Under Rose-Tainted Skies

by Louise Gornall

  He pulls his car all the way up Luke’s driveway, and I lose sight of him. Shame doesn’t register as I crawl across the floor and over to the study. The window there gives me a panoramic view of Luke’s driveway, so I can get a better look.

  Dr Reeves says that I take note of situations like this because it tricks my brain into thinking I’m being proactive about a problem. I can’t stop or control Luke’s party, but watching things unfold, tracking activity, taking mental notes, makes me feel less like I’m falling into an abyss. And that helps.

  More backslapping and shoulder-butting happens, then the three of them unload giant speakers from the trunk of the little car. It’s like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag. Stuff keeps spilling out of the tiny space.

  Mrs Mortimer, the leather-faced grizzly from across the road, comes out of her house as the three of them wrangle with wires and some expensive techtronic-type equipment. She folds her arms across her chest and throws disapproving glances at the boys. For a mortifying few seconds, I see myself, only with more hair and fewer face whiskers. Mom says the girls at the hair salon call her Moaning Mortimer. A shudder rips through me. I’m not old and bitter, though. I don’t hate the youth, or having fun.

  ‘You’re not angry, you’re afraid,’ I remind myself just as Agnes Lop, Mrs Mortimer’s fence buddy, joins her on the driveway.

  I don’t suppose our street has ever seen a party. I mean, Rhodes Center, in the middle of town, has this free-for-all cookout to celebrate our founding father, and both schools throw a dance, but as far as private parties go, they don’t happen on Triangle Crescent.

  Triangle Crescent is mostly where people come to die. My mom calls it God’s waiting room, with the residents having a collective age that predates religion. Luke and I are the youngest by about twenty years. I’m not bitching. Most of the folk around here are nice. At least they were the last time I left the house. On Saturdays I used to walk around the street listening to stories about absent grand-kids and collecting free candy for a chorus of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle.’

  It’s almost seven. The light is dying. Dirty blue and purple clouds bruise the sky. I’ve ignored everything in favour of watching the guys toss around a dusty old piece of pigskin. The faint whistle of my plummeting school grades can be heard in the distance.

  I eyeball the open door of the study.

  This will all be over tomorrow, I reason. I can quit worrying about it and catch up then.

  Guilt might be about to shake me into submission when I hear Luke laugh. I like the way he laughs. He puts his whole self into it, throwing his head back and holding his stomach while his entire body shakes.

  They seem to be having a good time until a phone rings, Tubular Bells, and Luke pulls his cell from his pocket. He stares at the screen and his two friends exchange a rolling-eyed glance.

  Amy.

  I don’t hear him say it, but I can read it in the way his lips curl around the pronunciation of her name. The guy who I am now, like, ninety-nine per cent certain is called Simon dismisses the call with a wave of his hand. But Luke is already walking away, lifting the phone to his ear. Blond Guy shrugs – it’s a what-are-you-gonna-do type of gesture.

  Amy.

  My interest evaporates. I slump back against the wall, bring my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. My teeth grate against the skin on the inside of my mouth, but I don’t bite down.

  Why does this name bother me? My straightforward-thinking brain wants to know.

  My heart keeps tripping, but I’m not panicking. I know what panic feels like and this isn’t it.

  I wonder what Amy looks like and if she kisses with reckless abandon. I wonder if she can walk down a crowded strip mall holding someone’s hand. I bet she can go out for dinner and not spend an hour trying to taste salmonella in her chicken. I bet she can go here, there, and everywhere without worrying about what might happen.

  Right. I guess that’s why it bothers me. It’s like watching my Hub feed play out in my front yard. And probably, maybe, definitely, the new boy next door has me intrigued. But suddenly I’m not sure if that’s even allowed.

  I kneel up, take one last look out of the window. Luke has rejoined his friends; they have their arms slung over his shoulders, laughing. But not with him. Luke looks unimpressed, kind of like a guy who’s just been ordered to run laps around a freezing-cold track. Maybe they’re mocking him.

  Are you okay? I think it a thousand times, even write it out once on the wall with my finger.

