True Colors

by Kristin Hannah

  “Hey, boy.” She rubbed his graying muzzle and scratched behind his twitching ears. It flashed through her mind suddenly: Does he still dream of riding Renegade?

  Pushing the thought aside, she headed up toward her house. Renegade followed on his side of the fencing, limping and struggling until the start of the hill, where he gave up and stood there, watching her go.

  She was careful not to look back at him as she went up the final rise to her cottage. When she opened the door, she knew that Noah was home. A pounding, pulsing beat of music rattled the knotty pine walls. She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Lord knew anger wouldn’t aid her now.

  At his bedroom door, she paused and knocked. It was impossible to hear an answer above the music, so she opened the door and went inside.

  His room was long and narrow, a recent addition to the cabin. Posters of bands covered his walls—Godsmack, Nine Inch Nails, Korn, Metallica. He had his own computer in the corner and a television hooked up to an Xbox.

  Maybe that was the problem; she’d given him too much and asked too little in return. But she was always trying to make up for what he’d lost.

  He was sitting on his unmade bed, with a wireless controller in his hand, making some animated biker-looking chick kick a guy in the balls.

  “We need to talk,” she said to his back.

  When he didn’t respond, she went over to the TV and turned it off.

  “Damn it, Mom. I was just about to beat that level.”

  “Don’t swear at me.”

  He gave her a sullen look. “If language is such a big deal, maybe you and your sisters could start setting a better example.”

  “You aren’t going to turn this around,” she said. “Not this time. What was the fight about?”

  “Gee, lemme think. Global warming?”

  “Noah . . .”

  “What do you think it was about? What’s it always about? That puke-for-brains Engstrom called me Injun boy and his assface friends started doing a rain dance. So I punched him out.”

  Vivi Ann sat down beside him. “I would have wanted to clean his pimply clock, too.”

  He glanced at her through the curtain of his greasy hair.

  Vivi Ann knew how desperate he was for someone to take his side, to be his friend and support his actions. It broke her heart that she couldn’t fill that role. Once, she’d thought they’d be best friends forever; that youthful naïveté was no more. He was a fatherless boy; he had to have a mother who made the rules. “Every time you hit someone, you prove them right.”

  “So what? Maybe I am just like my old man.” He threw his wireless remote at the wall. “I hate this town.”

  “Noah—”

  “And I hate you for marrying him. And I hate him for not being here . . .” His voice broke on that and he stood up, moving quickly away from the bed.

  She went to him, took him in her arms the way she used to, but he shoved her away. She stared at his back, saw the defeated slope to his shoulders, and knew how wounded he’d been by those ugly words in the schoolyard.

  “Believe me, I know how you’re feeling.”

  He turned. “Oh, really? You know how it feels to have a murderer for a father?”

  “I had one for a husband,” she said quietly.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Vivi Ann took another deep breath. They’d been down this road before, talking around Dallas. She never knew what to say. “Before I leave, I have to pass along the good news that you’re going to flunk English, which means you won’t go on to high school in September.”

  That got his attention. “What?”

  “Lucky for you, Mrs. Ivers has agreed to give you a second chance. She’s going to let you write in a journal for her this summer. You’ll meet with her Monday morning before school to discuss the details.”

  “I hate writing.”

  “Then I hope you enjoy eighth grade better the second time.”

  She left him alone to mull that over.

  Who Am I?

  Only a totally whack old lady like Mrs. Eyesore would give such a stupid assignment. She thinks I care about passing Language Arts. Like I’m going to need THAT after I graduate from high school. Yeah, right. Screw her and her last chance. I’m not gonna do it.

  They suspended me.

  Fuck.

  Who Am I?

  Why does Mrs. I. think that’s such an awesome question? I’m nobody. That’s what I’ll tell her. Oh wait, I don’t have to tell her because she’s not going to READ MY PRIVATE STUFF. Like I believe her when she says she’s just going to skim over it to see if I’m not copying other people. Yeah. I so totally believe that.

