Deep Blue Secret Page 3

It was unusual though, so who could blame them. It resembled glass or rock rather than skin, sort of like obsidian. And the tear-shaped mark wasn't exactly small either, probably a good quarter inch through the widest part. The attention it received used to bother me, but it rarely got noticed anymore.

  It didn’t take long to cross the quaint, single-story rambler where I’d lived my whole life. It was my grandparent’s house. My mom moved in when she was pregnant with me, but my grandma and grandpa both died in an accident when I was only four years old. It’s been just me and Mom ever since.

  When I trotted into the kitchen, the sweet aroma of maple syrup enveloped the room. Mixing bowls and cooking utensils covered the counter tops in disarray as my mother flipped slices of bacon onto a paper towel.

  I sat on one of the stools pulled up to the bar-style counter, so I could face her while she cooked. “Is there an army coming for breakfast you forgot to tell me about?” I asked.

  Mom smirked. “I’m just in the mood to enjoy a nice meal with my daughter. Is that such a crime?” She added a sigh. “It seems like we hardly get to do that anymore.”

  She dipped a slice of bread into egg batter and eased it onto the griddle, then turned to me with a smile, waving a spatula in the air. “Plus, life’s too short not to enjoy a little French toast every once in a while.”

  My mother had a way about her, a positive energy that radiated in all directions. It was contagious.

  “I definitely agree,” I said with a chuckle.

  She handed me a plate full of scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast topped with strawberries. My eyes widened at the mountain of food. After a few more circles around the kitchen, Mom joined me with her own plate piled just as high. Good thing this wasn’t a daily ritual.

  I grimaced and rubbed my stomach. “Whew, I’m stuffed. Thanks for breakfast, Mom. It was really good. But seriously, if I eat another bite, I might grow out of my jeans before school starts.”

  She laughed and grabbed my plate, placing it in the sink.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Oh, I better get going.” I shot up and grabbed my bag. “I don’t want to be late.”

  Mom’s voice trailed after me as I hurried from the room. “Okay, sweetheart, have a good day.”

  “Love you!” I called as I hurried out the door.

  At school things started out fine, but halfway through the day all my classes seemed to drag. I was dragging too. I thought I’d recuperated quickly from the sad feelings this morning after dreaming of the faceless boy, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The fun of my pursuit from yesterday was completely gone too. I still couldn’t find those familiar green eyes, and this time there was nothing fun or exciting about it.

  At lunch Heather kept asking me what was wrong, and I told her it was nothing, like, fifty times. Of course that wasn’t really true, but what was I supposed to tell her? Oh I’m just upset because I’m obsessing about a boy that probably only exists in my imagination? I loved Heather and told her pretty much everything, but I didn’t think this was the kind of thing she would really relate to. Plus, the idea of saying what I was really thinking out loud just sounded so stupid.

  Heather still didn’t look convinced when I left our table to go to class, but I was actually starting to feel a little bit better. I always looked forward to photography at the end of the day. Maybe it would cheer me up and get my mind off things.

  It was in my nature to enjoy things that were artistic and creative, although I still hadn’t found my passion yet. My mom believed everyone had something they loved so much that it made them feel complete when they found it. Like her love for helping people through nursing.

  Mr. Brown was my photography teacher. He had shaggy brown hair and a full beard hiding half of his face, like a mountain man. It was clear he’d found his passion through photography. Each day he would post a single slide of a photograph up on the screen that he believed had an element of excellence.

  First he would encourage us to spend several minutes feeling the photograph. Let it speak to you, how does it make you feel, he would say. Once he was satisfied that our emotions had been stirred, he would discuss the technical aspects of the piece, how the artist had acquired the desired effect through camera and lighting adjustments. This day was no exception.

  He spoke the name with reverence as he announced, “Today we’re going to view a beautiful piece courtesy of the great photography legend, Ansel Adams.”

