Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  We won! We won! We won!

  Peter falls to the ground, cracking up, his arms around Taylor’s legs. Soon she’s on the floor too, in hysterics. Bryce is looking down at himself, at the dabs of liquid in the palm of his hand that appear clear in color, but if it hits the light just right, there’s almost a reddish tinge. But then again, I’m not as lucid as I could be right now.

  “Dude,” Bryce says, holding out his hand so I can see better. I raise my eyebrows. He licks the water on him and whispers again, we won. What is Bryce tasting? Why does he look so thunderstruck?

  “Your memory,” I say to Bryce. I have to know. “What was it?”

  Peter and Taylor are tickling each other now on the bed, and I yell at them to pipe down. They listen for about a half second, then they’re at it again.

  Bryce smiles, licks the palm of his hand once again, excitedly. Taylor cheers with her hands raised, and Peter tickles her armpit, eliciting a squeal from her that’s so high-pitched we all cover our ears.

  Bryce squeezes my arm. and I try not to wince from the pain of it. “Do you remember when we were on the baseball team in middle school? We were playing against the Spartans, and I hit a home run that won us the game? Do you remember that?” His words are hurried; he’s almost stuttering. I vaguely recall this.

  “You were never good at baseball, but that day you were,” I say slowly, dredging up the memory of the game from hundreds of almost equally unmemorable ones.

  “I was on fire. Even the coach—he finally called me by my last name. Nauset. Like he did with the rest of you,” Bryce says. “After I won the game, you all ran toward me, even the others from the dugout. Picked me up.” Bryce squeezes his eyes shut, trying hard to see it clearly again. “Picked me up and dumped cherry Gatorade on my head.”

  Gatorade.

  Holy moly and then more moly. I have to sit down—but the others, the idea of magic occurring right here, right now—gives them boundless energy. Bryce joins Peter and Taylor playfully wrestling on the floor, yelping, their breath raspy and ecstatic, until they get this grand idea to roll down the gradual slope of Bryce’s backyard. They haven’t quite registered the insanity of what we’ve all witnessed; they’re flying so high it’s hard to watch, but I follow them outside and watch them anyway. Peter’s yelling something about a cut on his skin, “It just appeared out of nowhere! Spontaneous boo-boo!” I’m not sure what Taylor brought back from her own indigo trip, but I’ve never seen her so giddy and elated either.

  The stars are smudged across the sky, and a single cloud swipes against the moon and moves on. Taylor tumbles first, then Peter, then Bryce, roll, roll, roll, down the hill, I’m surprised they’re moving so fast, or maybe it’s my brain that can’t keep up. Their bodies crush the grass, bringing up the scent of lawnmowers. I sit down at the top of the hill, light up, take a hit, and exhale, the smoke thick around me. I’m the moon and it’s the cloud about to blot me out. Even if I were to try indigo again, I know I wouldn’t be coming back from it thrilled about the world and my friends. Maybe I deserve the blackout, the bathroom floor, the drool on my face, while being barred from their manic joy. I don’t feel like myself, and they don’t seem to care that I’m up here and they’re down there, captivated by wonder and the potential for different dimensions; a multitude of them. It’s like I’m not even here.

  Friday, April 26

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A textbook is next to me on the bed, because I promise I’m going to get to my homework, I need to get to it even on a Friday night, because I’m almost failing history and math. However, at present, I hold a new glass bowl in my hands. The colors on this one are of the female cardinal variety, grays, muted reds, and tans. Perfect match with my tattoo. I close my eyes and let the high seep in and go about its wonderful business.

  My sister bursts into our bedroom. I reluctantly open my eyes. Her face is red, the color of the male cardinal variety. She pinches my shoulder, way too hard.

  “Ow, you little—”

  She makes a grating noise with her mouth closed. “Guess who called me today, Phineas? Just guess,” she says.

  “I don’t know. Barack Obama?” I say, picking up the weed clumps that fell to the floor.

