Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  I’m holding a picnic basket, filled with food Diane cooked. I gave her some excuse about how I wanted to treat my family to a homemade dinner—a pleasing and gullible soul always falls under my spell. Bryce is lighting candles on a fold-up table set for two. You could say that we’re on okay terms after I bailed him out and thanked him for his troubles by writing two English papers for him—one on Hamlet, the other on To Kill a Mockingbird; hello cakewalk. Don’t even need to say I scored him A’s on both. Funny how I have more motivation to write other people’s papers than my own.

  Stacey seems less than impressed by the spectacle: candles, music, food oh my! . . . all for her. Okay, I can work with a girl who’s hard to please. Not going to get my panties in a bunch just yet.

  I touch the small of her back (she doesn’t lean in to it) and lead her to the table. Gentlemanly Finn pulls the chair out for her, and she sits down. I can’t read her for shit. Bryce takes the picnic basket and starts covering the table with containers of food—cheese and fruit, pieces of rosemary chicken, red potatoes, green beans, and dessert for later. Bryce bows like a chump. The candlelight flickers, the light globes sway among the branches, and I can tell Bryce has something to say unrelated to this date that conquers all dates. I’m screaming with my eyes, dude, you’ll never guess what just happened, pay day, that’s what.

  “Finn, can I talk to you for a minute?” Bryce asks.

  “Um, no,” I say, even though all I want to do is talk—I’ve got the drug, I’ve got my girl, but it’s just not the right time.

  “I gotta say it.” He digs the toe of his sneaker into the ground.

  “Can’t it wait?” I hiss. I flick my eyes toward Stacey, who looks bored out of her skull. Bryce shakes his head no. I try not to curse, get up from my seat and pull him an adequate distance away from the table. The leaves from a weeping willow dangle over our heads.

  He holds onto his arm and scowls. “I don’t know, Finn. I have a bad feeling that this drug is gonna be interfering with someone else’s turf. After my arrest? I don’t want to go through that again. I’m just not as pumped as I was.” I wasn’t counting on Bryce’s second-guessing—usually this guy is full speed ahead, and then some.

  I clasp a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean, bro? There’s no risk here, trust me.” I regret it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Of course there’s a risk. There always is. I think about my conversation with Stacey and how this ties to the drug circuit in the city. But I’ve got to put these negative vibes aside, I don’t want them soiling the magical night I’m trying to create.

  I glance over to where Stacey is sitting, her light blue shirt aglow in the LED light. Bryce looks down at his feet saying, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  I nod, feeling like a jerk for not being more grateful. Of course I’m grateful. I got the best friends in the world.

  “Thanks, bud, for doing me a solid,” I say. We shake hands, fist bump. “Parting words for you: once you taste the rainbow, you’ll change your mind, trust me.”

  “Sure,” Bryce says, though I know he’s not convinced. He puts on his hat, tugs it down below his ears, and walks away. I’ll deal with this later.

  Back at the table with Stacey, who’s picking her nails, legs crossed, foot bouncing. I don’t even know where to begin with her, and I’m only like 54 percent sure she’s into me.

  “Am I encroaching upon your time?” she asks, clearly irritated that I left her alone.

  “Oh yeah, totally,” I say, joking around. “What are you doing here again?” I flash a smile. She is so not amused.

  Some country chick is beautifully crooning from the speakers of the iPhone and it feels off, too obvious. I’m about to pour Stacey some white wine when she puts her hand over the mouth of her glass.

  “Is this the way you woo all your girlfriends?” she asks.

  “Nah, this is a new tactic. Is it working?” I tilt my head to the side as she smirks, and the candlelight makes her dimples pop and her hair shimmer. No, I’m not swooning, no, I don’t think she looks like a legitimate angel. I serve us chicken and potatoes and green beans, and even though the food isn’t fancy, it’s still pretty damn tasty. Thank you, Diane. Stacey’s not saying anything, and the silence is starting to suffocate.