  Mr. Brown lifted both his arms. “I present to you…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Lights,” he prompted, as a student hopped from his chair, flipping the switch.

  “Rose and Driftwood…” He motioned as if revealing a new invention to a crowd and finally the slide illuminated the screen.

  Aside from a few hushed snickers at the teacher’s liveliness, we all studied the photograph in the traditional silence.

  I examined the black and white photo for a moment, paying attention to the interesting details. It was quite exquisite. The lines in the driftwood made breathtaking patterns of swirls and stripes appearing almost to shimmer. The tips of the delicate rose petals were kindled with light, revealing intricate veins.

  Then an odd sensation crept over my skin. My heart fluttered and emotion swelled within my chest. For the first time this year, one of Mr. Brown’s esteemed pieces of art spoke to my soul.

  I stared at the screen forgetting to blink, unable to break my eyes from the image looming over me. My limbs froze. A swirling maze of lines and shadows hypnotized me, deep shadows that overpowered the fragile petals.

  Some unseen force mesmerized my mind, bore its weight down and imprisoned me with despair. My heart sank to the depths of my chest with horrible realization. It was me—the rose was like me.

  The flower was delicate and pristine. It possessed the potential to captivate, to serve a purpose. Yet there it lay, helpless on a disheveled plank of timber; somber, drifting, and alone. Nature meant it to live with color, swaying in the breeze and surrounded by life. But it did not uplift. It did not bring cheer as it should, drained of all light it once held. Where was the inspired affection? The friendship? The love? There was none. Darkness condemned the innocent to despair.

  The world went blank. I lost track of place and time, entranced by the ache inside me. I no longer stared at the rose, but at a blur of shadow and light with no meaning. I longed for something I couldn’t define. A hunger grew inside me no morsel of food could relieve.

  Something called to me through the emptiness, beckoning me to come—a silent voice only I could hear—but I was lost. I searched for the voice, I yearned to find it, frantic almost, but I found nothing.

  My name echoed over and over.

  “Sadie? Earth to Sa-die…” My mind crawled back to awareness. Mr. Brown waved his hand in front of my glazed eyes with a concerned expression. The other students had already dispersed from the room.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  My movements were slow, like wading through a pool of thick mud. I shook off the heaviness and focused my eyes, blinking repeatedly.

  “I…uh…I’m fine.” I wasn’t quite ready to stand.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I added so he wouldn’t think I was crazy.

  “Would you like me to help you to the nurse?” he offered.

  My legs trembled as I stood, using the chair to steady myself. “No, that’s all right, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not sure you heard the homework assignment. You looked a little dazed.”

  “Homework?” I mumbled. “Sorry, I guess I missed that.”

  “No worries. I just suggested when you’re out taking pictures this week, to remember how Rose and Driftwood made you feel and to find something that captures a similar feeling for you.”

  “Okay,” I said, secretly hoping nothing out there would make me feel the way that photograph did. “Thanks, Mr. Brown. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I slid out the classroom door.

  My feet dragged down t
he pathway, lost in my thoughts. If I could describe myself in terms of music, I would be Mellon Collie & the Infinite Sadness from my mom’s old Smashing Pumpkins album.

  Outside, the blue sky and bright sun were not enough to lift my spirits. I couldn’t snap out of the slump. At least I didn’t have to worry about any more classes today. My brain felt useless. I wobbled through the maze of students to my car with my head hung low. I really hoped I wouldn’t run into any of my friends. I just wanted to be alone.

  The steering wheel was hot on my fingers, the air stale from being closed off all day. It was suffocating. I couldn’t breathe. I rolled down the windows and let my head fall back to the seat, taking in a few deep breaths.

  My brain felt like it was churning in slow motion. Everything felt muddled. I barely noticed the blur of buildings and trees driving home. It was a good thing I didn’t live far. I went through an intersection and realized, after the fact, that I wasn’t sure what color the light had been—green I hoped.

