by Wendy Mass
“So to another synesthete my name could be purple with orange stripes when to me it’s candy-apple red with a touch of avocado green?”
“Exactly.”
I sit back in my chair and let it sink in. My mother just shakes her head, absorbing everything.
Jerry brings us to one of the school’s dining halls for lunch, and I suddenly feel very young. And short. I mean, I know I’m short, but I didn’t realize I was this short.
“Mom,” I whisper as we pick up our cardboard trays and get in line, “are all the girls in college this tall?”
Jerry must have heard me, because he starts laughing. “The girls’ basketball team practices in the next building, so they come here for lunch. I promise you the other dining halls have shorter students.”
I decide that Jerry’s kind of cute — for a grown-up, that is. I help myself to a plate of fruit salad and a turkey sandwich. There’s no way I can have a crush on Jerry. If he isn’t old enough to be my father, he’s at least old enough to be my father’s younger brother.
We find a table away from the crowd. My mother gives Jerry about a thirty-second head start on his burrito before she begins the onslaught.
“Dr. Weiss, I —,” she begins.
He holds up his nonburrito hand. “Jerry.”
“Jerry,” she corrects herself with a sigh. “I know you said you can’t make Mia’s condition go away completely. But you can help her work around it, right?”
Jerry turns to me. “Would you want that, Mia?”
He’s waiting patiently for an answer, but I can’t figure out what to say. I do want to be able to pass my classes, and it would be nice to be like everyone else. But if I couldn’t use my colors, the world would seem so bland — like vanilla ice cream without the gummy bears on top. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I really like gummy bears.”
They both look at me questioningly, and I cover my mouth when I realize what I said.
I quickly correct myself. “I mean, I can’t imagine life without my colors.”
My mother doesn’t look too pleased with my response. She picks at her own fruit plate.
“But,” I add, “I also don’t want to fail my classes.”
Mom perks up a bit.
“We have only found a few substances that have any effect whatsoever on the synesthetic response,” Jerry tells us. “Stimulants such as coffee and nicotine dampen synesthesia, and depressants such as alcohol can increase it. In order to tell you why that is I’d have to give you a lesson about how the limbic system in your brain functions in response to nerve stimulation.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I tell him.
“It’s also possible for a person’s synesthesia to change if something traumatic happens to them. Usually it’s dampened until they recover. It may get stronger after early childhood, but it seems to weaken when people approach old age. I can help you work around it, to push it more to the back of your consciousness, if that’s really what you want.”
My mother looks at me, not bothering to keep her optimistic expression hidden. The only really traumatic thing that I’ve been through is Grandpa’s death. But I don’t remember anything changing with my colors. Maybe it wasn’t as traumatic as it could have been because I knew I still had a part of Grandpa in Mango. And we all knew it was coming; he had been sick for months.
“The thing is,” I tell them, aware of the quiver in my voice, “my colors help me a lot too. I’m the best speller in my class, and I can remember history really well too. Phone numbers, names, everything. Well, everything except math and foreign languages. But what if I promise to always carry a calculator and to never travel to foreign countries?” I look hopefully at my mother.
Before she can respond, Jerry says, “You don’t have to worry, Mia. I truly doubt anything could make your synesthesia disappear forever.”
“So what should I do about my problems in school?”
Jerry takes a bite of his chocolate cake and says, “I can set you up with a math tutor in your area. You’ll have to arrange your own help with Spanish.”
Jerry gives us the tutor’s phone number, and we set up the next visit to the university. He walks us out to the car again, but this time I restrain myself from giving him a hug. I don’t want to seem like a little kid.
“You seem very happy to know your condition has a name,” my mother says as the car winds through the streets of the campus.
“You have no idea.”
“No, I suppose not,” she replies, double-checking her map. Then she asks, “He’s a nice man, don’t you think?”
“Jerry? Yes, I think he’s very nice.”
“Good-looking, too,” she adds, her eyes straight ahead.
“Mom!”
She shrugs and flashes a small smile. “I’m not blind, you know. He looks a little like Paul Newman.”
“The salad-dressing guy? No way.”
“Maybe it’s the eyes,” my mother says wistfully as she makes a sharp turn onto the highway entrance ramp. “Those blue, blue eyes.”
“I’m telling Dad you have a crush on Jerry.”
“I don’t have a crush on Jerry,” she says. “I have a crush on Paul Newman. The Sting was a classic. You kids don’t know what you’re missing.”
I roll my eyes. We argue about Jerry versus Paul Newman for the next ten miles. I have to admit that it’s fun being alone with my mother when we’re not worried about something.
When we get home I settle down on my bed and force myself to start the homework I’ve been neglecting. I love the cozy feeling of my bedroom when it starts getting colder outside. I’m feeling very pleased with myself and the world, when Beth walks right in and plops down next to me. She doesn’t seem to care that she’s crinkling my notebook pages.
“Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my papers out from under her. The coziness is disappearing fast.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s been going on,” she says, her arms crossed. “I mean, I know the bare bones of it from Zack, but I want to hear it from you.”
