Mandy is a morning person, and I like to sleep until the last possible second. And then make some Pop-Tarts, eat them in bed and close my eyes for eight more minutes.
So I’m not surprised when she isn’t around the next morning as I shuffle between my bedroom and the kitchen in my fuzzy socks. I stare blankly at a half-covered-in-plastic piece of provolone next to a twelve-pack in the fridge, until I remember I don’t have to refrigerate Pop-Tarts.
Whenever I make silly mistakes like that, it means I need to create something. My mind needs to craft something in order to work. Especially when the world is confusing. And right now, the world has purple eyes and curious encounters and bloody wounds that sort of disappear.
I head to the art studio. As I slither the brush along the canvas, it’s like everything around me dissolves into a foreground. Then I head to the dance studio and practice my senior solo for a few hours.
I don’t turn my phone on until the sun gets crisp and dark orange. A text from Conrad is waiting for me: Mandy’s arm is fine. She is cured!
And then there are multiple texts and missed calls from some reporter at the local paper. She insinuates she has talked to a nurse who confirmed that Mandy’s minor injuries should still be evident today. But, according to the reporter, they’re not. However, no one at the hospital will go on the record, so the reporter wants to talk to me about Miracle Mandy. Yes, Miracle Mandy. My best friend has garnered a nickname.
This type of thing would never be covered where I’m from. But in Allan, things like oversized tomatoes, chili cook-offs and wine festivals with less than a hundred people clucking about how the zinfandel was really quite extraordinary this year are worthy of newspaper coverage. So I guess Miracle Mandy is too.
Mandy has always been a quick healer. She got over the three-day flu that crept across campus two years ago simply by downing some Nyquil and sleeping in. Last year, after we slipped into each other during a paintball game, I had bruises for two weeks, while her skin was perfect per usual. But still, those cuts last night must have been much more blustery than I realized.
There is one more text: I hope Mandy’s feeling okay. I just met her, but I can tell she’s got a fighting spirit.
Luke.
He doesn’t seem to understand he isn’t supposed to contact me for a few days. I wasn’t going to worry myself about him not calling me until Thursday. Him texting now takes all the fun out of it. And even more so because he isn’t just aimlessly checking in. There’s more to the text: Want to get dinner tonight?
Tonight. This is too soon.
I compare going home and making Pop-Tarts for dinner to getting something real to eat with Luke. Luke sipping a beer. Luke touching me. For some crazy reason I text back: Sure. Seven? Where do you want to go?
Joe’s?
Perfect.
I head home. I need to clean the paint off me and see what the hell is going on with Mandy.
As I walk up to my house, a woman gets out of a car across the street and slams the door. She pauses, staring at me. I give her the eye—you know, a squint with a stronger squint in the left eye—and continue on. As I turn up our steps, her high heels clamor across the road, clicking furiously until she jumps onto our raised lawn and gets in front of me.
“Are you Quinn Bellingham?” she asks, catching her breath from that run and grasping her handbag.
“Yes...” I say, nerves twitching under my skin.
“I’m Samantha Beetle, from the Allan Crier. Do you have a moment?”
“Not really,” I say as I stride to the left to get around her. But before I can move forward, she steps in my way. I look longingly at my door, over her shoulder, and notice a figure behind the tinted glass.
“Were you with Mandy Malone last night when she was injured? Did you escort her to the hospital? Can you describe her injuries for me?” She clutches a tape recorder in her hand.
“Well, I...” I don’t want to talk to this reporter. Media attention for Mandy would be bad. So I step to the right this time and dash forward, but the reporter is quick. I slam into her.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
She waves it away. “What happened exactly? How is Mandy feeling?”
There’s more movement behind the door. Finally, I forget decorum and sprint to the left, jumping up the steps and barreling into the house and making quite an entrance.