  She pauses, clenching her jaw. “You’re so funny I can’t even stand it.” She hits me on the shoulder; I look at her appalled. “Harvard. Harvard called me. Asking me about student loans. Telling me the housing options available, because I didn’t specify on the online form. I’m not going there, Phineas. I’m going to community college. I told you. You can’t hijack my life like this.”

  Her nostrils are flared, and she gets all angry teacher on me, shaking her finger. Maybe what I did was wrong in her mind, but I know she’ll thank me later. When she’s older with a six-bedroom house, four-car garage, and two practical but pricey sedans, she’ll take me aside and say, Phineas, you were right. You’re a pain in the ass, but right.

  “You’re going,” I say. “I know you want to. And I’m taking care of it. Just relax and enjoy your time there, and let me worry about financing your education.”

  She lunges toward me and yells, “Stop telling me what to do! I’ve had it with this brother-knows-best crap. You’ve been doing it since forever, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you. You don’t think I’m smart enough to make my own decisions?”

  I sit on the edge of the bed and calmly set the bowl on the nightstand. Her lips are turning pale. I take her arm and pull her down so she’s seated next to me.

  “Of course you’re smart enough,” I say gently. “You’re smart enough for anything.”

  She massages her temples and takes a deep breath, just like her counselor told her to do.

  “You’ve been certified out-of-control lately. Peter said—”

  Fucking Peter. One moment he’s on my side, the next moment he’s telling Faith I’m the devil. It’s not like he’s the straightest edge in the world—and I think that might be part of it. He’s got one foot in the chaos of my world, and the other foot in the order of Faith’s. How he does not flip-flop between the two? “What did he tell you now? That I’m a horrible person and murdered a litter of kittens?”

  Groaning, she readjusts her eye patch. “He knows you were shooting up, but you lied. Typical addict behavior. Lying, not thinking you did anything wrong, oh, it’s just recreational, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Faith, I’m letting loose because of all the pressure.”

  Her face twists up. “What pressure? Is your life that bad?”

  I ignore this. “Is that why you told Stacey about me? Thought you could use her for a mini-intervention?”

  She looks shocked. “That was all her idea, bud.”

  “But you were talking about me. Talking behind my back. So not cool, sis.” I shake my head and squeeze my lids shut. It still pains me to think that my sister would discuss my business with Stacey, with anyone, rather than come to me first. Where’s the kinship? The loyalty?

  “Yeah, I was talking about you. You’re my twin brother. My favorite person in the world . . . and I think you need help. Like rehab. Before it gets worse.” As her face flushes, she continues. “I was looking into outpatient programs around here, there’s this one in Albany that looks promising—”

  “Faith,” I say, more forceful than I want. My history textbook falls to the floor. I try to make my voice sound steady, less defensive. “I’m fine. Do you hear me? I could stop right now if I wanted. It wouldn’t be a big deal.”

  “Right,” she says, shaking her head. “Just like you could stop dealing that new crap that everyone’s talking about. Indigo this, indigo that. I’m not going to be financed by your drug money. You look terrible, by the way. Strung out.”

  I fight against exasperation. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Let me make my own decisions, Phineas.” She pauses, pins me with her beautiful eye. “You can’t buy away your guilt.”

  This is the first time she’s said something li
ke this. I’m frozen. Or wilting. Or both. My high from a few minutes ago plummets and shatters, and it’s like waking up not knowing whose bed you’re in. Buy away my guilt? I mean, how dare she even bring that up—the very act of mentioning it affirms that I am to blame, for that day, for many days.

  “That’s not what I’m trying—”

  She stops me by holding up her hand. “Then whatever you are doing, stop it. Live your life. Fix your own, instead of trying to fix mine. I’ve proven to be a pretty capable person, don’t you think? One eye and all?”

