The Color of Lies

by CJ Lyons

  Before I can type a response, my phone rings. Rory. Of course. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon,” I answer. “Helen will still get her birthday torture.”

  “You’re on speaker,” Max’s voice comes through.

  Ouch. I hope Helen didn’t hear—but she probably has her noise-cancelling headphones on if Max and Rory are in the house.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just us,” Rory adds, to my relief. “Helen’s in the kitchen, putting the final touches on your cake.”

  “Not sparklers again?” Last year, she set the curtains on fire. They were ugly curtains, so not a bad thing, until the smoke alarm began blaring and poor Helen had to retreat to her soundproof studio in the basement while we cleaned up the mess.

  Although everyone on my mom’s side of the family has synesthesia, we all have different forms. Gram Helen feels sounds—not as fun as you might think, and it’s driven her to work alone from home, where she can control her environment, barely coming into contact with any other humans. But it’s also given her the most wonderful voice—she can pitch it to create any emotion she wants, which is why audio publishers pay her top dollar as a voice talent. If she could survive the outside world, she could have been a movie star, she’s that good.

  My uncle Joe, my mom’s baby brother, he tastes words—also not always a very fun gift, not unless you like filling your mouth with day-old baby poop every time you hear or see the word “sugar.”

  Even my mom had it, they say. She saw colors with numbers. It allowed her to check calculations really fast, because all she had to do was scan the colors, look at the answer, and she’d know if it was right or not. A good thing for an insurance fraud investigator, which is how she met my dad when she joined the family business: Cleary and Sons, Insurance and Financial Advisors, established 1947. Protecting your past, present, and future.

  It’s still our business, but now, with Dad gone, it’s run by Uncle Joe along with Darrin West—not a Cleary or a son, but my dad’s college roommate and a financial genius. Joe hates insurance, is always telling me that he’s only watching over things until I can grow up and take over the firm. They all expect me to get a degree in accounting or actuarial science and keep the Cleary in Cleary and Sons like my father and his father and his father before him would have wanted.

  So many dead people controlling my future. Given that this is November and it’s my senior year and college applications are due, like, now, where I want to go and what I’ll be majoring in will be the first question everyone will be asking me tonight.

  “No open flames,” Max answers. “Something even better. But you need to stay away, give us a little longer to get ready.” I don’t need to see the bright excitement coloring his words to know he’s loving this, keeping me in suspense.

  “Are Uncle Joe and Darrin there yet?” Joe’s hopeless—he’ll wander off by himself until forced to play at being social—but Darrin’s good at keeping Helen from fussing and worrying too much. His Texan drawl doesn’t spark her synesthesia as much as other people’s voices, and despite their differences in age, he always treats her like she’s the one who got away, flirting and charming her until she can’t help but laugh. It’s weirdly adorable.

  “Not yet, but Darrin texted Helen to say they won’t be long.”

  Rory breaks in. “So who’s this guy? Alec something? Is he cute? What color is his aura? Where are you going?”

  I smile. Only five questions in one breath; she’s restraining herself. We know each other so well I don’t even need to be with her to see the colors of the emotions behind her words. They’re like a laser show overflowing from my phone: sunflash-yellow excitement, aubergine anxiety, rosy hope, cerulean curiosity, more rosy hope . . . the last erupts like fireworks surrounding an image of two people kissing.

  Both she and Max work harder on my love life than I ever will. I’ve tried to explain how hard it is to get to know someone when you can see their lies and evasions and hidden moods spelled out before they even finish chatting about the weather, but they just don’t get it. Worse is when I misinterpret what I see and hear. There are so many layers of truth, I don’t always see the right one. But my friends assume it’s something I can turn off or ignore, with no clue I’d have better luck learning how to breathe underwater.

  “So,” Rory continues. “Did he pass the aura test? I mean, with those gorgeous green eyes—”

  “Wait. How do you know what color his eyes are? You set me up,” I accuse them.

