BLUE

By James DeVita

"It's been difficult for Morgan," the old man said. "It was difficult for me too when I was his age. I thought something was very wrong with me. I always knew that I felt things differently than other people, and that I looked different than other people, but I never said anything. When I got older and tried to talk about it, they told me I was sic

• Language: English
• Publisher: Words, Words, Words
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736651216

James DeVita

"A poignant, gently humorous, and highly original tale." "Magical." PICK OF THE LIST, American Booksellers Association BEST BETS FOR THE CLASSROOM 2001

Book preview

1

MORGAN HAD NEVER been in an ambulance before. It was smaller inside than he had imagined. His mother and two paramedics were in the back with him, Mrs. Pasalaqua was in the front seat with the driver, and his father was following in the family car. Lights were flashing, sirens were screaming, and Morgan just wished they’d all stop making such a big deal.

What’s your name? asked one of the paramedics. He flicked a small pen light across Morgan’s eyes. Do you know your name?"

That’s a stupid question, Morgan thought, of course I know my name.

Your name? he asked again, this time putting a hand in front of Morgan’s face. How many fingers am I holding up? What day of the week is it? Do you know what today is?

What’s with these guys? thought Morgan. I’m not stupid, I’m just sick.

C’mon, Morgan, said the other paramedic, do you know where you are? Talk to us.

Morgan? Morgan, honey, answer the man, his mother said.

Morgan tried to . . . but couldn’t.

Mmpghmmnghp was all that came out. He tried to move his lips, but they wouldn’t budge. Mmpgghgmnp! Still nothing. He couldn’t open his mouth. He stretched his face and twisted his nose, dropped his chin, furrowed his brows, and pulled with all his might . . . but they wouldn’t move.

Stop making faces at the nice man, Morgan, snapped his Mother.

I’m not making faces, I can’t open my mouth! Morgan yelled. But all that came out was Aomn mou mghigh aieies, uaow ain ouwamm mm mmauoeu!

The paramedic quickly leaned into Morgan with a puzzled look on his face. He reached across him, snatched up a tongue depressor, and aimed it at Morgan’s mouth, but missed and stabbed the pillow as the ambulance swerved into the hospital parking lot and stopped with a sharp screech. The back doors were flung open, and the paramedics hurriedly began unclicking and reclacking all kinds of things. They rolled and bumped Morgan out of the ambulance and wheeled him across the parking lot. Morgan stared up at the night sky. The gurney popped a little wheelie as it thumped over a speed bump.

This isn’t a grocery cart, you know, Morgan thought, shooting the paramedic a look.

One more thump up a curb, and the stars disappeared from Morgan’s view. The bright lights of the hospital loomed overhead as the paramedics wheeled Morgan into the emergency room.

Aiooioaiiouummaeieaiinuaaiieeae! (Why is everybody making such a big deal!) Morgan screamed.

2

IT ALL STARTED about a week earlier, on a Sunday-like-any-other-Sunday in Morgan’s house.

Ring!! rang his father’s alarm clock at exactly six o’clock, just like it had every single morning for as long as Morgan could remember mornings.

Morgan scrunched himself into the corner of his bed and pulled a pillow around his ears, but he knew he would never get back to sleep. He listened to his father shower, shave, get dressed, and make enough noise to wake up half the neighborhood. At exactly six thirty-three he heard his father slam the front door on his way out of the apartment.

Morgan slid out of bed and wandered sleepily over to the front window in the living room. It was raining. Again. He flopped himself down in a chair and pressed his nose against the cold glass. He could see his father on the stoop of the building three floors below. Morgan watched him pull up the hood of his rain coat and cinch it tight under his chin. Then he trudged down the block, hunched over and heavy, past the long rows of brick apartment buildings that stretched on as far as Morgan could see, each one exactly like the next.

Morgan stared blankly after his father, who bought a newspaper at the corner kiosk, tucked it under his coat, turned around, and trudged exactly the same route home again.

Morgan wandered into the kitchen. His father came in smelling like rain smells, dumped the Sunday paper on the table, and proceeded to cook breakfast. Sunday was the only day of the week Morgan’s father ever cooked anything. First he put his coffee on and tuned in the radio. Then he started on the bacon.

Morgan sat at the kitchen table, listening to what his father called music, and watched him cook. When the bacon was done, his father laid the pieces in neat rows, side by side, on a piece of paper towel.

