A Mango-Shaped Space (16 page)
The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is lift up the covers and stare down at my legs. No more green glow, just crumpled baby-blue pajamas. I flip over and bury my face in the pillow. My new powers lasted until I went to sleep, and that was really late because I was up watching my family’s clouds interact with one another. I could tell that when my mother agreed to host my dad’s poker game at the house, she didn’t really want to. But I could also tell how grateful Dad was. I could tell that when Zack said he finished his homework, he really had done it. And when Beth said she was at the library all afternoon, I knew she wasn’t. But I knew that the old-fashioned way — by spying from behind a tree. No one even asked me where I was after school.
Mango nudges my ear and forces me to flip back over. I miss the bright mango glow around him and rub him until he purrs. Ah, there they are, his usual small mango-colored puffs.
Today is Thursday
, I tell myself as I brush my teeth. That’s one day closer to when I can go back to the acupuncturist. Just six more days. I stop brushing and multiply twenty-four times six in my head using the process Samantha taught me. One hundred forty-four hours! That is not good! Something must be done. As I hop in the shower it occurs to me that a few weeks ago I would have been ecstatic to have multiplied numbers in my head. I guess life is all about priorities.
Right before homeroom I corner Roger by his locker and ask him if we can get earlier appointments, like for this afternoon. He says no and gives me some lame excuse, like Faith works in another office on the other days of the week. I notice as he walks away that his limp is getting better. I might have to kick him so he’ll keep needing the acupuncture.
In history class we break up into our groups. I hand each of my group members a copy of my cleanly typed research paper and collect theirs in return. Someone has to combine our four papers into one report, and it isn’t going to be me. I’ve done my share. I lean back in my seat and fold my arms.
“I think we need something more than just a written report,” Jonah says, tapping his pencil on the plastic desk to some inner beat. “How about we make a scale model of the ship? Mia, you’re the artist, right?”
“Huh?” I untangle my arms. Can’t they tell my role in this is finished?
“C’mon, Mia,” Roger coaxes. “We’ll worry about the written part if you make a model of the ship. Or a painting even!”
“But I already did all that research,” I tell them, aware of the whine in my voice. “Now you’re saying I could have painted a picture all along?”
Jonah waves my papers in the air. “You only wrote a page and a half!”
“That’s all the information there was on the Ibo religion,” I insist. “Honestly.”
“Just do the painting,” Laura snaps at me. “If I could paint, I would do it myself.”
“Fine,” I tell them so they’ll leave me alone.
“Make sure you write it down so you’ll remember,” Jonah says. “We present the project the day before Thanksgiving.”
When we go back to our regular desks I make a big show of adding the task to my homework list. At least if I’m busy painting, then the week will fly by faster. It’s been a while since I’ve painted anything that wasn’t an art-class assignment.
In Spanish the teacher hands back our in-class essays from the day before. I got a C minus, which, pathetically enough, I’m happy with.
When Zack and I get home from school we find a note stuck on the front door in Mom’s handwriting: “Tonight is the food drive at the elementary school. Everyone be home by 6:30. McDonald’s on the way there. Wear sneakers. NO EXCUSES.” Every year around this time we put boxes of Thanksgiving food together for the people in town who can’t afford it. Some of the extra boxes go to a homeless shelter in Chicago. The food drive takes place in the gym at my old elementary school, and we’ve gone for the last three years. Any activity to pass time faster is fine with me. Plus this will cover me in the good-deeds department.
“Good,” Zack says, pushing open the door. “Another hamburger for the scoreboard. It’s been too long.”
“You were just there last week for that kid’s birthday party.”
“You’re right!” he says, slapping his forehead dramatically. “I forgot to enter that one!” He throws his jacket in the hall closet before bounding up the stairs to his room.
“Aren’t you getting a little old for birthday parties at McDonald’s?” I ask as I pass his room.
He’s too busy filling in the date of his missed burger to answer. I sit down at my desk and search through the piles of Ibo books for a good picture of the ship. I have the picture picked out and tacked up to my canvas when Dad yells upstairs that it’s time to go.
“Where’s Beth?” I ask as I slide into Dad’s backseat next to Zack.
“She had a prior engagement,” Zack says, perfectly imitating Mom’s voice.
Mom throws him a look from the front. “She has a school project she has to finish.”
