The Indigo Child: Part Two Of Four

Neveah Fay

 

  

Such simplicity,

I must burrow into,

To taste the wind,

And to feel the stars,

Beneath my feet.

 

I will travel

Across the world,

To capture memories

In my hands,

With Kapri,

Both of us

 

Finding each other

 

Inside of

Ourselves.

 

I will take my dear friend,

The one is who me,

And we will search together,

Until we have found enough memories,

To last long,

 

Then to fly through the air,

Weightless enough,

To come to my universe.

 

My home.

 

ⱷChapter Sixⱷ

    Dinner is a rush of ignorance. I do not make eye contact with my Mom, but silently push a portion of seasoned asparagus into a pile of mashed potatoes. I make a mountain, green and white. My mom purses her lips, and reapplies a coat of oily berry and peppermint lip gloss, shining pink with a sheen of sparkles. I look down, and cut a piece of steak. The tangy, almost sweet sauce mixes in my mouth with a swash of fizzing lemonade, swirling under my tongue.

   “I’m very…” My mom speaks up, swallowing her gulp of colorless, fruity wine, “Let’s just say I’m very unhappy you went to that field. You know it’s where Dad and I broke up. I don’t like thinking about you going there, or being there. It’s bad luck. And what were you doing anyway. It’s, well no offense honey, but a little boring for my taste too.”

   “I was with my friend.” I say meekly, tapping my silver fork against my pinky and onto the ceramic yellow plate curved with buzzing fat bumblebees. “She showed me something.”

   “Ah.” Mom looks down, nodding at her tiny side-salad, drizzled with dressing and chopped almonds. “Who’s the friend?”

   “Neveah.” I answer, finding a stray piece of asparagus and popping it in my mouth. The sweet, oily juices drip down my chin, landing squarely on my cloth, cream color napkin. My mom licks her lips, stained with steak grease.

   “Mm, interesting name. Nice to know you have a friend.” My mom says stiffly. I nod, and wipe my hands on my new jeans. “Does she go to your school?”

   “No, she’s from another district.” The truth is, she most likely is not from another district, but the high school and kindergarten are two very different schools. It’s easier, to say she goes somewhere else than getting into the confusion that my new best friend is ten years younger than me.

   “Well, I guess you can have fun with this, Neveah. Please stay out of the field though, I really don’t like that place very much Kapri, and it means a lot if you’ll not go there. Anyway, I’d like to meet Neveah. She sounds nice.”

   “Okay.” I grip the tablecloth, clenching the sweaty fabric between my fingers. For some reason, I don’t want my Mom to meet her. It might not work, be strange and uncomfortable for both my Mom and Neveah. I duck under my side bangs, hair falling everywhere on my face.

   “Maybe tomorrow we’ll go for a haircut. Your hair’s getting rather long.” She offers, trying to make mere conversation. I shake my head, “My hair’s nice right now. New style, to grow your bangs out, I guess. It’s fine; I wouldn’t want you to spend money anyways.”

   “Oh, alright sweetie.”

   “Can I uh, go upstairs? I’m full.”

   My mom smiles, and says, “Clear your plate first.”

   I walk back to the table, and scoop up the plate. The cold, metallic surface hits my arm, sending a line of chilling Goosebumps up my elbow. My mom pauses me for a minute, her eyes hollow and staring out at the iron gray cast sky, mixed with an elixir of navy swirl. She’s out of place, deepening into the hole of nothingness. I push myself to walk farther, and drop the plate in the sterling silver sink.

   “Going up Mom.”

| | |

      I wrap the blankets around my chest, cold and shivering in my room. The summer air is damp, leaking into my room with a humid touch. I press together my hands, rubbing them for warmness. A heavy drizzle has started to drip outside, fogging up my window and bubbling in the vents of the screen. I swallow, bitter and clammy.

   It’s cold in here.

   Neveah is standing halfway between my drawer, and small white desk bought from pottery barn kids. Her eyes are dazzling. Silver and bright as stars, twinkling and winking in the dim light. I blink, making sure they are real. They are, and so is she.

   “I don’t even want to bother, finding out how you always get places so fast.” I mutter, biting a fingernail. My mom says it’s the worst habit, but I do it sometimes, just because of that fact. Neveah rolls her eyes, and says, “I had to come. I need to tell you something very quickly. It’s for tomorrow.”

   I nod. “Okay, what is it?”

   She first, clicks her fingers and the room warms up a little. My breath melts on my lips, hot and humid once again. “Thank you.”

   “No problem.” She answers, “But let me get to the point please.”

   She edges towards the window, ready to jump out if my Mom comes up. I feel like this moment has already passed once. And it has. A gourmet dinner, Neveah in my room. A true déjà vu.  Her small body compresses on the bed, twisting the creamy brown and white comforter in her hands and stomping on the mossy green sheets. “We’re going to go on a trip.” She speaks out.

   “What?!” I exclaim, “No. I got in trouble for going to that field the whole day! I can’t go on, a trip!”

   “It’s okay Kapri. We’re going on one no matter what, because I’ll just take you anyway. You NEED to go. Find yourself.”

   So, she’ll take me no matter what. I am not the happiest on this, but we’ll also be traveling to some paradox universe, so it will have to do. A trip though, to where?

   “We’ll go to Europe, I think at one point. Maybe cruise at the bay or at Plum Island. Have a nice day at a park sometime. It’ll give us memories, so when I go to the blank universe, I’ll have something to think about, and when you are back home, you are more than you appear. A woman of many thoughts. The trouble you get into, really is quite short after a while, and mostly if won’t happen. Usually they just want you back.”

   “Um, okay. What about clothes? I can’t get away with packing.”

   “I’ll bring things.”

   Neveah smiles, her teeth all showing their white, reflective surface. I nod, and throw back heavy covers. She cocks her head towards the window, “I can hear your mom coming.” She speeds out the window, and I watch her, climb down the framework of our roof, becoming immersed in night.

   My mom soon opens my door, and I have positioned myself so I just appear to be reading. She wears a heavy sweater, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Almost like someone I could be the greatest of friends with.

   “Want to stargaze?”

   The stars wink back, beckoning towards me. I grin. Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere else; I’ll at least have fun tonight.

   “Of course.”

 

Neveah Fay

I wish that we could

Blow bubbles in the rain,

But when they finally popped,

They shattered into a rainbow

Rain,

Glowing and oozing into

Light puddles.

I wish that

They were not so

Immersed in themselves,

That they could sit for hours,

Listening to one song.

Made of chords.

D, then F, then A.

Melodic.

I wish,

That when we crossed our fingers,

Or held onto

A green sprig of four leaves,

Or even knocked on a scrap of wood,

Our hopes came true.

I wish.

ⱷChapter Sevenⱷ

  

   My Mom pulls two worn, green fabric beach chairs out to the scraggly lawn and throws a quilt at me. I burrow into it, warm and ready to watch the stars. She brushes a few clots of sand off the chair, sighing and glancing up at the sky,

   “There’s Orion” She says, her breath freezing in the cold air. I didn’t know it could be so cold, but the muggy, mosquito humidness has drawn out, and left us with breezy wind. I rub my hands, and tuck them under the blanket to remain unfrozen. My mom points up, towards a cluster of yellow, golden lights dancing and winking around the moon. I nod, and dart looks all around, at the pinpricks of light surrounding the ink black.

   Stars used to be big, gasses and huge, overpowering streams of fire, ready to explode. They had magnesium, helium, and a lot of dangerous things in them. They died out pretty quick, because they were made out of such flammable things. I was around to see some of them, billions of years ago. They caused things you wouldn’t imagine, such colors it was almost indescribable.

