I Never Tire of the Blue Sky

I open my eyes against the sunbeams warm and heavy on my eyelashes. Tree branches criss-cross above me, laden with apple blossoms. They’re dainty white with pink edges so perfect I think the color must be hand-brushed on each petal.

The sun washes the color out of the world, giving a lovely faded appearance to everything except the sky. It makes sense that only the sky is strong enough to overpower the sun, the vibrance of it, the vastness of it. I could look into it for hours and still be hungry for more, wanting to taste every shade of blue up there. As Vincent Van Gogh said, “I never get tired of the blue sky”. And how could he? It goes on forever. Sometimes I think the blue of the sky is the only real thing there is, and we’re all just here to admire it.

I’m lying in the orchard, book forgotten next to me. I spend most of spring outdoors; the sky’s clearest after the whitewash of winter, having been the same, flat grey for months. Even in the spring rains I look to the sky, because of the many greys there, the darkest parts giving depth and feeling to the clouds. The smell of it is wonderful, the air thick in your lungs, like the sky is desperate to come down to you in torrents, to slide down your skin into the soil so that you and the flowers and the earth, too, can be part of its overwhelming beauty.

There’s no storm in sight today; it’s the finest weather Maine’s seen since fall. I sit up slowly, reluctant to leave my clover patch. But it’s nearly dinnertime, and Dad'll kill me if Owen eats cereal for dinner again. Plus, his success rate at pouring milk is only around 75%, so I’m always washing milk-soaked towels.

I pass the Abrams’ farmhouse and start onto the woods path home. I’m trying to figure out what I can make with what’s left in our pantry, which is always running low, when I hear my name.

“Hey, Fiona!”

And Gavin Abram is rushing towards me, back door slamming shut behind him. 

“Hi,” I say back, wondering vaguely if I’ve got leaves in my hair.

He closes the distance between us, messy hair flying. “I haven’t seen you in a while! What’re you reading?”

“A Wrinkle in Time.” It’s one of my favorites. I hate it when books end, so I re-read obsessively. His eyes search my face, and I wish I had something more interesting to say, something to make running way out here worth it. But I don’t.

“It’s a real nice day for reading,” he says easily, smiling. He was just born with the gift of conversation. I wasn’t; I can only nod.

“Well,” he continues, when I don’t say anything, “I was wondering… are you going to the dance tonight?”

My heart sinks. “Oh... I don’t think so, it’s not really my thing…”

I used to go to school dances. I don't anymore. There’s little in this world that’s lonelier than being the only one in a room that’s out of step. Dancing isn't the problem—I like to dance. I look ridiculous, but so does everyone. The problem is that it’s one thing to look ridiculous with friends and quite another to look ridiculous alone. I always end up alone, watching hundreds of my classmates laughing and jumping and twisting, united by a rhythm I don’t quite follow.

I think I was born apart from everyone else, separated from other people by a thick, dusty curtain. All I can hear through it is dulled voices, muffled footsteps. The things that are important to the people on the other side just aren’t important to me. They’re all really good at talking; I listen, but never respond. I guess I never learned how to let the words out.

Gavin looks disappointed. I wish, again, that I had something interesting to say. 

“You should come—think about it. It’s gonna be a lot of fun, they’ve spent hours decorating...” He trails off.

“Yeah, maybe,” My voice comes out flat. The silence stretches, so I hurriedly add, “Well, I’ve got to go make dinner… if I don’t get home soon, Owen’ll get hungry…”

“Yeah, okay. I hope to see you there!” 

I look into his eyes and suppress the urge to say yes, he will see me there. I know I’ll regret it later, when the dance is coming to a close and I’m feeling more distant than ever and no one wants the night to end but me.

His eyes are sky-blue, a romance cliché, but I guess in that respect I’m not entirely different from other girls my age. I wonder if those eyes can see through the curtain I hide behind.

I blink, then blush. I’ve been staring.

“Bye then!” I say loudly, and I turn and plunge into the woods.

***

I’m nearly home when the sun catches on something on the ground. The path from the orchard winds through a dark patch of forest; few patches of sun fall through to the ground, so the snow melts last here. Peeking out from one such half-melted snowbank is a simple, oval-shaped necklace, its clasp broken.