  I parked in our driveway with a small shred of relief. The black cloud of depression still hovered over my head as I walked up the drive, but at least I was home.

  After fumbling through my keys at the door, I lost my hold and they dropped carelessly to the ground. Crouching down with a slow sigh, I picked them up to try again, my upper body like a lead weight as I pulled my torso upright.

  I staggered through the door and took in the surroundings of our living room; the eggshell paint on the walls, the old oak TV hutch across from the worn leather couch, the framed picture of my grandparents displayed in the corner bookshelf, a pair of my mom’s shoes on the ground near the doorway.

  Even though the weight had not lifted, I felt some degree of comfort from the familiar items. My lungs filled with the scent of home and I slunk back to my room, letting my bag slide through my fingers to the floor near the door.

  Logically it was a bad idea, but I wanted to wallow in the pain.

  I selected a CD from my music collection that contained a mix of instrumental pieces. It was mostly new age piano selections, some accompanied by orchestras, and a few songs from movie scores. This probably wasn’t the typical music choice by the average teenager. I doubted any kids from my school had even heard these songs before, but to me they were beautiful and full of passion; which normally I found uplifting, but not today.

  I knew it was likely to increase the negative emotions, but I couldn’t restrain myself. I put the CD in the player and rolled on my bed like a boulder. My shoulders slumped against the mound of pillows in front of the sand-colored head board.

  The forlorn notes of Cristofori’s Dream replaced the eerie silence, sending a chill up my neck.

  The piano sang in desperation. Lamenting strings pierced the air as if grieving on my behalf. The notes edged through my mind and I stared across the room, right through the beige wall to the void beyond.

  My eyes labored through nothingness, searching for the tiniest fragment of hope to no avail. There was no finding what left me incomplete. As my soul reached the depths of despair I broke down and tears trickled down my cheeks.

  I didn’t understand why I felt this way, but I couldn’t find relief. I curled myself in a ball and hugged one of the pillows, stricken with abandonment. My faint sobs turned to weeping. I clung to the pillow more fervently, crying out as my soul writhed in pain.

  Eternity crept slowly by while I languished away on my pillow, the damp fabric clinging to my cheek. The energy drained from my body, weary and fatigued from the emotional outpouring.

  The CD must have come to completion; only silence filled the air. Everything felt numb all over. My gaze barely limped across the room with nowhere to go.

  That was enough. As much as it hurt, I couldn’t just lie here and rot away in agony. I couldn’t let myself. I needed to be surrounded with something pleasant enough to push out the pain. I needed to go to the ocean.

  I could only hope it would work. If there was anything out there that would help clear my head it was my favorite place in the world…Crystal Cove.

  I forced myself out to my car and started the engine.

  Despite my melancholy, I decided to try some upbeat music, hoping for any extra lift I could get. I selected a play-list that was a collection of billboard hits, mostly songs airing on the radio over the last year. It didn’t have any mushy songs, only happy, energetic ones that could get your feet tapping.

  Even though it was out of my way, I turned to meet up with Superior Avenue. It was my favorite street. As my car rolled around the bend I took in the beautiful seascape across my windshield. It was worth adding a few minutes to my drive to gaze at the ocean and feel the immensity. Rolling down the hill lined with palm trees felt almost like coming home.

  Normally I cruised along Coast Highway with the windows cracked and the volume turned up, but I just couldn’t feel the sunshine. It was no use. The music didn’t help. I ripped the earphones from my head and tossed the player in the passenger seat. I would have to wait and hope the beach would be enough to make a difference.

  I’d been to Crystal Cove so many times now, I couldn’t keep track. I’d spent many pleasant summer days there with my mom growing up, and lately I’d go when I wanted to be alone, without the distraction of friends. It wasn't a place high school kids normally hung out. They were usually found down by Huntington Pier or the River Jetties, where people go to watch the surfers. They're fun places when you're in a social mood, but today I needed to feel close to nature.

