by Kara Storti
“Nice doing business with you.”
But they still don’t leave. Mike’s just standing there, antagonizing me with his eyes, and clutches his fingers tight around the bone. Silver Rings looks smug, Bandana is smirking. Then: a swing and a hit against the back of my head. Clunk. Seeing stars is an understatement. Meteor showers before I even hit the ground.
The last thing I hear is, “What did I tell you, Flynn? This shit is mine. Mine.”
-----
Everything smarts. Body parts I didn’t think I had are screaming in agony and the side of my face is pounding like a subwoofer. At first I don’t know where I am, at first I think I partied a little too hard and that I’m in for the hangovers of hangovers.
“Finn. Phineas,” she’s calling my name. Reality hits. And reality pretty much sucks.
I’m on the ground with my hands over my head as a shield way too late. Orah is bending over me, hand on my shoulder. Orah, one tough cookie, thank God she’s alive.
“Should I take you to the hospital?” I say, each syllable an ice pick to the head.
“You’re the one who needs a medic,” she says. “I’m fine. Just a few bumps and bruises.”
“Yeah right,” I say, finally turning my head and looking up at her. Bad idea. I almost pass out again. “We’re going. I’ll drive you there.” The aftershock of fear has blanched her lips, reddened her cheeks, purpled the skin under her eyes. Whoever invented emotions must have been a big fan of paint by number. I want to reach up, but my everything is weak, and I feel like a fool.
Her expression softens. “Not necessary. Let me look at you,” she says, crouching down. She places a shaky hand on my cheek, arctic fingertips, a chill that bites. Goddamn, I feel so bad, no one should have to go through something like this, she was probably a breath away from a heart attack.
“I’m sorry,” I say, croaking, but those words are rarely enough. In this case, they don’t even get me a quarter of the way to everything’s okay. But she’s looking at me with sympathy, like this was some scuffle on the playground, and a Band-Aid’s enough to patch it all up.
“You know the bone in the garden over there came from a deer?” she says, smiling weakly. “Bones work like Miracle-Gro. There are more of them in the soil, I’ll tell you that much—it took me a whole day to fertilize it.” She sits on her knees on the ground next to me, brushing the hair away from her face. “The garden was a way for me to be all by myself, instead of out in the open in my yard. Nice stretch of land here, just enough sunlight. My family knows about the flower, and about my addiction to it. But nobody knows about this place, not Dan, not even Billy. I hope those men don’t go snooping back there anymore. If they do, what if they eventually find the crypt?”
There’s that harsh tone and look I was expecting; a smack-down of accusation. We both sit there, me uncomfortable, her who knows? Then there’s the surprising fact that Stacey and company know that indigo is Orah’s kryptonite. I assumed they didn’t know about it, didn’t even know the flower existed. Have they done an intervention? Or have they given up on her?
“I’m sorry.” I’m a ball of shame. “I wasn’t expecting Mike to follow us out here.” But when I think about it, I really did. I just forgot for a while because of my laser focus on my plan. My thinking process is all crosshatched and zigzagged and making no flipping sense. Am I blind because of greed? Or because of all the poison in my system? I should have stopped the whole thing before we got to this point. Oh, Finn, you have reached a whole new level of stupid. You’ve compromised the location of the crypt, you nearly got Orah killed, all because you need a drug that will get Faith out of here.
I listen to the wind swoosh and whisper (shhhh, keep quiet now) through the leaves. I’m only seeing blackbirds around here, no color, no variation.
“How am I going to pay for my sister’s education?” I ask myself this, not realizing I’m speaking out loud. My anger at the situation is coming up full force, but it’s Orah who explodes.
“Is that all you’re thinking about?” she yells, slapping her hand on the ground. “We’re done. Consider this over.”
I sit up, and my head swims, unnerved by her watery, power-packed eyes. “What do you mean this is over? We just began. I mean, I can talk to Mike, and we can come to an agreement.” God, the words sound so lame coming out, I know, I don’t mean to be so damn . . .
