Burnt Orange

by Melody Carlson

  It is extremely awkward to talk to Claire, but I am doing it for Simi. After some initial stilted conversation, she cuts to the chase.

  “I thought you probably hated me,” she says in a voice that’s just as dead as my own.

  “I sort of did.”

  “Did?”

  I sigh. “Okay, I’m trying, for Simi’s sake, to forgive you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know that’s what Simi would want.”

  Now Claire begins to quietly cry

  “Simi actually cared about you,” I tell her. “She knew you had a serious problem and that you needed help.” I clear my throat. “She had the same concerns for me.”

  “But I suppose your drinking days are over now.”

  “I hope so.” And then I realize that if this is going to work, if I really want to reach this girl, I have to be honest. And so I confess to her that every single day and every single night, I have wanted a drink.

  “Not just a drink,” I admit, “but I want to get so wasted that I don’t feel anything—not a thing.”

  “Really?”

  “But I’m not going to do it,” I say with fresh resolve.

  “How?” she asks me. “How can you be that strong?”

  “It’s not me,” I say. “It’s God in me. Every day I tell him that I’m weak, that I want a drink, and I ask him to help me. And every day he does.”

  “Oh.”

  But I think I hear this ever-so-faint sense of longing in that oh, so I decide to take this thing one step further. “But I’m still worried,” I tell her. “I think I may need more help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m thinking about going to Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “Seriously?”

  Now I pray about this next thing, and I get the strongest sense that Simi is standing right next to me now, that she’s right here urging me to say this.

  “Do you think you’d want to come with me?” I ask.

  There’s a long pause, and I almost wonder if she hung up on me, but then she speaks. “Yeah, I think that’d be a good thing.”

  And so it’s settled. I tell my parents and Lena about what I’m going to do, and they all seem to agree that it’s a good idea. To be honest, I’m not so sure. For one thing, I don’t know if I’m ready to be around Claire again, but at the same time, I do have this sense of peace. And strange as it sounds, I get this feeling that Simi is in it with me, like she’s right here encouraging me to go through with it.

  And so I go to Claire’s house on the following Tuesday evening just a little before seven. Her mother answers the door and is obviously aware of what’s going on tonight. But she says little to me and just calls for Claire to come and then leaves.

  I am shocked when I see Claire. She looks like a different person. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a limp ponytail, and even though she’s wearing a baggy set of pale gray sweats, I can see that she’s lost weight. And she has dark shadows beneath her eyes and not a trace of makeup on her pale face. It’s like she’s someone else, or a ghost.

  We are both quiet as I drive to the church where the AA meeting is being held, but as I drive, I silently pray—for both of us. For the first time, it occurs to me that Claire and I may have lost more than Simi did that night. I mean, as much as I miss her, Simi is with God. She is at peace and perfectly happy, yet Claire and I are still trying to pick up the pieces of our totally messed-up lives—Claire, I think, even more so than me, now that I’ve seen her.

  We sit in the back of the room, watching as people of all ages and descriptions go forward and share their stories. Each story is different and yet so similar that it’s almost comforting, or perhaps frightening.

  And then it’s my turn to go up. With sweaty palms, I walk to the front of the room. And here’s the honest truth: more than ever, I would love a stiff drink right now—something to bolster me and give that sense of confidence that I so desperately lack. But more than that I want God in my life, and I want to live the kind of life that will make my dear friend Simi proud of me. And so I stand at the wooden podium and take in a deep breath and begin.

  “Hello.” I hear the shakiness in my voice. “My name is Amber Conrad, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  reader’s guide

  1. Why do you think Amber decided to go to a drinking party in the first place? Why did she decide to go again?

  2. Do you think Amber’s relationship with God was genuine? Why or why not?

  3. Amber told herself that she “just wanted to have fun.” Do you think she really had fun?

  4. Do you think peer pressure affected Amber? How does it affect you?

  5. Could Amber’s Christian friends have done anything different to help her? What would you do if your friend were to start drinking?

