NOAH

(Age 9)

"Noah, it's time to go. Don't make me leave you behind."

I heard Ma calling but I didn't move. I was too busy watching the old gypsy woman that stood across the street. Maybe stood was too strong a word.

She looked about a hundred years old, her shoulders, hunched, her knees, knobby and crooked.

Her clothing was ill-fitting and looked homemade—a tattered dress and shawl that nearly swallowed her. Wiry hair stuck out like snakes and jewelry adorned every spare inch of her.

On the folding table in front of her was a velvet cloth and in the center sat a stack of large playing cards. Only I knew they weren't for playing. They were for reading the future. At least, that's what my brother Reid once told me.

The gypsies fled their homes during the war, like so many others. Some ended up in Midnight simply because there was no fighting here. There wasn't much of anything here, let alone anything worth fighting over.

I shielded my eyes from the hot summer sun and studied the red and gold wisps radiating from her. I knew no one else could see them. They never did.

Just then, the woman turned my way, her eyes finding mine. 

Only she was missing one.

A leather patch covered one socket. 

Her remaining eye was dark and piercing, shining with a strength that didn't match the frail woman before me. It narrowed accusingly while her mouth pinched into a tight line.

She knows.

I took a step back, my gaze never leaving her... until I stumbled over the curb. When I looked back up, it was like it never happened.

Did I imagine the look in her eye? A look that said, I know your secrets. I eat them for breakfast.

"Noah." 

A gentle hand clutched my shoulder. The familiar light of Ma's face came into view. 

"What are you doing? Let's go."

"I'm coming," I replied.

The colors around her glowing and warm, but she smiled that false smile. Underneath was the concern she tried so hard to hide whenever she looked at me.

I didn't blame her. I knew that I was different and that she was afraid.

I followed after her, pausing for a moment to take one more look at the old gypsy.

To my surprise, she was gone, her table left abandoned. I glanced around, sure she couldn't have gotten far, but she was nowhere. Not on the sidewalk, or near the general store.

She was gone.

I hurried after Ma, knowing that if we weren't home soon, Pops would be angry. Not that there was a time when he wasn't, but it was better to appease than to provoke.

I climbed in the passenger side of Pop's old pick-up and placed the overpriced bag of groceries between me and Ma. I waited for her to start the engine, but she didn't. She just sat there with a strange look on her face, an uneasiness filling the silence.

"Ma?" I questioned, wondering why we weren't moving when she was just hurrying me a moment ago.

She sighed, the sound falling somewhere between longing and resolve. Her unfocused gaze was fixed ahead, like she was no longer in the truck, but somewhere else entirely.

She turned to me.

"What if we just drove away, you and me? We could get out of here... leave this place." She leaned closer. "Find somewhere else and never look back."

A glimmer of hope shown in her eyes. But, something was wrong with it.

It felt... unhinged.

My mouth fell open in bewilderment. Leave?

"What do you mean? What about Reid and Wyatt?" I asked, horrified at the thought of leaving my brothers behind.

Just as quickly as it appeared, the irrational hope began to fade.

She turned her face away. A sound came out of her, a laugh-cry, and she shook her head like something was trying to get out.

Unsure what to do, I watched in horror. Who was this person? This woman that appeared in an instant, ready to leave two of her sons behind?

As if she was struck by the same thought, her demeanor changed. It's like she blinked and the woman I knew, my Ma, was back again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Forget I said anything. It was just a silly, stupid thought."

I studied her for a long moment and then reached across the seat to take her hand. She looked down... and smiled.

Her free hand cupped my face. She looked tired and worn, but she was still beautiful, and I wondered how it was that she came to be with a man as miserable as my father.

"Listen to me, Noah. I need you to really hear me this time."

I instantly perked up, ready to hang on her every word.

"I know that you think you're different, and you are." She paused. "But, that's not a bad thing."

I wanted to argue that it was a bad thing, that she didn't understand. But, she kept on before I had the chance.

 "There are gonna be people in your life who try to hurt you—try to stop you from being you. Don't let them. The things you see, your colors... they're a gift. Don't ever let anyone tell you different."

She drew back, waiting for me to respond, but all I could do was nod.

After that, she started the truck as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't just tried to talk her nine-year-old son into absconding to some-magical-better-place.

Yeah, Ma. While we're at it let's find bigfoot, ride a unicorn, and lasso the moon.

Instead, we headed off to the-same-shit-place-as-always.

On the way home, I couldn't help wondering what the hell just happened. We had only ever talked about my colors one other time...

...It was raining. I was sitting at our kitchen table, her standing.

For the first time in my life, I explained how when I looked at a person, I would see colors around them. Sometimes dozens of them. Like a moving mural. A fingerprint, making them different from everyone else.

