“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?”
“Why don’t we all try to make the spirit of Thanksgiving last year round?” my father suggests, retrieving his towel and shaking it out. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
>
“Sure, Dad,” Zack says. “No problem.”
For the rest of the night we try to be nice to each other. This requires that the three of us stay at opposite ends of the house. Zack is on the computer, Beth is showing Mom some new yoga moves, and I’m throwing every item of clothing I have onto the floor in search of the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. I finally wind up sneaking into Beth’s room and taking her blue-and-white-striped dress from the back of her closet. She outgrew it two years ago but has always refused to let me have it. Throwing off my clothes, I slip the dress over my head and look at myself in her full-length mirror. The sleeves are a little long, but other than that it fits fine. A little twirl makes the skirt flare up. The dress makes me feel something I usually don’t — girly. Laughter from downstairs reminds me I only have a small window of time to act if I want permission to wear the dress. I quickly change back into my own clothes and bring the dress downstairs with me. Beth is still in the living room in a pose she calls a “downward-facing dog.” I ask sweetly if I can borrow the dress, and she has no choice but to say yes since Mom is in the room and it’s Thanksgiving and all. I can feel her glaring at my back as I go up the stairs, but I don’t care. I’m feeling girly, and I’m going to meet a boy tomorrow night.
Chapter Thirteen
The rhythm of the rain on the windshield of Dad’s truck would almost be soothing if I weren’t so crazed with anticipation. I’m trying not to fidget because every time I shift in my seat the torn vinyl scratches the backs of my legs. Dad’s truck might handle better in the rain than Mom’s car, but no one would call it comfortable. The ride to the university seems endless, and it’s so dark out that I can’t even watch the scenery.
“Are we almost there yet?” I ask for the tenth time. Neither of my parents bothers to answer me. In fact, they haven’t answered me the last eight times. It’s not my fault it’s too dark and rainy to figure out where we are. Maybe I should have worn pants. Jerry said that most synesthetes are female, but the only ones I know about — Billy and Adam — are boys. What if I’m the only girl at the meeting? I’m sure I’m the youngest. What if I say something stupid? Maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all.
Finally my mother points out a sign on the side of the road that says UNIVERSITY HOUSE, 2 MILES. Jerry rented the building from the school for the weekend and said it has a cozy atmosphere. As we pull up alongside the house, I can see smoke billowing out of the chimney. I step out of the car, push open my umbrella, and shiver.
The door opens as we approach it, and Debbie pops her head out. She beams at me and waves us in. I can hear voices talking and laughing in the next room.
“You must be Mr. Winchell,” Debbie says, pumping my dad’s hand. She then turns to my mother. “We’re so glad you both could come. Everyone else is here already, Mia. Ready to meet them?”
My legs don’t seem to want to move. I nod mutely.
“Here, let me take your coat first.”
I slip off my coat and pass it to Debbie along with my dripping umbrella. She squeezes them into a small closet and leans her weight against the door to close it. Then she links her arm in mine and leads me toward the other room. My parents follow a few steps behind.
“Here we are,” she announces. I stare into what looks like a normal living room with couches, chairs, and a fireplace. About fifteen unfamiliar faces turn toward us. The talking gradually stops as they wait for Debbie to introduce me. I’d say three quarters of the group are women, of which I’m by far the youngest. I see Adam right away, since he’s the only other teenager in the room. He looks a little like Roger, except his face is rounder and he has darker hair. He also has a big smile that covers practically the whole bottom half of his face. I guess he knows who I am too. I scan the other faces but don’t see Jerry anywhere. I’m relieved to see that the glows around everyone are so faint that they won’t distract me.
“This is Mia Winchell,” Debbie says, pushing me in front of her. “She’s been working with us here in Chicago.”
“Hi, Mia,” everyone says.
“Hi,” I answer in a small voice. I quickly see I’m dressed appropriately and relax a little. My parents slip over to the folding chairs in the corner.
Jerry enters from the other end of the room with a tray of food, and his face lights up when he sees me.
“Mia! Grab a spot on the couch. Helen will move over, won’t you, Helen?”
Helen is about sixty years old and is wearing the most colorful patchwork dress I’ve ever seen.
“Sure I will,” Helen says, scooping up her skirt and patting the space beside her. I walk into the room and sit, amazed I didn’t trip over the people sitting on the floor. Helen pats me on the knee, and her long earrings swish back and forth.
“Now that we’re all here,” Jerry says, settling into a chair by the fire, “let’s go around one last time and introduce ourselves.”