  “Didn’t you get my texts?” Max says. “I warned you he was coming—”

  “Max!” Rory’s aura flashes bright from the phone. “I told you to keep it a surprise. Now you ruined everything.”

  “I was in the pool,” I interject. “Missed your texts.” So typical of Rory, with her exuberant love of grand gestures, never even thinking of how uncomfortable it might make an introvert like me feel to have a strange guy show up out of nowhere. To Rory, life plays out on a stage more dramatic than any Hollywood set. Thankfully, I have Max to run interference, even if his warning didn’t reach me in time.

  “When did you meet him? How long have you two been planning this?”

  Max answers. “Since he came to the house about an hour ago. Helen said our job is to keep you occupied until she has everything ready . . .”

  “My idea, of course,” Rory adds.

  “I’m the one who got all the info while you distracted him with your jibber-jabber chit-chat. He’s a journalism major. Lives at Weaver Hall.”

  “It’s called having a conversation, and I got just as much info as you did from your precious computer. He’s a junior at Cambria College but only nineteen because he graduated high school with his associate’s degree, so he got to skip two years. He’s from South Carolina, in case you couldn’t tell from that delicious accent. Speaking of delicious, I’m sure you already noticed that for yourself—he has that kind of quiet cuteness that you like. And—”

  “Guys, guys, what does he want?” I’m just outside the locker room, ready to go through the doors to the lobby where Alec is waiting.

  Max jumps in. “Your help with a project he’s working on with Professor Winston. Didn’t you say your graphic design teacher was assigning you non-design students so you can see what it’s like to work with a client?”

  “Right. Yeah.” I’d hoped my turn wouldn’t come up until later in the semester—the students who have already gone, the real college students who have years more experience than I do, have set the bar spectacularly high.

  “What’s his aura like?” Rory is fascinated by my gift—funny, because there are times she’s totally blind to the emotions right in front of her.

  With Max, for instance. Half the school thinks he’s gay because he doesn’t date and hangs out with us all the time. No one except me sees the way his aura shimmers to Valentine red and pulses in time with his heartbeat anytime he’s near Rory. He and I have never spoken about it, though I’m sure he knows I know. Of course, I’d never break his trust and tell Rory the truth.

  Rory’s still chattering. “Go, have coffee. Find out about his project. Flirt a little. Then maybe after, you can bring him here for the party.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” I twist away from the door and huddle beside the bulletin board bristling with notices for roommates, ride-shares, yard sales, and party fliers. Seeing the random detritus of college life always makes me feel as if I’m trespassing, pretending to be someone I’m not just because I’m lucky enough to be able to take a few classes here instead of being locked up inside the high school all day.

  “I can’t bring a college guy I don’t even know home, and especially not to my birthday party.” Talk about embarrassing—my family goes all out, and not in a good way, when over-celebrating my birthday. Case in point: last year’s sparkler birthday cake disaster. Who knows what they—and Rory and Max—are cooking up this year given the amount of trouble they’ve gone to in order to keep me out of the house.

  “No. It�
�ll be fun,” Rory assures me. “Only if you like him, of course. But I have a good feeling about this Alec Ravenell.”

  “Or not,” Max puts in, his tone radiating a deep umber of concern—he’s an introvert like me, understands how difficult it is to let a stranger trespass into my life. “If you’re uncomfortable meeting this guy, we can join you there. Then bring you home to the party. Alone.”

  As usual, my two friends are pulling me in opposite directions. It’s up to me to decide my fate.

  Still on the phone, I gather my courage and push through the door to the main lobby where I find Alec bouncing on his toes with jerky, nervous motions, his face lighting up when he sees me.

  “I thought maybe you ran out the back,” he admits. “Didn’t mean to come on all stalkerish or anything.”

  It’s so weird, words that are mere sounds. I find myself opening and closing my free hand as if straining his words, testing their meaning. Not just his words but his body language—it’s like trying to listen to two foreign languages at once with no dictionary to help.