As the door squeals closed behind me, I recognize the figure I’d seen through the window. Zachary stands in the middle of the room, wringing his hands in a nervous rhythm, then putting them in the pockets of his khaki pants, before taking them out again for another round of hand wringing. “There’s a reporter outside,” he says, looking at me with sheepish, purple eyes.
Purple.
“Your eyes—” I say, shoulders shaking.
“Yeah, we can talk about that later.” He wipes his hand in the air as though he’s waving away a problem. “What did she ask you? What did you say?”
“Nothing.” I hope my tone conveys the bristling I feel. “What’s going on?”
He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “We ran into Conrad today. He saw that Mandy’s arm is fine now and he started going crazy saying it was some sign of God, or God had blessed her, or...I don’t know. Something about God being good. He tweeted it, with pictures, and this reporter latched on to it and has been sitting outside the house for hours.”
“Hours?” I say.
“Yeah, at first I thought there had to be something better going on in Allan than this, but then I remembered, oh yeah, this is Allan. Last week’s front-page story was about a farmer who realized water would help his crops grow.” He gives me a wily smile, which I return.
“Anyway, it’s really upsetting Mandy.”
“Where is she?” I ask.
“Taking a shower,” he says. I slug my bag onto the table. He rubs his eyes. His purple eyes. Questions crawl around in my brain.
“Don’t you think it’s strange, the healing, you both getting purple eyes?” I talk slowly.
Zachary looks up. His eyes shift back and forth and he runs his hands through his hair. “I need to tell you something, Quinn, but I need you to keep it a secret. Do you think you can do that?”
Do I want to start keeping secrets? I swallow. “Sure.”
He rubs his hands together and places them near his lips. In prayer mode, or more likely, thinking mode.
“So, I got this new drug from a friend in D.C. It’s sort of the latest thing at clubs up there.”
“A new drug? But you don’t—”
He holds a hand out. “Yes, I do...sometimes. And, I talked Mandy into trying it with me. I think whatever was in it, well, it must have affected our eye color.” He seems to be holding his breath. The room is still as he looks at me with hunched eyebrows. Now I’m the one wringing my wrists.
“What kind of drug? Did you inject yourself with something? Fuck, anything could have been in—”
“They were tablets,” Zachary says, grabbing at his hair. “Okay, Quinn? Tablets, like the kind that dissolve in your mouth. And yeah, it was dumb.” He sighs and lets his hands fall to his sides as he stares at me.
“Well, you need to tell someone. You need to—”
“I already went to the hospital, gave them what was left of it. They’re looking into it. I just...” He closes his eyes. When they spring back open, the purple is in full force. “I just can’t have it get out that I bought this, that we tried it. It could really hurt...things. Do you understand?”
I nod but my breathing is quickening, and my skin feels flushed. “I can’t believe you guys did that. I mean, pot is one thing, but you can’t be going off doing—”
“I know, Quinn.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and stiffens his chin. “I know, I’m really sorry. I’ll make things right and everyone will be happy.”
I nod. “And you think the drug has something to do with the healing?”
He shrugs and sits down on the couch. “No, despite what that crazy reporter thinks, I bet it just wasn’t as bad of a wound as we thought.”
I cross my arms and bite my lip. I’m not sure what I want to say.
“Anyway—” Zachary fills in the silence, “—it doesn’t look like that reporter is going to leave for a while, so you better just hunker down.”
“I can’t.”
His eyes narrow. “Why not?”
“I’m going to dinner with that guy from last night,” I say, liking how it sounds out loud.
Zachary’s jaw stiffens. “The townie who thinks I beat my girlfriend?”
I prickle, but I try to calm myself down. Prickling won’t help anything.
I used to volunteer on a women’s hotline and one thing they stressed in training is that if we only focused on getting women out of violent situations (which of course we should do) we leave the abusers there, ready to abuse new women. Certainly there are hopeless cases, men who deserve to fester in jail, but sometimes approaching them as though they are humans who can be rehabilitated can help them correct their ways, and, therefore, protect more women.