I glance up at my wall of clocks to see how much time I have before dinner. Mom won’t let me check out the synesthesia Web site until after I’ve finished my homework and we’ve eaten.
“Can’t this wait till later?”
“No problem,” Beth says. “I’ll just wait right here till you’re ready.” She leans back on the bed and props herself up with a pillow.
“You’re going to wait here? On my bed?”
“Yup. Just pretend I’m not here.”
“That’d be a lot easier if you weren’t here.”
“By the way,” Beth says, looking down toward the end of the bed, “where’s Mango? I was looking for him before.”
“Why?”
“I have plans tonight, and I think I’m starting to get a cold. Zack said that if a cat sits on your lap for half an hour, you won’t get sick.”
I stare at her. “Are you serious?”
She nods.
“Well, he’s probably outside.”
Beth shakes her head. “Dad said he let him in a few hours ago.”
I close my notebook. “All right, you win. Come with me to find Mango, and I’ll tell you on the way.”
She jumps up and we look around my room. I check under the bed and in the closet, and then we move downstairs. As we open doors and peer under couches I explain about the synesthesia and the doctors. Beth hangs on my every word. It’s a little frightening.
We’re in the hallway behind the kitchen by the time I finish the story. This section of the house was the last to be “finished,” and it’s almost totally unusable. The floor slopes slightly downhill, and the hallway is so narrow that Beth and I have to walk single file. At the end of the hall is the tiny room where Mom keeps her telescope and our winter coats. I open the door, even though there’s no way Mango could have gotten in there.
“That’s some story,” Beth says as she pulls the cord to turn on the overhead lightbulb. �
�Is it true?”
“Of course it’s true,” I snap at her as I scan the room. All I see are piles of shiny winter coats and snow pants. “Don’t make me sorry I told you.”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m glad you did. It’s really interesting.”
I look at her to see if she’s teasing me, but there is something that resembles admiration in her eyes. Wow, that’s a new one.
Beth glances past me as I try to adjust to this new feeling. “There’s your cat,” she says, pointing to a stack of gloves and wool hats.
I turn around to see one of Mango’s ears sticking out from the middle of the pile. I go over and pick him up. He purrs in my arms. “How did you get in here?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer, and this I suppose is a good thing.
I examine the room closely. In one corner the walls don’t completely meet. Mango must have traveled between them and somehow wound up here. He seems to enjoy hiding these days. It must be because it’s getting colder. I hand him to Beth. “Good luck with the cat cure.”
At dinner my father asks if I want to talk about what happened at the lab.
“Not really,” I answer, shoving down forkfuls of lasagna. I burn my tongue on a cheese bubble and swig half a glass of ice water.
“Did they make you run a maze with a big chunk of cheddar at the end?” Zack asks. “Rub your belly and pat your head at the same time? Recite the alphabet backward?”
“That’s enough, Zachary,” Mom says. “Eat your peas.”
I point to my empty plate. “Can I go use the computer now?”
“Did you finish your homework?”
I consider pointing out that it’s only Saturday night and that I’d have all day tomorrow to finish it, but I don’t want to take the chance. “Yes,” I lie, telling myself that at least I feel guilty about lying, and that must count for something. I’ll do three good deeds to make up for it.
“How come she gets to leave the table before dinner’s over?” Beth complains. “I have plans with Courtney and Brent tonight; can I leave too?”
“Your friends sound like they belong on a soap opera,” Zack says. “Oh, Courtney, your silky hair and milky skin are all I think about! Marry me.” His laughter forms a pale-blue cloud that kind of drizzles down as it dissolves. I’m fully aware of all my sound-pictures now. Jerry taught me that phrase. Sound-pictures. I like it.
“At least I have friends,” Beth says indignantly.
“We have friends,” Zack says. “Don’t we, Mia?”
“Not many,” I answer as I place my plate in the sink.
Zack sits back and crosses his arms, and Beth glares at both of us. I take the folded Web address out of my pocket and head into my mom’s office, where we keep the computer. I close the door behind me.
I log on, type in my password, M-A-N-G-O, and wait for the connection to go through. As soon as it does, I type in the Web address, not even bothering to check my e-mail first. If there is any, it’s probably just from Jenna. I wait for the computer to go through all its childproofing so that my site can load. My parents installed so many filters that it’s a miracle when anything comes through at all.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF SYNESTHESIA! the headline screams out at me as the page slowly loads up. I’m surprised the site isn’t more colorful; then I read the first paragraph: “For the consideration of all you synesthetes out there, all the text on this Web site will be printed in black type. Many of you colored-letter folk have complained in the past how frustrating it is to read in a color that doesn’t match your own letters, and we aim to please. Remember, one person’s green r is another person’s turquoise!”
I lean back in the chair, amazed. I’ve learned something about myself after only reading the opening paragraph! Every time I have to read text in colors other than black or white, like in a magazine advertisement or on a book cover, I get a headache because it’s the wrong color. I try to avoid it whenever possible. Already I feel a sense of belonging with these people. My heart beats faster, and my finger shakes a little as I scroll down the screen. The phone rings next to me, but I ignore it and the red spirals that it causes.
