses her lips, she may want to appear resigned, but I know a power play when I see one.
This is really happening. We’re really having this conversation in her so-called morning room. Orah’s looking real unflappable and nonchalant, yet I imagine lightning sparking in the cumulous cloud of her hair.
“Listen. I’m not doing it for me. Or for the money, or whatever . . . well, it is for the money, but it’s for my sister,” I say, squeezing my knees to keep them steady.
“College?” she asks.
“Right. That’s right. How did you know?”
“That’s the hot button issue for kids your age right now, isn’t it?”
I nod. Endless thoughts are pinging back and forth, all conflicting, the drug, my sister, the money, this woman, Stacey, and buntings circling around it all like a constantly morphing frame.
“I’d like you to do something in return,” she says.
I face her, my desperation visible, I know it. I’ll do whatever. I don’t care about the dangers, the roadblocks, the possibility of ending up dead in a ditch somewhere. Pop, you really know how to make an impression. As long as Faith is happy, and I can supply her with some of that happiness.
“I want you to spend time with me.” Hands clasped, head up. Proud, proud, proud.
Wait, hold up now.
“You want me to what?”
She presses the tops of her legs with the heels of her hands—I can tell that this is not an indication of insecurity or nervousness—it is more a signal of irritation that I haven’t already agreed to it.
“You heard me. I’m getting old, in case you haven’t noticed. My husband’s dead, my son-in-law is too busy cleaning up the streets, and my daughter passed away at an age way too young. My grandson is currently out of our lives.” Her mouth straightens, looks out the room to where Stacey is still on the phone. “Stacey will be doing her pre-med at Stanford,” she says. “She doesn’t have time for me.”
“And I do?” I blurt. I sound 110 percent asshole, I feel immediately bad, but I don’t apologize.
She pats my knee. Holy patience. I’m surprised she isn’t beating me with one of her five thousand books. “I’m not looking for much. I want to learn about you, hear your stories. I want someone to shoot the breeze with. I believe you have the disposition for that, don’t you think?”
I’m stunsville, all the way. She wants to spend time with me? My own grandparents didn’t want to spend time with me—so much that I never met them. Something about disowning my parents when they decided to make a life together.
“Come to the cemetery next Saturday, usual time. We’re going to do this together,” she says. She looks around. “In the meantime, here.” She pulls something out from underneath her shirt, and places it in my lap.
It’s the drug in a ziplock bag. Dark blue, iridescent, looking like a descendent of fairy dust. Jesus fucking Christ. And I mean that with the utmost respect. I shove it quickly into my back pocket, where it barely fits. Good thing my shirt covers it up.
“This should be enough for now.”
Enough for now? This could trip out a small army for days. Yes. Here we go.
She grabs my arm. “I don’t want Stacey to know. Of course my son-in-law, a cop, can’t know either—he wouldn’t suspect anything, not yet anyway, just getting his bearings in this town. That’s why this endeavor won’t be a prolonged affair. I want this drug out of my life. It’s done too much damage. We’ll do a few quick harvests, you do what you have to do with it, and then finito.”
She makes a fist and brings it to her heart. I nod, hard, and look her in the eye so she knows I understand. A slow smile spreads across her face. It makes her look twenty years younger—or maybe it’s just the light streaming in from the setting sun.
“You remind me of him,” she says. “My grandson.” Her fingers touch my scar lightly, briefly, as if she’s dabbing perfume on my neck. I wait for the angry tirade to launch from my mouth. But it doesn’t. She returns her hands to her lap and smiles gently, saying with her eyes, see, I knew you didn’t bite.
I should be more uncomfortable than I am. It’s creepy, right? But I don’t inch away from her, I don’t make an excuse to leave the room, I don’t fill the silence with worthless chatter. The drug is next to me, Orah looks satisfied, and the golden dust of dusk rests at our feet.
Stacey appears with a daisy tucked behind her ear.
“Did you two make amends?” she asks Orah. At firs
t I think she knows exactly what went down, but then Orah says, “I didn’t like the looks of him . . . at first.”
She winks at me. Stacey grins.
“I’ll have her home by ten,” I say. She waves us away and we leave the house.
I open the door for Stacey to get into my car. The sun fires up her hair and the daisy’s petals bounce when she sits down.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks, her hands clasped very ladylike in her lap.
“It’s a surprise,” I say.
Tonight is full of surprises. I don’t even have to put any effort into naming the drug, it suddenly comes to me as I’m driving with Stacey. The color of the drug: majestic, trippy, but kind of elegant, a hue for royalty and their palaces. Its effects unpredictable and mysterious, its origins unknown and provided by an old lady who shares my love for birds and Audubon. His painting of the indigo buntings—I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the tone of the bunting feathers is much like the tone of the powder. There’s something cosmic going on here, a synchronicity that I’d be stupid to overlook. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the official moniker of the new drug on the block: indigo.
Chapter Twenty-two
I pull off to the side of the road, next to a not-so-obvious trail, leading into my favorite part of the woods, where Faith and I built a fort and napped with a kitten. A good-sized pond sits in a clearing surrounded by wildflowers and tall grass, the perfect place for swimming in the summer. As Stacey hops out of the car, I quickly shove the bag of indigo underneath my car seat without her noticing.
“Where are you taking me, Finn?” Stacey asks as we walk to the designated spot.
I turn to her. “Trust me, okay?”
“Ha,” she says. “Right.” Her light footsteps follow behind me.
Tonight the area around the pond is a special place. Trees are strung up with battery-powered lights shaped like globes, all different colors, all different sizes. I’m expecting immediate wonder from Stacey, but I don’t get it. Music that I don’t recognize is playing from an iPhone, some mix that Faith put together for me, she promised that it makes all girls a little softer, a little more agreeable. Those are her words, not mine. If my sister was a dude, she’d be a lady-killer too. Plus, now that she knows Stacey a little better, she’s aware of her taste in music. Faith’s willingness to help me out with this event either shows that she’s forgiven me or that she believes Stacey’s ambitious personality and responsible nature will rub off on me. We’ll see about that.