A Mango-Shaped Space (17 page)
When Tuesday afternoon finally arrives I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t lie on that acupuncture table soon. I’m so fidgety in the car that Roger asks me if I want to go first this time. How can I say no?
Finally, the time has come. Faith asks me how my ears are feeling, and it takes me a second to remember my earache. I tell her my ears feel better, but they still hurt. She nods and explains that the mild electric currents might help speed up the healing process. Once all of the needles are in place, the balls instantly reappear. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. I don’t even need to open my eyes to tell that the brownish-pink glow around her is back too. I’m magic again!
A humming noise alerts me to the fact that the electric current has been switched on. I feel a slight pulling on the needles as she attaches the wires.
Then fireworks go off in my head.
My eyes snap open and everything is so bright that I have to close them again. The colors are everywhere, filling all space. I am overwhelmed, and for a second it scares me, like the time Zack set all my alarm clocks to go off at once. But this is different. There’s no noise; all the multicolored balls, zigzags, and spirals are coming from inside me. I slowly open my eyes, and things are a little calmer now. The glow around Faith is ten times as vibrant as it was the first time, and the last vestige of guilt caused by lying to my parents leaves me. I’m sure they wouldn’t deny me this experience if they knew about it.
Eventually, I become aware of Faith’s voice telling me I have to get up so Roger can come in. When did she take the needles out? I quickly get to my feet and then hold on to the table while a wave of dizziness passes. I walk out into the waiting room in a daze. Everything seems alive. The brown carpet looks like a deep, plush forest floor. The fruit in the bowl on the desk is practically pulsating with life. Roger passes me on his way to the office, and the trail of red he leaves behind is so thick I feel as though I should be able to touch it. I drop the envelope with my forty dollars in it on the desk. A full two months’ allowance, but oh so worth it.
I try to read while Roger has his turn, but there’s no way I can concentrate on anything as two-dimensional as a magazine. Mrs. Carson keeps glancing at me, and I wonder if I’m acting strangely. I cross my legs and try to stop tapping my feet. It seems like forever until he comes out and we can go outdoors. Everything’s brimming with life! The bushes, the birds, me and Roger, Roger’s mother, and everyone else. Things that people have touched, such as parking meters and door handles, all have colored smears on them.
“Hey, watch out!” Roger says loudly, grabbing me by my sweater. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Huh?”
“You were about to walk out into traffic.”
“Oh.” I look up and find myself standing about a foot into the street. I quickly back up onto the sidewalk. “Thanks.”
He looks at me with concern, and we hurry to catch up with his mother.
As soon as I get into the house I’m bombarded with the colors of my family. Just by the patches in the air I can tell who has recently been in which rooms. I’m surprised I don’t see more of the mango-colored smear along the floors. That changes when I get upstairs. I can clearly see the trail Mango left behind him when he went back and forth between the litter box and the foot of my bed. It looks as if he didn’t travel too far today. I spring onto the bed next to him and think about how crazy all this would sound if I told anyone. They would never believe me.
I try hard to act normal at dinner, and for once I’m glad Dad’s busy outside. He’s the most perceptive person in the family. Apparently there’s going to be a big drop in temperature in a few days, and he needs to empty the fluids in the helicopter so they don’t freeze.
“I expect everyone to help for Thanksgiving,” my mother says, slipping into her frantic tone. “We’ve only got two days left, and I haven’t even picked up the turkey.”
Beth puts her fork down. “Are you aware that each year forty-five million turkeys are killed for Thanksgiving? Not to mention the twenty-two million at Christmas.”
Silence. Then my mother says, “I suppose we could have chicken instead.” She glances down at the lightly fried chicken that everyone except Beth is eating for dinner.
“Do you have any idea how many chickens are killed in America each year?” Beth’s eyes are blazing, and little balls shoot off of her head.
Mom sighs. “I bet you’re going to tell us.”
“Eight
billion!
” Beth cries.
“Billion?” Zack asks, putting down the drumstick he was gnawing on.
“I think it’s time to start a new Thanksgiving tradition,” Beth declares, pounding her fist on the table. “Tofu loaf! Who’s with me?”