  I guess that’s what my synesthesia really does: translate people. Not their empty words and gestures, but what Gram Helen would call their essence. Otherwise, who are we? Random islands of thought and emotion wandering through this world, occasionally ricocheting into each other’s lives?

  Is this how everyone else sees each other? Is this how the rest of the world sees me? Flat, colorless, superficial. Even the people who should know me best like Rory and Max? The revelation shakes me to my core. I know my gift is unusual, but I’ve never before experienced what it might be like to live without it.

  I thrust the phone at Alec. “My friends would like to know what to tell the police if you turn out to be a serial killer.”

  “Sure, of course.” His smile widens, creasing his eyes. I try to memorize their shade of blue-green so I can capture it in paint later. Azure? No, they’re more green than blue. Aquamarine? I can’t remember ever seeing eyes so vivid in someone with skin as dark as his. It’s stunning, the contrast.

  He takes my phone. “Uh, hi again. It’s Alec.”

  “And where are you taking our Ella?” Max sounds possessive and much older than he really is.

  Alec glances at me. “How about Java Joe’s? Nice and public, plenty of witnesses and security cameras. That work for you?”

  I nod and take the phone back, holding it to my ear so Alec can’t hear. “Keep an eye on Helen, try to get her to relax. When do you want me home?”

  “We should be ready by five,” Max says. “Text if you need us to come rescue you—we can be there in ten minutes.”

  “Have fun.” Rory, of course, needs to have the last word. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I hang up, hiding my sudden blush as I pocket my phone. When I look up, Alec’s holding the door open, the November wind rushing in to ambush us. I still can’t believe I’m doing this, going out for coffee with a total stranger.

  This isn’t me. Watching is easy. Talking, interacting, the whole give-and-take of an actual conversation—that’s hard. Virtually impossible with the constant distraction of the other person’s ebb and flow of emotions and wants and needs underlying their actual words. Every time I open my mouth, I need to decide whether to respond to what someone says or what they actually mean.

  But those powers of observation, they’re what makes me a good artist, combined with my gift of reading emotions. Turns out a lot of creatives have synesthesia, people like Wassily Kandinsky, one of my artistic inspirations. It effects about four percent of the population—that’s twice the percentage of people who have red hair, which also runs on my mother’s side of the family and which I failed to inherit. Instead, I have my dad’s black hair . . . so boring compared to the bright copper both Gram Helen and Uncle Joe have. Or my mom’s gorgeous auburn curls.

  As I walk with Alec in his oasis of colorless calm, I wonder if it might be possible for me to pretend to be normal, to be in the world instead of merely observing it, at least for this one day.

  Normal has always been so far out of my grasp, I’ve never had a hope of reaching it; easier to try to catch the moon by standing on a ladder with a fishing pole and a thousand yards of line spinning out across the sky.

  But maybe, just for today—with this guy and his invisible aura—maybe I could actually try for normal? After all, Gram Helen says birthdays are made for wishes.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ella

  Alec says nothing as we walk away from the nat, and his silence is almost as confusing as when he’s talking. Finally, I muster up the courage to begin the conversation.

  “What—” I start to say, ready to ask about the mysterious project he needs help with, at the same time he says, “Why—”

  We laugh awkwardly, and I motion for him to go on. “You first.”

  “Why do your friends call you Ella? I thought your name was Nora.” He sounds uncertain, as if maybe he has the wrong girl. Maybe he does. I hope not.

  I could take the easy way out, explain that both are short for Eleanor—it’s the truth but not the important part. I sense Alec’s more interested in the why behind the truth. “I used to be Nora. Short for Eleanor. But everyone’s called me Ella since I was little. Why did you call me Nora? Where did you hear that?”

  We’ve crossed the street to the other side before he answers. “Eleanor seemed too formal. To me, you’ll always be Nora.”

