Indigo

by Gina Linko

  “No,” Rennick said. “Bad idea.”

  “Take a walk,” Dodge whispered, grabbing Rennick by the shoulder for a moment in such a serious way that it unnerved me. I wondered again how Ruth had died. And how she had lived too, with this secret, with people’s judgments. With all her own doubts?

  I followed Rennick, and I got that feeling again that I could see myself from the outside, going off into the woods with someone I hardly knew.

  But Rennick motioned for me to follow him, and I felt that tenuous string between us. Some kind of real connection. I wasn’t ready to break it. I wasn’t sure I totally trusted him and everything he said, but he hadn’t steered me wrong yet.

  I went with my gut instinct. My heart knew this guy in some weird and cosmic sense.

  I went with Rennick, not deep into the woods, just along the edge, and I was a little bit scared about everything. A little bit chilly in the shadowy canopy of the trees. A little bit excited about how every few steps Rennick would turn around and check on me with an easy smile.

  My senses came alive as we hiked through the little patch of forest that backed up to Rennick’s grandfather’s property, the sprawling live oaks, the pungent pine trees, the swampy masses of kudzu. It felt good to hike, to walk and feel my body move and not to hold it in, not to cross my arms and hold my limbs close. I found a sliver of freedom out there in the shade of the forest, and I felt the blood pumping through my veins, my heart working. And I liked it.

  We quickly came to a little shack, really only three ramshackle walls with a slanted aluminum roof. Rennick said it was a hunting blind, his grandfather’s, although I had never even heard of one before.

  “Dodge and I camp out here and hunt for deer and turkey.”

  I tried to picture Rennick as a hunter. It didn’t seem to work. But I reminded myself that I didn’t really know this guy. At all. He sat down on the floor of the hunting blind, rested his back on the inside wall, and patted the ground next to him. “We only shoot what we can eat. Nothing more,” he said, as if he had been reading my mind.

  “Before, you said that you knew someone like me, long ago. Were you speaking of your mother? Or—”

  “Someone else too. Dell was his name.”

  “Dell.” I sat down next to him, my shoulder grazing his. “Could he just heal anyone? Anything? Did he ever hurt when he didn’t mean to?”

  “We were kids, Corrine. I think Dell didn’t quite know what he had. It’s only looking back that I sort of put the pieces together.”

  “Could I talk to him?”

  Rennick shook his head, his eyes dark. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, looking up at me through his lashes. He looked almost apologetic.

  “Should I remember you?”

  “We met once a long time ago.” He didn’t look at me now but instead drew in the dirt with a stick—his initials, a compass rose, squiggles.

  I thought hard. Rennick Lane? Wouldn’t I have remembered meeting this guy? This part nerd/part dreamboat/part meddlesome Scooby-Doo kid who showed up right in the middle of trouble? “I don’t remember. Where? When?”

  “Summer. We were probably nine or ten. Lake Pontchartrain.”

  It hit me then. “You were the boy with the sparklers?” I looked at him wide-eyed, my jaw dropped. He nodded, didn’t quite meet my eye. I couldn’t believe it. I remembered that night. Of course I remembered that night.

  I tried to reconcile this cool, easy young man with the awkward kid I had met on that Fourth of July.

  He had worn thick black-rimmed glasses and had the kind of hair that lots of ten-year-old boys have: unwashed, untamed, too long in parts, too short in others. His ears stuck out from his head, and he was all hands and feet and teeth. Gangly. He had been an absolute nerd, no question.

  So, I had been right about that. And for some reason, I liked that.

  My family and I—Sophie had been just three or four years old then—were having a campfire on the shore with a big gang of my parents’ friends and their kids. It was a Fourth of July tradition. Rennick—or the kid I knew now as Rennick—sort of hung around the outside of our little group, on the fringe, for a long time that night. He was digging a lot near the waves, near the rocks, I remembered that.

  An older boy, Rory Kelleher, started picking on Rennick. Calling him names. Looking back, I think that Rory kid was trying to impress these two blond girls in bikini tops and cutoff jeans.