  I should tell her. Blow her mind. I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM.

  How could I?

  I don’t look like anyone in my family. Everyone says I have my mom’s eyes, but if I ever look that sad I’m gonna blow my brains out.

  That’s my answer this week, Mrs. I. I don’t know who I am and I don’t care. Why should I? No one else in this town does. I eat all my lunches alone at the table with the other dorks and losers. No one ever talks to me. They just laugh when I go past and whisper shit about my dad.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Winona’s life was proof positive that if you got a good education, worked hard, and kept believing in yourself, you could succeed. She gave this inspirational speech—the story of her triumphs—all over the county, to church groups and classrooms and volunteer organizations. They believed her, too, and why not? The measure of her success was visible to the naked eye: she lived in a gorgeous, flawlessly remodeled Victorian mansion, drove a brand-new, totally-paid-for ice-blue Mercedes convertible, and periodically bought and sold local real estate. Her client list was so extensive that in nonemergency situations, people often had to wait two weeks for an appointment. And best of all, her neighbors had grown accustomed to taking her advice. She’d proven, over time, to be right about almost everything, and it was flattering to know that her calm, rational decision-making skills were recognized and admired. In retrospect, even the ugly business with Dallas had bolstered her reputation. Everyone ultimately agreed that she’d been right not to represent Dallas, and Vivi Ann had come back to the family, just as Winona had hoped. Now they were together again; sometimes the ragged seams showed or buried resentments poked through, but they’d learned how to ignore those moments and go on, how to change the subject to something safe. All in all, Winona felt they were as strong a family as most and better than plenty.

  Not everything was perfect, of course. She was forty-three years old, unmarried, and childless. The children she’d never had haunted her, came to her sometimes in her dreams, crying to be held in her arms, but as much as she’d wanted that fairy tale, it hadn’t happened for her. She’d dated plenty of nice men over the years (and a few real losers), and she’d often hoped. In the end, though, she’d remained alone.

  Now she was tired of waiting for the life she’d once dreamed of, and had decided to try another road. Career had always been her great strength, and so she’d try to find fulfillment there.

  With this shiny new goal in mind, she stood on the sidewalk, studying the booth she’d just erected and decorated. It was really just four card tables tied together and draped in red fabric that fell almost to the cement. Behind it was a huge banner, strung between weighted poles, that read: THE CHOICE FOR MAYOR IS CLEAR. VOTE GREY. On the table were hundreds of brochures, complete with photographs of her great-grandfather standing by a handmade OYSTER SHORES POP. 12 sign, as well as a detailed description of Winona’s political position on every issue. Other candidates could blow hot air about their beliefs; not her. She intended to crush the competition with the force of her convictions. Two large glass bowls held hundreds of VOTE GREY buttons.

  Everything was ready.

  She checked her watch. It was 7:46 in the morning.

  No wonder she was out here pretty much all alone. The Founders Day festivities didn’t start until noon and non

e of the businesses were open yet. She leaned back against the streetlamp and looked up and down the street. From her vantage point in front of the Sport Shack, she could see everything from Ted’s Boatyard to the Canal House Bed and Breakfast. The usual Founders Day signage was in place—banners decorated with covered wagons set against a beautiful ocean-blue backdrop, hand-painted pioneer-themed artwork on the glass storefronts, and blinking lights twined around the streetlamps.

  As she stood there, the clouds overhead thinned out a little and the shadows lifted. By eight o’clock the rest of the vendors had shown up, waving at Winona as they passed, in a rush now to get their stalls ready by noon, and by nine o’clock the stores were beginning to open. All up and down the street one could hear the tinkling of bells that meant doors were opening.

  Memorial Day Monday had always been the start of the week-long celebration. The same street vendors showed up year after year, selling the same things: homemade scones with jam, churros, fresh lemonade, oyster shooters, barbecued oysters, and the ever-popular Conestoga wagon hand puppets. All day long, throngs of people would fill this one street, walking from booth to booth, eating food they didn’t need, and buying junk they didn’t want, and come nightfall a bluegrass band would set up in the Waves Restaurant’s parking lot, position speakers in the corners, and everyone from five to seventy-five would dance. It was the unofficial start of summer.