“These young men don’t seem to be the diplomatic type,” she says flatly.
The muscles in my chest contract. I want to kill them for laying a hand on her, for ruining this endeavor. My throat is burning, my body limp, one big flat tire, time to pull this clunker off the road. I struggle to my feet, more shooting stars galore, and help her up too. I’m bitter, toward Mike, toward her, toward myself, toward the stupid blue sky and the longarmed trees.
“You don’t have to be involved anymore,” I say.
She looks at me straight on. “That wasn’t our deal. Don’t you see? This arrangement is for both of us. For me it’s about watching indigo slowly vanish . . . I need that to start over again, even though at one time it helped me start over again after Page’s death. And you—”
“What about me?” I challenge.
“Apart from the money, you mean? You don’t mind my company. You don’t mind the talking. The stories.”
This comment jars me because it’s so true. “I’ll still hang out with you,” I say, then wince at my word choice. Who uses the word “hang out” under these circumstances?
“Hang out?” That grin, man, that grin isn’t anything to smile about. “Hang out? It’s only a matter of time before my son-in-law catches us. Now that the word is out . . . I didn’t realize this put us in harm’s way. I thought you’d sell it quick enough that it wouldn’t even matter. And to think you’d want to continue now, after what happened?”
“I guess you underestimated indigo. And you underestimated me.” I know I sound cold, but she doesn’t get it, she just doesn’t.
She slinks away from me, slinks, that’s the only verb to describe it, as if she doesn’t want to brush up against me, contaminated Finn, as if she wants to slide right past the unraveling seam. I walk after her, but it only seems right that we don’t walk side by side, that I’m stuck behind, following, because what a dick move it is to argue against her, say, hey grandma, let’s put you in danger even more by continuing this. Even as my head pulses with pain. Even as my knuckles leak with blood. You’re a sick puppy, Finn. Sick. Yet continue I want, I want it so bad, we were onto something, we were, we are, and those stories, the magic, man, wouldn’t you have a hard time letting go?
Monday, May 20
Chapter Thirty
Though days have passed, I’m still shaken up by the Mike encounter. What’s going to happen now? Nothing good seems to be a trend of late. As I walk down the hallway at school—with no indigo to sell—I’m trying to ignore the vibes coming from indigo users. The forgetfulness and general haziness. The quietest girl—who was so vibrant a week ago—isn’t talking anymore in class; it seems like no one is talking anymore. Everyone is floating through the world between hits. I’m beginning to notice that Bryce is more out of it than usual too—always forgetting his keys, misplacing his hat, staring into space for long periods of time . . . I guess paradise wouldn’t be paradise if you could go there all the time. I thought I was helping everyone, but I don’t know anymore. Maybe I was helping them to forget everything except what was in the past, in the pursuit of Faith’s future and mine. As they float through, I’m tempted to float along with them, do a line of coke, pop another pill, catch whatever wave I can to escape.
I’m in front of my locker when I feel fingers clamp down on my arm. I turn around and see Stacey who looks like the perfect definition of pissed off—figures she would ace at being angry. I’m kind of enthused just her being around me, though this disgusts me, getting all worked up even when she wants to tear my balls off. I’m a pig of the highest order. She slams me into my locker, her gre
en I will cut you eyes up in my face, I’ve never had a girl be so aggressive and mean it for real. Except maybe Faith.
“Can I help you?” I ask, half smirking, half smiling. I’ve been told this is a good look for me. She’s totally not buying it. She reaches into her pocket and slams something against my chest. It slides down my shirt, and I catch it before it hits the ground. A baggie of indigo. Fuck me. Of course this was going to happen.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask. An instant shot of sweaty and uncomfortable.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, smacking my chest again. I step to the side, away from her unpredictable hands.
“Whoa, whoa, I haven’t done anything wrong,” I say, cramming the indigo into my back pocket.