  6. Why do you think there are laws prohibiting minors from drinking alcohol?

  7. Amber tried to convince herself that she was helping Claire. Do you think Claire benefited from Amber’s friendship? Why or why not?

  8. Lena put Amber and Claire into a cab to keep them from driving while intoxicated. What would you do if your friend planned to drive while under the influence of alcohol?

  9. How long do you think it takes to become an alcoholic? Can it happen to anyone? Could it happen to you or someone you love?

  10. What would you do if you or someone you knew had a drinking problem?

  Resources for more help and information on alcoholism:

  Al-Anon: 1-888-4AL-ANON, www.al-anon.alateen.org

  Focus Adolescent Services: 1-877-362-8727,

  www.focusas.com/Alcohol.html

  American Council on Alcoholism: 1-800-527-5344

  Alcoholics Anonymous: www.alcoholics-anonymous.org

  TrueColors Book 6:

  Fool’s Gold

  Coming in July 2005

  The story of a “simple” girl who gets caught up in the “glamour” of the material world—and finds out how much it really costs.

  One

  MY COUSIN VANESSA THINKS SHOPPING IS A COMPETITIVE SPORT. HON- estly, this chick could go for gold if the Olympic committee ever figured out how physically demanding clothes shopping really is. I was so puffed that I thought I was about to die at the mall this afternoon. And I’m a missionary kid (otherwise known as an MK) who can walk about the Papua New Guinean bush for kilometers without whinging—well, not much anyway.

  But Vanessa was a force to be reckoned with today, with her Gucci shoes and plastic Prada purse (loaded with her daddy’s plastic cards) as well as her accumulation of brightly colored shopping bags that she steadily collected until she passed some off to me to lug for her. Finally I realized that this girl was not about to give up until she found the “perfect” T-shirt. And she seemed to have something quite specific in mind, since I showed her dozens that I thought were adequate. But she was driven. In fact, she reminded me of that ridiculous bunny rabbit that used to be on a telly commercial—the one for the batteries that just kept going and going and going. And Vanessa was even wearing pink too. Finally I told my cousin I was zonked and asked if she minded if I grabbed a lemon squash in the food court until she finished up.

  “A lemon what?” she asked.

  “You know, a lolly water, soda pop, whatever you Yanks call it. I just need a break is all.”

  “You’re not tired, are you?” Her wide blue eyes looked incredulous, almost as if she thought I had a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock, although I was thinking the same thing about her.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I reckon I am. Do you mind terribly?”

  She smiled. “I just love it when you say ‘reckon’ and ‘terribly’ and ‘lolly water.’ You sound like such a little Aussie.”

  As usual, that embarrassed me. “I can’t help how I talk, Vanessa,” I explained for about the twentieth time. “That’s how everyone talks at my school in New Guinea. The accent tends to rub off when all your mates are from down under. Trust me, my mum is always correcting my English.”r />
  “Well, I think it’s adorable, Hannah, but I can’t believe you’re flaking out on me already. The only reason I brought you along today was because I thought you could use a little—well, you know—help.” The way she said the word “help,” you’d have thought she was offering me a kidney transplant or something. Then she glanced at my outfit, taking in my faded-logo T-shirt, baggy cargo pants with a hole in one knee, and ancient rubber flip-flops that were once purple but now looked more like the color of old beets. “I mean, those clothes are okay for the jungle or working in the yard,” she continued, “but you don’t really want to go around LA looking like, well, like a missionary kid.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s like what I am, Vanessa.” I tried not to show my pride at picking up this Yankee slang word “like.” It’s like they use it as a verb and an adverb and just about any other sort of word. It’s like this and like that. And I’ve, like, been trying to insert it here and there just so I’ll fit in better with the Yanks.

  “I know you’re a missionary kid,” she continued, “but you don’t have to go around advertising the fact to everyone—I mean, unless you want people to feel sorry for you and you plan to pass the cup around like your dad does when he goes to churches to raise his mission money.”