  Normally her self-confidence and self-reliance wouldn’t bother me, but today I don’t think I can take it. I’ve tried to pretend I’ve got enough confidence to go around, to go around twice, but Faith knows my act. It used to be charming, even endearing. Soon, however, it’ll be pitiful, and Faith will see it as such. That can never happen. Faith can’t ever pity me. If I could only make her understand.

  “I just want the best for you. You deserve the best,” I say.

  Her expression grows mournful. “What do you deserve, then?”

  “The world and puppies,” I say, hoping for a laugh and an immediate end to this conversation. I get neither.

  “Come on, Finn, seriously.”

  “I don’t know!” I yell. Faith flinches, and I quietly apologize; the last thing I want to do is alarm her, to scare her like I did with Taylor. What I don’t say is that when I think about it, when I really, truly think about it, it becomes not a matter of what I deserve, but of what I’ve got coming to me.

  Faith stands up. She fetches her lip gloss, changes into her “going out” eye patch (lined with rhinestones), checks her face in the mirror, and throws on a black blazer.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Hanging out with Stacey and a few friends at Peter’s.” She swipes her brush through her hair one final time, then throws it on her bed.

  “Oh,” I say, thrown by her response. Peter’s? I knew nothing of this gathering, and I’m always invited. Am I being punished for bad behavior? Excluded on purpose? Faith shrugs as if she hears my thoughts.

  When Faith leaves, I look through the bedroom window and watch her hop into Stacey’s car—a powder-blue Prius—and immediately they’re throwing their heads back, laughing, I can hear them from inside the trailer. Probably laughing at me, at the drugs and desperation, the supposed lack of motivation. Prosophobia my ass.

  Saturday, April 27

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The sun’s serious business this morning, heating up the gravestones so much they’re too hot to touch. I’m waiting for Orah on the bench next to the mausoleum, I have my pocket bird book, and binoculars around my neck; I puff on a cigarette. The day is almost filled with promise.

  Orah’s coming around the bend. She’s taking it slow, up the hill, her head bent to the ground, her old feet stepping carefully. I think about running down there and taking her arm, steadying her a bit, but I know pride when I see it.

  “Phineas,” she says when she’s finally reached me, extending her hand. It’s a firm handshake, one that’s strong but not trying too hard. The best kind.

  “Only my sister calls me that. Finn is good.”

  “I think I’ll call you whatever I like, thank you very much.”

  “Um, okay then,” I say, stubbing out my cigarette. Now I see where Stacey gets her stubbornness.

  She hikes up her elastic waistband pants and sits next to me on the bench, revealing light-pink socks she probably got as a six-pack at Walmart. I wonder how close she is with Stacey. I wonder if they’ve ever talked about me in the morning room.

  “Indigo’s been selling like crazy. It’s already gone.” I hope that this comment will prove to her how trustworthy I am, how right I was, and prompt her to give me another bagful, but it doesn’t. Her face is angled away from me.

  “Indigo. Is that what you’re calling it?”

  Her voice is neutral, and I want to fill in the silence, get some enthusiasm going. “Yeah, the name has really been catching on. I saw your indigo buntings print, and it seemed way appropriate. Is that your favorite of Audubon’s?” I know I’m talking too much, but I can’t stop.

  “It’s one of my favorites. I like how the female bird is so self-assured in that one.”

  “Me too,” I say, not able to hide the passion in my voice.

  “I also have Audubon’s snowy owls,” she says, squinting in the sun. Her voice seems to be warming up just a bit.

  “You do? That’s a good one as well.” In that picture there are two owls—male and female—perched on separate branches, against that backdrop of a thunder-ripe sky. Their yellow eyes assault, question, challenge you, and even though the female’s left eye is barely there, the picture is a thousand stares tearing into you at once.

  Orah studies me. First she scans my tattoo, then the holes in my earlobes from earrings I never put in, then the simple silver band I wear on my forefinger. Faith gave it to me for my birthday one year—she said it gave me a hint of sophistication and class. I thought it just looked cool.