I didn't know if I was actually seeing them as much as I was feeling them. Or, if I was just crazy and my brain was making it all up.

When I was done, she didn't say anything.

I thought for sure she was debating whether to take me to the loony bin or not. I was starting to regret my decision to tell her when finally, she spoke.

It wasn't what I was expecting.

"Don't let your father hear you talking about that," she said. 

She walked away, and that was that.

At first, I thought she was afraid of me, that I scared her.

Then, I realized that not acknowledging it was her way of protecting me, not only from my father but from people in general.

You see, it had gotten to the point that sometimes I would slip and call my brothers by their "colors" instead of by their names.

Ma thought it was cute at first. But, my father—well—he didn't think anything was cute.

He only saw strength and weakness. And by strength, I mean how much a man could work, drink, and fuck. 

By weakness... I mean everything else.

The last time it happened, I was in the sitting room with my brother, Wyatt. We were fooling around, playing some game or another. My father sat in his usual spot in the recliner, with a stiff drink in his hand.

Ma warned me more than once, but that day I was distracted. I called Wyatt green, and I knew as soon as I said it that I fucked up.

My father flew out of his chair before the word even finished slipping out of my mouth. He snatched me up by the back of my shirt and brought his face down close to mine.

He reeked of sawdust, sweat, and liquor. Dust and dirt settled in the pores of his nose, and the lines of his forehead—a typical result of a long day working at the mill.

"What the hell did I tell you about that?" he growled. "Do you want people to think you're a fucking retard?"

He didn't wait for me to answer. Instead, he tightened his grip on my shirt and drug me out of the room and down the hallway.

I knew where we were headed and what would happen when we got there. The same thing that happened to all of us when we did something to piss him off.

By then, I had learned it was better not to fight it, so I stumbled behind him trying my best not fall.

We reached the back bedroom where he and my mother slept.

He shoved me through the doorway and stepped in behind me, shutting the door. I backed away, my eyes glued to the floor until I felt my legs hit the bed.

When I finally lifted my eyes, he was giving me that look—the same one he gave me every time. That this-is-for-your-own-good look.

I watched while he unfastened his belt and yanked it from its loops with a single pull. He wrapped the buckled end around his hand, gripping it with a firm, anchor of a fist.

"Take off your shirt," he said.

I did.

I pulled it over my head and balled it in my fist. Knowing what came next, I turned around and placed my hands on the mattress, squeezing the ball of material tight.

I had the sudden urge to shove it in my mouth. To bite down on it until every one of my teeth broke in half. 

I heard and felt every footstep on the hardwood, each one bringing him closer. I could picture the cold fire burning in his blue eyes—the same blue eyes I saw every time I looked in the mirror.

There was a moment of perfect silence before the whoosh of the belt and the sound of skin breaking apart filled the room.

The pain was blinding. 

I imagined white-hot lightning striking a tree, watching it crack apart. Hearing it sizzle.

Only the tree was my flesh. 

Flashes of light danced in my vision, not unlike the colors for which I was being punished for.

The irony was not lost on me.

I don't remember how many times lightning struck me before the sound of my mother's voice resonated over the ringing in my ears.

"That's enough, Ezekiel," she said, in a voice, I didn't recognize. She was trying to sound bigger than herself, but through the cracks, I could hear her fear.

I stayed hunched over the bed, waiting for the bite of the belt to find its mark, but to my surprise, it never came.

I heard my father's heavy footsteps leave the room and wander down the hall, most likely returning to his cushy spot on the recliner.

As soon as the sound faded, my mother's arms were around me, trying their best to comfort me. I was in too much pain to cry, too much pain to do anything other than let her hold me.

We stayed like that for a long, long time. Until darkness swallowed the room. 

It was only after she thought I fell asleep that she started crying. 

That was the last time I mentioned my colors around anyone, let alone my father, which suited me just fine. It was easier that way.

And then, I met Lilah.

I'd never seen such beautiful colors as I did the day I first laid eyes on her.

She was like a breath of fresh air, blasting her way through the dull, through the darkness that had become my young life.

It was the first time in a long time I found myself wishing I could tell somebody.

Summer was over, and the wounds from my father's lashing had long since healed, replaced with pink scars that covered the length of my back.

It was the first day of fourth grade, and I was just as glum as anyone about the fact that summer had ended and a new school year was beginning.

Midnight was a small town in the Mississippi Delta, too small to have its own school, so they shipped the kids from Midnight and some of the surrounding towns all the way to Silver City. That meant the bus ride was forty minutes each way, another fact I wasn't too happy about.

I followed my two older brothers, Reid and Wyatt, onto the bus, feeling the typical first-day nerves.

"Find your assigned seats," the bus driver spoke in a bored monotone like she'd repeated the phrase all morning. I walked down the narrow aisle, reading the names written above each window.

