Indigo

there’s evidence cited in a few scientific journals the past few years that a large percentage of people experiencing extrasensory phenomena have a more advanced, larger pineal gland.”

“Really?” I said. I didn’t know how this made me feel. To think it was magic was one thing. To hear a scientific explanation of sorts hit me another way. Scarier? Was it really part of me?

“The pineal gland kind of links the right and left sides of the brain more than in normal brains, gives us more cohesion between the hemispheres.”

“I’m both-handed,” I said, kind of shocked, thinking of when I broke my wrist in third grade and could write with my left hand nearly as easily. Until then I hadn’t realized it was something most people couldn’t do.

“Some scientists call the pineal gland the third eye because it gives us another sense,” Rennick said. “I like to think of it as us being Leyden jars. The pineal gland makes us more in tune, helps us hold on to the energy around us. But why specifically in New Orleans, I don’t know.”

Leyden jar? Where had I heard that before? “So there are more of us here? Different senses.”

Rennick nodded. “Yeah, a few. Seers. Psychics. All over it’s happening, but there are clusters in a few places. Here is the biggest, I think.”

“Clusters,” I said, trying to fit together a few puzzle pieces. “Like cancer clusters?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Maybe. Something in the environment like that. Or maybe we’re all just evolving.” He got self-conscious then. “I don’t know. I just have theories. I don’t mean to sound nuts. Or like a know-it-all.”

“But why New Orleans specifically?” This part bothered me.

The waiter reappeared, placed our dishes in front of us. The scallops were humongous and looked delicious, but Rennick’s crab legs looked even better. He caught me looking at them. “Let’s halve it,” he said, picking up four or five of his crab legs to put on my plate.

“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “Thank you, though. Let’s back up. Keep going with what you were saying before. After you stalked me at school. Around.” I could tell I was embarrassing him, but I loved it.

“I kind of asked around, got your story—”

“Googled me.”

“Yes,” he said, “I Googled you.” And I saw the color rise in his cheeks for the first time, just for a moment.

He cracked open a crab leg, dipped it into the butter, and held it out to me on his fork. “Haven’t you ever just given into something, just known that it seemed right?”

I leaned forward then, listened to the crescendo of the piano in Beethoven’s sonata. I let Rennick feed me. The crab was decadent, so buttery. I savored the taste, savored this moment here with him, this new beginning for me. “Yes,” I said. “Sometimes things just feel right.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, and I both wanted him to and was extremely scared. But then he looked away and the moment was gone.

We continued to eat, and he grabbed a crayon, the blue one, and wrote on my side of the tablecloth.

What is wrong?

I read this and considered, popping another scallop into my mouth. I picked up the red crayon. I didn’t know exactly why this seemed safer than talking, but it did.

I still don’t believe it all.

It was kind of hard to write upside down, but I didn’t want to stop.

You are so pretty, Corrine. This one caught me off guard. I couldn’t help but smile.

I bet you say that to every aura.

He laughed at that. I took a drink of my Coke. I watched him patiently, traced the planes of his handsome face with my eyes.

Tell me, he wrote.

I smiled to myself and pressed the red crayon to the paper, but before I had formed a thought, he wrote again.

Why don’t you believe in yourself?

What a loaded question, I thought. I sighed, took a sip of my Coke, and realized that we were both leaning toward each other again, the laundry-fresh smell of Rennick filling me up.

I’m afraid of things. I’m only one for two in the lifesaving department.

Rennick dropped his crayon then, looked up at me with such empathy. This leveled me. That he cared so much. I stabbed a scallop, dipped it in his butter.

When I looked back up, when I had quelled the urge to cry embarrassing tears, I saw that he was still watching me. Same look. Same eyes.

“Corrine, you didn’t kill your sister.” He reached across the table for my hand. I pulled back, sucked air through my teeth, immediately afraid. He sat back instantly, stricken, but recovered quickly.

“I’m trying,” I said, but I sounded pathetic, and I hated myself for the whine in my voice.

“I have theories,” he said matter-of-factly. Obviously switching topics for my sake. “About auras. They’re like magnetic fields of energy, attracting and repelling forces in the universe.”

I nodded. He was telling me about himself. The tenor of his voice told me that he was letting me in. I had the sense that he was going to bare himself for me, show me what no one else got to see, so to speak. I leaned closer, listened intently. What was it that made this guy tick? Because there was just something about him. I felt like maybe if I could get to the bottom of him, if I could see how he operated on a philosophical level, then maybe … maybe I could figure myself out too. There wasn’t really a lot of logic to that feeling, but I held on to it. With a choke hold. Because really, what else did I have?

“Growing up, Cale hated me a lot of the time. We were brothers. I’m sure lots of brothers torture each other in creative and sadistic ways. We did.” He rubbed his chin, squinted. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone.”

“Tell me,” I whispered.

He considered and waited for a long moment, fiddling with the empty crab shells on his plate. I didn’t know if he was going to continue. Finally he did, but in a different direction. Hopefully, obliquely getting back to himself. Underneath it all.

“Cale blamed me for Mom’s death. And for a long time—”

“Why?” I asked, but he just waved my question away.

“Dad and Cale are cut from the same cloth. They’re harder. Tougher than me. Not worse. Not better. Just different. It got harder in high school. I didn’t meet the old man’s expectations.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“It’s not a new story, or even really interesting. I wasn’t the son that he thought I should be. That was Cale. Football player. Tough kid. Went straight into the Army.”

Rennick shook his head. “Me, I was a nerd. Art classes. Science garbage all over my room. It’s not like it was my dad’s fault. It’s not like it was Cale’s, but I could feel myself rebelling against Dad. Little ways. He got his back up. Bottom line, after Dodge’s heart attack, Dad was going to make him close up the charter business. And then Lila had to be put in the home, and I could really see it all killing Dodge. So I chose—I offered—to come live here. It was good for Dodge, and good for me too. Just healthier for me.”

I played with the straw in my now-empty Coke can. “Dodge gets you,” I said. And Rennick nodded. I tried to read the emotions on his face. I mean, what was it? Was he embarrassed that he was not the tough-guy persona that everyone at Liberty had made up for him? Did he think he was soft or somehow less for not being the typical guy, if there was such a thing? And what kind of father couldn’t see the beauty and greatness in this guy?

“So the rumors? Ren from the Pen?” I asked.

Rennick smiled. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Corrine.” He stared at me hard.

“I hardly think that that applies to me and Sophie.” It sounded harsher than I had meant. Rennick just nodded and signaled to the waiter for the check.

“I should’ve known you weren’t a brawler,” I said, looking at his hands drumming on top of the papered table. His long, brown-from-the-sun fingers, the absence of scars on his knuckles. They were gorgeous hands,