  He shrugs when Blond Guy starts making whooping sounds. Then he looks up, glances over at my house. There’s no way he can see me. He’s looking in the wrong spot, for starters. But I turn to stone and try to wish myself invisible anyway. Then he looks away and they all head back inside his house.

  Ihave a plan.

  It is a good plan.

  A safe plan.

  So why am I itching to leave my room? My palms are drenched. I rub them in circles on my knees, trying to dry them off.

  It’s ten-thirty. I should have been trapped between my headphones, submerged in music for the past three hours. But I can’t stop pulling my headset off. Even when it’s on, I don’t hear a single one of my six hundred songs.

  My mind has always taken care of me, protected me from things that are daring, dangerous. It’s how we’ve been for four years. Blissful. Working in unison, like an old married couple. So why is it trying to fuck me over now? Why does it desperately want to know what is happening at Luke’s house?

  I fix a stare at my door for the ten-hundredth time, slide my headset off again, and let it rest around my neck. Some thrash-metal rock god is screaming tortured-soul song lyrics at me, but I tune him out, try instead to hear through layers of brick and mortar for any noise escaping from next door.

  It’s all very quiet – aside from a throbbing beat, I mean. But that’s standard, normal noise. I was expecting more sounds of chaos, screams, sirens, drunk teens fighting in the street. I start to wonder why the only thing I can hear is music. And not regular-person wondering. Norah’s wondering, which covers every scenario from mass suicide to a police raid. Then I realize that maybe my mind isn’t a traitorous snake hell-bent on betraying me. Maybe this is just my need-to-know preparedness, working some overtime. Version 2.0, thirsty to figure out more.

  That’s got to be it.

  Before I have time to talk myself out of it again, I’m heading to my bedroom door. Crawling, because crawling makes me smaller, smaller feels closer to invisible, invisible makes me feel safer. I open the door, wince when it squeaks, like Luke’s party is at library levels of hush and is taking place on my landing.

  I head downstairs, take the last step twice, and walk over to the porch window. Butt on the floor, I push my back up against the wall. My heart hammers in my throat. The music swamps me. An unintelligible tangle of notes, tangoing through the air. A bass line capable of causing earthquakes in Brazil. I feel the vibrations through the concrete, slapping against my back. They tap into my body and make my spine tingle. I close my eyes, see Luke on the backs of my lids. He’s drinking beer from a red plastic cup. Laughing. His whole face alive from it.

  I must fall asleep – at least, I’ve drifted into some form of unconscious state because I find my eyes opening at the squealing sound of our rusty mail slot being lifted, and a stream of what I can only assume is drool is rolling down my chin.

  I panic, free myself from the velour porch curtain that seems to have attached itself to my shoulder, and scuttle back, putting a good seven feet between me and the door. I’m breathing so hard, every inhalation lifts my shoulders up around my ears. I watch, a little frightened, a little feral, as a folded letter flies through the flap and lands on the mat.

  Luke.

  I stare at the note. Stuck. Too nervous to reach for it, just in case he hears that I’m home.

  Minutes later, the flap groans again. It lifts, and another note sails through the air and crash-lands almost on top of the first. Curiosity sp
ikes. Fear takes a step back – long enough, at least, for me to remember where I am and what my name is. I wipe the spit off my face with the sleeve of my sweater and clear hair from my eyes just as a third note drops to the floor.

  What is he doing? Besides writing me a novel.

  The flap lifts a fourth time, but instead of paper, a voice floats through it.

  ‘I know you were watching. I saw your curtains twitch.’

  Horror. Red-hot. My jaw drops. ‘But I wasn’t,’ I defend myself without thinking and then slap my hand over my mouth, wishing I could suck the words back in. He laughs. That’s not fair. My eyes narrow and I glare at the door, turning toddler, my bottom lip curling under. I can feel a sulk coming on. Luke lets the flap fall, and it clatters shut.

  Then nothing.

  I turn an ear to the door, listening intently, hoping/praying/pleading that he’ll leave, but I don’t hear the sound of retreating steps. I don’t hear anything. My teeth find skin at the side of my mouth and I start to chew. Not knowing is unsettling; unsettling lurks beneath my skin like an army of crawling insects. Not that it matters. As much as I want to ask if he’s still there, my lips are too numb. I can’t make them move.