The group groans good-naturedly. Jerry adds, “This time please go into more detail about your own synesthesia.”
The introductions begin, and if the kids at school think I’m strange, they wouldn’t believe some of these people. One woman sees colors and shapes whenever she eats cold food. Another woman swears that her numbers not only have color, but also have personalities. Three other people in the room jump up and swear their numbers have personalities too. A lively debate arises over whether the number eight is shy or a flirt. I listen in awe, stealing glances at Adam whenever possible.
“Eight is definitely a flirt,” one of the women declares. “Because three is shy, four is rude, and two is, like, your buddy. I hated taking math in school because I always felt bad making numbers who didn’t like each other work together.”
“I felt the same way,” a guy in his twenties adds. “Try explaining to your math teacher that you feel guilty pairing a six with a two!”
I can see my parents’ raised eyebrows from across the room. I’m glad they won’t be here for the next two days. I give a quick shake of my head to indicate that they don’t have to worry — my numbers do not have personalities. Not that it wouldn’t make things interesting, but I have enough problems with math without adding guilt to the mix.
When Adam’s turn comes he speaks clearly and makes eye contact with everyone around the circle. I’m impressed. He must have a lot of confidence.
I’m so engrossed in what people are saying that I don’t realize it’s almost my turn to speak until Helen stands up next to me. She clears her throat and then recites a poem from Shakespeare. At least I’m assuming it’s from Shakespeare, since we don’t start reading him until ninth grade. After the poem she wipes a small tear from the corner of her eye and says, “I’ve been reading poetry since I was a young girl. I choose the poems with the prettiest-colored words. Then it’s like a beautiful garden of colors appears before my very eyes.”
My turn has arrived. I babble for a few minutes about my colors, wishing I could tell them about seeing the pheromones. But I don’t dare tell them with my parents in the room. People are nodding as I speak, and it’s so cool to be in a whole roomful of people who understand me. Adam gives me a thumbs-up when I’m done.
The last person to speak is a man who looks about my father’s age but is much heavier. He explains that color rules his life. He picks his friends based on whether he likes or dislikes the colors of their names. He even chooses his food that way. “Unfortunately,” he says, pointing to his large belly, “my favorite color is the pale green of the word chocolate!” He adds that he has to turn off his car radio in order to concentrate in traffic. Half of the room nods in agreement. I’ll have to remember that when I take my driving test in three years.
People start yelling things out now. The oldest man in the room — he looks like he’s around seventy — says he married his first wife because her name tasted like peanut butter. Then he met this other woman whose name tasted like peaches, his favorite food, so he divorced the first one and married the second! One woman brags that she can read an
d write upside down and backward, and that when she writes with her right hand, her left hand can follow along and write the same sentence backward. Three other women call out that they do that too. I hadn’t thought about it in years, but I used to do that when I was little. It never crossed my mind that it might be connected to my colors. I guess whatever “wires” are mixed up in my brain are responsible for all sorts of strange things.
Jerry waits until the room quiets down and asks, “Does anyone want to share their word-pictures? Let’s raise our hands this time.”
Three hands shoot up, but then they all start talking at once. I guess I’m about to find out what a word-picture is.
“The name Jerry is like a big sugar cube with chopsticks sticking out of it …”
“No, it’s not, it’s like a bicycle pump with a red handle …” “No way, it’s a big pillow with the stuffing being squeezed out.” The rest of us look at one another and shrug. I imagine their heads must get pretty crowded if every word has a picture with it. Since we have an early day tomorrow, Jerry tells us to mingle for a little while and then call it a night. The rest of the weekend will be taken up with experiments. I feel like I’m part of an elite club and can’t wait for tomorrow. It hardly seems possible that I had once wanted my synesthesia to go away. Adam motions me over to the fireplace, where he holds out his hand.
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” he says in a pretend grown-up voice.
I reach out to shake his hand. He grabs it and kisses the back of it. He actually kisses my hand! Fortunately my parents have wandered out of the room or else I’d be mortified.
“Charmed, Miss Winchell,” he says, lightly dropping my hand. “Adam Dickson at your service.” He tugs at the collar of his thick sweater. “It’s a little hot in here, isn’t it? The rain has stopped; maybe we should go outside for some air?” It has gotten a little stuffy in the room. Of course it could be because we’re standing in front of the fire. Before I can say anything, Adam takes my hand and leads me out a back door and into a little courtyard. I’m so energized that I barely feel the cold. We sit down on a bench that had been partially sheltered from the rain. I’ve never been in the dark with a boy before. Well, other than Zack of course. My palms are sweating, and I wipe them on my dress.