  Well, I didn’t let it show, but that last comment stung a bit. Oh, I realize that it probably seems odd to someone like Vanessa that my parents are forced to go on furlough every six years to raise support funds. But it’s not as if we enjoy this six-month ordeal of tripping about the States begging for money so that my parents can return to the mission field for six more years of hard work and precious little appreciation. Meanwhile, I get stuck in a kids’ group home and the mission school. It’s not as if we’re all over there having a great big party. And it was a low blow for Vanessa to say that about my dad.

  But then I guess she can’t help it. She takes after her mum. And it was actually her mum’s suggestion to take me shopping today. I reckon Aunt Lori’s embarrassed to have me seen at their house while my parents are traveling about the States doing “deputation” (which actually means raising mission money). But my dad told me that Aunt Lori was the original “material girl” and that Madonna came up with her song only after meeting her. Of course, he says this with no malice. But it’s not exactly a lie either, well, except for the Madonna part, since I’m fairly sure Aunt Lori never actually met the pop star. But certainly no one can deny that Aunt Lori enjoys being rich. I’ve also heard that my dad’s brother, Uncle Ron, never would’ve gotten this wealthy without his wife’s constant “encouragement,” which I overheard my mum refer to as “nagging.” Mum also said that Lori used to be one of those women with “champagne taste on a beer budget.” But it looks like Aunt Lori can have all the champagne she wants now.

  To say that I was pretty shocked when I saw how drastically things had changed for my relatives is quite an understatement. The last time we were in the States, back when Vanessa and I were about eleven, they still lived in a regular neighborhood, in a regular sort of three-bedroom house. Oh, her dad’s business was doing well and growing, no doubt about that. But they were by no means wealthy, and Vanessa was just a regular girl back then—not all that different from me, other than the accent. But the two of us had such an ace time together, just doing regular things like riding bikes and watching Disney videos and stuff.

  But now it seems that everything’s changed. Uncle Ron’s custodial business has been wildly successful, and as a result it’s made their family incredibly wealthy. They now live in this enormous house in a very posh neighborhood and have an inground pool (which I’ve rather enjoyed this past week), as well as all sorts of other amenities. We’re talking lifestyles of the rich and famous here—well, perhaps only rich, since Johnson’s Janitorial Services may be well known but probably not considered famous, at least not by Hollywood standards. And from what I can see, Hollywood standards seem to rule in my cousin’s household—well, at least with Vanessa and Aunt Lori. Uncle Ron still appears to have both feet planted on terra firma.

  “Looks like you’ll be pretty comfortable this summer, Hannah,” my dad observed when we first arrived at their amazing home last week. “Talk about landing in the lap of luxury.”

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” My mum peered up at the mustard-colored stucco mansion in front of us.

  “This is it,” said Dad as he pulled our furlough car (an old blue Taurus station wagon with a dent in the right front fender) into the circular driveway, which was lined with pruned shrubs and made entirely of bricks.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t park our car here,” said Mum. “It looks so out of place.”

  “Do you want me to park it out on the street, Brenda?” My dad’s voice was getting slightly irritated now.

  Mum laughed nervously. “No, I guess not.”

  Then Dad reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, honey. They’re still just Ron and Lori, and they still put their pants on one leg at a time.”

  “But their pants probably cost an arm and a leg now.”

  As it turned out, Mum was close, because, I kid you not, today I actually witnessed Vanessa purchasing a pair of blue jeans that cost nearly three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars! I could not believe it. How can a pair of jeans be worth that much?

  “Why are they so expensive?” I whispered, not wanting to look like a complete bumpkin as the sales clerk wrapped the precious blue jeans in lavender-colored tissue paper and then slipped them into a sleek bag with ribbon handles.

  “They’re Armani,” she said as if that explained everything. “And besides, they’re on sale.”

  Armani, I said to myself. That must be like Gucci and Prada, the two other designer names I’ve learned this past week. Now, I can only wonder what that pink plastic Prada purse must’ve set her back. And I happen to think it’s pretty ugly.

