Indigo Rock

Part 1

The big, bad G-word. When it comes to the subject of grief, people have a lot to say.

"They'll always be a part of you," or "grief is the last act of love," or my personal favorite, "time heals all wounds." Those clichéd sayings may offer a moment of comfort. A gulp of oxygen—a break-in-case-of-emergency relief.

But what no one tells you, is that grief is non-linear. Fickle and fluctuating, like moonlight against rippled waters. Does time heal all wounds? To answer that, I'll have to examine my own experience with the big, bad G-word, and how the events at Indigo Rock helped shape my understanding of it. For better or for worse.

Chapter 1

The bonfire’s embers swirled into the sky, flaring upwards like the wings of a phoenix. As I squinted past the flames, I noticed it high up in the pinewood forest. 

A purple light—pulsing.

“You alright, Tadpole?” My brother's voice pulled me out of my daze.

“Hmm?” I said, blinking my eyes. The light was gone. “Sorry. You know me, daydreaming again.” Nightdreaming, to be exact. It was past eleven on a school night, but none of us cared. This bonfire was our last hoorah before graduating next week and being thrown into the jaws of adulthood. 

Groups were split the way they were in the cafeteria – jocks in beer-stained lettermans blasting their music, with ostentatious girls in skimpy skirts pining after them. You had the skater kids with that unmistakable, skunky smell of Mary Jane. The rich kids of Lake Nora, jutting their noses up at the rest of us. And the normies, where Cyrus and I belonged in the high school hierarchy. 

The vagabonds. Neither here nor there.

"You're the only crackhead I know who can dissociate at a party," said Cyrus, raising his volume above the raucous.

"And you're the only dork who uses words like 'dissociate' and thinks it sounds cool," I poked back, pulling a smirk out of him. It was a muted smile. But cheerier than I've seen him in days.

Ember sparks kissed my face as we sat around the fire, shooting the shit with other kids. It became more difficult to keep up with their slurred words—a symptom of the crushed beer cans littered among the pine needles. A couple of them were mine. 

Cyrus wasn’t drinking, though. He couldn't. Jealousy flickered in his eyes. "I'm not jealous," he said abruptly. Shit. He always knew what I was thinking. A twin thing, if you will.

"Of course you're not." I set my beer down gently. "Listen, are you feeling okay? We can head back if you want."

That jealousy mutated into resentment, akin to the sparks of the bonfire. "I already have an overprotective mom, Jess. I don't need another one." Uh oh. He only used my real name if he was being serious.

"I know. Sorry.” I gave his shoulder a playful punch. “This is new for all of us; cut me and mom some slack."

The resentment dissolved and his eyes were warm again. As they always were before his diagnosis. "I just need you guys to chill, alright?" he said. "I'm not gonna drop dead tomorrow.” Guys from the football team yelled chug, chug! at a blonde meathead, double-fisting his Modelos.

"You better not," I said. "You owe me fifty bucks. I had to babysit the McKinley's devil spawn just to fund your concert ticket." He gave me a dismissive wave. "If you die before I get my money back, I'm going to the afterlife and kicking your ass."

Cyrus snorted a chuckle. "God, you're an asshole."

I chuckled back. "God, you're an uber dweeb."

Beyond the flickering of the bonfire, I traded glances with a flushed-face senior, the meathead everyone was cheering for. He wobbled past his friends and made his way toward us. "Lover boy, twelve o'clock," Cyrus teased. I shot him a shhh with a pinch on his side.