  “So are we going to discuss moral quandaries, or what?” I ask. I realize that all we’ve been doing tonight is asking questions, kicking them up, letting them fall without consequence. She takes a bite of chicken and sets down her fork, wipes her hands with the napkin in her lap. To my dismay, I realize I haven’t taken my own off the table, like some unsophisticated prick. At this point I’m not looking to score; if I get through the night without saying anything stupid, I’ll be impressed.

  Stacey rests her folded hands on the table. “You know, my grandmother worked as a psychiatric nurse when she was younger. Back in the day when they used to give lobotomies and shock therapy all the time,” she says. For the first time since we sat down she sounds interested. “That old abandoned asylum, up Barnhouse Road? She did her residency there.”

  “I can’t see her doing that,” I say, wiping my mouth daintily and setting the napkin on my lap. I want to show her how amazingly proper I can be.

  “How would you know?” she snaps back. “You just met her.” I shrink. This is going so outrageously bad I can’t even stand it.

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “Hmm. Well, the asylum up there was made up of big sprawling buildings on big sprawling farmland.” She stretches out her arms to show how big. “It was supposed to give patients privacy and encourage them to get exercise at the same time. Mimi had to go through these underground tunnels that connected all the buildings to bring patients supplies, bed sheets, whatever. They were scary labyrinths. And really dark. Nothing ever happened to her down there, but it could have.” She angles her body toward mine.

  I’m not sure where she’s going with all this, but I could listen to her talk all day. It’s not like the usual crap the girls I know talk about—television shows, makeup, fashion, inane chatter that should be boxed up with a warning label. Nausea and vomiting may occur . . . but then again, they could say the same thing about guys . . . football, video games, sex . . . sex . . . did I mention sex?

  “Mimi told me the other day that there was this one patient of hers—she can’t remember his name,” she says. “But part of his therapy was making clocks. That’s all he did, night and day, to calm the voices in his head. Clocks. He made so many. He gave them to all the staff at the hospital, to his friends and family.” She pauses, nodding. “So after she told me this, she brought me into the guest bedroom and pointed to the wall where there was a clock. It’s beautiful: dark wood, ivory-colored face, very simple, still ticking away after fifty years.”

  “Amazing,” I say, abandoning my food for the time being. I don’t want the sound of my chewing to disrupt the moment. “Is this why you want to be a doctor?”

  The question seems to dim her mood. “Mimi regrets that she never became one. It’s not something women did back then. So yes, that’s part of the reason why.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  She moves a green bean around on her plate with her fork, but doesn’t eat it. Certain talk doesn’t jive well with food, and this is not a chicken and beans kind of conversation we’re dealing with here.

  “I wish I could help people, you know, who are addicts,” she says. There’s a hair band around her wrist, which she pulls off, and ties her hair up in a ponytail. But because her hair’s short, pieces of it fall and frame her face. She’s a goddamn piece of art. “I wish I could figure out a way to cure drug addiction, any addiction really. My brother—he’s wrapped up in some pretty bad stuff, with some pretty bad people. My mom . . . she died after my brother was born. She had a really aggressive virus, and when the symptoms started to show, it was too late. Serious health problems run in my family.”

  I pause before I say anything; I want to choose my word
s carefully. Life isn’t fair for dumping all this tragedy on such a beautiful, sweet girl like her.

  “That’s terrible about your mom. I’m so sorry. And about your brother? People get lost so easily.” Even as I say it I realize how idiotic is sounds, like from a pamphlet about drug addiction or something.

  “Like you?” she asks, cupping her face in her hand.

  I’m immediately defensive. “What do you mean?”

  “Your sister told me some things—”

  My blood is rushing, Niagara Falls–style, through my ears. “Whoa, wait a sec, hon,” I say. “My sister did what now?”

  “She told me that you’re struggling . . . with certain things. She’s worried about you and I thought—”

  I let out a sharp, unamused laugh. “What? That I could be your charity case? Do your residency here and now, with Phineas Walt, subject number zero, zero, zero, who has a family history of alcoholism and drug abuse?”