Now he’ll take away three, Morgan thought with a yawn.

His father removed exactly three strips of bacon and placed them on a different paper towel. He wrapped them up, and stuck them on top of the fridge.

Surprise, Morgan said to himself, not surprised.

The bacon on top of the refrigerator was for Morgan’s mother. She always got three pieces, Morgan got two, and his father took the rest.

Frying pan still in hand, his father pushed some English muffins into the toaster, and headed to the back window to dump out the bacon grease. Morgan ran past him, got there first, and opened the window. They both poked their heads outside as his father tipped the frying pan and poured out the still-sizzling grease. They watched it fall three stories down and splatter into dumpster below with a smoky hiss.

They lingered there for a moment, half hanging out the window, the rain puddering softly on their heads. Morgan remembered how his father used to take him up on the roof to watch the older kids play stickball down on the street in front of their building. They’d both hang over the front ledge, kind of like they were doing right now, and yell and scream and take sides and pretend they were at a real baseball game.

That was a long time ago.

They didn’t do things like that anymore.

Morgan looked over at his father. Hey, Dad, why don’t we—

Close the window, his father said, and headed back to the kitchen.

The rainy air smelled good, so Morgan only closed the window about halfway, and plopped back down at the kitchen table. His father cracked three eggs into the frying pan.

Now the paper and coffee, Morgan thought, glancing at the wall clock. He’s got about a minute and a half till the eggs are done.

After pouring himself some coffee, his father quickly culled through the newspaper, pulled out the sections he wanted to read, and tossed the rest on the chair next to him. He sharpened a pencil for the crossword, carefully positioned the best sections of the paper just the right distance to the left of his plate—making sure that the funnies were on top—spun around, and plucked the eggs off the stove.

Amazing, Morgan thought.

Wielding a spatula, he scooped up the eggs and gave himself one, Morgan one, and himself another. Then he swung back around to the sink and tossed in the pan. He poured a tiny splash of water into it, which crackled and sputtered in the hot grease, which cued the English muffins to pop up. Which they did. They always did. At the same moment every Sunday . . . pan in the sink, water, sputter, pop! Then he turned back to the table, juggling the hot muffins, flung one to Morgan, one to himself, and voilà! Done. Time: 7:08 AM. Every Sunday. 7:08 AM.

His father was an accountant.

Morgan’s mother came out of the bathroom wearing a pink robe and fuzzy slippers. Still half asleep, she reached up and grabbed her stash of bacon off the fridge. She pushed down an English muffin, poured herself some coffee, and walked over to the back window. She leaned against the wall and looked out, arms crossed, nibbling on a piece of the bacon, waiting for her muffin to pop.

Pop!

She slippered over to the counter and made herself a bacon sandwich, refilled her coffee, sat at the table, and started to read whatever pieces of the newspaper were left sitting on the chair.

Morgan forked some gooey pieces of egg around on his plate. His father turned the pages of his newspaper between crunchy bites of bacon. His mother took long, drawn-out sips of coffee, trying to be very quiet, but was even more noisy because she was taking long, drawn-out sips of coffee.

CRUNCH.

Paper.

Sssssssiiiip.

CRUNCH.

Paper.

Sssssssiiiip.

CRUNCH.

Sssssssssiiiiip.

Morgan wondered if maybe he was invisible. "That could be what’s going on here. That’s why no one really talks to me—they can’t see me. He held his hands up to the ceiling light and tried look through them. They don’t know I’m here."

CRUNCH.

Somebody talk, Morgan thought. Please, someone just say something.

Ssssssssssiiiiiiiip.

Morgan waited for what seemed like a week and was just about to slide off the front of his chair and disappear into a bored blob beneath the table when his mother finally spoke.

Rain, she said.

Hm, from his father.

Morgan held his breath. It sounded almost like the beginning of a conversation. There were definitely words happening. Well, one word and a ‘hm,’ but sill, it could turn into something. Morgan waited . . . and waited . . . but, nope, that was it.

Argh, Morgan groaned. He reached for the comics. Can I have the funnies?

When I’m done, his father said, snatching them up. I told you to close the window.

It feels good, Morgan answered. The air.

Close it.

Morgan got up and walked over to the window on his heels. He tried to land each heel in the center of a different tile on the linoleum floor without touching any edges. He lost his balance and went backwards for three tiles, sideways for two, and banged into the cupboard.