  It’s an answer but not one that makes much sense—he talks as if we’ve met before. I would definitely remember meeting someone like Alec. “But—”

  “Why’d you change to Ella? Did something happen?” he asks.

  When Gram Helen tells this story, it’s colored in shades of blue and green with the occasional flash of the dark purple that black silk becomes when it’s wet and held up to the sun.

  I take a breath, drinking in the silver wash of winter air, swallowing it down until I feel my toes tingle with the cold. “We have a cabin, up in the mountains near a lake. Maybe not a lake, more like a big pond. But to me, when I was a little kid, the water was home—more home than any bed inside a room inside a house. I could hold my breath so long that I’d sit there, below the water, the world perfectly calm and still—it was heaven. One time, I stayed under so long my uncle and gram panicked, thinking I was lost. Or worse.”

  “I’ll bet you scared the daylights out of them.”

  “Yes, but not on purpose. I didn’t understand why they were so scared—which scared me. My uncle hauled me out and my gram, she told me it was too dangerous, that I couldn’t go into the water alone ever again. Not ever.” I throw a hint of Gram Helen’s fear into my voice, the way her usual bright tangerine had shriveled to the brown of an orange forgotten and left to rot in the sun.

  “But you didn’t listen, did you?” His voice is without color, but his eyes gleam with certain knowledge.

  “It was like telling me not to breathe or to give up eating. My uncle sells insurance—it’s the family business—and one day I heard him talking about an umbrella policy that would protect people from almost anything. I was only four. The next morning that water was calling to me, and I knew I couldn’t resist, so I took the biggest umbrella I could find and I ran down the dock, and the wind gathered in the umbrella, about ready to launch me into space, and I jumped . . .”

  “The girl with the umbrella that could protect her from anything . . . Ella.”

  “Exactly. It started out just family and friends, until an art teacher asked us to create a self-portrait to introduce ourselves.”

  “You painted yourself with the umbrella? In the lake?” His smile crinkles his eyes, making them look old and wise through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I’ll bet they didn’t see that coming.”

  “The teacher loved it, thought it was whimsical, until she asked me why the girl with the umbrella looked so calm even as the waves washed over her and pulled her deeper down into the water. I made the mistake of telling the truth: th
at she was calm because she felt safe there, underwater. That she wasn’t afraid of drowning—she was afraid of when she had to come up for air.”

  His smile fades, and he slows his pace as he regards me. “Not good.”

  I like how he fills in the blanks—almost as if he can see the colors and images swirling around me as I give voice to the memory. “The teacher told the counselor, who told the principal, who called Gram Helen.”

  I stop, a wall thicker than a glacier blocking my words. Because this part isn’t mine to tell, it’s Gram Helen’s. Helen did what she always does when the world comes knocking: she refused to answer. Instead, after hearing the message the principal left, wanting to schedule a meeting to “discuss concerns,” Helen unplugged the phone and locked it in the basement freezer, insulated by ice and metal to keep the world at bay.

  It worked. That’s the thing: people call Helen dysfunctional and passive-aggressive, but her methods succeed. Not as safe as being underwater, watching the world through a soft blanket of blue-green, but about as good as you can get here in this jangly, sharp-edged city where everyone seems to think they have the right to waltz into your life whether you like it or not. Like a strange guy showing up while I’m swimming alone. Even if he is kind of cute.

  Maybe it’s a mistake to trust Alec too much. I flick my eyes at him, glancing as far sideways as they’ll go, but still nothing. I can’t even read his expression, let alone his real intentions.

  “But you really were okay, right?” I like how his accent lilts and curves as if not bound by the same rock-iron gravity we locals are. I can almost feel the wash of ocean waves in his voice. “I mean, nothing bad was happening?”

  Even without an aura, I sense the concern coloring his voice. I quicken my stride, the spell of his voice broken by the pragmatism of his words.

  “Of course not. Why would you even think that?” Especially as he’s a total stranger who I’ve foolishly just bared my heart to.