  Instead, I turn my attention to the pile of folded paper on the mat, and my fingers spider-march across the floor towards them. It takes me a second to get the notes in order.

  Neighbour,

  Bonjour! How’s the assignment going?

  Luke

  Neighbour,

  There are approximately one hundred people in my house and I only know two of them by name. What do I have to do to get you to come out here and save me?

  Luke

  Neighbour,

  Also, you never told me which Transformers movie was your favourite . . .

  Luke

  A smile is spreading across my face. Unstoppable, like wildfire, making my cheeks sting. He’s ten per cent human, ninety per cent charisma. All he’d have to do is ask, and he’d know all the hundred names within an hour. But then, if that’s not the reason he’s over here, what is? I don’t know if I dare believe he’s left his own party because he’d rather be sitting here talking to me. But it’s already up there, the thought, and I can’t seem to destroy it.

  I’m blinking hearts and holding back wistful sighs when something starts jingling on the porch. A cell. Luke’s cell, the same Tubular Bells tone as this afternoon. With my body behaving like a beached mermaid, I hook my fingers into the floor and drag my limp ass over to the door.

  I hear movement, the crunch of a leather jacket. The ringing stops dead, but Luke doesn’t say anything. It rings again. I push my ear up against the wood because maybe he’s whispering to the caller. Still nothing. The phone doesn’t ring a third time. Or maybe it does and he’s switched it to silent.

  I’m breathing like a claustrophobic trapped in a closet, my breath warm, splashing against the door and bouncing back in my face. My tongue twitches. Words suddenly have substance. They’re rising up my windpipe, thick, like a rolling rock in my throat.

  ‘I think . . .’ I begin, but my voice needs more volume if it’s going to get past the door. Filling my lungs with air, I try again. ‘I think somebody wants to talk to you.’

  I reach a hand up; my fingers flirt with the cold, cast-iron door handle. But I can’t make myself open it.

  ‘Alas, I don’t want to talk to them,’ Luke says in a fake, maybe-British, chewing-his-own-tongue type of accent. I can practically smell the beer on his breath. I retract my hand and bury it under my butt. I’m not opening the door. I have this thing about folk that are drunk. I’m not a stiff. I’m absolutely not the pearl-clutching kind. But I’ve seen stories. I know alcohol can corrupt even the most stable of minds, and what with my mind being about as stable as a piece of string, I figure it’s safer just to avoid it.

  I look back over my shoulder and my eyes trail off up the stairs. It would take mere seconds to scale the steps. I wonder if he’d notice if I disappeared back inside my bedroom. Who am I kidding? Like that’s even an option. If I leave now, I’ll have to spend the rest of the night trapped in a tiny mind maze, trying to figure out if he’s still outside, fretting over what he’s doing and if he’s even still conscious. Not to mention the layers of skin I’d lose trying to scratch away that itch caused by the unsettling insect army.

  And then there is this something, something small and awake inside me. Something that makes me want to smile, to wet my lips with the tip of my tongue and wonder how my hair looks.

  ‘Hey, Norah.’ I hear his voice as if he were whispering right into my ear. I get so caught up in wondering how close we are right now, I forget to respond. He continues talking anyway. ‘Why are you always watching?’

  ‘I wasn’t.’ The words barge from my mouth, all balled up in a big gust of breath and waving white flags. ‘I mean, I know you think I was . . . the curtains twitching and all that. The thing is, they’re kind of heavy, the curtains. They’re made of velvet and they get clingy . . .’ I can’t stop talking. It’s like running on a treadmill; my mouth is moving but I’m not getting anywhere. Verbal vomit is the evil twin of absolute silence. You can often find them both lurking around anxiety attacks.

  ‘What I mean is’ – I take a deep breath – ‘I fell asleep against the wall. The curtains got caught on me and were moving when I was.’ I point at the window, attempting to illustrate my defence to a boy who is sitting blindly on the other side of the opaque door. You’d never guess that my brain is what Dr Reeves calls high-functioning. Sometimes, when it mixes with panic, I’d make a good computer. Other times, I’m not even sure I’d make good kindling.