All of a sudden her face crumples. This is the only time—besides the pig incident—I’ve seen her tough façade break. I want to take her into my arms and put her back together again. Of course this was going to happen sooner or later, and I should have planned for an indisputable rationalization. My sister, she needs my help; Orah, she needs a friend; and me, I like the rush of dealing drugs. The headiness of potential danger. Plus I was going to stop, I swear. It all sounds so grandly lame and worn out, even in my head.
“Indigo, Finn. At first when it hit the school, I thought it was the other strain called flower circulating around . . . and then I take a close look at this—the deeper blue color? Nothing looks like that, besides what we have in our family. Everyone thinks it’s the best thing ever, right?” She’s breathing hard through her nose, and it’s not unattractive, not in the least.
I’m bowled over by the fact she knows about flower. Orah had told me that Stacey was aware of her addiction of indigo, but this is making me wonder what else Stacey knows.
“Things are complicated, I can explain.”
She groans. Students move around her, barely glancing, they don’t want their ogling too obvious. She’s still a hot topic these days. New girl. Out of everyone’s league. You can look but you can’t touch.
She wrenches me by the wrist—ouch—to a semiprivate area underneath the stairway where some rather shady business has gone down. Groping, dealing, cheating, all that good stuff. Never made an indigo drop there, though, too conspicuous. But here’s Stacey, in the shadow of the staircase, pulling something from her backpack. A bright-red wallet. Fumbling around inside it. She slides out a rectangle and slaps it into my hand.
“Look,” she says, as if my life depends on it.
In my hand is a picture of a guy, maybe around my age, maybe a little older. Good-looking dude, I guess, if you want to go there, green eyes, light brown hair, all-knowing smirk kind of like mine, with a ghastly scar on the left side of his face. Spreading from his forehead to his cheek down to his neck—waaaaay worse than mine. I know without looking too hard that it’s a burn scar, and that similarity hurts.
“This is Billy,” she says, accentuating his name, pointing at the photo in my hand. “My brother. Mimi’s grandson.”
“Why—”
“Don’t even,” she says, holding her hand up to shush me. “Don’t even say a word. The reason why he is the way he is? Because of this drug you’re peddling. The reason why he isn’t a part of our family anymore? Because of this drug you’re peddling. The reason why my whole family is in danger? Because of this drug you’re peddling.” Stacey impatiently swipes a tear off her face; she’s clearly repulsed at herself for getting this upset. I wish I could embrace her. I wish I could understand.
“What happened to him?” I ask, but she’s not listening.
“I don’t think you’re working with Billy—he’s in a place where he won’t be found. Where he doesn’t want to be found. The only explanation is that you’re working with Mimi. I know she uses indigo—or used to. We all know she does even though we don’t talk about it. I just didn’t think she was going to partner up for a business venture.” She throws her hands up in the air with exasperation. “She’s not in her right mind, obviously. Want to know why? Because of this drug you’re peddling. Years of abuse and she thinks that it’s a good idea to team up with you, without thinking of the consequences. She doesn’t think. She can’t think. Indigo screws with your head. Just like every other drug out there. It tempts, it thrills, it feasts. She’s on her way down, Finn. My brother’s already there. Looks like you’re following.”
I’m not doing indigo, I think, though I’m doing everything else under the sun. Obviously I don’t say this. Also, her comment about indigo screwing with your head? Immediate guilt rips through me when I think of the students’ recent behavior.
“Oh, and how about this,” she continues, her cheeks flushed. “A year ago an associate of a drug kingpin caught Billy dosing up on indigo. Billy was working at a pizza place in the city backed by said criminal and was stupid enough to get high on his break—not that he knew he was collecting his paychecks from a gangster. The gangster’s associate thought he saw a piece of paper appear out of nowhere, right in front of Billy as he was flying high . . . that magic that goes along with it, you know? The associate grabbed it and realized that it was a lottery ticket. He realized that the drug was going to be a gold mine. It goes without saying that the drug king found out about the powder, and that’s when the trouble for my family began.”
“Orah never told me about this. And you’re talking about Early, right?”
She steps back, surprised, assessing me, assessing what she should tell me next. “Orah isn’t aware of the gang ties. And yes, it’s Early. And you need to hear the whole story so you understand how royally you fucked up.”