I take that approach with Zachary.
I sit across from him so we’re on the same level. “It did look...weird,” I say. “What happened?”
He shakes his head and stares at the ground. “Quinn, you know I wouldn’t hurt Mandy.” He rubs his face. “I mean, not without her con—” His eyes snap to mine.
“Consent?” I ask, having some difficulty keeping my voice from rising. I think of calm, rushing waterfalls to keep my emotional balance. But waterfalls aren’t actually that calm.
“Sorry, Quinn, I’ve been researching consent forms and they’re just buzzing in my brain.” He moves his hands rapidly about an inch from his head, as though they are gliding along an invisible nerd helmet. “What I meant was, I would never hurt Mandy on purpose. It was an accident. Please believe me.”
I stare at my folded hands. We listen to this antique clock—I got it at a craft show in town, turquoise and marble—tick-tock for a long time. It beats at the air. It beats at us.
I sigh. “I believe you.” And I do. I’m just missing something.
He smiles. “I appreciate that, Quinn, I really do. I know you look out for Mandy, given, well, her...”
I nod.
“I look out for her too,” he says, cheekbones like stone. I stare at his serious, purple eyes for a few seconds. They are bright, with lavender, lilac, violet and mauve extending away from his pupils.
“Your eyes are purple,” I say.
“Haven’t we been over that?”
“You’re one to call me out for stating the obvious.”
He laughs and taps my knee in a brotherly way. He gets up and grabs a box of Krizzles out of his bag. “I got a new flavor, want to try it?”
“What does zesty mango taste like?” I ask, squinting at the box.
“Like angels having orgasms in heaven,” he says, and I crack up. He holds out a few for me. I shake my head. “You can’t just buy this flavor anywhere, either. I had to order them special.”
“Oh, you learned how to work the internet machine yourself? Impressive,” I say.
He laughs and sits back down next to me. In between chomping on the Krizzles, he says, “Anyway, what are you doing going out with that guy when you have Rashid?” His eyebrows wiggle. A naughty smile broaches his face.
I shake my head and sigh.
“I’m purely heterosexual of course,” he says. “But even I can admire a fine male specimen like Rashid.”
I hate that this makes me laugh.
“You’re turning red,” he says, pointing at my face, which is warm. “Seriously, he’s a great guy. Like, one of the best people I know.”
“I know, I know.” I get up.
“He can tie a cherry stem with his tongue.” Zachary speaks louder as I walk away.
“I’ve got to get ready,” I say between laughs.
“I think he’s wrestled sharks before.”
“Zachary...”
“He doesn’t even fart. He’s just special like that,” Zachary yells as I close my door.
Despite us wanting different things, Rashid still tempts me. I want him one way; he wants me all the ways. And that’s not fair to him. It’s a weird tug of war inside my chest. Lust. Compassion. Lust. Compassion. Both mixed in with a sizable desire to evade.
I’m never sure what to do when emotions fight and flop over themselves. Like the time Conrad slipped on a banana peel in the dining hall. Yes, slipped on a banana peel. When does that happen? Some lazy student dropped it or it fell from a run-away trash bin or some cosmic comedian had willed it to appear suddenly. Regardless, one moment, we were walking along, his tray filled, of course, with every messy food product imaginable: tacos with salsa, a bowl of chowder and a glass of chocolate milk. (I know, who drinks chocolate milk with tacos and chowder? Conrad.) I was laughing at some quip he made and then, wipe, he was gone. On the floor. Right then, a very strong, human part of me was tugging at my insides. I said, over and over, “AreYouOkay? AreYouOkay? AreYouOkay?” But another strong part just could not keep the giggles down.
Thankfully, Conrad was in a fit of hee-haws himself. Laughter over pain.
But something tells me Rashid wouldn’t laugh at me breaking his generous, brilliant, suffocating heart.
Which is exactly why I need a guy like Luke.