  Being in such a daze, I didn’t remember to pull my parking pass from the glove box until I’d already pulled up to the parking booth. I had to fumble hastily to find the pass while the attendant watched and waited patiently. I shook my head and apologized repeatedly, finally grabbing the pass and hanging it from the rear view mirror so she could wave me into the half-empty lot.

  In summer it would’ve been packed from corner to corner. I loved living so close I could enjoy it the rest of the year without the crowds. I strolled towards the path that led to the beach and glanced around the familiar parking lot. There was already a slight sense of calm surrounding the hills and large homes with Spanish tile roofs. I could tell I made the right choice to come here.

  As I reached the mouth of the path, cars zoomed past on the highway to my right, separating me from the hidden coastline I couldn’t wait to reach. The further I moved down the trail, the quicker my pace became. I shuffled away from the noise and admired the trees and shrubs covered in wild blossoms. I was suddenly glad these flowers were nothing like the white rose in Mr. Brown’s photograph.

  I kept a brisk pace until I reached the concrete tunnel leading under the road to the shore on the other side, then I slowed for a moment. It had been a while since I last took the time to admire the walls covered in colorful murals.

  When I was a child I would stop at each image, enchanted by the artwork depicting flowers or marine life, and force my mom to read each message to me one by one: Don't Pollute, Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder, Everyone Needs the Greens, Keep the Earth Clean for You and Me.

  With sweet memories slowly lifting my spirits, I wandered down the lane past the shuttle stop and the little cottages converted into shops and snack stands. I was finally close enough to feel the moisture from the sea on my cheeks, to smell the fresh, salty air. The sun shown bright in the sky, but the breeze from earlier was intermittently turning to gusts of wind. I pulled an elastic band out of my pocket, putting my hair in a ponytail to keep it from swirling in my face.

  On my left I spotted the steep, wooden staircase which led up to the Shake Shack. I toyed with the idea of making the trek up the stairs to indulge myself with a date shake. They weren't just fun to eat on a date; they were literally filled with dried fruit dates.

  Most of my friends would stick to something more familiar, like chocolate, but I'd been eating them since I was a child, thanks to my mother. I thought the flavors might bring back memories and help lift my mood, but I final
ly decided against it. There were only a couple hours left before the sun would go down.

  I flipped off my sandals at the edge of the shore, my steps becoming heavy from the sand's give under my feet and between my toes. The last time I came to this section of the beach it was crowded with tourists and inlanders. Despite the miles of shoreline, all the people had clumped together on one section of the sand. The crowded air echoed with screams of children fleeing the breaking waves in delight.

  Not today. Today it felt quiet, almost deserted.

  It would’ve been nice just to relax and be with my thoughts, but I remembered I was supposed to take some photos for my photography class. Since I was already here, I decided I might as well just get it done. Luckily, I’d been toting around the small camera I checked out from my teacher all semester, so it was already in my bag.

  I snapped photographs while crossing the firmer sand near the water’s edge, capturing the view on the horizon and the shore where the black boulders broke the waves. I took close-ups of footprints and seaweed surrounded by tiny shells and rocks, the reflection of the sun glaring off ripples of water, and details of the few cottages along the back edge of the sandy beach.

  I imagined having the ocean literally in my own backyard. Many of these houses were rented out to vacationers, but I would love to live so close to the water someday.

  Observing the world through the lens of a camera was tiring. Instead of taking in the comforts of nature I was scrutinizing every detail of my surroundings in search of an artistic angle. I wanted a moment to relax. I had more than enough pictures to pick through later for my class assignment.

  I stowed the camera in my bag and meandered down the beach to the rockier side of the shore near the tide pools. I took a beach towel out of my bag and swung it up to release the folds. As my arms extended, a rush of wind burst through the air, catching the towel and whipping it back in my face. My eye stung from the unexpected lashing.

  My hand shot up to my face and I glanced around the beach, unsure if I should be embarrassed by anyone nearby.