I’ve no idea how it got here. I’m the only one who comes through these woods; the route I take back and forth is less of a path and more of a series of gaps in the trees. I shrug, pocket it, and emerge from the trees into my backyard.

Owen’s on the swings with a Johnny Dixon mystery. He’s just like me, the same wild, reddish brown curls and short nose. We must resemble our mom, but she left us so long ago, her face is lost to me.

Despite his lacking culinary skills, Owen seems older than his nine years. He reminds me of Charles Wallace. He’s just wise, somehow. Best of all, he belongs to both worlds: mine, and everyone else’s. He’s my link to society.

“I didn’t eat any cereal yet. Figured Dad wouldn’t like that,” he informs me without looking up.

“Good choice. I’ll make soup.” That way, I can sneak in several different vegetables.

I’m putting chicken broth on the stove when Owen comes inside. He studies me as I cut up squash, carrots, and broccoli. 

“What is it?” I slide the chopped vegetables into the pot.

“Isn't there a dance tonight, Fiona?"

He must’ve seen the flyer in the trash.

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously. I know where this is going.

“You should go.” He’s always trying to get me out into the world. He says it’s good for me, and I know it’s true, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

I deflect. “Dad won’t be happy if I leave you alone.” 

He gives me a look.

“Dad’ll be thrilled! He’s been trying to get you out of the house longer than I have. And I can look after myself, I just can’t cook. Dad gets home around ten, anyway, not too late.”

Well-reasoned brat. I stir the soup, looking for another argument.

“Come on, Fiona, it’ll be fun,” he adds, and I know he’s hoping hard that he’s right. Owen usually is… 

“I’ll think about it,” I say stubbornly. Owen beams. “Now get out of my way, I’m making dinner.”

A half hour later, I set two bowls at the table, two glasses of milk, and a tray of buttered and toasted French bread.

Owen settles himself across from me. I pull out the necklace I’d found earlier.

“Check this out, Owen. I found it in the woods.” 

“A locket? Whose could it be?”

A locket? I hadn’t noticed. I pry it open.

I see a familiar-looking man with messy brown hair, a blonde woman with blue eyes, and a boy, maybe seven years old. He looks just like…

“Isn’t that Gavin Abram?” Owen had run around the table to see the picture.

“Yes,” I breathe, “I think it is.” I’ve never seen Gavin’s mother before.

“Shouldn’t you return it to him?”

My eyes don’t leave the picture, but I can hear the smugness in Owen’s voice.

“I’m sure he’ll be at the dance…”

***

I arrive at the high school an hour late. It’s a short walk from my house, but I wasn’t in any hurry. I had, at Owen’s insistence, grudgingly put on a dress (“It’s a semi-formal! You’ll stick out in jeans!”), but I didn’t bother to tame my hair. I'm wearing the golden locket, clasp swapped with a working one from an ancient gold necklace of my mother’s. My blue dress has no pockets.

Tall wooden posts had been stationed around the courtyard to hold up fairy lights, which criss-cross high over the cement floor. The entryway’s a wooden arch, covered thickly in flowers. Laughter and music spill out through the thrown-open cafeteria doors, also framed with flowers. 

A song I don’t know shakes the dance floor as I'm jostled through the sweaty crowd. When I'm finally spit out, I'm on the other side, where chairs cluster around tables draped in white fabric. Every table is empty except for one, where a red-headed girl sits alone.

Cursing Owen’s voice in my head, I sit with the girl, careful to keep two seats between us.

She'd been eyeing the elaborate fake-flower centerpieces with amusement. “Ridiculous, aren’t they?” She grins. “They don’t look remotely real. The azaleas are droopy, the stem color’s wrong, and I suppose this is arrowwood, but the leaves are a funny shape. And I’m not sure what that’s supposed to be—“ she squints at a thin plant with tiny, stacked flowers, thinning towards the top, “but it’s halfway between steeplebush and pepperbush so it doesn’t look like either.”