   “Billions of years?”

   I’ve been around longer than you think Kapri.

 

   I sit back in my chair, recalling Neveah’s attempt at a telepathic conversation. She is very old, that’s how she’s so smart, wise and understandable. She’s had experiences that others are prone to and not able to come across. My mom looks across to me, finding my face among the dark swirls of air. I smile, and look up again. A round, blue ball, glowing with tints of purple and green shines bright against the sky. Venus. I show my Mom, and she laughs.

   “That’s my favorite planet.”

   We sit in silence for a time, letting the glow of fireflies and stars blur together and mix until there is nothing but pure light. Finally, my Mom talkatively leans over and asks, “Do know why Dad and I broke up honey?”

   “Because you were fighting a lot and you just didn’t love you anymore.” I say, keeping my eyes trained on the sky. I can tell the conversation is going to an awkward place, and I don’t want to really lead into all that much.

   My mom hesitates, before propping her arm up on the tough chair arm. “I didn’t want to tell you until now.” She rolls her sleeve up, to her shoulder. White, ebbed scars flash all over her skin. I wince, biting my lip until it hurts.

   “Your father abused me,” She says, wiping her nose with the scrunched sleeve of her shirt, “And I threatened to call the police unless he would go away. That day, we happened to be in a fight, and I’ve used that excuse ever since. I’m sorry Kapri, I didn’t think of telling you until now. It just seemed like you were having a lot of memories, and I wanted you to know.”

   “Why did you lie about the scars?” I demand, pushing back in the chair. My mom taps her hand, thinking.

   “I was scared.”

   “But you lied.”

   She shrugs, and innocently stares up at Venus, blue and large, bouncing everywhere. I shake my head, and the stars seem to shine brighter in reflection. Stomping out, I tilt the chair, and my Mom’s tea splashes on her hand. I cover my eyes, I’ve ruined everything. Everything is undone.

   And then I run to my room to wait for Neveah. Straight into the arms of leaving everything.

Neveah Fay

She’s slipping.

She’s crying.

She’s wishing,

She’s wanting.

She’s hoping for light,

She’s fading….

Slowly

Drifting

Away

From

Herself.

ⱷChapter Eightⱷ

   I stare out through my room, tears plastered on my face and red rims on my eyes. I hear my Mom downstairs, making clatter with some things of hers. I am afraid if I move, I will shatter even being able to go downstairs in the morning, and say hello. It will be one long nightmare that I cannot end.

| | |

  I watch the sky swirl with lighter streaks of sapphire, illuminating that dawn is close at hand. I haven’t slept yet, frightened by so many things. Tomorrow, I will begin my travel with Neveah, and still, I am haunted by the lies scarring my mother. But, I have to leave her to weep in her own, supposedly perfect world. With her gourmet food, and her stargazing. She tries, to cover up everything that has happened in her past.

   The curtains start to blow onto my bed, flapping in my face and wakening me from a heavy, stone phase. The dark outlines of my room start to draw out and become colored. The dresser turns golden brown, sleek and glossy. Morning is brought out.

   I stretch out my arms, and yawn, accentuating that it is time for wakening. Even, if I have not slept at all. All night, I was terrorized by the things to haunt me. Neveah. Mom. Everyone, mounting into one big deceiving thing. Neveah, is to deceive everyone I love by stealing me away to find myself and help her. My mom, she deceived me. Over abuse. Never again can I look at her, and see those sad, blue eyes the same way. Only will I know that they are so sad because of what happened.

   I do not venture downstairs, but decide to wait for Neveah to come. She’ll most likely appear somewhere in my room, fading into the place like a trailing shadow. I pull out a brown, leather book with pages dipped in gold. A tiny, spindling name, familiar and strong, is written on the spine. Mine. It is my old, cracked notebook that I found in my attic a month ago. Hidden under a box of old baby clothes. It’s refreshing, to see things so small that once fit you. They all have a certain smell, cinnamon, apples and sometimes cream and baby powder. I finger the uneven ridges of the pages, and flip to the fifth page where something must be. There, in a light gray entry, is a slightly old poem.

She felt that she

Was never good enough for

The world.

 

She didn’t ever think

She could stretch to stars

The way others did,

Clad in glossy polish,

And glittering

In the whirling

Lights.

 

She saw that she,

Was barely in line,

Striving to

Fit in.

Smiling,

Askew,

And pale.

 

She felt stale.

 

She felt like she could never shine.

 

   I run a hand over the words, driven into the paper with anticipation. It is me, so unlike them all. That is what Neveah’s journey is really about. To find myself. To accept.

   As if I can ever do that.

| | |

   I hear my Mom, still downstairs in the cream colored kitchen most likely making pancakes. I can smell the sweet flavor, dashes of almond extract, and slips of lemon. I won’t eat any of it, if I can even have time to go and try to make peace for once. But I disagree, I do not wish to bid goodbye. No blowing of kisses, but a turn of my back, and never to look past.

   A rush of wind signalizes Neveah. I look outside, and there she is, leaning on the lead gray, mossy shingles. With her, are a single suitcase, a leather pouch, and a small purple bag. She smiles, and says, “We’ll travel faster once we get off our first bus. Hurry, it leaves in twenty minutes.” I scramble up, and fling out the screen for the window. The flat, rectangular roof is dry, and I get on it with ease. Behind us, is a white tube that connects from the gutters. Neveah winks, and with her suitcase in hand, she slips down it. I look down, realizing that I am at least thirty feet up.

   “It’s easy.”

   I nervously swallow, and maneuver until I can slide down it like a pole. The heavy, white metal is cold and slippery in my hands, making me feel unsure. She looks down, from the dizzy grass. I start to haze off, but then snap back and without any hesitant, I drop down. The force of the compound, packed dirt forces hard on my stomach, and sticks a little to my clothes. I brush it off, and dash to the other side of the street, trailing Neveah.

   From inside the house, I hear my Mom, climbing around upstairs. Her voice is almost a whisper, but I hear it from outside. Neveah is silent, twisting her thumb and looking down, wincing.

   “Kapri?” My mom says, just below my room. I gnaw the inside of my cheek, “I’m sorry.” Then soft, crying sounds start to emit. I edge towards the house, but Neveah grabs my arm, and stares at me, with now violet eyes.

   “Please, don’t look back .” She says. I nod, teetering on the chipped line of the sidewalk. I have never heard my mom cry, but I will never see it. I have to be strong, and not go past. Today must be the day that I gently, rip away the tension. To leave forever.

   And with that, I hurry down the street, following Neveah to begin our journey.

  

 

Neveah Fay

Glittering

Shine

Sparkling

Wink

Twinkling

Gold

The Essence of Beauty

ⱷChapter Nineⱷ

   My road has been passed, and now we enter a slightly shaded road winding almost near the main street.  Neveah shields her eyes, from some light moving towards her eyes. In her small, curled hands are six dollars, sweaty and crinkled. I suppose, that the bus ride is three dollars fare each. I stare intently off into the murky, dark road. In the distance, are the flashing lampposts and sounds of the whizzing streets. I don’t visit town much, unless my Mom and I have to make a shopping trip, and she pulls me out to buy a few shirts. Unlike the other girls, I am fine with a simple pair of dark, worn jeans and a beige t-shirt, but my Mom begs for nicer articles.

