Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  I’m shaken now. Is Orah doing all this because she wants to think I’m someone else? She doesn’t really care about me? Now I feel like I’m wrong about everything. All I can do is try to fix this.

  “I have contacts, I can make a deal with Early. We’ll come to an agreement. The city is one territory—why would he care about D-Town?”

  Stacey laughs. It’s harsh, it grinds, there’s so much strength behind it, so much—

  Stacey-ness.

  “Make a deal? Who are you? You can’t make a deal with Early. He’s straight-up OG. Original gangster. He’ll want control of the better strain right away. He’ll want it all. He’ll have no reason to negotiate with you. You have no clout.”

  It’s sinking in. This isn’t a Mike we’re talking about. This is an Al Capone. I’m fucked.

  She’s nodding, seeing the panic break out on my face. “I feel so stupid that I didn’t figure out it was you and Orah sooner. I heard about people using it in school, I saw them using it, but I thought the gangster’s version had managed to work its way up from the city to here. And then this morning, when I took a look at this—” She lifts up the bag of indigo. “I knew that wasn’t the case. This is what Orah uses. And now you’re dealing it.”

  At this point she’s glaring at me again. I knew it had to come back around to this, but I’m feeling ashamed and defensive. “You don’t know . . .” I start.

  She shoots a look of contempt at me that shuts me up fast. “Every particle of me wants to rat you out to my father. That it’s you who started this mess. But Mimi is involved too, and that makes it more complicated. She can’t be tied up in this.”

  I think about Mike, about how Orah must have hidden the bruises on her neck somehow when she went home. She’s already tied up in this. “I swear to you, I’ll make it right,” I say firmly, testosterone surging. And I mean it too. I’ll take the heat, because I can figure this out. That’s what I do, that’s my thing. I’d save her before I’d save myself, I really would.

  With bitterness she says, “You’re so naïve, Finn. I know you’ve got some major issues, Faith has told me a lot. And I’m not saying that I’m a model case in good mental health. But you resorted to drugs. Mimi and Billy—they resorted to drugs. You know what I resorted to? Nothing. I resorted to living. To dealing with it. To accepting that there is no perfect remedy. You’ve got to wade through the shit, face the world. Cowards. That’s what you all are. Fucking cowards.”

  She’s right. I feel evil, fit for hell, but there’s part of me that wants sympathy too, that wants a pat on the back for trying to do something good with all this bad.

  “Me dealing indigo?” I whisper. “It isn’t for me. It’s for Faith.”

  “She doesn’t want your help. At least not like this.” She almost spits it.

  “You don’t know anything about my sister,” I snap. I’m the one who held my sister’s hand while we waited for the ambulance, who sat with her in the hospital day after day.

  She smiles tightly. “I know that Faith had a panic attack last night. Peter and I thought we were going to have to bring her to the hospital. You know what we’d been talking about? You. We were talking about what a mess you are and that Faith feels hopeless about how to help you.”

  It takes effort to think of a rebuttal for this. It takes effort to think. People talking behind my back, my sister and Peter—now Stacey. The three of them are ganging up on me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. All I’m feeling is betrayal. Betrayal and loss.

  Stacey plows on. She’s relentless, she wants nothing left of me. “I can’t believe I went on a date with you. I can’t believe I thought that this,” she says, gesturing at the space between us, “would work.”

  I wince. “Give me another chance.”

  “It’s too late.”

  The bell rings for class, startling me. She’s getting ready to leave. This is it. So I say the only words I can think of, the ones that I mean.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. She shrugs and walks away. They don’t mean anything to her.

  And now there really is nothing left. She hates me. Faith hates me, and so does Peter. I’ve endangered Orah. I’ve gotten involved with a drug kingpin. The classroom I’m supposed to be in I’ve already passed, and I’m reaching for the keys to my car, wanting nothing more than to get home, shoot up, shut my eyes, shut myself down for a while. Besides, I know what I have to do. Just like I told Stacey, I have to find Early.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I come out of my haze when Faith gets home from school. She throws her bag and jacket on the bed, and as she goes back out to the bathroom, I rummage through the bag trying to find her iPhone. I’ve got a plan. Can’t find the phone, though. I scoop through books, papers, eye shadow—tons of eye shadow—no, no, no. Grrrrrr. Her jacket. Pawing through her pockets. Got it. I hear the toilet flush. Goddammit.