  The whole thing went on through the evening, with Rennick moving along the shore, digging with a stick, Mia-Joy and I playing kick the can with some friends, and the older group of kids and Rory doing nothing, like only fourteen-year-olds can. And this Rory kid kept yelling over to Rennick once in a while. Calling him a nerd and a dork.

  It wasn’t anything too horrible, but even at nine I knew what a moron that Rory kid was. I remembered clearly that I was building a hill of sand for the tin can to sit on, and I was going over the circle of sharps in my head as I did it. And I saw Rory filling up a water balloon from a canteen. He called over to the nerdy boy, to Rennick, “Hey, kid! Come show me what you found down there digging!”

  Rennick looked up all eager, glasses cocked at a ridiculous angle. The girls around Rory giggled with delight, and I just couldn’t stomach it. I stood up and shouted real loud, “Rory Kelleher, would you just shut up, you fat bully? Go bust that water balloon on your own head!”

  I got busy playing kick the can then, but I could feel Rory’s stare on me, the whispers of those older girls. I also heard a few snickers from some of my playmates. But what really made me smile was the sound of the little boy’s laugh. Just one yelp, one guffaw, right from the belly, had gotten out too quickly for him to edit.

  The timbre of that laugh. It hadn’t grown to G-sharp yet, but in my memory I could hear the hint of it.

  That had been Rennick.

  And it had been Rennick who had stood rapt, twenty, maybe thirty feet away, still and at attention when I played the violin around the campfire that night. I had been impressed with that. Because so many people didn’t care, so many of the kids ran around, screaming, playing, ignoring me. And that was fine. But that kid—Rennick—he listened intently. And when I chose my second song to play, I picked Canon in D. For him. I thought he would like it. A lot of action.

  When it was dark and the teenagers had found better things to do down the beach at their own fire, my mom began making s’mores for us, and she told me to politely go offer that left-out kid one of them. That’s what she said, I remembered that: “that left-out kid.”

  “He seems like he wants to join you guys,” Mom had told me. “Invite him to play with you.”

  So I did. He waved over his brother, an older, tough-looking kid with the shaggiest dishwater-blond hair. They both had dirt on their faces, and I had no idea where their parents were, but these kids were more than happy to join us in a game of flashlight tag. I remembered that Rennick came walking up, and he didn’t look at me but said, “It’s so true when you play your violin.”

  I always remembered that, till this day. I knew what he meant.

  But what happened after that game of tag was what he probably remembered most. Rennick brought out some sparklers. My dad’s friend Mr. Parker lit a few with his cigarette lighter, and the rest of us kids lit our sparklers off each other’s. Well, Rennick’s brother’s hair caught a spark. The wind had been just right. I was spinning in circles with my sparkler, my feet squishing against the now-cool sand, and I was watching my sparkler leave a trail of rainbow lights. And then from the corner of my eye, I saw his hair just light up, a big poof of a flame, yellow and orange and bright and fast.

  His hands went to his head, but it was like he didn’t quite know what was happening. I acted fast. I dropped my sparkler, ran the few feet to him, and tackled him onto the sand, rolled his head in it.

  When I was sure the flames were out, I got up. By now, he was crying, shaking, his long hair singed on the right side. Our parents had formed a ci
rcle, someone called 911. The rest of the memory was a blur.

  I shook my head, brought myself back to reality. I saw the grown-up Rennick doodling in the dirt. He had written his brother’s name in it, Cale. I remembered it now. I had thought it seemed like such a funny name back then. I didn’t think I had even learned Rennick’s name that night, but he had thanked me over and over, his father too.

  “Your dad was an Army guy,” I said, remembering his stern manner, a close-cropped crew cut.

  Rennick stopped drawing, looking at me very seriously. “You saved Cale.”

  “I can’t believe that was you,” I said, but even as I said it, I could see the familiar hints of that boy in this young man: the way he held his brow, kind of led with his eyes—the curiosity there, a sort of indifference toward the periphery.

  “How is your brother? Your dad? Where are they?”