“So do I,” I say. “What happened to ‘no excuses’?”
“Beth’s grades are more important than ours,” Zack says.
“That’s not true,” Mom insists. “But she’s working toward college now.”
We pull out of the driveway and head into town.
“I bet she’s out with Brent anyway,” I whisper to Zack.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Zack says innocently. “Are you talking to me again? It’s been so long since you’ve said anything nice.”
“Never mind, Yoga Boy.” I turn toward the window.
“Missing Link.”
“Dork.”
“Don’t make me pull over,” Dad threatens good-naturedly.
Zack leans over and whispers, “What do you know about Beth and Brent?”
“Plenty, but now I’m not telling.”
“I’ll find out anyway,” he says. “Just like I found out about your boyfriends.”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” I warn him as the golden arches of McDonald’s come into view.
Zack dances out of the car singing,
“One hundred twenty-six, here I come!”
My mother makes us scarf down our food in four minutes, reinforcing the definition of
fast food.
By the time we arrive at the school gym, it’s crowded with families. I force myself to tune out the noise so the colors don’t overwhelm me. Not an easy feat, but I can do it if I concentrate. My family splits up. Dad heads over to the frozen-turkeys area, Mom goes to the distribution tables, and Zack and I join the kids packing up boxes. A woman hands us a list of the items that go in each box and sends us off to the canned-food shelves. She looks vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place her. Zack tosses me a can of yams, and as I place it in the cardboard box it suddenly hits me where I’ve seen her before. The supermarket — she’s Billy’s mother!
Hands shaking, I leave Zack as he’s about to throw me a can of cranberry sauce. Weaving through the crowd, I find her piling bags of stuffing onto a table.
I take a deep breath and tap her on the shoulder. “You’re Billy’s mother, right?”
She turns around and scans my face. I can tell she’s coming up empty. “Do I know you?” she asks, holding onto a large bag of stuffing.
“Not really,” I admit. “But a few months ago my mother and I were in line at the supermarket in front of you and your son. He told me my name was purple and orange, and I tried to call you but your number —”
She holds up her hand to stop me. “I’m so sick of that ‘colors’ nonsense. I don’t know where he gets his imagination from. He’s so different from his sister. She never tried to fill people’s heads with this sort of thing. She’s a cheerleader. About your age, I’d guess. Her name’s Amy, maybe you know her?”
I don’t feel like telling her I’m not friends with any cheerleaders, so I just shake my head. “But about Billy, it’s not his imagination. Other people see letters and numbers in color. I do, in fact.”
Her grip tightens on the bag, but she doesn’t say anything. I continue. “There’s a meeting a few weekends from now that he could come to. I can get you the information.”
“Thank you for your interest in Billy,” she finally says, before abruptly turning away. She bends down to grab more bags of stuffing from the box under the table. With her back still to me, she says matter-of-factly, “But we’re going to be away that weekend. I need to go back to work now, and I suggest you do the same.”
I open my mouth to argue, but there’s nothing more I can say. As I head back to the canned-goods area, I realize I never even told her which weekend it was.
“Why is your face all red?” Zack asks. He’s already working on his second box.
I put my hand up to my cheek. It feels warm. It must be because I’d never spoken to an adult like that before. Not that it did any good.
“Do you know that woman?” he asks, glancing over in her direction.
“Not really.” I double-check that Zack packed the box up correctly and discover he had included three bags of marshmallows and no green beans. While we work on the boxes I work on convincing myself that Billy will turn out all right without any interference from me.
About an hour later my father comes over to get us. Most families have left by now, and I’m exhausted. I’m fumbling with the buttons on my coat when Billy appears before me. He had been in the baby-sitting section all this time.
“Hi, Mia!” he says in his squeaky little-boy’s voice.
“Hey, Billy boy.” I bend down, and he flies into my arms. I’m a bit surprised, but I return the hug.
“It’s waaaaay past my bedtime,” he informs me in a whisper.
“Mine too,” I whisper in return. His mother has sighted us and hurries over. She takes him by the hand and gives me a look of annoyance and suspicion.
“Bye-bye, Mia!” Billy calls as his mother yanks him out the door. I wave to him as the door closes between us. “Good luck, Billy,” I whisper sadly.
When I get home I find an e-mail from Adam waiting for me.