  She walked down the street and bought herself a latte. By the time she got back to her booth, Vivi Ann, Noah, and Aurora were there. No doubt Vivi Ann was afraid to leave her delinquent son home alone.

  “We’re ready to help,” Vivi Ann said, smiling.

  “I was hoping you’d show up,” Winona said.

  “Hoping?” Aurora arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I know an order when I hear one. What about you, Vivi?”

  “Oh, she definitely ordered us here.”

  “I don’t know why. You two are total bitches.” Winona grinned. “Thank God you’re cheap labor.”

  Aurora studied the booth and frowned. In her trendy low-rise designer jeans with stiletto-heeled sandals and a fitted white blouse, she looked more like a celebrity than a small-town doctor’s ex-wife. “I can’t believe you put pictures of the flag all around your banner. Rectangular shapes are bad for women; everyone knows that. And your slogan: Vote Grey. Seven years of college and that’s your best shot?” She turned to Vivi Ann. “Fortunately originality isn’t valued in a politician.”

  “I suppose you could do better,” Winona said.

  Aurora made a great show of thinking. She frowned deeply, tapped one long, acrylic-tipped nail against her cheek. “Hmmm . . . it’s difficult, I’ll agree. I mean, your name is Win. But how, oh, how could you use that?”

  Winona couldn’t help it: she burst out laughing. “How could I miss that?”

  “You’ve always been a see-the-trees, miss-the-forest gal,” Aurora said. “Remember when you took your first driving test? You were so busy looking ahead to the stoplight and calculating how many feet it would take you to stop at that speed and wondering when to hit your turn signal that you drove right through a four-way stop?”

  That was the thing about family. They were like elephants. No one ever forgot a thing. Especially a failure, and a funny failure was as durable and reusable as plastic.

  She was about to offer to get coffee for everyone when she noticed Noah going through her purse. “Noah,” she snapped. “What are you doing?”

  He should have looked guilty, but that was the thing about Noah: he never behaved as you expected. Instead, he looked angry. “I need a pen to do my homework.”

  My ass, Winona thought, but said, “How very enterprising of you.” She plucked a pen off the table and handed it to him, then retrieved her purse.

  For the next eight hours, she and her sisters handed out brochures and buttons and gave away candy. Sometime after three, Aurora disappeared for half an hour or so and came back carrying quart-sized margaritas in Slurpee cups. After that they really had fun. Winona wasn’t exactly sure whose idea it was, but after they’d given away all the promotional items, while the other business-oriented booths were shutting down for the night, the three of them ended up standing in the middle of the street, arms slung around shoulders and waists, doing the cancan and singing, “Can can can you vote for Win?”

  Laughing, they walked back to the booth, where Noah sat like a little black rain cloud.

  “Could you be more weird?” he said to Vivi Ann, who immediately lost her smile.

  It pissed Winona off. The last thing her sister needed was an angry, maladjusted kid to hurt her feelings. “Could you?” she asked Noah.

  “Who wants another drink?” Aurora said quickly. “Everyone? Good. Come on, Noah. You can help me carry them back. It’ll be good practice for senior year.”

  After they were gone, Winona went over to Vivi Ann, who was standing by the banner’s stanchion, looking out across the crowded street. Through the colorful, moving blur of people, Winona knew what her sister was staring at. The corner of the ice-cream shop and the start of the alley.

  Cat Morgan’s house was long gone, of course; now that clean, well-tended alley led out to the Kiwanises’ park. But no matter how many signs they erected or ads they placed in the newspapers, to the locals it would always be Cat’s alley.

  “Are you okay?” Winona asked cautiously.

  Vivi Ann gave her one of the Teflon smiles she’d perfected in the past few years. “Fine. Why?”

