Out of Blue Comes Green, page 1
OUT OF BLUE COMES GREEN
M. E. COREY
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FOR MĀRA.
I hate you less than I hate all the others.
CONTENT WARNING:
transphobia, homophobia, depression, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt ( Here–Here), bullying
Chapter 1
WAITING IN THE WINGS IS a little like waiting to be born.
So close to the stage. Almost my turn. I can hear the crowd cheering for the dancer on stage.
I grasp the fretboard of my guitar, reciting lyrics in my head. The crowd screams some more. Soon they’ll scream for me too. This is my moment to recreate myself.
The smell of my new leather jacket mingles with the dusty chalk odor of the stage while sweat trickles down my back, soaking into my black T-shirt.
I deny I ever felt so strong,
but you know I’ve fallen deep.
And I can’t fall asleep … anymore.
Too personal. I can’t sing this. Why didn’t I choose a cover song? We could’ve played The Cure or The Smiths, but no, I wanted to play one of my songs. Stupid.
A few deep breaths. Libby elbows me, leaning toward my ear. She has to yell to be heard over the noise. “Kinkade, when you said you were going to change your hair, I didn’t know—”
My stomach drops but I force a smile, running a hand across the two inches of hair that remain, raising my eyebrows at her. My tough guy pose makes her laugh.
She yells, “Cool!” and I can tell she means it. “Just be sure you sing in your regular voice.” Her dark eyes are not amused.
I know she’s right. I can’t hit the low notes as well. These clothes and this haircut may suggest that I’m male, but my voice does not.
Libby’s fourteen-year-old cousin, Gene, extracts his bass from its case, laying eyes on me as if it’s for the first time. He’s wearing black jeans and his black James Jamerson t-shirt, like he’s old enough to be cool. A few seconds pass before he recognizes me, and his thick eyebrows shoot up. He forces them back down.
Cheers from the crowd die out as the principal introduces our band, “Next up, we have the band Blue.”
Libby shoves me toward the stage and rolls her drum set out on its wheeled platform, some drama thing they had sitting around. Leaving my last bit of confidence behind, I stumble onto the stage with her. The audience murmurs. Once Gene has plugged in his bass, he’s stranded far to stage left with his short cord. He plucks out a few notes with his long, deft fingers. Beside Libby’s drums, my amp waits for me to plug in my guitar. As I do, feedback reverberates through the auditorium. To distract the audience, Libby taps out a rhythm on the edge of her snare, waiting for me to get my act together. I can’t panic. I’m cool. I look great in this jacket. This song rocks.
Her steady cadence quiets the crowd.
I step to the microphone as Libby continues a beat. Moving from the rim to the drum, she sets the pace for the song. But this is easy for her; she sits in the back, protected by her drum kit. Even while she plays, she’s got her analytical producer’s eyes. I’m the one exposed out front.
Shut up and play.
I strum the first chord to Libby’s tempo, head down, eyes closed. Hearing the rush of the notes from the amp, I slip into the melody line, humming to myself. I play the opening riff and sing:
I can look out over this lonely road,
but I can’t get back to you.
Libby slams on her bass drum.
I don’t know what to do.
Libby taps the cymbal.
Anymore.
Switching chords, I sing the chorus. Gene keeps the bass line strong and even, completely in sync with Libby. My amp chooses now to crackle with static, all my notes lost. But it comes back seconds later when I jiggle the plug on my guitar.
Keep going.
When I sing the last line of the chorus:
Now all I can see
You walk away from me
Alone.
My eyes open and my stomach turns over. The crowd stretches back into the dark auditorium. Huge.
Keep playing.
One row back near the center is a boy from my math class. What’s his name? He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Dyke!” which spreads through me like a plague. I hit a wrong chord but keep going.
Cheering reaches my ears as I go into the middle riff, louder than that asshole boy. Libby smacks a drum solo. Gene keeps up with it all, even though Libby’s part wasn’t planned.
As I strum the second verse, “Fucking dyke!” gets drowned out by Libby’s cymbals. Then the chorus, and though we’d agreed to only do two verses, I continue into the third. Despite her glare at the back of my head, Libby keeps drumming, flipping back her long, tightly curled hair, sneaking up the tempo. She always wants everything faster, faster. I speed up, though I’m sure this will ruin my vocals.
But she knows what she’s doing. We pull the last part off perfectly, the lights dim, and the crowd goes crazy. No matter what that asshole yelled at me, the rest of the crowd loved us. I can’t keep my smile from spreading. This is so amazing.
Libby disconnects my amp as she shoves her wheeled drums off the stage; Gene lugs his amp and bass behind her.
I let out an audible, “Wait,” before I follow. We can’t be done already.
Backstage, Libby starts to break down her drums, unscrewing cymbals and her bass drum mallet. I stick my guitar in its bag, set it aside with the amp, and give her a hand. She texts her uncle to meet us, and when he arrives, the three of us lug out the drum pieces one by one to Uncle Doug’s SUV. Carefully. Libby’s drums are her babies. When she has any money to spare, it goes into her drums. I’m surprised she doesn’t wrap them all in individual little blankets. Gene doesn’t attempt to help; he fiddles with his bass strings as if he might need to replace one before sliding his bass into its case.