  The first thing I see is a text from Peter:

  R u coming over? I can’t stop thinking about u.

  I take a moment to collect myself because first, I don’t like thinking about my sister with other dudes, and second, it’s Peter. Origami crane-making, sporadic stoner, highly attuned and intuitive Peter. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with him, or them together for that matter. That’s not the point. He didn’t tell me, she didn’t tell me. All this shit they’re hiding from me; I’m getting sick of it. What else is she not telling me? I grab the two oxys I have in my pocket and pop them in my mouth. Aaaah. The warmth. The relief. It feels like home.

  I hear Faith coming out of the bathroom. I scroll through her contacts, see Jason’s name and number, and fire off a quick text to him:

  D-Town Diner. 9 pm tonight.

  He’s going to piss himself when he sees it’s Faith sending the message. It grosses me out, thinking about the thrilled look on his face when he gets the text, but I don’t dwell on it. I delete my sent message and delete Jason’s insanely fast response (ok . . . c u soon), sneak her cell phone back into her pocket, and throw myself back on my bed just as she comes in. She stands there in the middle of the floor, eyeing me. I sit up and wait for some kind of snarky comment or scolding about my behavior—Stacey has probably already told her about the shit storm I’ve gotten myself in with indigo and gangsters. Or maybe she doesn’t want to involve Faith and is keeping it under wraps. Who knows?

  The eye patch Faith wears today is suitable for school—it’s black with sparkly purple around the edge— but not at home where she likes to be comfortable. There’s a sky blue one that she likes, the texture of satin, and that’s the one she’s reaching for now after she sets the books on her desk. I can sometimes gauge her mood by her eye patch—today I’m coming up with nothing.

  “Stacey hates me,” I say, curious of her reaction.

  Faith snickers as she looks at herself in the mirror, straightening the patch. I know she doesn’t look at herself out of vanity—I think she’s searching for something in her reflection, maybe she’s checking on her anxiety to see if it’s receding or if it’s pushing through. She doesn’t think I notice her deer-in-headlights look in the school hallway or the worry that hits her face for a split second when she hears Pop’s voice. The anxiety attack she had at Peter’s is just going to lead to more. I wonder if he took care of her. I wonder if he knew what to do in the first place.

  “She has every right to,” she says to me in the mirror.

  I collapse on my bed. My comforter feels like a dream, and my body is light, ghostlike, a flame’s flicker away from good night. Go ahead Faith, talk your head off.

  She’s right on cue. “Do you remember when we were twelve, and you just discovered alcohol? You and Bryce would steal liquor from Bryce’s grandparents every Saturday, and they would never notice?”

  “What’s your point?” I mumble, barely knowing the language that’s coming out of my mouth. Her smile is distant, not meant for me. Or at least not the now me.

  “You used to hide the bottles underneath your bed bef
ore you got smart and started putting your stash underneath the floorboards.”

  She pulls her fingers through her long hair. My disjointed memories of those days still feel close—the first time I got drunk was on rum and Cokes at Peter’s house: lots of laughing about nothing, stumbling into furniture, rough-housing until we broke a lamp and two glasses. I puked so much the next morning I popped blood vessels underneath my eyes. I wait, floating, for her to continue.

  “You were so mad when you found all your liquor gone one day after school. And when you went back to the grandparents’ house, they had locked up their liquor cabinet.”

  I nod languidly, remembering all of this, even through the haze of my all-encompassing, knockout OC high.

  “I was so pissed, dude. Anyway, you got drunk with me, a few times. Hello, selective memory.” My arm’s up for a moment, gesticulating, but then it collapses with a thunk. Lead bones, lead brain, I think to myself, or rather, I not-think.