  I’m glad the darkness hides my face, hides the slide show of contempt, rage, shame, down-to-the-marrow sadness—

  “That’s not it at all,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Then what is it?” I snap, restraining myself from swearing. The table vibrates, my funny bone activates and so does my fight-or-flight. I struggle against both.

  “I just want to help you.”

  I let out a scoff to end all scoffs. I knew it. I knew it. For having some intelligence, I can be so gullible. Put a pretty girl in front of me, and suddenly brain damage. It’s okay, I think, I got what I wanted, I got indigo, I got a plan, I don’t need jack from her.

  I smirk. “Hey listen, I appreciate your concern, sweetheart, but in all honestly, who the hell do you think you are? You have no idea who I am,” I say, pointing at my chest. “You don’t know that I’ve got goals like you. You don’t know that I’m just as motivated. Just as passionate. So don’t get all up on your high horse because of your astronomical SAT scores and your full ride to Stanford. I’m up there with you, babe, I just show it in a different way.”

  She’s tightening her posture, ready to launch an attack. Well bring it, darlin’, because if you want a war, I’ll give you one. And just because you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, it doesn’t mean I won’t verbally massacre you.

  “Prosophobia,” she says.

  I don’t wait a second. “Oh please. I’m not scared of progress, of moving on. I’m all about moving on. Like I said, I got big plans—”

  “And they are?”

  I blink. Then I get up, start gathering up our plates, throwing everything, even the leftovers, into a trash bag, folding up my napkin, closing up the bottle of wine we barely drank. The light is fading, the wind is picking up, and all I want to do is go home, get high, and go to bed. Fuck this nonsense. I’ll tolerate lectures about the trajectory of my life all over the place, but not here, not on a date.

  “So that’s that?” she says, irritated with some disappointment in her voice.

  “Yeah. That’s that.” I slam a plate down. “I’m not gonna sit here and try to explain myself to you. I don’t have any obligation to do that, and now it’s pretty damn clear that Faith put you up to this.” God, that stings, my twin, betraying me like this.

  “Finn,” she says softly, “I like you. Your sister has nothing to do with that.”

  As I’m standing, stacking Tupperware with exasperation, she gets up and moves around the table and places a warm hand on my forearm. I jerk away, and the hurt in her eyes is a machete to the heart. I open my mouth to apologize, but I don’t. We finish packing in silence, and the car ride back is over-the-top awkward and not over soon enough. It’s well before ten o’clock when I drop her off, and she disappears into her house without saying good-bye.

  Week of April 22

  Chapter Twenty-three

  My motivation is lit up, wildfire crazy, and after the stacey dinner, I want to prove wrong everyone and their brother, especially Stacey and Faith. I got this. I more than got this. Monday is a flurry of drug activity, I’m banging out Orah’s product so hard it’s gone within several days. People are learning that the rumors are true—indigo is transcendental, some ethereal shit not of this planet, the truth of its superiority to other drugs is spreading quick. I hand it out to football players in the locker room; I pass a few baggies to preppy girls behind the school where nobody goes; I sneak a gram under the dumpster in the school parking lot for our valedictorian; even Peter wants to try it, in spite of all his self-righteousness. I tell them what to expect, and pray they don’t have a traumatizing experience from indigo like mine. And I soon find out, it is just me. It’s not fair—everyone benefiting from the euphoria but me. Am I being punished by cosmic forces because I didn’t just say no to drugs? Punished because my sister is damaged and it’s my fault?

  Each hit I see people take—whether it’s in the school parking lot, in someone’s basement, or on one occasion at the D-Town Drive-In—I learn something new. The high happens right away after one snort. Their eyes roll back and close, and a smile spreads slow and lazy, like spilled honey. This is when they relive their favorite memory; this is when the true magic occurs. Then the person is alive, soaring, higher and higher, for a long time. People say it feels like heroin, but better, because it lasts much longer, and you come off it nice. They are amazed by it and are amazed by me. They want to know when they can get more. And more. And more.

  This is just the first week.