Ahead of me, I watched my brothers share a shitty grin, realizing they were assigned to sit together.

Bastards. Figures I'd be the one left out.

As the youngest of the three, it seemed like I was always the one who got left behind.

Knowing the seats were assigned alphabetically, I glanced above the one in front of them and saw my own name scrawled in messy handwriting. I didn't bother reading the name of the person I was assigned to sit with, because she already had my full attention.

She was smaller than me with a head of long, tangled hair the color of corn silk. Her skin was pale, which was unusual for someone living that far south of the Mason-Dixon line. But, that's not what caught and held my attention.

It was the blazing, vivid colors dancing around her. So many colors. I had never seen that many on one person before.

I was so taken aback I just stood there, staring in awe while she peeked up through her mess of hair, her pale-green eyes studying me intently.

It wasn't until the bus started moving that I finally snapped out of it.

I sat down next to her, trying like hell to keep my eyes to myself. Ma always said it was rude to stare. 

Luckily, I didn't have to try for long.

"What's your name?" she asked. Her voice was small like her but carried a drawl like mine. It was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard.

I took her question for the gift that it was. "Noah," I answered, letting my eyes flicker back and forth from her face to the luminance engulfing her. "What's yours?"

"Lilah," she smiled. Then, her eyes fell to the floor. She was shy. "Lilah Mayberry."

Lilah Mayberry.

I stared at her for a long moment, taking in the whole scene while her name played over and over in my head.

Pale lilac made up her base. Overtop of that were the boldest reds, purples, and blues—like someone picked every kind of berry they could find and smashed them all over making little brilliant bursts. And, peaking through all the cracks was the most perfect shade of yellow. Like the sun shining on daffodils in the Springtime. Then, fading into lemon sherbert. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

And, so was she.

Growing up in Mississippi the palette was always the same, but she was an explosion of color in my dull, muddy world, like the month of May offering a reprieve from the bleak winter. Or, the burst of flavor on your tongue when your teeth break the skin of a summer berry. To me, her name painted a picture, one that perfectly matched the swirling tones she carried.

Yep. Lilah Mayberry was the perfect name for her.

My nine-year-old mind couldn't articulate just how perfect I thought it was.

"I like your name," was my only response.

Her cheeks turned pink and the colors around her flickered.

"Most people make fun of it cause of that old TV show. I never saw it, but that boy Justin Mills said his momma watches it all the time and there's someone on there with that name. He said it's a stupid name."

I noticed the way her eyes stayed glued to the floor when she talked. The same way I looked whenever I had to speak to my father. Suddenly, I felt anger towards Justin Mills.

"Well, I like it," I said, boldly.

This made her look up, so I decided to keep going.

"Justin Mills is dumber than dirt. My brothers said so. They beat him up last summer cause he tried to steal Wyatt's bike. He's just a jealous fool."

She thought about it for a second and lifted her head. "You really think so?"

I nodded.

Her face beamed, and I felt an odd sense of pride that I had been the cause of it.

"How old are you?" I asked her.

"Seven."

"I'm nine." Almost ten, not that I was counting.

I studied her face again, sure that I'd never seen her before. I would've remembered her.

"Are you new?"

She nodded. "Me and my momma just moved here. I used to live in Jackson."

"Why'd you move?" I asked, wondering why the hell anyone would want to move to a place like Midnight. The way I heard adults talk, Midnight was a place you tried to get away from.

Her mouth fell into a frown and I immediately wished I hadn't asked.

"Me and momma lived with one of her friends, but he wasn't very nice. They got in a fight and now we live here."

"Oh." 

It's all I could think to say. I knew about living with someone who wasn't very nice, but I didn't think it would be polite to say so. Instead, I tried to change the subject. 

"Where's your new house at?"

"It's the tiny, green cabin by the creek."

"You mean Silver Creek?"

She shrugged. "I guess. I don't know what it's called."

There was only one creek in Midnight. And, there was only one house that would fit that description. I knew the place she was talking about. No one had lived there for years. It was more of a shack than an actual house.

And, it was within walking distance of my own, which gave me an idea.

"If you want, I could come over to your house after school? I could show you the creek."

Her eyes fluttered back to the floor. "I don't know. My mamma doesn't really like having people at our house. Not in the daytime, anyway."

"Oh." 

Not in the daytime? What are they... a bunch of vampires? 

"Well, that's ok. You could still come over to my house sometime."

She gave me another small, half-smile. "Ok. Maybe." The pink in her cheeks was the exact same color of her lips.

I considered myself to be an expert on color, and hers, I would never grow tired of looking at.

Right then and there I decided I had to find a way to spend more time with her. Suddenly, the forty-minute-each-way bus ride didn't sound so terrible.