  “Dad is in the Air Force. Cale joined the Army right after school. Last year.”

  “He graduated from Penton?”

  He gave me a funny look then, incredulous. “Cale didn’t get kicked out of Penton either,” he said.

  I gave him a hard look. “So why are there all these rumors about you?” I said, knowing I was walking the line.

  “Well, rumors are not truth.” His voice was tinged with hurt.

  And now I was backpedaling. “Rennick, I—”

  “People talk. Don’t believe everything you hear, Corrine. I’m just different. People like to … I don’t know.”

  “No, tell me.” I knew I was on shaky ground here. But I had to ask. I had to know. I had been through too much bullshit to just talk around everything forever and ever.

  Rennick rubbed at his chin, and he looked up at me through his lashes. He laughed, not a funny laugh, but an I-can’t-believe-I’m-going-to-tell-her-this laugh. “You know,” he said, giving me a smile, “you aren’t the only one who knows how to keep people at arm’s length. I have a little practice in the self-preservation mode myself.”

  “So tell me why.” I was pressing, I knew it. But what else could I do?

  “Let’s turn the tables, Corrine Harlowe. Why should I trust you with my secrets?”

  “You sought me out. This is on you.”

  “True enough,” he said, smiling. “But what if I like this dangerous, handsome-rebel approach? Why should I get rid of that so soon?” He arched his eyebrow and my stomach flip-flopped.

  “It seems to work for you at school. But (a), you aren’t a stranger because we met on that beach. And (b), no one said anything about handsome.” I raised my eyebrow right back.

  The laugh. Golden. Ringing through the trees. “You are a tough one.” He considered for a moment. “I didn’t really know my mom. She died when I was a baby.” He looked at me like he didn’t know if he was going to go on.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I was stillborn. Born dead. She saved me, though, with the touch.”

  “You’re kidding. Whoa.” It was all I could say. I marveled at this nugget of information. One little sentence. But so much history. He must’ve been able to see it on my face, the gravity of his revelation.

  “I know,” he said, nodding.

  The wind blew through the trees around us, and I tried to think about what it would be like to be him, to know so much but really so little about this thing around us. To be surrounded by it, defined by it.

  I cleared my throat. “So how does it relate to school? Not that it isn’t noteworthy or—”

  “Let’s just say that Cale never forgave me for her death.”

  “Why? But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Neither does blaming yourself for Lucy Rawlings’s death. Or Sophie’s.” He wasn’t joking with me now. There was no harshness or sarcasm. Just a tender, soft note in his voice.

  “It’s not the same. It’s not that simple.”

  “I know. It never is.”

  Off in the distance, I heard a three-note whistle, and Rennick got up from the ground, dusting off the seat of his jeans. “It’s Dodge’s whistle. They must be gone now.”

  He held out his hand to help me up, which I took, but when my hand touched his, my scalp tingled, itched. Again my skin tightened, the air around us charged, and I quickly drew my hand away, got up from the ground on my own.

  I followed him silently. I wanted to ask more questions, but I felt it there, heating up and coming to life behind my sternum. So I hung back, walked behind him, tried to digest all that I had learned. I did know Rennick Lane, my heart did know him.

  We walked slowly back toward his house, silent. If the walk out into the woods had been filled with a sense of beauty and freedom, the walk back for me was a blur. All I could see were my feet. My flip-flops, one in front of the other.

  About halfway to the house, Bouncer met us in the woods, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He passed Rennick right up and came and nuzzled my leg. I chose a perfectly sized stick from the underbrush and we played fetch all the way home.

  When we were in clear view of the house, I could see the new smoky pink and purple formations of sunset light refracting off of the lake. I stopped in my tracks, scratching a panting Bouncer under his muzzle. “It’s beautiful here.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful, Corrine,” Rennick said. He stood in front of me, did not turn around, but I could see this line to his shoulders, the fear, the resolve in it, and it made me wonder about his story a little more.

  “How should I be careful?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Just be careful. Keep yourself safe. And don’t worry too much about what they print in the papers about you.”