  “What?” I ask, addressing her examination. It’s the only way to get what I want. And, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m pretty comfortable on this bench, in spite of her inspection. The fact that she loves Audubon’s snowy owls helps too. The woman’s got good taste.

  “I’m just looking at you and your ornamentation. Tell me about your tattoo.” She points to it and frowns—not meanly, just out of concentration.

  I go on automatic with the explanation, holding out my forearm so she can take a decent gander. “Female cardinal. Beautiful, understated, powerful. Just like the kind of women I respect, the kind of girl I hope to be with.”

  Orah leans back away from me. “Oh, now, Phineas, what is the real meaning behind it?”

  “Huh?” I say, alarmed. Did I just get called out? “I like birds, that’s all. You know that.”

  She looks at me and waits, still not buying it. I bounce my knee, and I sigh, surrendering to the fact that even my best charm isn’t going to slide with this lady. Fine, I think, I’ll play nice.

  I grudgingly begin, “When my sister was in the hospital . . . because of something stupid I did . . . anyway, there was a light-red and gray female cardinal that landed on the windowsill of her room. It would come every day, without fail, during the time she was there. At first I didn’t think she was seeing it, she wasn’t talking much and—and they had her so hopped up on meds she barely knew right from left. But it was like . . . the bird knew to be patient . . . so she kept coming back, roughly around the same time every day, you know? Perched right there, watching, singing a song or two. The first time Faith saw it, she moved her hand toward the window. Phineas, she said, that bird’s got a crush on you. First words out of her in days.”

  I laugh softly, swiping the back of my hand across my eyes. I realize that this is the first time I’m telling someone, besides my sister, the real reason why I got the tattoo. The slingshot of emotions hitting me right now, all I can say is, um wow, and um embarrassing, yet Orah’s not even commenting on it, not staring me down—she isn’t even looking at me, and I feel so damn grateful for that. Like, this lady gets it.

  “Did you think it was a sign?” Orah asks, finally accepting my answer.

  I shrug. “Signs are like believing in horoscopes. You can always squeeze out some kind of relevance.”

  Orah nods. “Yes, but I think it’s more than that. Signs are real. They are all around—it’s just up to you to interpret them.”

  I have a response right away. “Then it’s not really about the sign itself, but about the interpretation,” I say. “It’s bogus. I used to think that seeing this one bird—an albino sparrow—was a sign of some serious good luck, only because it was such a rare sighting. Everything that happened afterward was just . . . it was just life . . . bad or good or boring. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, and I think it’s kind of a waste of time, constantly trying to read a future you aren’t eve
r going to know.”

  Orah seems to consider this. Maybe I would have told her something different if the blowout hadn’t happened with Stacey. Maybe I would have told her, like I’d told Stacey, that bird sighting was good luck. But now I’m starting to believe that the sparrow was an albatross, telling me I’ve got to start watching my back.

  “The right interpretation of a sign isn’t the important thing,” Orah says. “It’s the paying attention. It’s the noticing. These days people are running too fast to really see. Me included. I have to tell myself to slow it down, or else. It’s a game to keep myself in check—how fast are you going today on a scale of one to ten? Anything above an eight isn’t sustainable on a daily basis for anyone. And an old lady like me? I need twos and threes, or I’m in trouble.”

  Her side of the bench is all sun, mine is all shade. Is this supposed to mean something too? I rest my elbow on the back of the bench. A robin is standing watch in the grass. I guess I never really viewed life that way—an exercise in paying attention—and that we may have a personal responsibility to see a rose and take a giant whiff.

  “I paid attention to that cardinal, I’ll tell you that much,” I say. “It would look at me, and I swore in her eyes there was something human. A soul trapped in her body, but not really trapped, you know? You can’t really be trapped when you can fly.” There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought about that cardinal; my tattoo, my sister, and how we both want to take flight from D-Town, maybe from ourselves—the tattoo is a daily reminder.

  Her eyes shift back and forth, like the carriage of a typewriter. She’s probably thinking, wow, this kid is batshit, what have I gotten myself into?