Uncle Doug stops us before we can take another load out. “You were fantastic tonight!” He wraps Libby up in his arms, and her smile is pleased and content at the same time. She hates when people hug her, but Uncle Doug is different because he’s her mom’s brother.
When he lets her go, he offers me a handshake. “You, too, kiddo. You’ve got a wonderful voice.” He’s checking out my hair and clothes, but he’s not surprised in the least.
I clasp his hand. “Thanks.” He hasn’t called me by my name in years, just “kiddo.”
I take another part of the drum kit outside.
The January air is frigid in Minneapolis, but it feels good for a few moments, a respite from the hot stage lights and the weight of my leather jacket. Libby’s too cool for a winter coat too, so she freezes in her vintage jean jacket, her mom’s from years ago, with frayed cuffs and eighties band buttons. It’s sentimental since her mom’s been gone for six years now. By the time I head back for another drum load, my skin shivers, my damp shirt icing over. I hustle through the lot, past my car, and back inside.
Once everything is loaded, Libby slams the hatch closed, leaning against it for a moment. She blows out breath like she’s exhaling cigarette smoke. “We were great.” She pulls black, fingerless gloves on, rubbing her hands. Then she has her notebook out, always planning changes, detailing what worked, what didn’t.
“Yeah.” I still feel the drumbeat pound through me. I want to be back on the stage for our next song.
She jams her fists into her jacket pockets.
“I think I’m going to stick around for a few acts.” I kick an odd clump of snow into bits. “You know, see how bad everyone sucks.” I cock an eyebrow at her. “We set the bar pretty high.”
She laughs, bending in to give me a quick hug. “I’d like to stay and take notes on the other groups …” Her eyes go to her ride.
“Nah, it’s almost over,” I reassure her.
“All right. See you later.”
I give her a manly nod.
One step away, she turns back. “You look good.” Her gaze lingers for a bit so I’m clear that she means my hair, my outfit, my maleness.
I can feel my face warming. She’s one of the only people who has known about me for more than the last half hour. “Thanks.”
Libby gets in her uncle’s car where Gene has already snuck into the back seat. Doug, who’s had the engine running this whole time, sticks a hand out the window at me as they drive off. After the crunch of the tires over the snow fades into the distance, I’m left with silence. No drums. No guitar. No crowd. Only me.
The wind kicks up, blowing snow in swirls. We’re supposed to have a blizzard tonight, but I never trust the weather report.
When I go back in, I don’t watch any other acts. Instead, I sit on the dusty wooden floor beside my amp and guitar, surrounded by discarded school-band debris—music stands, old song books—listening with my eyes closed. The junior on stage right now thinks he’s a comedian. He’s not. A few freshmen do a short one-act scene that’s all right. For the most part, though, it’s as I expected from a high school talent show: nothing above ordinary.
I wait until the last act has finished before I leave. Maybe on my way out someone will say something nice about my performance. Unlikely. More likely I’m setting myself up for a verbal beating, but it could be different. People actually applauded.
I’m not Kayla the Freak when I play my guitar. I transcend whatever prejudice they have. For a moment. For a song.
For most of them, anyway.
I hoist my guitar onto my back and grab my amp, mingling with everyone filing out of the auditorium. It’s a dangerous move that makes my neck stiffen. Anyone could be in this crowd. But I’m still on such a performance high, I can’t make out the evil kids from the ordinary ones.
The crowd carries me along, nudging me closer to the wall. A few heads turn to look at me. A couple people meet my eyes and give me a smile or a nod. Then from nowhere, I’m blocked by a brawny chunk of a guy who traps me against the wall. I break to the left, but he moves at the same time, and his two cronies fill in the other escape route. JT positions his muscled forearm over my head, against the wall. “Nice singing.” His breath reeks of vape, the funky mango-vanilla flavor he likes.
He has me right where he wants me, close to the crowd, but out of the main line of sight.
“Move.” I slide into his man Hunter, who sets a pick like we’re playing basketball.
JT grins, muscly creases in his face extending all the way to his blond military cut. “Are you trying to confuse people?”
I take a quick breath in to tell him to shut up, but hold it in. I’m not trying to confuse people; I’m trying to straighten them out.
“Come on, Kayla.” He lays his meaty hand on the side of my head, playing with my two inches of hair. “What did you do to your beautiful hair? Remember that day in fourth grade when you cut your hair like right here?” He lays his burly hand where my neck meets my shoulder. “So hot.”
I pull away, slamming my amp into his leg.
He swears, doubling over for a moment.
Before I can get more than two steps away, his other goon Dirk grabs the collar of my leather jacket from behind so I can’t escape.
A few girls slow down to see what’s going on.
