Bottled Blue

When Jett came over to work on homework, I could tell he still wasn’t thrilled with having to spend time with me. He walked into the entryway and gave me a quick nod. Nothing more. Nothing less. I headed up the stairs to my room, and he followed behind. We got settled into the pillows before ever saying a word. I waited until we had our notebooks out before I broke the silence. He was already going through my bookcase, looking for a book on DNA. Which he must have known I already had.

“Listen—Jett,” I started.

“Mm?” He didn’t look at me. Or seem to care that I was talking.

“I um—I’m sorry.” He pulled the book out and set it on the cushions. Then he looked up.

“What?” There was no expression.

“I’m sorry.”

“And?” His eyebrows rose. And now I was getting irritated again. I didn’t owe him more than that.

“And nothing,” I snapped.

“Sorry. No. That’s not what I meant. I just—I didn’t expect it, is all. I was expecting there to be something more.”

“Like what?”

“Like a smartass expression. Or a continuation. ‘I’m sorry your face is ugly,’ or something.” I squinted.

“Why would I tell you that your face is ugly?”

“I don’t know, Blue. Why are you even apologizing?”

“I talked to Cameron when I got home. He didn’t confirm your story, but he didn’t deny it either. And my mom kind of made it out like maybe you were right. So I realized that I was placing all the blame on you without any evidence to support it.” Now he looked confused.

“Is there a catch I’m missing?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not the type who apologizes.” I sighed and rolled my eyes.

“Right. So you’d better accept it because I’ll probably never apologize again.” He made himself comfortable on the cushions and picked up the book.

“It’s cool,” he decided, setting the book on his lap. “I have sisters. I know what it’s like to be defensive over your siblings. Even if they don’t deserve it.” He was looking through the book and not at me. I wanted to say more, but I figured my apology was enough. I still didn’t want to be his friend. I still didn’t like him. That was the most he was going to get.

“And um,” he said. “I’m sorry too. For getting so worked up.”

“You kind of startled me,” I admitted. He pinched his eyes shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just forget it. Why do you like this stuff anyway?” He smacked the book and looked back up. I was now startled by the abrupt change in topic.

“DNA?”

“Science. In general. You’re even a math nerd. I don’t get it.”

“What’s not to get? It’s interesting. Amazing. You don’t find anything interesting about—well, everything?”

“What?”

“Science is literally everything, Jett. It answers every question. Starting from when we’re babies. Why do leaves move? What are clouds made of? Where does light come from? And it just never ends. There’s just so much that you can never run out of information. And if you can’t figure something out, you just keep searching. There’s always an answer. Even if we can’t see it. Science is everywhere and everything. It makes up who we are and everything we do. It’s fascinating.” He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. He even had his lips parted.

“Huh,” he said.

“Huh, what?” Now I felt stupid for ranting about science in front of a guy who only knew about guitars and boobs.

“I was expecting the same answer my sister gave me.”

“What’s that?”

“Because it’s easy.” I shrugged my shoulder and scratched my head.

“It’s not. Not really.”

“Not for people like me. Some say math is easy. No one says they like math because it’s amazing and fascinating.”

“It’s just a puzzle to solve. That’s all. I just really love puzzles.”

“You’re really passionate about it, aren’t you?” I moved my nervous scratching to my elbow now.

“I don’t know. That makes me sound crazy. I think I just get excited about things that interest me.”

“Must be nice.” He went back to the book. “I’ve never been passionate about anything.”

“Well—you’re a musician, aren’t you?” He let go of a short laugh.

“I’m a musician because my parents are. It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s an art. Which means anyone can do it if they put in the work. I’m good at it only because my mom used to sit me on her lap when she practiced, and my dad got me my first guitar when I was a toddler. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. And I honestly don’t see myself going into music as a career.”

“Why not? Your parents could probably help you.” He looked up again.