  She closes her eye, and her face is a mixture of sadness and disappointment. “I was the one who got rid of your alcohol, Phineas. I was the one who made up a story when I ran into Bryce’s grandparents at the grocery store that they should lock up all their cabinets because there had been burglaries around their neighborhood. You know how gullible they were.”

  I sit up, too fast, I see stars by the time I’m upright.

  “You,” I say, barely feeling my lips from the high. “You told Stacey I’m dealing indigo.” It’s staggering I’m not even mad. Thank you OC.

  Faith nibbles a finger. “Well, she pretty much knew but yeah, I did. She asked if it was you, and I told her, because maybe she’ll get through to you since I can’t.”

  I don’t say anything, and she hovers over me. “You know what? Forget it. You are totally zonked right now.” Tired disappointment is in her voice.

  There is silence as I let this marinate. Then I start to laugh. “You bet I am, sister. I don’t even fucking care. Go ahead, sabotage my relationships. Sabotage me.” Another wave of laughter erupts from me. “How did you know it was me?” I ask. I cup my hand over my mouth. It does nothing to quell the giggles.

  “Peter told me.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the wall next to her bed, facing me.

  “Peter!” I exclaim in complete hysterics, cackling until my gut hurts. She narrows her eye and examines me. Do I tell her I know about her and Peter? I decide against it because I’m tired, and frankly, I just don’t care. Those two can ride off into the sunset together on their high and mighty horses. Orah asks me why I do drugs? For shit like this. For what I can’t handle and for which I need a buffer, and what better buffer is there than an instant cushion of oblivion?

  “I’ll admit I’ve seen the things that indigo can do. Or maybe it’s because I’ve heard about its magic. It could be the power of suggestion,” Faith says, her tone turning serious. “I witnessed Peter dosed up on indigo . . . afterward he started talking all this nonsense, didn’t make a lick of sense. I’m glad he’s laying off the stuff now.”

  “You’ve been hanging out with him a lot, haven’t you?” I ask, I can’t resist. Maybe she’ll tell me without any prompting.

  She brushes me off and continues, “It was nighttime, but I swear a scratch appeared out of nowhere on his hand that wasn’t there before. The rest of the day, he wasn’t all there. Saying all this weird shit about some chick—he dropped a name. Nancy, or something like that. The cut started to bleed. Bleed.” Her breath is a gust from her half-open mouth. “Indigo is borderline evil, brother. That’s some voodoo nastiness right there. You’re spreading it, and it’s only going to come back to you in the worst of ways.”

  If only she knew it already was. I sigh. My high, my fickle friend, isn’t going to last very long, I can already see the front edge of it backing away, and I imagine myself holding a gun up to its face. Don’t you dare move. Not until I tell you to.

  “Nancy,” I say, fidgeting with my comforter. “That was his babysitter. When we were like nine, she was the first girl we ever got a hard-on for.” Even though the scratch probably hurt him, his crush on Nancy was enough to cancel out any pain. I can see why this is one of his favorite memories. The comfort of being taken care of. The simplicity of being a kid again.

  “That’s gross.” She makes a face.

  “Well, whatever. I can handle the situation. I’m handling it as we speak.”

  Suddenly she’s grabbing at my arm, pulling my sleeve up. “Just like you’re handling that?” she says, pointing at the track marks. I didn’t think they looked that bad. I mean, they really don’t, and the light’s kind of bright in our room, and there are only a few slight bruises. I vow to myself, here and now, that I won’t be doing H for a very long time.