Morgan James! his father yelled.

Morgan pushed himself off the cupboard, still on his heels. He leaned his weight forward and tried again. He made it there without touching the edge of a single tile.

Victory!

Morgan stared out the window. The storm was getting worse. It was pouring outside. Every so often flashes of lightning cut across the clouds and loud grumbles of thunder rolled over the darkened city sky. The gutters on the roof were backed up, and sheets of rain spilled over their sides, waterfalling down to the pavement below. Morgan wished for the rain to keep raining. He wished for it to flood all the streets and alleys in the city and rise up as high as his third-story window so he could jump into the water and swim away in a river of rain to somewhere safe and fun and different; where he could do what-ever he wanted to do, and be whatever he wanted to be; where people looked at each other, and saw each other, and talked to each other, and maybe even told each other that they—

A brilliant streak of lightning lit up the sky outside and a massive crack of thunder shook the building.

Close that window! his father shouted.

Morgan hurried to close it, but before he could get the window pushed all the way down, a sting-y shock of electricity—ZAP!—prickled up his arms and knocked him back a half step.

His fingers tingled and felt warm.

It didn’t hurt.

Not really.

Well, maybe a little. Sort of the way a really big static shock from a wool sweater might feel.

Okay, Morgan thought, trying to shake the buzzy feeling out of his fingers. That was really weird.

Morgan! his mom said. What are you doing over there? Come clear the table, please.

I got a shock, Mom! From the window—the glass!

Are you okay?

Yeah. It was just—it was kind of weird.

Well, I told you a million times not to stand by a window when it’s lightening out. Now close it and come clear the table.

Morgan wasn’t about to go anywhere near the window again. He left it right where it was, still open about two inches from the bottom.

"Today, Morgan," his mom called out.

Morgan cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, and put them away. His mother and father stayed hidden behind their newspapers the whole time.

Finished, he told his mother, and wandered into the living room. He clicked on the TV, spun around, and took a running leap from about three feet away into his father’s easy chair. He leaped a little too high, tumbled over the side, and slammed into the wall.

Morgan! his father yelled from the kitchen.

I fell! Morgan said, climbing back into the leather chair. It squeaked and creaked and made squishy air noises as he sank into it.

Morgan stared his Sunday-stare into the TV.

The screen was entirely blue.

Morgan thought the TV wasn’t working again and was about to change the channel, when he noticed a small white dot drifting slowly across the screen. The camera zoomed in a little, and Morgan could see that the little white dot was a boat, and the blue on the screen was the ocean. There was some kind of a fishing show on the TV.

The camera zoomed in closer.

Morgan sat up higher.

There was a fisherman strapped and buckled into a metal chair on the back of the boat. He was holding on to a huge fishing pole and straining to reel something in, something that looked very big. Morgan watched as the fisherman leaned back in the fighting chair—tugging, pulling on the fishing rod with all his strength—and then leaned forward, franticly trying to reel in the line. Over and over again—Lean back, PULL, lean forward, REEL—the man was really struggling to hold on to the rod—lean back, PULL, lean forward, REEL—his arms began to tremble—Lean back, PULL, lean forward, REEL—he couldn’t pull the rod back any more—LEAN BACK—it wouldn’t budge—LEAN BACK!—it bent in two, about to break—PULL! PULL! PU—suddenly a brilliant flash of blue exploded out of the ocean. The surface of the sea shattered into a dazzling geyser of glittering white spray as a tremendous fish burst into the sky, leaping high above the little boat, a soaring mountain of blue. It hung there, in the air, for minutes it seemed, sky-blue and huge, hovering over the ocean . . . and then—

Morgan’s father walked in and changed the channel.

Dad!

Outta my chair.

I was watching that!

Out.

Can I just watch the end of it?

No.

Morgan jumped out of the chair a split-second before is father plopped into it with a loud swoosh.

Please, Dad? Morgan begged. "Please?"

I said no. He snapped open his newspaper and disappeared behind it. I want some peace and quiet around here.

"But—

Go do something.

3

MORGAN’S FATHER CHANGED the TV channel to some bore-bore- boring news station. Morgan didn’t leave. He didn’t go and ‘do something’ like his father had told him to do. He stayed in the living room, still thinking about the great fish. He sprawled out on the floor and stared up at the ceiling and kept seeing splashes of