“That’s exactly what I DON’T want, Blue.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If I go into music—If I beat the odds and make it in the industry—it’ll be because of them. I’ll always be known as ‘Felix and Ruby Kanellis’ son.’ I’ll never make a name for myself for just being me. How often do the children of famous musicians actually make it on their own?” I shrugged.

“The Wallflowers did pretty well,” I pointed out.

“And they’re literally always compared to Bob Dylan. It’s never been about talent or skill. Just Bob Dylan’s kid’s band.”

“I mean—I like their music.”

“But would you have even heard of them if the singer wasn’t Bob Dylan’s son?”

“Why don’t you just like—change your name? Make a stage name?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone is ever going to look at me and not know I’m Felix Kanellis’s son. But regardless, when you go into some science field and win a prize for something, who do you want them to make it out to? Aasha Inglewood or someone who doesn’t actually exist?”

“Me, I guess.”

“Exactly. I shouldn’t have to change who I am or lie about who I am just to be known for being me. They’re part of me too. I don’t want them to help me, but I don’t want to hide them away either.”

“I see your point.” He went back to the book and turned the page. “You’ll find something you’re passionate about, Jett. Everyone is passionate about something. Some people just take a little longer to figure it out.” He shook his head.

“I’m almost eighteen years old, and I still haven’t figured it out yet.”

“That’s normal. Most people our age haven’t figured it out yet. You’ll get there. You just need to try new things.”

“Like what?”

“Like—I don’t know. Art maybe. Biology obviously isn’t your forte. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try something else. Take a painting class or try drawing. Learn how to build or whittle. It doesn’t even have to be creative. Learn something new. Try a new instrument. You’ll find it. I promise.”

He kept his head lowered but moved his eyes to look at me. They were a really vibrant color. Most light-colored eyes were dulled down in vibrancy. But not his. They stood out as he sat there under my hanging clothes. I had a lot of dark colors. Blues, maroons, dark oranges, and purples. The colors made his eyes pop. Not to mention his lashes were thick and black.

“I guess I will,” he said. I nodded and pulled out our journal.

“So—DNA. What do you want to write about it? He said it could be anything,” I said. He set the book down on a pillow and then laid down on his side, so he was a few inches closer to me and directly under the window. He leaned on his elbow.

“I don’t know. What do you want to write about? You’re the science nerd.” I looked down and right into his irises. He had an eye freckle. Barely noticeable amongst the blue-green color was a small brown dot. I focused on it for a moment before speaking.

“What color eyes do your parents have?” I asked.

“My dad’s are green. My mom’s are brown.”

“Are your dad’s eyes green like yours or…?”

“No. More like celery. Seafoam is what my mom says.”

“And what about your sisters?”

“Pearl has the same color eyes as my dad, I think. Diamond’s are like mine.” I nodded.

“And your grandparents?”

“My mom’s parents had blue and brown. My dad’s are green and blue.”

“Which is odd. Brown is a dominant gene. So in this case, the blue/green must have won out.”

“I guess so.”

“So that’s our entry. How did DNA turn your mom’s brown eyes and your dad’s green eyes into this color? Is it your mom’s DNA that gave you that eye freckle, or is it just a random mutation?” He kept his eyes on mine.

“You’re really thorough, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Science nerd, remember?” He nodded and smiled.

“And where’d you get your eyes from, Inglewood?”

“Oh um. My great-grandmother Stella. But they’re just hazel. There’s nothing special about them.”

“Don’t be so certain of that.”

“What makes you say that?” He leaned on his hand, staring up at me. I hated how he was looking at me. But, even more than that, I hated that I was so eager to hear what he had to say about my eyes.

“They’re like a forest.”

“What do you mean?”

“They look brown from far away. But when you get closer—there’s a bunch of green you don’t really notice at first. Like a forest. Green and brown. Lots of hidden depth.”

And see, that’s the thing about pain. It was already starting, and I couldn’t even feel it.

“Oh,” I said. “Well—we should get back to work.”

“Right. Yeah.” He turned toward the book, and we ignored all talk about eyes.