Seeing my puzzled look, she adds, “I’m Aster Hedden. My mom owns the flower shop outside of town.”

“Oh,” I manage. 

She studies me closely. “You’re in my pre-calc class,” she says finally. “And third period chemistry. You don’t talk much, do you?”

“No,” I say. And it’s true, so I decide to add, “What are you doing out here, besides criticizing the azaleas?” 

She laughs, and it’s loud, unbridled. 

“Catching my breath. You know,” she says, “from dancing.”

I don’t know, but she plows on, “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for someone,” I say, truthfully.

“A boy?”

Am I that easy to read? “Yes.”

She gives me a knowing smile. “I feel that. But you’ll be waiting forever. You should just go and find him.”

Easy for her to say—she’s the boldest person I've met. I change the subject.

“Who were you dancing with?” After all, there’s no one else at the table.

“Myself,” she says. Bold. The kind of bold books are written about.

She may have seen the awe in my eyes, because she says, “Dance with me?”

I do like to dance.

***

For the first time, I’m part of the bobbing mass of people, my heart beating, body moving in tune with a hundred others. It’s overwhelming like the rain, vast and deep like clouds stretched across the sky and bright as the ever-present blue underneath. I laugh and can’t seem to stop.

Aster takes my hand and spins me, and I bump into someone behind me.

“Sorry,” I shout over the music, turning around.

“Fiona?” 

It’s Gavin, his sweaty hair again in his eyes, a grin spreading across his face.

Aster must see my eyes widen, because she leans in and whisper-yells, “See you later, girl.” With a mysterious smile, she melts into the crowd. Bold.

“I didn’t think you’d come!” Gavin yells, still dancing.

“Me neither!” I answer. “But I have something to give you!” 

“What?”

“I HAVE SOMETHING—“

He shakes his head and pulls me through the crowd, and then we’re outside. We go to the far corner under the lights, where it’s quietest.

“Here,” I say breathlessly, my hands flying to the clasp of the chain. His eyes find the locket and he gasps. He looks young suddenly, like the boy in the picture.

I press it into his hand. He gapes down at it.

“I thought this was lost forever…” His hands tremble as he opens it.

“I... wore this for years after my mother died.” 

The air leaves my lungs. I’d always assumed his mother had left, like mine.

“Kids made fun of me for wearing it.” He says it to the locket, not to me. “Do you remember, in first grade, when Liam Goldman was teasing me about it?”

I’d forgotten about this. With a jolt, I remember.

He finally looks up into my eyes. “You told him off. I’d never heard you speak before, but you sure let him have it.”

I can’t find anything to say.

“After that, I wanted to know you. I’d watch you in the orchard, but I was too afraid to talk to you.”

Gavin, too afraid to talk to me?

I thought I was in my own world, on my side of the curtain. But maybe someone had slipped through when I wasn’t looking.

“After the first snowfall this year, I walked nearly to your house, to… well, I wasn’t quite sure what… anyway, I didn’t have the nerve, so I turned around. I fidget with the locket when I’m nervous, you see, and it must have come loose.” 

My brain stumbles over this impossible information. It manages to make a mental note to thank Owen.

He steps closer.

I cast around wildly for something to say.

“You think you’re nervous…”

He laughs, and leans in…

***

Gavin, Aster, and I are dancing again. 

The curtain’s down and I’m exposed, in the open, and I love it. We’re just three people in a crowd, each of us wishing, with everyone else, that the night will never end, stretch onto infinity like the shades of blue in the sky. 

I could never find it closer than the stars. Infinity. But now it was here, tangible, right in front of me, in the form of a daring girl and a kind-hearted boy. A lifetime supply of conversation, emotion, and laughter. We have a billion golden days to bask in, a billion storms to rage. We have rainclouds to dance under and starry nights to gaze at. Hundreds of thousands of childhood stories to tell and an endless book to write as we go. The darkest parts will only add depth.

Together, we can overpower the sun. It pales in comparison to us, like fake flowers against apple blossoms or fairy lights against stars.

I look to my new friends, the vibrancy of them, at Aster’s blazing hair and Gavin’s bright eyes.

I never tire of those blue eyes.