“I’m with you,” Zack says, rising from his seat.
“Save the turkeys,” I add, and stand beside him. My green cloud entwines with his silver one, and I feel the recent tension between us lift a little.
My mother sighs. “Your father isn’t going to like it.”
“It’s possible he won’t notice,” Zack offers.
I leave them to work out the details. I attempt to do my homework and don’t even get through my first class. My slave-ship painting is due tomorrow, and I complete it as best I can. It’s really hard to focus with the green and orange smudges from Mango and me all over the room. I wipe off my brushes and stand back to contemplate the finished product. Well, it certainly isn’t my best work, but it will have to do.
The next morning I can’t believe it when my alarm goes off and I can still see the green glow around my arm. Mango is still glowing at the bottom of the bed. He’s slightly less bright than he was last night, but only slightly. For a second I wonder if I should be worried that the effects of the acupuncture haven’t worn off. Then I decide to just enjoy it since in a matter of hours I surely won’t be magic anymore.
Just walking through the halls at school is a totally overwhelming experience. The hall is filled with layers of color. It’s beautiful to watch, but I tend to keep bumping into people. Balls and tendrils are floating everywhere, and of course I’m late for homeroom. After homeroom we have a Thanksgiving assembly, and then the rest of our classes will be shortened. The halls are full again as everyone pours into the auditorium. I hang back from the crowd and only look up when someone calls my name.
“We were looking for you,” Laura says. Roger is with her.
“You were?” I can’t muster up any enthusiasm.
“We wanted to see the painting before class.”
Oh no, the painting! I left it at home!
“I have to go,” I tell them and fight my way through the crowd without looking back. The halls empty out as I get farther away from the auditorium, and no one sees me go into the phone booth. I say a little prayer in the hope that one of my parents will be home.
“Hello?”
I’ve never been so happy to hear my father’s voice. I tell him he needs to bring me the slave-ship painting from my room. It’s all wrapped up and ready to go.
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” he asks.
“Dad, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, right. Hey, shouldn’t the turkey be defrosting? I’m in the kitchen, and I don’t see a turkey.”
“I’m sure Mom has it under control.” No way I’m going to be the one to break the news to him. “Dad, you have to hurry and get here before the end of the assembly.”
“All right, all right, I’ll leave right now.” He mutters something as he hangs up, but all I can make out is the word
turkey.
I pace the hall outside the phone booth, unsure what to do with myself. There’s no way I can stay in the assembly with all those people, but if I stand out here, someone’s going to make me show a hall pass soon. A door swings open across from me, and two giggling girls come out from the bathroom. I wait until they turn the corner and then duck inside. I keep busy by reading the bathroom walls. “Janey loves Jeff.” “I hate algebra.” “For a good time call Hank.” In comparison to the new colors I see around people, my colored letters now seem very dim. After I finish with the walls, I sit on the window ledge and watch the outside world go by. When I’m bored of that, I examine myself in the mirror, and the harsh light lets me see every pore on my face. It’s not a pretty sight. I notice that I can’t see my green glow in the mirror. I read somewhere that vampires don’t show up in mirrors. Maybe I’m turning into a vampire. At this point nothing would surprise me.
Whenever another girl comes in I start washing my hands. If I have to do it one more time, my skin will flake right off. Finally, I decide to brave the hallway and wait by the main door. Dad’s truck pulls up a minute later, and he honks hello. I cringe and look behind me to make sure no one heard it. The coast is clear, so I run out and grab the painting from the backseat.
“No hug?” he says, getting out of the truck to stretch.
“My arms are full, Dad. I’ll owe you one, okay? Thanks for this.” I turn back and run into the school just as the hall fills with students again. Although only fifty minutes have passed, every-one’s glow is much dimmer, and it’s considerably easier to walk straight. I say a prayer of thanks to the god of synesthesia for both the experience and for making the experience fade away. I also throw one in to the god of Thanksgiving assemblies.