  Instead of yelling and screaming and calling the cops and thirty rehab facilities, she sits next to me and presses down the knuckle of my forefinger, so my finger is straight, just like she used to do when we were little, to get me to pay attention. Pay attention, Phineas. She used to do it during long car rides when she liked the way the autumn trees looked. Or when we’d hear Mom and Pop fight. Or when we’re out with friends, and I’m acting up. The pressure right now is hard and unrelenting. I’m surprised by the solidness of her hand. I tell her with my eyes, you don’t understand, you don’t get the deep, dark, black, crypt coffin that’s made its home inside me, digging its roots deep into my core. She tells me with her eye that she does know, but she won’t accept this is how it has to be, because we’re so alike and that should carry me past the crypt and past the core straight to the other side, the Faith side, to a color of the rainbow where I’ll sit and wait for the next color and the next and the next. That spectrum that Orah was talking about. I think to myself: just let me do this thing, ride this out, Faith. She nods, I nod, we’re twins, we get it. She’s not going to give up on me just yet, but she also knows there is only so much she can do to help her beyond-damaged brother. As if to tell me this, she won’t let up on my knuckle, she keeps holding it down, harder and harder until we’re both red in the face, eyes locked, minds locked on all these things, the things we don’t say.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The D-Town Queen Diner is known for serving up grease with a side of fries. Jason loves it there, and I know for a fact he goes every week to gorge on cheeseburgers and milk shakes. My bird watching to his binge-fest. I’ve known this about him for a while, and he never gains weight. Some time has passed since I kicked the crap out of him, so I might have more luck pumping him for information about Early now than I did before.

  When I arrive five minutes before nine o’clock, he’s looking about 80 percent Neanderthal, give or take. Scrawnier, scruffier, straggly black hair down to his chin, clothes that look more like rags. Whatever state of mind he’s in might work for me or against me, I’m not sure, but I have to make things right. He’s balls deep in texting on his iPhone, so it gives me a chance to plunk right down in the booth next to him so he can’t get out. It takes him a second to turn and realize that Faith didn’t decide he’s the love of her life.

  “Fuck. You,” he says, trying to get up to leave.

  “Sit the fuck down,” I say. He’s halfway standing when I slam him back to his seat. “I want to help you.” I have him so trapped, unless he wants to hop over the table and cause a scene.

  “No, you want me to help you,” he says, eyes hardening,

  “I need to get in touch with Early. I have an inkling that you know how I can.”

  “I’m not doing this,” he says, attempting to push me out of the way, but I’m parked and not going anywhere.

  I clasp my hands together on the sticky table, all professional-like, putting on my serious voice. I’ll have to tell Jason what I know, so he can help me out with what I don’t know.

  “I’ve come to several conclusions. This guy Early is slinging shit-imitation indigo I guess they’re calling flower down in the city. He’s going to find out that Mike is selling the pr
emium stuff that’s from the more potent strain. Stolen, mind you, from me. Early isn’t going to believe that Mike grew indigo himself, once he starts asking questions, trust me. He’ll make Mike tell him about yours truly and how I was the one selling it first, even though I’m not anymore. Mike tapped me out.”

  I don’t tell him that I could still sell indigo if I wanted to. And I do have to be careful about selling it in the future, so he doesn’t discover that I’m in fact not tapped out. Orah gave me the key to the crypt, and there is plenty left. I’m still determined to make money for Faith for college; I could also help her expand her eye patch business. The potential is there. I need to tell Early that there’s a way we can split the indigo trade before he tries to assassinate me or something. I’m not sure how I’m going to convince him of this—at least not yet anyway, but I can improvise, I can surely think of something.

  It’s not going to be easy. I’m well aware that Early will ask why my product’s got more punch. He’s going to want to see the crypt and every other site where the Klaski indigo grows. Then what am I going to do? How am I going to find out the locations without getting Orah and her family involved?

  Jason chomps down on a burger that’s surely gone cold and soggy. Limp lettuce reminds me of Pop’s middle-of-the-night bologna sandwich. I steal a French fry and shove it in my mouth. Jason stink-eyes me.

  I have to be careful of what I reveal and what I don’t reveal in this conversation. The effect of the oxys died down hours ago, so I’m sobered up, mind clear, ready to do some interrogative work on Jason and un-cluster this cluster fuck.

  “If Early catches wind of Mike’s connection to indigo, he’ll kill him,” I say, figuring Jason’ll do what he can to save Mike.

  “Early,” he says. “You for real? How do you know what Early’s gonna do?” He’s got a thousand crumpled up napkins around his plate and crumbs on his mouth. Not his finest moment.