  I go to sleep comforted by the money accumulating under my bed and the knowledge that Faith’s tossing and turning at night will settle down once I’ve given her the freedom to leave D-Town. Once she calls me out on my business venture—and I know eventually she will—I can explain to her that it’s all going according to plan, and come on, this drug is so new it isn’t even illegal.

  Bryce has a small group of people at his house during this whirlwind of a week. Taylor is there, and she doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t look at me once. I don’t blame her; what I did was unacceptable and scum-baggish and makes me feel like I’m my father’s son. An apology is in order, which I attempt, but she doesn’t want to hear anything from me, except indigo.

  The party is chill and I want to chill out too, but I can’t use what everyone else gets to. What I need is in my pockets, just a little bit, that’s all.

  The bathroom is cramped, with chipped black and white tile and a smudged mirror. I sit on the toilet lid, and place everything in an ordered line on the counter next to me. Spoon, H, lighter, needle. A little mix of water, flick of the lighter, make it sizzle. It’s too late to question because a belt is around my arm and the needle is already in and the hit packs such a punch, it, it . . .

  House sparrow, Passer domesticus . . . very social birds that live in colonies called flocks . . . down and down I go . . . they are carnivores by nature but mostly eat moths and other small insects . . . I’m not scared of moving on . . . a male sparrow is responsible for building the nest and will use it as an excuse to attract a female. She’ll help him if she’s interested in mating . . . I don’t blame myself. I don’t blame myself. I . . . both parents take care of the eggs and chicks and young birds are ready to leave the nest fifteen days after birth . . .

  Pounding on the door. “Finn, what are you doing in there? Jacking off?” My eyes flick open, and I survey my surroundings. I’m on the floor with drool on my face—I must have fallen off the toilet. More pounding. Peter.

  “What are you talking about, man?” I call out, quickly untying the belt around my arm.

  “You’ve been in there for like a half an hour. Are you okay?”

  It’s been that long? It’s feeling like one heartbeat to me. I scramble to shove everything—the needle, the spoon, the leftover foil—back in my pocket, to cinch my belt where it belongs around my waist.

  “I’m fine. Just feeling a little sick. Must have been those nachos.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks worriedly. Goddammit, Peter, why do you have to be so nice? />
  “My stomach has been bothering me lately. Like, I might have ulcers or something,” I groan for effect. “Gonna go to the doctor next week, get this shit checked out.” The lies slide right out—their delivery is effortless.

  “Oh,” Peter says. Now there is suspicion in his voice. I hear him backing away from the door.

  When I walk into Peter’s room, Taylor eyes me. I make sure my sleeve covers my arm, of course it does, I’m just being paranoid. The fact that I blacked out unnerves me, but I’m not going to dwell on it. I don’t want to be a downer while everyone passes around indigo (God, that name has caught on). They offer me some, but I refuse, making up some excuse about wanting to stay clean. Why is it becoming so easy to lie?

  They all take their hit of indigo at the same time. Taylor’s fingers twitch; her bubblegum-pink nails are fluorescent under the yellowish light of Peter’s room. Peter’s head is tilted up toward the ceiling, his mouth open like he’s trying to catch snowflakes, his eyelids fluttering, he looks so happy, he’s a kid again. Bryce’s shoulders are shrugged so high they’re reaching his ears, and he’s laughing without sound. I’m many worlds away from them, my foggy brain, slack jaw, sweaty palms. My high seems impotent in comparison. When they return, it will be a storm of chatter and excitement, their happiness will be palpable, and I will be jealous. I consider going back into the bathroom for more, and it takes all my willpower to restrain myself.

  Peter comes out of his memory first, and Taylor is right behind him, but it’s Bryce who has my attention. He raises his hands up in the air, he’s cheering, and then suddenly his T-shirt appears damp. I’m thinking it has to be sweat. But does sweat come on that fast? Taylor’s eyes widen because she sees it too, and Peter is laughing because, well, just because. I touch Bryce’s arm and feel the wetness on my fingers, and Bryce is in shock, but it’s happy shock, thrilled shock, he’s jumping up and down, saying one thing over and over again.