As soon as the first group is done talking about the McCarthy hearings, it’s our turn. We meet at the front of the room, and I lean the painting up on the chalkboard. At least I won’t have to speak. Laura, Roger, and Jonah take turns reciting the story of the Ibos and their plight. Mrs. Morris seems captivated, and the class actually pays attention. When we’re done, Mrs. Morris asks us to talk about the painting. The other three turn to me expectantly. I haven’t stood up and spoken in front of a class since that fateful day in third grade. I freeze and look pleadingly at Roger. He silently gestures for me to go ahead. I pause for a second and see that all three of them are sending out faded tendrils and balls in my direction. They’re trying to give me support. I take a shallow breath and look at the painting, instead of at the class, while I talk.
“Um, well, I painted the slave ship lost at sea to show that the souls of some of the Ibo are still not at rest.” I glance at Roger, who motions with his hand for me to say more. “And, uh, I used watercolor paint because it can wash away easily, just like the memory of the Ibo revolt unless we keep studying it.” I step away from the painting to show I’m done speaking. The class claps for us, and Mrs. Morris says she wants to hang the painting in the classroom. She pulls on the rubber gloves she keeps in her top drawer and lifts the painting by the corners.
“It’s not wet anymore,” I tell her, moving out of her way.
“Yes, well, just in case,” she replies. I realize she’s protecting her hands from germs, not wet paint. It’s hard not to be a little insulted.
“Where did you run off to this morning?” Roger hisses at me as we make our way to our seats. His tendrils are active, but not in my direction. I’d have thought he would have complimented me on my explanation of the picture, but no.
“I already know all about the Pilgrims and the Indians,” I hiss in return.
“Very funny,” he says. “You left it at home, didn’t you?”
By the time I recover myself enough to reply, he’s in his seat and looking away.
It’s weird that Thanksgiving always comes on a Thursday. Yesterday I was in school, and today it’s this big family-holiday thing. It’s kind of jarring. In my opinion, we should get the whole week off, like for Christmas. By the time we sit down for Thanksgiving dinner, the glows around everyone have faded even more. Now they’re just a soft glimmer. For some reason, Mango’s color is the brightest. Dad didn’t speak to Mom all morning because of the turkey-tofu switcheroo. He finally caved in around three this afternoon when Beth convinced him that Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for the freedom of all living things, and that includes the turkeys.
Today is the second Thanksgiving since Grandpa died, and it just isn’t the same without him. It was his favorite holiday. He used to take some of the cornstalks that Jenna’s father gave us and make tie-dyed patterns on the corn with food coloring. After a while the corn would start to stink, but it made the table look very festive. It’s too quiet without him here. Mango is curled up in a ball under my chair, and I silently thank him for bringing some piece of Grandpa back to the table, even if I’m the only one who knows it. The vet told us to keep Mango inside during the cold weather, so he hasn’t been allowed out in a while. He finally stopped pacing by the back door and now just stares longingly out the windows. I reach down and give him a morsel of tofu loaf. He wrinkles his nose at it.
After dinner Mom takes a well-deserved break in the living room while the rest of us clean up. We were planning on going up to the cemetery, but it’s freezing outside and Mom won’t let us go. The cold front has definitely arrived. We make a lot of noise in the kitchen, maybe to make up for the quiet dinner. Raising his voice above the banging pots, Dad asks me if I’m excited about the synesthesia meeting.
I nod. But I don’t know if I’m more nervous or more excited about meeting everyone — especially Adam. I’m glad there’s a short session on Friday night so by Saturday I’ll feel more comfortable with everyone. I hope. And with Jenna’s birthday party on Saturday night, this is going to be a big weekend.
“So what time does the freak show start?” Zack asks as he plops his dirty plate into the soapy-water-filled sink.
“Zack!” my father says, flicking his dishcloth at him. “Apologize to your sister.”
“I’m sorry, Mia,” Zack says, lowering his eyes demurely.
“No, you’re not,” I reply.
“I’m a little sorry?”
“You’re just upset because Beth has to baby-sit for you while we’re gone.”
“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Zack exclaims in a horrified tone. “I’m elev —”
“I think what Mia’s doing is groovy,” Beth interrupts. The three of us turn to stare at her, and Dad lets his dish towel fall to the ground.
“Groovy?” Zack repeats.
“What is it?” she asks innocently. “I’m not allowed to say something nice to Mia in the spirit of Thanksgiving?”