  ‘I honestly wasn’t watching.’ I twist my fingers, hoping to wring some of the sweat off my skin. ‘Say something. Please. Say something.’ I close my eyes and whisper to the wood.

  The silence is screaming; my eardrums are beginning to blister. He thinks I’m a weirdo. He’s barely spent any time with me and I’ve already frightened him off.

  ‘Luke! Luke!’ A girl’s voice charges through the dark and, like a pinball, ricochets around the houses, the trees, and the old Victorian-style streetlamps of Triangle Crescent. ‘Luke. Whered’ya go?’

  ‘Oh, shit. Not now,’ Luke whimpers.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m being hunted by Amy Cavanaugh,’ he replies, puffing like he’s just run a marathon.

  Amy. The Amy? Why does he say it so casually, like maybe I should know who he’s talking about?

  ‘I don’t know who that is.’

  He snorts a laugh. ‘You’re kidding. You must be the only person in school who doesn’t.’

  Oh God. I do know her.

  Damn.

  I’ve seen her. Well, her posts, at least. They pop up on my Hub feed all the time. Amy ‘Queen’ Cavanaugh, she calls herself. Her updates get starred quite a lot. Honestly, I thought she was some sort of celebrity. I didn’t know she went to Cardinal; she must have arrived after I left. More lies. More damage control.

  ‘Right! That Amy. Queen Amy.’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘All that French work has fried my brain.’ I laugh off my faux pas. Then wait for him to elaborate on his and Amy’s acquaintanceship/friendship/relationship. But he doesn’t. I don’t know if we’re friends yet. I don’t know if I can ask him.

  Of course you’re friends. He came over here to speak to you, didn’t he?

  Unless . . . unless he only came over here to hide from Queen Amy.

  My heart beats against the back of my throat. Then I hear his leather jacket crunch again. Movement. He’s standing up. I stand up with him. Palms pressed flat against the door, I almost crawl up the wood. He’s leaving, and the thought is inducing panic. I didn’t want him here, but now he is, and for the second time in two days, he has chased away the dark shadow that makes me drown my body in black and curl up in a ball when I think of friends.

  ‘Hey, Norah?’

  ‘Yes.’ It hurts to tal
k.

  ‘Do you think maybe I could come by tomorrow and we can clear up this Transformers conversation once and for all?’

  ‘I’ve watched the cartoon but never seen the movies.’

  ‘Panic not.’ He’s talking in that fake-British-Swedish-possibly-French accent again. ‘I’ll bring them over.’

  Wait? What? That’s not what I meant. Is it?

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Luke? Where are you?’ That voice again, shrill, shouting above the music and into the night. Queen Amy.

  I cross my fingers and toes, secretly hope he’ll ignore her and stay here a little longer.

  ‘I guess I better go. Goodnight, Norah.’

  And then he’s gone. I try but fail to count the steps I hear him take as he walks away.

  I feel cold.

  It starts the second I begin the Green Mile trudge back to my bedroom; so many thoughts, wrapped around my body like iron chains. I have to use the banister to pull myself up the stairs.

  Musings, meanderings, conversations that haven’t even happened run in one continuous loop around my head. With a texture like smashed glass, they’re tearing my brain to pieces.

  I stop in the hall and study my gangly reflection in the floor-length mirror. I want to see a svelte blonde with big blue eyes. I want to see that girl in my social media selfies, the one that smiles and never has to live up to anyone’s expectations or explain why she is the way she is. But all I see in my real-life reflection are blunt smudges of shadow. Fragile. Upset. Weak. Thin. Afraid. Failing. And tired. Above everything else, tired of battling with my own mind.

  They – the geeks that deal in brain stuff – call what I have an invisible illness, but I often wonder if they’re really looking. Beyond the science stuff. It doesn’t bleed or swell, itch or crack, but I see it, right there on my face. It’s like decay, this icky green colour, as if my life were being filmed through a grey filter. I lack light, am an entire surface area that the sun can’t touch.