   Neveah looks at me, and smiles, her black eyes swimming in the dark blue light. “The bus is coming soon.” I nervously dart a glance back at my road, concealed by a cropping of scarce piney trees. Nothing peeks out, so I quickly turn back, shivering in the cool, flat air. Neveah unzips the suitcase halfway, and pulls out a downy green vest flashing with embroidered blue flowers. “Here you go.” She says, her teeth clinking together as they chatter, “It’ll fit.”

   I slide the vest on, and am immediately surged in light warmth. Neveah smiles, her lips laced with purple. It is surprisingly cold, for summer. Especially July, when the heat finally can really crack open, ripe and golden. Folding my arms, I wait for the bus to come, and whisk us away to wherever we’re going. I look at Neveah, and ask her.

   “I was thinking we might go to Europe, because it’s so nice there. Then maybe somewhere, where we can relax. It’s a trip to find you.”

   “God.”

   Neveah jerks her head towards mine, glaring with milky, sparkling eyes. “What?” I bite my lip, and shuffle towards her.

   “Why is everything about finding yourself?” I ask, admitting I find it odd. She stares up again, the world reflecting in her nocturnal, large irises. She’s hurt, but I finish my question, “Can’t we just, have fun and maybe delay you getting back. Shouldn’t you make friends, and you know, find others like you?”

   Neveah shakes her head, a drop of salty tears sliding down, “Why don’t you understand?”

   I look away, burrowing in the safety of avoiding contact. She lifts a finger, and pushes my chin up, forcing me to look at her. I gulp, tapping my feet.

   “My friends are dead. The others, they all died when we came because they weren’t strong like me. That’s why I want to go back, because I know some there, and they might let me stay. They might let you stay.”

   Might let you stay.

   I nod, and she releases her grip, flattening her flannel rainbow shirt. Her face is flushed, almost puffy with red from her slight break of tears. “So, that’s why.” She says in a small, distinctly tired voice. I look up from the gray, dark sidewalk path to see a large, white and forest green bus rolling down the paved, tar street. Neveah unfolds the dollars, and soothes out the wrinkles. Crisp in her hand, she takes a step forward and lets us wait for the bus. I balance my converse on the sidewalk, the heel on the fat chunk of cement.

   “It’s here!” Neveah shrieks as the travel bus pulls up for us. Smiling, she drops her money into a slot that says BUS FARE, and grins at the driver. He’s an old man, with a dusting of snowy hair and a twirling uneven mustache. She skips down the aisle, and drops into an empty red seat. Almost nobody is on the bus, except for a few elderly citizens, scattered and staring nonchalantly.

   The dingy windows provide Neveah a good view, and as soon as the bus starts to move she giggles. A surge of earth rushes by and blurs until she has to stop looking. The driver looks back at us, at a red light and asks where we’re going.

   “The airport!”  She says, resting her head on my shoulder. The wave of brown, glistening hair on her head cascades, drowning me in its sleekness. I don’t bother trying to argue, I know we’re leaving to Europe. And I feel bad, because /Neveah is so alone in our universe. Drifting off to try.

 Might let you stay.

  Until she found me, buried under the concrete and strained to a boring, perfected life. She blew life into mine, creating an elixir and making me almost one of her own. Half an Indigo Child. And now, when my secrets, desires, memories, and life rushes away into a blur, I know it’s for something else. For something greater, because one day, we will all reflect and know in retrospect it was all for the good of it.

 

 

Neveah Fay

 

There is a time when

You begin to change.

 

You see the short,

Cropped lines between difference,

And normality,

Thick black outlines

Caving in.

 

The colors of the world,

Fall back on you.

Golden is the substance,

The oily shine in

A muddle of

Bubbles.

 

Blue the warmth

Drowning the sky.

 

The world speeds up,

While you slow down,

Sitting.

Watching.

Wanting.

Wondering.

 

Are you an Indigo?

 

Or is this just true self?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ⱷChapter Tenⱷ

   The heavy smell of old rain and a taint of slight berry shampoo runs through me as we enter the large, packed parking lot of the airport. The bus cascades through the tiny aisles, coming to a concrete curb to drop us off on. I look over at Neveah, who is clutching her suitcase in sweaty, miniscule hands. Out of the unzipped corner, I spot a flash of her out bursting rainbow attire, this time in neon orange and blue.  Her face turns, and she pulls out a thick, crème envelope. “Can you hold onto these until we’re ready to board Kapri?” She asks. I nod, and snatch up the ticket holder. Suddenly, a thought streams through my head, and I cannot help but ask.

   “Where did you get the money for such expensive tickets Neveah?” I swallow, as she presses her lips together, causing a droplet of sweat to roll down her nose. Her black, shining pupils dilate, growing big and larger than her iris. Glancing around, she ducks to my ear and whispers.

   “On the airline sight, I copied a picture of two tickets and messed with them on Adobe Photoshop so they were legible. Just, don’t act up and we’re fine ‘k?”

   They’re illegal.

   We’re breaking the law.

   I nod uneasily, and watch the bus halt to a short stop at the end of the curb. Neveah clambers over me, and runs into the aisle. I can tell she’s a little unsettled, that she read my mind and knew her plan was risky. I wheel out the suitcase, and quickly follow her.

   “Neveah!” I find her at the second square of gray sidewalk. Her tears tremble down her cheeks, shiny and radiating in the sapphire sky, burning with a tainted distance of newborn pink. She looks up, eyes closed and hair blowing. Peaceful on the side of the airport.

   “I understand, that it’s unsafe Kapri.” She says, teetering on the edge of crying. “But you must trust me, and I know you don’t even know why we’re going on such a dangerous trip.” I blush, because that is exactly what I am thinking about. “So I’ll tell you. In my universe, you have to either be weightless, Without anything you’ve ever thought of. Or you have to be full, and know everything. Be everything. We’re in the middle, but as I said on this trip, we can find ourselves, and become whole. So that, we can pass through to the blank universe.”

   Whole.

   I nod, understanding her words. Neveah can make anybody believe. Know all. She’ll snap you right into what she thinks, and then you’ll follow it to perfection.

   We walk farther up the curb, dragging the suitcase on the wet pavement. It has started to rain a little, but we keep in the open instead of going under the small cover outlining the large, beige stucco of the building. In the back, there is a barb wire fence and beyond, is the tar area where planes are lined, endless and monsters of metal.

   I curl my fingers around the sweat stained paper of the envelope, nervous and constantly tapping my foot on the ground. We near a set of entrance doors, thick with frosted glass and ridged with a golden frame. I take the knob in my unoccupied hand, and twist it. A blast of cold, blazing air conditioning burns on my arms, used to the humid sunny air. Neveah tucks herself under the arm of the suitcase, close to me.

   The airport’s walls are a dusty gray, illuminated by huge glass windows that show a view of the launch area. In the center, is a clatter of reddish orange chairs surrounded with magazines. TVs are set on the walls, flat screen and showing flights in block lettering. To the right, is a station for tickets and suitcase check. Neveah pulls me over to this, and we lug a bag onto the conveyer belt shipping things off. Later, we’ll put in the suitcase, but for now we ship down a bag. The security guard asks what flight, and Neveah responds with, “A-62.” Nodding us off, we go to the chairs and wait for the flight to be called.