  “Okay,” I said. He had me worried. I was still coming to terms with the idea of this power itself; now to have to top that off with fear that my power might not be looked on favorably … I didn’t know what to think. My head was spinning. My insides felt oddly hollow and brittle, like I could snap.

  “Let’s get out of here, do something fun,” he said, finally turning around.

  “Okay,” I said. Rennick opened the back door. He ushered Bouncer into the house and called out to Dodge to let him know we were leaving.

  “Doesn’t it seem a little unreal to you that we met all that time ago?” I still couldn’t believe the coincidence.

  “It doesn’t seem so crazy.” Rennick led us toward his Jeep.

  “Why not?”

  “Your aura is pulling me in.”

  “Oh, really?” I smiled in spite of myself.

  “Your aura loves me already,” he said, opening the passenger door, and he gave me a smile, his one-dimpled smile, and winked.

  I let out a laugh as I took my seat, and I tried to ignore the way my stomach flip-flopped at his words. Rennick got in beside me and started the Jeep. “Where are we going?” I asked, glad to be anywhere but home. I needed something to do while my mind worked on everything. Could this all be real? Me? My powers? Rennick? I couldn’t take it all in, and I caught myself thinking about Chicago. If I had been in Chicago, if I had been swimming laps at Chaney Pool, walking home from there at dusk, on our Midwestern streets, under our Midwestern streetlights, I would’ve laughed at all this stuff. Sixth sense. We Midwesterners were too practical for that.

  “You’ll see,” Rennick answered. “It’s why I moved here. With Dodge.”

  He drove us into the city, through the French Quarter and out toward the wharf. And I had to admit to myself that everything, the touch, all of it seemed more plausible here. This city of ghost stories, birthplace of American voodoo. Even the way the air felt on your skin in the Crescent City. It was all a little bit left of center. Things felt different here, with just a hint of the mystical, the magical, the impossible.

  “You know, I thought about you for a long time after that night, after that July Fourth,” Rennick said. Goose bumps trailed up and down my arms.

  “You did?”

  “I saw your aura even then. It was unmistakable. I mean, I didn’t know what I was loo
king at exactly. I know more now.”

  “What do you know about me?” I said, my voice quiet, waiting.

  He held the steering wheel tight, looking straight ahead. I saw him draw in a deep breath. “I know you’re brave. I know you’re generous and kind. You saved a young kid’s life that night on the beach. You’re whip-smart and stubborn. Decisive. And I remember you have a laugh like a sleigh bell.”

  I thought of my mom. I always thought her laugh sounded like a jingle bell. “Haven’t I laughed since you re-met me?”

  “Not truly.”

  Well, considering the string of events since I had re-encountered Rennick Lane, that was understandable.

  “Do you still play the violin?”

  “Yes. No. I did.”

  He nodded. “Corrine,” he said, and there was a seriousness to his face now. “Thank you. For saving Lila. You’ll never know what that does for Dodge.”

  And there it was, this tangible thing between us, this knowledge and certainty that I had brought his grandmother virtually back to life.

  I saved Lila Twopenny. I said that sentence to myself. But who I saw in my mind was Sophie. Beautiful Sophie.

  Rennick pulled us into a small marina. Three boats—two large bay boats and one small motorboat—were docked, and there was a small storefront, with hand-printed signs for bait and ice. A larger sign, weatherworn and charming, declared in bold blue and yellow letters: CRESCENT CHARTERS.

  “This is Dodge’s outfit. Been running it for sixty years. Dad was going to make him shut it down. He couldn’t keep up with stuff. The hard labor end of things.”

  “Does he fish for shrimp or something, sell them in town?”

  “No, it’s a charter company. He takes people out who want the real N’awlins Angling Experience, ya know?” Rennick put on his best drawl when he said this and I nodded a little. “You’d be surprised. Businesses, vacationers, Northerners, they come down here, and they want the experience of fishing in the marshes. They’ve heard the stories about how big the redfish can get. They want to see alligators. So they rent out a little slice of bayou life.”

  “They pay Dodge to take them out on his boat?”