I discover that if I write a profile of myself, it’ll go out to other synesthetes who can then e-mail me if they want to. Usually my parents won’t let me give out my e-mail address, but I don’t think they would mind this time. I put in my name, my e-mail address, my age, and my type of synesthesia, and in the interests and hobbies section, I write “painting, music, being outdoors, and my cat.” As I’m about to send it off, my mother walks into the office, so I ask her permission.
She walks over and looks at the screen.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Dr. Weiss wouldn’t have given it to you if he didn’t think it was a safe environment.”
“Jerry,” I correct her, and wait for her to leave again. She’s still here.
“I came in to tell you that a boy from school is on the phone. He wants to talk to you about some history project. How come this is the first I’ve heard about it?”
I turn around to look at her. “A boy?” I ask. “Roger Carson?”
“Yes, that’s his name. He sounded pretty anxious. You better pick it up.”
I’d been avoiding Roger and the others in my group. I really don’t want to talk to anyone right now, especially about school. “Can’t you tell him I’ll call him back?”
“I can,” she says, “but I won’t.”
I sigh and wait for her to leave before I pick up the phone. “Hi, Roger,” I say hurriedly. “Can we talk about this in school on Monday?”
“Did you know we’re the only group that hasn’t picked a topic yet?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before continuing. “We have to get together this week. I really need a good grade in history.”
While he’s talking, I send my profile out to synesthesia cyberspace. I realize he’s waiting for me to reply.
“Whenever you want is fine with me,” I tell him. “Just let me know.”
“How about Monday?” he suggests.
“Fine,” I say, half listening as I skim through the titles of the articles I can download. Jerry was right. Most of them are from scholarly journals and have long titles, such as “The Study of Synesthetic Cross-Sensory Modalities as a Result of Various Perceptual Stimuli.” If I can’t even understand the title, there will be little chance of understanding the article. I suddenly realize Roger is still talking.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I said, we’ll meet in the cafeteria at lunchtime and pick a topic. Okay?”
“You want to work during lunch?” I ask, surprised.
“Why not?” Roger asks.
I hadn’t sat with anyone other than my friends at lunch since grammar school. And I’d never sat at a table with two boys. I guess if we picked a table all the way in the back, no one would notice. “Nothing. It’s fine,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it.
I click on an article, see way too many long words, and click on the next one.
I tune back in, and Roger is saying something like “with a list of suggested topics, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, not even knowing what I agreed to. I hang up the phone and turn my full attention back to the screen. I read an article about a woman who says she goes to an acupuncture clinic because when the needles go in, amazing colors and shapes appear in front of her face. Another woman says she likes to take a hot bath while listening to music. She says the steam from the bath gives the colors a whole new dimension. About an hour later my eyes are sore and I glance at the phone. When did I say good-bye to Roger? How did the conversation even end? I turn off the computer with a shrug. Whatever it was it couldn’t have been too important or else I would remember it. I vow to try that bath thing as soon as possible. Getting stuck with needles isn’t quite as appealing.
All those people in their black-and-white worlds — they have no idea what they’re missing.
Chapter Eight
First thing Sunday morning I ride my
bike to the grocery store. The cashiers are still setting up their registers. I don’t see the woman who checked us out the night I met Billy, but she suddenly appears from behind a huge stack of toilet paper. I hurry up to her and tap her on the shoulder. She jumps, and the toilet paper goes flying. I help her stack it back up into a pyramid.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“Can I help you?” she asks wearily.
“Yes, I was in here a few weeks ago. You probably don’t remember me, but there was this lady …” I pause, suddenly feeling very stupid. “And her son … he was around five years old, and I was wondering if you might remember them? Their last name is Henkle?”
The woman shakes her head. “You know how many people come in here every day? I’m lucky if I can remember my own name.”
“Right,” I say, my hopes fading. “Thanks anyway.”
Winded from riding home at top speed, I leave my bike on the curb and run inside. It’s pretty unlikely that someone would have read my profile already, but I can’t wait. I go onto my mail screen, and the message “You’ve got mail” pops up. I find two letters from Jenna, one from Kimberly, and one from somebody whose e-mail address I don’t recognize.
“Please don’t let it be some stupid advertisement,” I say out loud as I open the mystery letter first.
DEAR MIA,
WELCOME TO THE SYNESTHESIA MAILING LIST! MY NAME IS ADAM DICKSON. I’M FOURTEEN AND IN NINTH GRADE. I LIVE IN BOSTON, AND I HAVE COLORED HEARING AND COLORED NUMBERS AND LETTERS (LIKE YOU) AND I ALSO HAVE COLORED TASTE BUT ONLY A LITTLE. IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT THINGS, E-MAIL ME BACK. OH, I LIKE THE OUTDOORS TOO, AND I ALSO LIKE TO WRITE POETRY, EVEN THOUGH I DON’T TELL ANY OF MY FRIENDS THAT. SO IF WE BECOME FRIENDS, YOU’LL HAVE TO FORGET I TOLD YOU. WRITE BACK SOON.