   “Look, it says ours on the TV!” Neveah giggles, pointing to the left flat screen. Boldly scripted, are the words, Italy, Milan. I feel my eyes bulge, suppressing a shriek of happiness. Italy. Gourmet, beautiful, swept with an airy light of innocence. I hug Neveah, and thank her. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

   I remember my dad, as he laid out maps of Italy. We ate heavy amounts of cheese, topped on ciabatta, imagining we were there ourselves. He wore what he thought looked Italian, and trimmed out his mustache so it was rather fashionable. It was a good memory, to sit on the cold wooden floor and  eat our rich food. He kissed my forehead, and promised he would take me some day. Sometime, we would travel on our own, in a boat made of the floorboards of our house. One day, we would get there.

  It was only a dream though.

   One that never surfaced.

| | |

   Neveah speaks up, and says she has to go to the bathroom. I squat into my seat, and tell her I’ll watch the suitcase. As she wanders off, I peer into it, and unzip it fully. I have not yet seen what’s completely inside.

   I come across a blue fringe leather notebook, with a fat turquoise bead dotted in the middle of the cover. It is Neveah’s, obviously. I glance at the restroom sign, making sure she’s inside. Then, I flip over the cover and read out her inky writing.

   I’m never going to be like everyone else. Not beautiful, not dark and misty. I will never love. Not with someone who doesn’t understand anything. I will only know one. Kapri.

 

  I wish the sky was of aqua, and rain was silvery, shimmering bubbles. The clouds were sugar, sweet and grainy. Everything would be so happy, if the world revolved around something so sweet that you could not look away.

 

Dancing to my own song.

Singing just my way along.

Pretending that I cannot hear

The lurking darkness

Always near.

Breaking up in silent nights

Finding stars that shine with light.

Singing just my way along.

I’m dancing to my own song.

I’m dancing to my own song.

“I’m dancing to my own song.”

Neveah Fay

The hazy smell of thick, white sunscreen plastered over a red face in the burning sun. My fake mother, singing as we swam in our rocky creek. I picked up smooth, green rocks,

Piling them up in a stack for my fake father.

I could taste the wind,

I could see the smiles,

I could hear the dew, as it slid into the dirt.

 

I was becoming the moment.

As I played with my family,

I was growing a stronger Indigo.

 

I could almost stray away,

And leave the fake.

But it was something I wanted so much.

To sit with the fake.

 

To sit with a family.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

ⱷChapter Elevenⱷ

 

   I watch Neveah return from the bathroom, her hands full of strawberry peach antibacterial soap. Her notebook is safely tucked away, and in my hand still lays our tickets, untouched and completely illegal.  Managing a smile-which I cannot believe she can muster from her depressing journal entries-she sits down next to me and holds onto the thick black strap of the tough canvas. Her breathing slows, and she relaxes into her cold, plastic chair. I focus on the TV, waiting for the destined time to come.

   A loud, crackling voice peeks out from the loudspeakers dotted on the gray walls. “Beijing flight leaving now, please board.” I look over to Neveah, who is almost asleep. I pat her forehead and whisper, “Go to sleep.” She nods, her face barely moving, and drifts into a lazy block of sleep.

   I scour the room for a magazine, and find one resting on one of the glossy, painted tables. It’s a rather stupid one, Star magazine. Chock full with spurting gossip and mug shots. My eyes don’t quite read every word as I flip through, but more so skip over the pages clad in bright pink letters and flashy pictures. Throwing down the magazine, I push into the seat, waiting for the plane.

| | |

   A crack in the intercom wakes me. Neveah, unsteadily breaking her eyes open and brushing away fallen bangs also springs up. We both hear it. A-62. Italy, Milan. Light flashes, as Neveah shifts in a quick jerk, dragging up her pouch and case. With beckoning fingers, she asks for the envelope. I place it in her hands, and we head over to the small paper-like hallways that connect us to the planes. A guard stands in front of us, holding a scanner.

   “I’ll need to look at those tickets.” He says, dark blue shirt tucked into his tawny pants. Neveah’s eyes stay unmoving. Different from mine, which are glancing everywhere but the guard’s face. She smiles, and flings her tickets to the guard’s face. “Here you go sir!” She says in a fake, glittering voice. Her face makes his light, and he scans the tickets. I feel adrenaline, coursing and I feel lightheaded too. Neveah’s hand snakes to mine, promising it will be okay. Okay, until her grip is iron and tight.

   “Alright ladies, go on in!” He says cheerfully. I swallow, insanely calm. Neveah watches, as he takes the tickets and throws them in a basket, no longer needed. We enter, the thin walls shaking as we walk.

   The paper, flimsy corridor opens up into the entrance of the white, glistening plane. I tentatively take a step onto the dark green carpeting of the plane, and then push on. Neveah trots behind me, still loosely hanging onto my hand. Trust. It flings me back to a night at my old home, a trying to be perfect house of trying to be perfect life. Only try to be perfect. Because, it’s so secretively flawed. But not this life, this one will come out right.

   The pilot looks up from his boxed in control station, and smiles as we step into the aisle. Women fly with carts of drinks everywhere, serving people before the ride even starts. Neveah and I squash into two seats, G13 and G14. The row is askew, waiting for two seats that never fill. Thankfully, Neveah and I are the only ones in the row.

   The pilot’s deep, throaty voice rings through the air, announcing that we are to depart in three minutes. I look at Neveah, whose small frame has melted into the stiff, cotton seat. She peers out the window, an endless field of tar and concrete covering the world. I feel a surge of movement, as the plane starts to lift away from the ground. People’s meek conversations begin to grow louder, the buzz of flying breaking into their veins. I take a good look at the ground, the tar completely disappeared in a quilt of green and embroidered houses. In one of those, my Mom is crying. Wanting her daughter.

   The daughter who will not come back.

   A cart appears at row G. I stare into the eyes of a toothpick thin woman, hair tousled and a platinum blonde. I reach up, the curls of my dirty hair fringed at the sides of my neck. “Want something hon?” She asks impatiently. I quickly reach for a plastic cup of iced pink lemonade, wanting her to leave. She strolls down the aisle, twirling her stick straight hair into little ringlets.  I look down at my drink, small flies buzzing at the rim. Unsettled, I place it on the foldable table in front of me. My ears begin to pop, and I cover them with greasy fingers.

   A child in the row across from us stares at me, his blue eyes lurking. I press my lips together, observing that he must be about ten. With a dart back to his mother, he folds his arms in his lap and leans on his seat.

   I tap on the armrest, nothing to do but drink up my beverage and talk to Neveah. I tip the cup, and the pink lemonade clashes over my teeth, a surge of sugar rushing through the taste buds. Neveah leans over, and begins a telepathic conversation.

   Want to hear a story?

   “Okay, sure.” I answer, crumpling the used plastic.  A filmy picture floats in my mind, Neveah’s story coming up.

   There are millions of jewels everywhere, dazzling in glooming caves, waiting to be found. But only the sky has real jewels. Stars. They’re the brightest thing you see, shining and winking. Radiant and beautiful. There are human jewels too, beautiful people who seem to be dipped in an essence of perfection. People who know. People who have seen things others cannot.

   I think you know what we’re going to achieve.

   Kapri, we will become jewels.

 

  

‘

Neveah Fay

 

We will be so

Elegant

As jewels,

Perfectly whole and

Allowed to float into the realm of

My universe.

We will be so

Beautiful,

Roaming the streets of Milan

In our bright attire.

Rainbows,

Of neon and

Flash.

We will

return

ever so

Fast,

If we find enough memories,

Skipping on the plains of Europe.

We must hurry.

ⱷChapter Twelveⱷ

   A jolt in the plane’s smooth, straight line of direction wakes me from a drowsy area that is between sleep and the awareness of awake. Neveah stares out of the foggy window, observing the dark black sky, swarming with nothingness. I tap her arm, and she looks at me, eyes groggy and creased downwards. I can she is tired, so I just shake my head, and she leans against the chair again, waiting for the ride to stop.