  So as I sat there in the food court, drinking my lemon squash (known as a Sprite here) and people watching, I began to notice that (a) most of the shoppers were teenage girls or young women, (b) they wore clothes very similar to Vanessa’s, (c) they, for the most part, carried bags from the same sorts of stores that Vanessa had been in, and (d) I most definitely did not fit in. In fact, I’m sure I looked like something from not only a different country but also an entirely different planet. The funny thing is that all my mates back in PNG dress like this and we were all under the impression that the “grunge look” was still in vogue. But I guess we are behind the times.

  It was about then that I noticed this security guard watching me with what I’m sure was suspicion. My guess is that this cop didn’t think that I belonged here either and he had probably assumed I was a dodge planning, I’m sure, a great heist. So I just smiled at him and waved. He quickly looked away and then said something into the walkie-talkie thing that was pinned to his chest.

  Finally Vanessa came back and, looking over the moon, showed me her prize. “I can’t believe I found it,” she said as she pulled out a pale blue T-shirt that was so thin you could actually see right through it.

  I touched the flimsy fabric. “But won’t your bra show through, Vanessa?”

  She laughed. “That’s the whole point.”

  “You want the guys to be perving at your bra?”

  “I’ll make sure to wear a very cool bra with it, Hannah. Don’t get all freaked. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

  I tried not to look too stunned, but then I saw the price tag and nearly fell off my chair. “You paid a hundred ninety dollars for this?”

  She smiled with what I would describe as a condescending smile (the kind reserved for small children or dimwits) and then gently slipped the shirt back into the bag. “It’s a Prada—the latest design and the only one left in the store. My friend Elisa is going to be totally jealous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she wanted one just like it, and now I’ve gotten the last.”

  “I’d think your mate wo
uld be totally relieved. You just saved her nearly two hundred dollars on a shirt that can’t possibly be worth five bucks.”

  Vanessa laughed. “You just don’t get it, Hannah. But wait until you see this top on me, and with my new jeans. Then you might start to understand fashion.”

  Just then her mobile phone rang, doing its little tinkling musical thing, and suddenly Vanessa was chatting away with one of her mates, going on and on about how she had “searched absolutely everywhere” until she finally found the “perfect Prada T-shirt” and how “hot” she was going to look in it at the party tomorrow night. Yeah, yeah.

  I walked over to the bin and dumped my paper cup, pausing to look at that copper who was still eyeing me. Once again, I smiled and waved at him, and to my surprise, he actually smiled back this time. I wanted to walk over and say hello and then ask him what he thought about all these silly girls spending thousands—no make that millions and probably billions—of dollars on strange names like Prada and Gucci and Armani. Did he, like me, think it was perfectly ridiculous? Probably not. After all, this overpriced, designer-driven mall was paying his salary. All right, sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Why don’t I get it? Will I ever really fit in here?

  So as I sat there absently listening to Vanessa ear-bashing Elisa Rodriguez (as it turned out), I started to daydream. I remember this old fairy tale called The Emperor’s New Clothes that I had enjoyed as a child, only in my mind, I now changed it to the Empress’s New Clothes (starring Vanessa Johnson). In my version, my cousin insisted that she could only wear the best and most expensive garments in the design industry. “That does not cost enough!” she screams at one of the lesser designers. Finally a designer comes up and says that his outfit will cost one million dollars and will be the most expensive clothing ever made. (Okay, maybe one million dollars is too cheap.) So Empress Vanessa waits for a week, and the designer returns with his “amazing” outfit. But when he opens the gold-plated box with layers of tissue, it is empty. “Where are my clothes?” demands Vanessa. He smiles and says, “Right here, Empress. But you must realize that I have used the finest fibers known to mankind. The threads are so delicate that only those who truly know and appreciate exquisite design can see them.” Then, of course, Vanessa nods, pretending she can see the nonexistent clothing. “Go ahead,” she tells him. “Help me put them on.” And after Vanessa dons her one-million-dollar outfit, she parades all over Beverly Hills in nothing but her underwear, and everyone who sees her simply laughs and—