JT scowls a bit. “Naw, naw, let her go.” He pulls Dirk’s hand off me, and calls after, “Someday you’ll remember our moments together and ask why we never married.”
Disgusting asshole. I throw a glare over my shoulder once I have gotten far enough away.
He blows me a kiss as he flips me off. But I know something he doesn’t: I know what’s coming up behind him.
Three seconds later, Principal Eckert sidles up to him. “What’s going on, JT?”
Adjusting my guitar strap on my shoulder, I smile to myself and rush out the door into the bitter air and blowing snow in the parking lot. Breathe. Calm down.
Few cars besides mine remain. No people. That’s good. Snowflakes land on my face and my jacket as I place the amp and guitar in the back seat, but it’s so dark, I can barely see where I’ve put them. When I slam the door, someone’s standing in front of me, and I stumble back a step.
I put my arm up to block the snow and see that it’s okay; it’s a girl. And not one who hates me: It’s Christine Walker, who sits next to me in art class. Has a charcoal preference while I’m a straight-up pencil drawer.
Her expression is not one I’ve seen on her before. Sheepish? Embarrassed? “I thought you were pretty great. On the stage.” She tilts her head, so she has to look up at me through her sandy blond hair. Then she, too, puts up an arm to block the weather.
“Thanks.” The air around me seems to warm.
“Did you write that song?”
“Yeah.”
She averts her gaze. “You have a beautiful voice.”
“Yeah?” If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was flirting with me.
“Maybe you could play something for me. Sometime.” Snowflakes collect in her hair.
I lower my eyes. She’s so beautiful. I can absolutely play for her sometime. Maybe I should write her a song. I step closer into the light.
She squints. “Kayla?”
She didn’t recognize me? Shit. She thought I was some boy she didn’t know.
“I didn’t recognize you.” Her voice flattens. “You cut your hair.”
I trace the edge of it around my ear. “I wanted a change.”
She nearly spits when she laughs. “I guess.” She inspects me and clearly no longer likes what she sees.
I keep my chilled fingers from touching my hair again. “You don’t like it.”
Nervous laugh. “It’s not that. It’s just sort of,” she searches for a word, “boyish.” She pulls up the collar of her jacket. “Wait. Is that what you wanted?”
I swallow hard. That’s not completely obvious? How can she not—but I should just tell her, be honest. After all, we’ve become art friends over the last few months.
“The jacket’s cool,” she says.
I smooth it down against my stomach. “Thanks.” The leather is stiff with the cold. “Did you really think we were good?” The snow turns to ice pellets, stinging my cheeks.
She nods, but her smile dies quickly. Perhaps she’s remembering that she thought I was someone else. That she was possibly attracted to that someone else. And now here she is with disappointing me.
“I have to get home. I think that blizzard’s coming.”
“You sure? I could give you a ride if you want.” I follow when she takes a few steps away.
“I have my car.”
“Right. Okay. Well, are you taking art next semester?” Second semester starts in a few weeks.
With a little wave, she turns her back to me, pretending not to hear.
The world around me feels so cold again.
Chapter 2
THE CAR ONLY WARMS SO much by the time I drive through the snowstorm and finally reach home, so my fingers are still icy when I go inside with my amp and guitar. I need to get up to my room so I can get warm.
“Kayla? Is that you?” Mom calls from the living room.
I don’t want to talk to her right now.
She calls again, and I can hear foot thuds coming my way. I’m not fast enough to escape.
Her lips pucker when she comes into the kitchen where I am. “That’s what you wore to the talent show?”
Guess you would’ve known if you’d shown up.
Her brow crinkles. “Where did you get this jacket? Aren’t you worried what people will think?”
“What are they going to think?”
She grasps my jacket sleeve, pulling me to the stairs, pointing with her eyes. In a low voice, she says, “Go, before your father or brother see you.”
God forbid Dad knows the truth about his only daughter. Of course, I’m not sure I’m ready for him to know. Based on how Mom’s been handling it, I can only imagine how he will. And my brother, Sam? Also unknown.
In my room, I lean my guitar against the wall and place the amp beside it. An hour ago, riding the wave of our phenomenal performance, I would’ve wanted to plug it all in and practice or start on my song for Christine. Now, though, I just can’t.
Mom appears in my doorway before I can change into warmer clothes. Her face has softened. A little. “Take that off.” She pulls at my jacket sleeve.
I do, and now that I’m in my black V-neck, she stares at my chest. My face warms. Before I left for the talent show, I bound my chest with this stuff I found at the fabric store. It’s sort of like a giant Ace bandage. I stitched up the ends so there wouldn’t be any loose strings. I thought it was amazing, the way it made my chest look so flat. Mom does not seem to share my feelings.
I cross my arms.
After giving me a pitying look for far too long, she sits on the edge of my bed. I know she wants me to join her. I ensure there’s enough space between us when I do and glare at the pink-painted wall across the room. Her voice is barely audible. “Aren’t you taking Dr. Behmann’s advice?”