   The lights have been shut off, and most of the plane has quieted into a zone of sleep. I can’t fall back though, it seems impossible to drift off completely. I pound lightly on my knee, finding something halfway amusing to do.

   The inky, navy sea below shines with an eerie, ebony glow. I watch it, from behind the curve of Neveah’s cheek. I cannot tell which ocean it is. Pacific, or Atlantic. I never paid much attention in geography lessons, they seemed utterly pointless. Stupidly mis-useful. Now I wish I had understood, because it would give me at least a small sense of somewhat security. Something to have knowledge over when I wake.

| | |

   A rose madder dawn streaks through the plane seats mixing with lines of gold against the coral clouds and light, almost periwinkle sky. I rub my eyes, and observe the plane. People have started to wake, and the ten year old boy shovels a spoon of soggy lucky charms into his mouth, hair a tangled mat and his shirt pulled askew. I look over my seat, and wave a cart woman over. She carries breakfast foods, tureens of fruit and pools of beverage.

   “Hi hon.” She says. I press my lips together, remembering the other cart woman. This is the same one, stick straight hair and slim, perfect features. I focus on her nails, French manicured with a clear finish. “I’ll have some OJ and eggs, waffles and bacon.”

   “Oh, that’s a hungry girl eh? Well, gotta grow dontcha?” She remarks, hiding her gruesomeness in a sugary voice. I nod meekly, understanding that it’s not even that much food. She folds out the table, and places the food onto it on a white Chinet paper plate. I wake Neveah up, who has fallen asleep again, and share the plate of breakfast with her. Oily strips of meat jet saliva to my tongue, and I cram bacon into my mouth, succulent with the supple texture of waffles and sweet, sticky syrup. I don’t touch the eggs that much, because they seem rather gooey, The kind of eggs I like are fluffy, clouds of pale, spring yellow. I remember how my mom would make them. Just the way.

   The smell of fresh eggs wafted through the house, cracked and stirring in a baby blue china bowl. The yellow yolks swam in a pool, whirring around as they were whisked with a slice of butter. My mom poured them into a warmed pan, a sizzle igniting through the peach walls of our house. I crouched on a chair, around five and looking from my hunched position. The smell made me so hooked, wanting it right then, raw.

   The eggs began to thicken into puffed clouds. Scrambled and flecked with greasy drips of butter. My mom brought them off the pan, and I hovered as she gently nudged them onto a plate. Handing me a fork, I began to eat. Bite after bite. Bites of memory.

   I used to love my Mom, but now I see her in a different way, Hateful, and mistrusting. Cold, white and isolating me in some flawed perfection.  Neveah finishes the eggs, her fork clattering on the fake wood grain of the fold table. A flight assistant comes by, and clears up the utensils and garbage.

   The crackling voice of the pilot comes rumbling through the PA. I look at Neveah, knowing what he’ll say. It’s the moment we risked our lives of legality for, the second that will grant us activation to becoming jewels. To making ourselves whole. Able. I quickly unbuckle myself, standing in the fuzzy carpet. Words enthralling and moving through my body,

 He says:  “We will now be landing.”

 

Neveah Fay

 

The world was of golden,

and sounds chimed.

We sat on old, pilly blankets,

Miniature sandwiches clutched in our hands.

 

We watched the sky,

As streaks of hazy sunset

Began to diminish.

 

Our time was perfect,

Enough to sit down,

And stare out.

ⱷChapter Thirteenⱷ

   The world’s dark green, fruity coloring begins to sort into fields and rows as our plane touches down on a black, painted gravel runway, There is no airport, just a strip of road and a winding, melted turn to the horizon. I watch as the plane slowly filters out, my legs heavy as lead and stable as jelly. Neveah’s feet crunch behind me, planting into the carpeting as she stomps through.

   As the air hits me, I stand there, at the base of the plane for at least a minute. It’s sweet, fueled on a slight taint of deep, red sunken wine. Dry and braided into the wind. The light is so bright, crème and surrounded by a ring of warm, lemon sunlight. I feel I can fly, drift through the snowy swirls of cirrus clouds and duck through their icy fingers.

   I hop onto the hard, packed gravel and shake out my feet. They’re still jet-lagged, but soon I’ll rid myself of that and find something else to concentrate on. I tap them, and look over to Neveah, who is still walking off the plane. She nods towards the back, where people are unloading their bags from storage. “Wait here,” she tells me. I nod, and look around at all the unfamiliar, muted faces. In a little group, some men with short, black hair and curled mustaches speak in a frequent queue of Italian, making riveting hand movements and emphasized facial expressions. Behind them, two woman with olive, smooth skin and even set hazel eyes stand next to each other in outfits of floral designs and shafts of faux fur, lush pink lips and inches high heels. They jut out their hips, and walk with their bobbing shoulders.

   Neveah returns from the luggage area, the bag in her hands and a stern look on her face. I pull myself away from the Italians, and smile. Her face seems lit up, as it has not been since we met. A cold foggy day of downcast in that town park, where fate was altered.

   I ruffle my bangs, and shoot a stare at the Italians. They’re laughing, throaty, and have starting eating doughnuts, covered in light brown powder and sugar. I touch my stomach, remembering my breakfast of waffles and oily, salted bacon. One of the women, one with jet black, shimmering glossed hair tossing back her head and yells “Quanto divertente, sei Roberto esilaranti!” Neveah turns to me and whispers she has said, ‘How funny, you are hilarious Roberto!’ I assume that Roberto is the one in a leather jacket and male aviators, a squared goatee and a toothy smile. As they all move farther down the road, I turn away and take the bag from Neveah.

   “Where are we going to sleep?” I ask her as we start to walk off the main section of gravel and onto a flat expanse of shiny, newly coated sheen of tar. She stops us in the middle of the road to let a golf cart go by, and then looks up, wondering at the swimming powder blue sky. Burning a hole with her stares, she finally answers, “We’ll look around.”

   Three words, to revolve on. And we set out.

| | |

   My legs feel like they’re on fire, burning in the blazing heat of the day. We have passed the tar road, and the brink of a marble pallor city is before us. We filter through a place with traditional cobblestone streets, and small canals near street ways. Houses with wide brown pane windows painted pastel are stocked neatly near each other. Music dances in my ears, and warm, bakery smells linger in the air. On the edges of the sidewalks, street vendors sell pastries for little money. Neveah grips my hand, so nervous in a new place. I stand higher, wanting the attention.

   The inhabitants of Milan are well dressed, being in a fashion capitol. Leather, lace, suede, satin, and swathed fields of colors pass by us. I am insulted, wearing a pair of loose gray sweatpants and Neveah’s purple cotton tee-shirt. People gawk at us, observing our quirky wear.

   I guide us through the streets, watching people wander around, talking in heavy accents. I catch words that are familiar. Ciao! Grazie! They all have this similar air about them, smooth, lush skin and full lips. Everybody knows where they are going, headed in the direction in knee high black leather boots and chunky, beaded sandals. We are lost, with our snagged hair and red tinged skin.

   In the middle of a circular area, surrounded by buildings and churches, large granite steps are set and down on the pavement sprinklers are set for kids to run through. I clatter down, watching a handful of children scream in delight as they feel the water run down their skin. Neveah darts off, barreling into the crowd and letting the clear, bright rain roll down her ivory skin.

   I don’t get up, but sit amidst a clique of chattering mothers, all seeming to know each other. I listen to them, chirping in their beautifully scripted language.