“Sure, okay,” I say quietly. I want to hear everything, I have to hear everything. This is my chance to learn about the notorious Early—finally.
Stacey looks at her hands, strong and steady, doctor’s hands. “Early and his people were up my family’s ass. Late-night phone calls, letters, drive-bys and dead animals on our front doorstep, until my dad got scared, and my dad doesn’t scare easily. So he and Billy took them to a cemetery plot outside of New York where Billy was growing the flower, and they taught Early how to grow the flowers on Early’s own property. My dad figured that if Early could grow his own supply of indigo, he wouldn’t bother us again.”
“But I thought indigo was only from Klaski DNA?” I ask. I’m confused, this is too much to take in, the mob growing its own indigo because Stacey’s dad showed them a new cemetery—another site for indigo?
“When Billy was fourteen, he saw Orah snorting it. He wouldn’t leave her alone about it until she finally gave in and told him she’d gotten it from our mother’s gravesite. I guess he figured out it had to do with the bones, or Orah told him. I don’t know. But we didn’t live with Orah then, so he dug up the roots of some of the plants of Mom’s gravesite and took them home with him. He experimented planting it on the gravesites of this cemetery outside the city. The little roots manage to seep into the tiniest cracks of the coffins. The bones nourished them and the flowers grew, although they weren’t as strong as the ones from our mother’s grave. By the time he was our age, he was addicted. Now that he’s twenty, you can imagine that he’s not in the best shape. The drug seems okay at first, it makes you happy, but then it turns against you, just like any drug.”
Okay, she clearly knew a lot more than Orah. So I ask her what had been weighing on my mind ever since I encountered indigo. “So do you think the virus or whatever causes the Klaskis to die is what is in indigo and what makes it so powerful?”
My question calms her down. Now we’re into the realm of science, her realm.
“Maybe. Or maybe everyone has the virus, and it’s just lying dormant. Ever heard of the insanity virus? Scientists theorize that we all have a virus that leads to schizophrenia, and it could be triggered by something like the flu. So it could be that our family just has a really virulent strain of it for some reason, and it actually kills us and causes the flowers to grow.”
“But the lottery ticket that appeared when Billy tripp
ed out?” And Bryce’s Gatorade? I don’t tell her about the smell of pinecones on my hands.
She jumps on this, excited. “Science is fact-based; researchers haven’t even begun to think about the metaphysical. That’s what I want to do when I’m a doctor, to see what else exists out there that we don’t understand yet.”
Is this an alternate universe I’ve found myself in? She doesn’t want to clobber me anymore, she wants to actually talk to me, about her past, her future.
She sighs, and goes back to her story. “My dad didn’t interfere when Early ran his flower game in the city, and he left us alone. But Billy disappeared, and my dad felt we should move here with Orah, and maybe help save one person in the family. It seemed like it was over, we were done with it. But now things are going to change if Early catches wind of indigo in D-Town. He considers this drug to be his, no matter whose bones it came from. You’re in danger, Finn.” She swallows, I freeze.
This is an overload of information for me to process. I knew I was in danger when it came to Mike—but she’s really driving the point home that there are bigger issues at play here. Mike’s business is beans in comparison to Early’s enterprise.
“I didn’t know. I—”
She interrupts. “I shouldn’t be aware of all this, but I put the pieces together from what Billy and my father told me. Mimi doesn’t know, has no clue about all the crap my dad went through in the city. We all wanted to shield her, even though she started it all by telling Billy about the drug.”
I’m feeling a little defensive now. Orah is my pal, my partner. I don’t want her to be the reason for all of this. She just wanted to get rid of the stuff, to start over. I’m the one who fucked up, not her. I open my mouth to say this, but Stacey jumps in.
“She’s not thinking. What she’s doing with you, it’s just because she wants Billy back. She wants a grandson again. She thinks you’re him. I mean she knows you’re not, not all the time. But it’s like you’re filling a hole in her. I love her, but it’s crazy what she’s doing.”