DEAR MIA
,
I DID SOME RESEARCH FOR YOU. I THINK WHAT YOU SAW WERE PEOPLE’S PHEROMONES IN ACTION. THERE MUST BE SOME SYNESTHETIC CONNECTION. BEFORE YOU ASK WHAT A PHEROMONE IS, I’LL GIVE YOU THE DEFINITION FROM THE INTERNET: “A CHEMICAL SUBSTANCE INVISIBLE TO THE EYE THAT ALL ANIMALS AND HUMANS EMIT. THESE EMISSIONS ARE INTENDED TO SOMEHOW INFLUENCE ANOTHER PERSON’S OR ANIMAL’S BEHAVIOR. ONE ANIMAL, SAY A LION, WILL EMIT A CHEMICAL INTO THE AIR TO ATTRACT A LIONESS. THE LIONESS WILL SENSE IT AND WILL GO TO HIM. THIS IS ALL VERY UNCONSCIOUS. THEY DON’T REALIZE THEY’RE DOING IT.” IT MUST HAVE BEEN A REALLY NEAT EXPERIENCE. TELL ME MORE. ADAM
My cheeks burn when I think of Roger sending his tendrils out to me. “I saw this happen with people,” I whisper in awe. How can Roger want me to come to him like a lioness? He barely even talks to me or looks my way.
The next morning Roger finds me at my locker before homeroom. He doesn’t say hello; he just launches in. “Would you mind going to the acupuncturist on Tuesday instead of Wednesday? Since Wednesday’s the day before Thanksgiving, Faith is switching her schedule.”
“That’d be great,” I tell him, hoping I don’t sound too eager.
The homeroom warning bell rings. “Well, I guess I should go,” Roger says. “See you in history.” He walks away, his limp less noticeable.
“See?” a voice says from behind me. “I told you so.”
I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Zack. “What exactly did you tell me?”
“That he looooves you.”
“You’re ridiculous, Zack. And you’re going to be late for homeroom.”
“It’s okay. My teacher looooves me.”
It figures. Everyone always loves Zack.
After school, Jenna and I ride our bikes down the bumpy road to the country store to get decorations for her party. We don’t bother to lock up our bikes since there’s no one around to steal them. Whenever we come down here I feel like we’re characters from
Little House on the Prairie.
We’ve known Old Mike, the owner of the store, since we were tall enough to reach the candy shelf. When he sees us he slides a small box out from under the counter.
“I got the balloons, young ladies,” he says, placing the box on the counter. “I still don’t understand why anyone’d want black balloons for a party.”
“It’s part of the theme,” Jenna explains. “Black is sophisticated.”
Old Mike laughs his deep belly laugh. I’m not so sure what he’s laughing at.
“Sophistication comes a little slow to these parts,” he says.
“Well,” Jenna replies, digging into her pocket for the money her dad gave her, “I figure it’s my job to help it along.” She pays for the balloons and streamers, and we head straight for the candy section. Jenna carefully scrutinizes the chocolate while I decide between the Gobstoppers and Bazooka gum. I choose both.
“So you’ll never believe what Rebecca did yesterday,” Jenna says offhandedly.
“Let me guess. She said something nice to you?”
“Yes! Can you believe it?” Jenna finally selects a Peppermint Patty, and we head back to the counter to pay for the candy.
“What exactly did she say?”
“She told me she could French-braid my hair for the party.”
“I always knew the woman was pure evil! Are you going to let her do it?”
“No! I mean, I don’t think I am. Why, do you think I should?”
I shrug. “A French braid might look sophisticated.”
We say good-bye to Old Mike, take our bundles, and pack them into the basket on Jenna’s bike. Before we leave, Jenna says, “I just don’t want her to think I like her.”
“Somehow I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
Over the weekend I work on the Ibo slave-ship painting and try to catch up on some homework. I take a break and log on to the synesthesia Web site. There’s a new article titled “How I Got over My Fear of French.” It’s about this woman who had to learn French for her job and was having a lot of trouble. I scan the article hungrily, hoping it can help me learn Spanish. After trying many different ways of matching up her colored letters, she finally found something that worked. For her the color of
dog
in English is green, but the French word,
chien
, is light blue. So to remember how to say
dog
in French, she pictures being on a street in France and remembers that the
French
dog is light blue. I don’t know if that would work for me, but it’s worth a try. Someday I’ll get around to it.