  “ Stai andando su un viaggio in gondola oggi?”

“forse.”

   After a while, I get tired of listening. I cannot process what their saying, and there’s no use finding out. Neveah can tell me later, if I remember what they said.

   I look over to her, hands in the air, and dancing in the middle of the cool sprinklers, lips slightly parted and feet bare. Wet and slick. I lay down our suitcase, and kick off my shoes. Going up to her, I copy her motions. Hands to the sky, growing until they twist together in eternal love. Feet tough, touching down to earth with dirt and earned work gathered beneath. Life immortal. I am intertwined.

   This is my home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neveah Fay

We cry because

We do not know,

Who we’ve become,

Who we can show,

We do not chitter,

We do not detour,

We must hurry,

More. More. More.

 

We’re almost there,

To our second part,

Where we can show

Our art.

We’re breathing so steady,

But the world seems to brake,

To crack open with memoirs,

So much that we shake.

Chapter Fourteen

   Neveah and I shiver, still coated in a dripping layer of warm sprinkler water. We head to her bag, where she pulls two furry towels from. Green and blue in color. I wrap one around my wet, sticky clothes and Neveah tosses hers over her head. In my head, something floats around weightlessly. A matter of rainbow, catching light inside my mind.

   One memory. One sixth.

   I do the math. We need six memories to become whole. Six real memories, things that will enter our dreams like blockades of sunshine on a dreary day. I smile, tucking the towel away and clambering down the large, marble steps. Neveah totters after me, her hand furled over the canvas strap of the suitcase. Avoiding wet pavement, we walk to the edge of the enclosed dome plaza. I look up, observing the large displays of stained glass windows, smudged with Caribbean greens and icy blues. I step back, and see the lines fold out. Its pictures of women in dresses with miles of train, looping to the other side of the stucco and marble or granite buildings. I keep staring up, even after I walk out of the dome.

   On the street, a man with bicycle speedily darts through the crowded roads. People seem to look at him like he’s naff, and laugh at his bulky black bag stuffed with some kind of package. I tell Neveah to wait on the sidewalk until we cross, but she runs out and the man stumbles on his bike, collapsing on the gray, talc stones.

   The man pavidly stands up, and rests his bicycle on his leg. “Sorry, bambina, I am rather goffo…clumsy I meant… with this new… bike a here. Are you okay?” Neveah nods, pressing down where a small scrape bleeds on her hand.

   “Are you two tourists? You don’t look like you’re from Milan. Eh?” He asks, trying to practice English. I brush away my bangs and look up. He’s a tiny bit different than most of the men, with longer grown out, tousled blonde hair. Streaks of brown highlight run through, and he has no beard. Looks younger than most.

   “Yeah we’re from New York.” I say quietly, pushing my shoes on the sidewalk. He blinks, steadying his shiny bike back. “Oh, I’m Claudio Rossi. I work at the bakery, Rossi Bakery. My padre, err, father, owns it. You can come. If you’re a sweet tooth.”

   “I’m Kapri, and that’s Neveah.” I say, mumbling. He gets on his bike, and rings it as he says, “See you round Kapri! Never know who you will meet around the fashion capital!”

| | |

      Trudging through the streets, we find a small vender on the street selling “pasticceria”, or pastry. Neveah digs a wallet out of her suitcase and pulls a crumpled bill into her hands. The vendor shakes her head, shiny hair flying in the air. “We no take no American bills bambina. You have our currency?” Neveah bites her lip, and says no.

   “Well, I guess I can give you one bambina. For welcome to Milan.” She says, and gives us a flaky roll with icing and sugar melted on the top. I split it, and eat. The sugary substance melts on my tongue, breaking into particles as I swallow. Neveah’s eyes pop, feeling the luxurious taste break out.

   We walk a little farther, not going much of anywhere and observing the beautiful architecture of the city. Far out, is a ridge of mountains with a sharp acrête, jagging far down.  I trace my fingers over it, there presence hanging in the air and falling to my side.

   I think about everyone I know. Alisa. My mom. My dad. The girls in my school, who laughed at everything I did. They snickered, calling and pointing. The old women, who sat and talked on the town benches. Neveah. A glowing light of heart. She is the new me, the one that gave me this. And everyone else, must go away. All around me, they drop down as used shadows and lead me to my future.

Neveah Fay

 

“You are withered, flying on the wind like an empty shell.”

 

“You are a bitter thing, gone and disturbed.”

 

“Do not try to come back.”

 

“We don’t want you here.”

 

 

“We hate you.”

 

 

ⱷChapter Fifteenⱷ

   I lick my fingers, ridding them off sugary aftertaste. Their wrinkled, pruning layer sucks off a few grains of it, and I shove my hand into my pocket. The inhabitants of Milan have gathered around a large building, and are watching as a group of street dancers perform on the polished walkway. Their silky costumes flutter in the wind, supple pastel pinks and blues, moving to the beat of their graceful feet. A short, clapping woman shouts compliments, thrashing thumbs up and clapping furiously. I study one of the younger performer’s face expressions. Throughout the whole thing, she squints at the ground, focused and extremely talented. As the music wavers, the dancers begin to slowly stop, and then all bow. A stout man pulls out a shiny euro, and throws it at them for luck. People begin to do this, so I ask a random woman where an ATM or something so I can exchange my US currency for euros might be.

   “Nell'angolo a destra c'è una banca.” She says, looking up at the filmy blue-gray sky covered in a thin layer of clouds. Neveah smiles, and telepathically says, she means, at the corner to the right there is a bank. Thank her, and let’s go.

   I nod my head, and thank the woman. Neveah grins and we rush down the swept gray sidewalks. The loud, buzzing sounds of faraway music drift on me, pattering in a simple beat. A drop of moist rain plummets on my head, lukewarm.

   “There’s a thunderstorm coming Kapri, we have to hurry in.” Says Neveah, looking worriedly at the shadowy, iron cast sky. I nod, and turn right at the end of the street.

   This road is filled with fancy restaurants, with bronze tables all outside and shaded by ebony umbrellas. I glance at some of the food, spaghetti twirled in olive oil and butter, drowning in marinara sauce and topped with parsley. I lick my lips, almost tasting it on them. Neveah hovers near the area too, wanting the food so badly.

   “Let’s go.” I say, finally breaking the hungry silence. Looping her arm into mine, we trudge through the looming streets and into the presence of the bank. It’s a large, skinny building with beige walls and gaunt, rectangular windows. At the bottom glass doors, are a wood, polished sign that says, Trasfreimento Bank. Transfer Bank. We push on the doors, and blasts of cool air conditioning sting. Neveah points at a blue machine that reads ‘Americano a Italian. ‘

   “That’s where we put in our money.” Neveah says, and takes out her wallet. In a small compartment, is a wad of crinkling dollar bills, light green and sweaty. I blink at the fat amount of money. “How much is that Neveah?” I ask unsteadily. She looks over, smiling.

   “Three hundred and sixty two dollars!” She says loudly. A middle aged woman looks over, and holds a finger to her mouth, shushing us. I turn back to Neveah and feel my eyes bulge.

   “Where did you get so much money?” I ask, forcing her shimmering, golden eyes to stare at mine. She hides under her bangs, but I brush them aside and jut up her chin.

   “Tell me.” I say under my breath.

   She closes her eyes, her smile fading into a nonchalant look. After she opens them, she calmly says, “I stole it from my parents. Don’t be mad, they didn’t even notice it.” I begin to feel adrenaline again, like when we had the illegal tickets. But won’t it be alright? We’re already halfway across the world. It’s perfectly fine. Just shut yourself up Kapri. I tell myself.

