Indigo

me, accepting this, coming to terms with what I could do. This was the pendulum of my belief swinging, slowly now, nearly still. Nearly decided. But if I was going to accept it, I had to own it. And part of that was being able to summon it, bring it into being. Otherwise, what was the point?

My mind flashed to Professor Smith. She had faced Katrina and come out the other side of it to wear red high heels. I thought of Bryant. And Rennick. There were others out there with secrets and fears. Just like me. So instead of pushing it back under my bed, I took out my violin.

The scroll was plain yet elegant, so familiar in my hand. The weight, the proportion. I couldn’t wait to hear its voice.

I tightened the bow, the smell of rosin sweet with familiarity. I put the violin under my chin delicately, with deference. When I struck the first note, C-sharp, I was shocked at the clarity and the fullness of it. It had been too long. I closed my eyes and played like I had never stopped. Like I had always meant to.

I played Mozart’s Requiem. But I didn’t play the notes. I didn’t think of the notes. I played the feelings.

I began slowly, softly. Pianissimo. The beginning of this piece was thoughtful, uncertain. I brought my bow down gently, long, full strokes.

And then the piece picked up. Forte. No longer did it feel like a question was being posed. No longer was the piece unsure of itself. It became forceful. Certain. Challenging. Scary. Crescendo.

My bow worked hard, quickly, my fingers finding the correct positions on the strings. I was not thinking now. I was beyond thinking. Above it. I played in a fugue. This piece was coming from somewhere else. Deeper inside me.

And then it began to burn, the churning, within the heart of me. I had brought it to life. I had summoned it. I just had to know how to get myself to that plane, to that thin place, where the veil between what’s real and what seems impossible is so very thin.

The violin had showed me the way.

When I had finished and opened my eyes, tasting sweat on my upper lip, I saw her. Sweet and little and solid and here. My Sophie standing in my room.

Her goggles were pushed up on her head, her curls spiraling out of control. She watched me for a long beat, and then she opened her mouth, let out that lonely whistle through the gap in her front teeth.

“Sophie?” I said, blinking, feeling my insides twist and loosen. I didn’t know what to do.

She took one step toward me and said, “It was just a storm.” And her little face was so grave.

I set my violin on my bed, still watching her, and she smiled. Tears began to cloud my vision, so I wiped them quickly on the sleeve of my T-shirt, but when I opened my eyes she was gone. I blinked, rubbed my eyes. Nothing.

I looked under my bed like a moron. I looked in my closet, behind my door, in the hallway. She wasn’t anywhere. Had she been?

The Chicago version of myself tried to blame exhaustion. But the New Orleans part of me knew better.

I looked everywhere again, all through the upstairs. But she wasn’t there. I curled up on my bed and hugged myself. It made me miss her more than ever, to see her. Her ghost? My projected, exhausted memory? But there was also something about this Sophie, something in her peaceful little smile. I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but it felt like a kind word right in your loneliest hour, or a helping hand when you needed it most.

I chose to take this literally. And I planned out what I would do in the morning. Because Seth Krane needed me. A thousand Seth Kranes were probably out there. And if I could save just some of their parents from experiencing what my parents had, well then, I guess I could accept this gift. The touch.

I stretched out on my bed and let my mind wander. To Sophie. That lonely little whistle. To Seth, the aged empathy in his young, beaten face.

And that’s when I thought of it. My heart knows him. Sophie. Of course she was the one who had said that. I had been so tired of that smelly kid Mitchy Rogers from down the street. He stuttered so badly I could hardly understand him. He had a perpetual Kool-Aid mustache. And in many ways, he and Sophie drove me nuts, with their potion making and magic shows. But, God, did he and Sophie have fun together. When I asked her why she liked that annoying Mitchy Rogers so much, that’s what she had said. “My heart knows him.”

Rennick. My heart knew him.

12

Mom left the next morning to register me for classes and buy my books for senior year. It took a little schmoozing, but she gave in. I told her I didn’t want to have to face the possible reporters, answer questions, stuff like that.

I was glad she was doing this errand for me, but what I really wanted was to be alone and have the house to myself.

I almost had qualms about it, because she probably wouldn’t technically approve of my plans, at least the part about me doing them alone. In fact, she’d probably freak. But I knew what I had to do to make peace with this situation, and I didn’t want anyone—Mom or Dad or even Rennick—to try to micromanage it. I had one more experiment, one more test that just had to be done. Logic or no logic.

I took out my old bike from the garden shed and circled around the back alley to avoid the lone news van that wouldn’t give up and leave my street. I rode over to Garden District Pets, which was way too close to Mom’s church for my liking, but it was the only pet store anywhere near me. So I just tried to keep a low profile and get the supplies I needed.

I bungee-tied the cooler to the back of my bike and pedaled home, feeling all sorts of scientific.

At home, I got myself set up in the kitchen. I took out the first fish, using Mom’s slotted spoon. This made me laugh a little bit. Was there room in the scientific method for slotted spoons? I knew I wasn’t trying to publish an article in Scientific American or get myself into MIT. I wasn’t being very scientific, but that was okay. Because this was for me. For my conscience.

The fish was a dingy white with orange spots.

I laid him on the dish towel, and I thought about things, terrible things—about Sophie dying in my arms, the vacant look in Mom’s eyes for so many weeks after, the sound of the handfuls of dirt being thrown onto Sophie’s casket. Sophie in the earth. Sophie gone. I thought of my guilt, the excruciating hollow core inside me when I thought of my dear little sister. I thought of all these horrible things, and my face crumpled, but I didn’t let myself cry. I watched that fish intently, and I held myself close, arms wrapped around myself, waiting. I watched that damn fish. But what I really saw was myself on those first few nights after Sophie’s death, nearly catatonic with what had occurred on the beach. I was back in the hospital, confused, grief-stricken, crazy with guilt. I waited until the fish’s mouth quit trying, just until then.

I tried to channel the awfulness in me, the despair. I thought of all the inexplicable, horrible, life-altering moments that we have to bear. All the things that human hearts have to carry, and we just wonder, why? Why? Why can’t love be enough?

My senses heightened. The drip-drop of the kitchen faucet, the striations in the fish’s scales, the feel of the wood grain underneath my hands as I gripped the table’s edge. All of it crystal clear. I decided it was time to summon it, but the heat was already there. Blossoming. An inferno inside me. Stronger than ever before. I closed my eyes, focused on my purpose, and when I opened them the kitchen was blue. I grabbed for the tiny little fish —not quite dead but almost, from what I could tell—and I held it in my palms, pressed it there, feeling the surge blow through my limbs. And I thought: Kill him. Take his life.

“Prove it!” I yelled.

He wiggled. I opened my palms, and there he was, that mouth moving again, fins flailing anew. Like he was back, had gotten a breath. Back to life.

I dropped him back into the saucepan full of water. Grabbed another with the slotted spoon. Completely alive this time. I focused my energy. “Take the life out of it,” I said to the empty walls of my kitchen.

Nothing happened. I waited. The churning was there, the flowing, pulsating power of the touch was in me,