  “I heard Noah got in a fight again.”

  “He says Erik, Jr., and Brian started it.”

  “They probably did. Butchie’s kid has always been a bully. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “I gave Noah the benefit of the doubt the first few fights, but now . . . I don’t know what to do with him. Even if he’s not starting the problem, he’s finishing it, and sooner or later he’s going to hurt someone.”

  Winona considered her words carefully. Of all the land mines buried in the dirt of their past, none was more easily triggered than discussions about Noah’s problems.

  The past year had changed everything; it had happened almost on the day of his thirteenth birthday. In one summer he’d gone from being a skinny, smiling Labrador retriever of a boy to a sullen, sloop-shouldered Doberman. Quick to anger, slow to forgive. He’d caused talk in town with his temper. Some even whispered the word violent, usually paired with just like his father.

  Winona thought he needed counseling at the very least and possibly placement at a school for troubled teens, but offering Vivi Ann that advice was problematic. Especially coming from Winona. Their reconciliation was complete, but a little conditional. Some things were just out of bounds. “It’s not surprising that he’d have trouble dealing with . . . stuff,” Winona said. She never mentioned Dallas’s name if she could avoid it. “Maybe he needs counseling.”

  “I’ve tried that. He wouldn’t talk.”

  “Maybe get him into sports. That’s good for a kid.”

  “Could you talk to him? You remember what it was like to be picked on, don’t you?”

  Winona didn’t want to agree. The truth was that she didn’t like Noah lately. Or, maybe that wasn’t quite accurate.

  He frightened her. No matter how often she told herself that he was just a boy and that he’d had a rough shake and that the teen years were hard, she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. When she looked at him, all she saw was his father.

  Dallas had almost ruined this family once, and she was terrified that his angry, violent son would finish the job.

  “Sure,” she said to Vivi Ann. “I’ll talk to him.”

  I can’t believe I used to like Founders Days. What a joke. Like people don’t think I’m enough of a loser already, I have to sit in Aunt Winona’s “campaign center” and hand out cheap buttons to old people.

  When they started that stupid kick dancing in the street I wanted to hurl. Of course that’s when Erik Jr. and Candace Delgado walked by. I totally wanted to smash his grinning face, and Candace looked like she felt sorry for me.

  I HATE THAT.

  I’m so sick of people thinking they know something about me just because my dad shot some lady.

  Maybe she gave him one of those you’re scum looks. Maybe That’s why he shot her.

  I’ve tried to ask my mom about it, but she just looks like she’s gonna cry and says none of that matters anymore, that the only thing that matters is how much she loves me.

  Wrong.

  She has no clue how I feel. If she did she’d take me to see my dad.

  That’s the first thing I’m gonna do when I get a license. I’m gonna drive to the prison and see my father.

  I don’t even want to talk to him. I just want to see his face.

  You probably want to know why, don’t u, Mrs. Ivers? U think I’m being an idiot to want to see a murderer and you’re wondering if I’ll steal a car to do it.

  Ha ha.

  You’ll have to wait and see.

  In June, the Bits and Spurs 4-H Club was having their first official get-ready-for-the-fair meeting. The girls, and several of their mothers, were in the cottage, seated on the floor, on the sofa, on the hearth. The pine-plank floor was dotted with blank squares of poster board. On each white sheet sat a bucket of supplies. Colored markers, rulers, glitter paint, decorator scissors, Scotch tape; more than twenty years of experience had taught Vivi Ann exactly what they would need. Trends came and went, the words changed with the generations, but how girls expressed themselves remained the same: with bright colors and glued-on glitter.

  Vivi Ann stepped around the room, positioning each of her girls in front of a piece of poster board. “Go ahead and begin,” she said finally. “Start with your horse’s name. It’s his stall, remember, and neatness and spelling count. The barn judges will read every word.” She stepped over one girl’s outstretched legs and sidled past another. At the dining room table, she paused. From here, she could look out through the old, rippled kitchen window and see the shingled exterior of the addition.

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