   Neveah studies a sign on the blue transfer machine, and says aloud, still looking at it, “If we put in one dollar and thirty five cents, we get one euro.” Then she sees my face, and half grins. “If we put all our money in we get 247.6391 euros!” She takes her money, and unwinds the rubber band around it. A five dollar bill drops on the floor, and I pick it up. The paper feels worn, and old like it has been in this wad for a long time. Too long. How much time has Neveah to prepare. A month? Six? A…year? I push the thought away and hand over the bill.

   After she has emptied her hands of the green, a single, crisp piece of paper with the sign 200€ on it slides out, and then a few handfuls of golden silver coins. Raining down on us. I pick one up, and feel the cold, new metal. After this comes two ten euro notes, and Neveah puts them into her wallet. “There we go.” She says proudly ”That’s probably enough for a while.”

   We walk out of the bank, hand in hand with trust.

| | |

   I let the rain touch my hands as we walk further down into Milan. Suddenly, a though pricks through my mind, remembering the naff boy. Claudio Rossi.

   “Let’s go to the Rossi Bakery!” I say, spurting with a sudden energy. Neveah groggily looks over, tired from walking. Nodding, she squints.

   “Where is it?”

   I shrug, and go up to a tan, lanky man in a fringe black leather jacket. Balling my fists, I ask him where Rossi’s Bakery is. He taps his chin and then, his eyes light up, “Su strada nona. 9th street.” He says, translating and waving me off. I thank him, and dart back to Neveah, who is sitting on a brown bench, tired and leaning on the back. I tell her the info, and she looks up.

   “That’s a street away.” She says.

   We get up, and start to walk again. The cool breeze stains my face, fresh and flooded with a distant smell of meat. Thick, dark meat with a salty, fat taste. Delicious, Italian sausage. I speed up, wanting food more than before. Neveah hurries too, wanting to keep up with my heavy pace.

   We come to the bakery, a light green building with vines crawling around the sides and large glass windows to observe the breads, and iced pasticceria. My mouth waters, feeling the sugary drips of frosting on my tongue.

   A doorbell rings as we walk inside. It’s half full, but even so I still see Claudio’s face behind the counter, helping a young girl-one with a shimmering braid down her back and shining blue eyes-load a cart of puffy éclairs. His face looms over the room, and he sees me with s hint of recognition.  The girl who was on the street. He waves, and I smile. The girl rolls her eyes, and stacks five euros on the counter. I grip Neveah’s hand, and drag her over.

   “Hi Claudio!” I say, perching on the counter.

   “Kapri! I remember you! Tourist girl! And Neveah, hello.” He waves at Neveah, who is about to fall asleep, “You tipped my bike bambina!”

   I laugh, and observe Neveah. Claudio bites his lip, and asks, “Does she need to rest?” I nod, and he walks us to a small flight of stairs, and then into a new room.

   “This is the Rossi house.” He declares as a teenage girl strides by. Her streaky hair resembles Claudio’s, and I take it that they are related. She pauses her movement enough to smirk.

   “New girlfriend already Claud?” She mocks, then trails over to me, “Well, you’re pretty. I’m Claudio’s sister, Esta. Have fun!” And she backs down the hall. Claudio calls after her, yelling that I am not his girlfriend.

   “Here, Neveah can sleep in the guestroom.” He points at a dark room across from us. I carry Neveah into it, along with our bags. The walls are aqua and green, with matching curtains and a purple bedspread the same shade. “Thank you.” I whisper as I drop Neveah’s tiny body onto the bed. “She’ll like it.” Claudio blushes, and steps back into the bakery. A new crowd of Asian students look at the selection of desserts. Claudio slides behind the counter and closes my eyes, shuffling over to the racks of breads and pastries. “Open up.” He instructs. In his hands is a puffy pasticceria with pinkish icing and a small cherry on the top. “Want a zeppole?”  He asks, holding out the dessert. I hesitantly pick it up, the frosting smudging my hands. I smile, and take it. The taste is new, almost like the smell of cherry blossoms. He looks up, blushing. “Do you like it?”

   I swallow, and nod. “It’s really good.”

   Around me is a bakery. Outside of me is the sun and sky, dancing with blues and yellows, striking with the fiery notes of new hope.

 

 

 

 

Neveah Fay

 

I cry for her,

When I know she is not well.

I’ve seen her all these years,

Before we even met.

 

I know she’s known me.

 

In a dream,

She’s found my face.

Even though,

She does not realize,

We’ve been waiting all this time.

 

Just to finally find each other.

 

I feel her when

She is in

Such a dark room.

No way to get out,

Unless she wakes.

 

I know I’ll help her.

 

Because I know trust.

 

 

 

 

Because I know Kapri.

 

ⱷChapter Sixteenⱷ

   I sit at a small table inside of the bakery, studying the wood grain in the dim lights. A man with a loaf of focaccia walks by, winking. I look away, and at Claudio, who is helping a high school couple, the girl in a pair of striped circle sunglasses, and the boy with slim dark jeans. They both get cannoli, engorged in a dusting of chocolate shavings and powder. Laughing, they stumble out of the building. I walk over to the counter, and rub my eyes.

   “I’m gonna go check on Neveah.” I say sleepily. Claudio looks up, and reaches out to brush something off my face. I watch, as a fleck of flaky phyllo drops to the floor.

   “Okay.” He says, sighing.

   The sky has begun to drip with carmine and rosy oranges below the melon pink clouds. Above, is the striking night of Prussian blue, waiting to fall over all the sky with a black, velvety blanket. I shiver, the cool air leaking through the walls of the Rossi house.

   I knock slightly on the door, and then push open into the room of purples and green. Neveah’s eyes stare up at the wall, unmoving. Their shiny pupils reflect in mine, and I study myself in her eyes. If I could brush my hair, I might be pretty. Maybe if I were to buy some of the clothing of Italy, I would fit in. Just another one of those girls though, to roam with a looming soul and only care about stupid things like make up. Not things like how I needed to help a six year old genius find her way back to some paradox universe/

   “Kapri?” She asks, her frizzy hair draped on the pillow. I let her scoot over, and then climb onto the warm bed. I don’t remember what it’s like to sleep fully, because these past few days have been cat naps, resting in odd places and then ready to surface again before we crumble in ten minutes. But this a real bed, warm and with pillows. And sheets, and heavy comforters.

   “Do you like it here Neveah?” I ask her, smiling in the darkness of the room. She nods, pressing together her hands.

   “It’s so nice, I think we’ll stay here for two memories, but as soon as we get our second we’re out. We get two memories to a place, and we get three places.” She says, her breath steady in the darkness of the room. I hear a shuffle of steps come up the stairs, knowing that Claudio must have just closed the store. I think he might let us stay here for a day or two. Possibly.

   “Do you like Claudio, Kapri?” Neveah whispers, moving her face off the pillow so it faces mine. I nod, and say in a hazy voice, “He’s nice.”

   She falls back asleep.

   So do I.

| | |

   I run on a black, packed dirt plain. Behind me a trail of shimmering rainbow flies everywhere, splashing the colorless world with dashes of blues, and warm spurts of dark umber. The more I run and empty myself, the more the world begins to arrive with life. It’s a trade for eternity, if I give up mine the world gets it. I should be happy, but my whole destine idea is drowned. I have to get it back, because I cannot afford to leave without it.

   I stop running, and the world becomes black. But inside I am glowing. A win, only for me. Things begin to confuse me. My dream is not making sense.

   No sense at all.

| | |

   I wake, remembering I am still in Italy, in Claudio’s house. A waft of bread drifts into the room, and I rub my eyes sleepily, the early morning air breaking through my head. I tuck the covers around Neveah again, and pad out of the room. Then, I slowly walk down the stairs and into the bakery. Claudio is in there, spinning a small, metal spoon on his pinkie. I look around, acknowledging the sign, still on CLOSED. He smiles when he sees me, and whispers, “Sleep good?” I nod.

   “I asked my mom if you guys could stay here, and she said yes. But you have to help a little in the bakery.” He grins, happy we can stay. “Esta said she was happy too.”

   “Thank you, but we’re-“ I start to say, and then exhale, “We’re leaving in a few days.”

   He shrugs, “Then stay for just a few days.”

  “Alright.”

   I sit down at a stool behind the counter next to Claudio. The ceiling feels too small, only about eight feet above us. I look at the ground, the shiny tiles gleaming in the early light of the morning. Hardly anyone is walking around outside, but I see Esta running with a bucket of sloshing, icy water.

   “What is she doing?” I ask. She dumps the water onto the pavement, and then trots back inside with a relieved face.

   “The sink probably got clogged.”

   I close my eyes, remembering the day that happened in my home.

   Water was everywhere in the bathroom, the green floor flooded over with two inches of clear tap water. My mom laughed a little, finding it funny. “Dip in your feet.” She said, almost giddy that our house was leaking. I touched a toe into the liquid, the lukewarm feeling stretching over my skin. “See,” my Mom said happily, “It’s fun. You can play, before we clean up.”

   We splashed through the water, but only to find my Dad staring at us in our soaked clothes. He roared that we had to clean right away, that we were not behaving and my mom wasn’t cooperating well.

   That was the last time we really let ourselves stray.

| | |

   I join Claudio at their small kitchen table for a breakfast of small cups of cappuccino, and sugary rolls to dip in. I pick one up from a white, sparkling plate and bite into it, tasting the dough and melted grains spread across my tongue. Claudio smiles, “Dip it into your drink.” He says, and I place it into the frothy beverage. Neveah is hesitant to do this, but finally plunks it in. I raise an eyebrow, realizing how unusual; she’s been acting, like a dormant plant that refuses to grow. Like she is sick. I watch her, even as she eats her food is with only half of a heart. She doesn’t look up, but her eyes stay focused on the swirling foam of her drink.  Mrs. Rossi looks around, and sticks her chin in the air as she pulls her hair into a tight bun. “Eat up child.” She says to Neveah with a sharp accent. “Later you need a strong body. You work in kitchen eh.”

   Neveah only nods, her body barely alive. I think of her journal entries. Is this her true self, the one that she stores in some black, hollow shell of her soul. I have never  witnessed her, without the bubbly feel of her song, radiating throughout her as she tips her feet, almost ready to fly. This is not her, it can’t be.

   Can it?

| | |

   I sit on the small, metal frame bed in the purple room. The doorknob squeaks, and Neveah rushes in, her eyes rimmed with red and elixirs of tears. I rub them away, and kiss her forehead. She buries her face in her hands, not wanting to talk.

   “What is it?” I soothe, pushing loose, mangled curls from her head. Slowly letting up her face, Neveah faces me with a look I have never seen her bring out. It’s her, but she’s sad and let down. Falling into my arms, she starts to cry again.

   “Kapri,” She stutters out, talking into my shoulder, “It’s time to, I need, I need to leave Italy.”

   “What?” I spurt out, furious.

   She looks up, wiping her face again.

   “It’s time to go away.”

ⱷ

p a r t  t w o

T O  P A R T, A N D  T O  C O M E

ⱷ

Neveah Fay

We are gone. One six of memoirs filled.

I am scared,

It seems we won’t ever get enough

Of our memory.

 

Can we make it?

 

I need to be home,

But I cannot go, unless we have collected. So we are whole.

And then Kapri will be whole,

As she floats back to her world,

Knowing everything.

 

I know they will ask her things,

They’ll have to keep her in some hospital,

But after it all dies down,

She look up at the sky,

And she’ll know where I am.

 

So I will wave,

 

And I know,

 

She will wave back.

 

 

 

 

ⱷChapter Seventeenⱷ

  

   I walk out of the room and stride down the hall, each step of waxed, glossy floorboard impacting. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. But aren’t we really, almost gone? I tremble, and slide down the black flooring stairs. The smell of bread floods through my nose, and I step into the room, as Esta runs up to me. Her streaky bangs have been pushed out, and she smiles. “How’s it going Kapri?” I tell her I’m fine, and quickly dart behind the counter next to Claudio. Esta disappears up the stairs, her maxi skirt swinging on the floor.

   “I have something to tell you.” I say to Claudio. He nods, and opens up the cash register, tucking in two euro coins.

   “I’m,” I start, looking down at the white tiles, gleaming in the light shining directly above us. “Leaving, and I don’t know you guys that well, but I’ll miss all of you, because you’re some of my first friends. I’ll write, but I don’t know how often. But, wherever I am, however long, just don’t forget us okay?” I swallow, feeling my pulse radiate with nerves of constant motion. Claudio looks up, and smiles.

   “Why would we forget you guys?” He asks, chewing on a piece of glazed cake. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to us this summer.”

   I blush, and bite my lip. Outside, the sky has faded to a sparkling, clear blue with a few streaks of white, puffy clouds. I take it in, as an awakening to our leaving. Dipping down to the skyline, I see the city. Milan. A home to the people who wear furs and leathers and fringe. The place where I felt myself alive, as I ran through the fountains and touched the sky to the earth. Milan.

   My second home.

     I watch Mrs. Rossi stomp through the entrance of the bakery, rub gel into her hair, then brush it out with a rat tail comb and white, orange smelling mousse. She stops, and brushes her hands on her skirt then asking, “Kapri, I just a see your sister, or cousin. She say that you are going to go eh, away, is that true? I have to help you pack darleeng!” 

   “Yes,” I say quietly, rubbing the sole of my converse on the edge of my jeans, “We’re leaving, but it’s fine, I’ll pack by myself.” She nods, observing her carefully painted fingernails, clad in a varnish of thundering, rosy, florid color. It matches her lips, full and rimmed with lip liner. She hugs me, and speaks out, “You are a strong girl, go and pack up! I need to go out!” I laugh, relieved at the sound of true love for me, for someone she barely knows. She blows a kiss, and then swings back the glass door.

   I have to somehow remember this place, and find a new memory, I think, silently storing the thought at the back of my head. Later I’ll take the question back, and know the answer, but for now I push it away and move onto something else.

   I wander out the doors, and sit on a small bench beside the bakery for a while. People move by, always chatting and talking in fluent Italian. I find it, my memory. I create a poem that will bring me back every day, to this spot. To this knowing.

 

I know you,

Foreign.

I have seen you,

Where you stand,

Under your

Stone

And waterways.

I have known you,

Because when I look

I find what is

Unearthed,

Beneath stone.

Beneath water.

 

I find something I have never

Witnessed.

Until now.

 

I see you,

 

My real home.

 

   There is the flutter of rainbows, the taste of wind and the sweetness of a faraway song. I look up, and I stare out. I find everything, floating through the clear sky. There is the sensation of flight, and I know for sure that I have memories. I know it’s time to really say goodbye.

   I breathe in, and whisper.

Goodbye.