This is My Message to You

Blue

BLUE

Maybe Connor and I didn't talk much, but I saw him a couple more times that year. Senior year flew by. I got accepted into college, obviously, and came to terms with the fact that I wouldn't ever play soccer again as I watched my teammates bring home the state champion trophy, which is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

We had our senior prom a couple of weeks before we graduated. To be frank, it meant almost less to me than our eighth grade dance had, but Grace forced me to go dress shopping with her and helped me pick out some long, flowy thing and convinced me to accept a promposal from a kid in my math class. I refused to wear heels, though, begging off because of my knee, even though we both knew it would've been fine (I need some victories in life).

Prom was cool, I guess. Nice dinner beforehand, mothers cooing over us as they took awkward date pictures, fancy reception hall decorated in streamers and a glittering disco ball, basic EDM and pop music played by a local DJ. I had a good time hanging with my girl friends, and slow dancing with my date wasn't too awful; overall, a decent night.

For the after party, Grace somehow talked me into going to one of the soccer player's houses. I agreed to go with her because, what the heck, it was the end of senior year and now that I couldn't play soccer, what did I really have to lose? (Plus, Grace is a horrible drunk and I wanted to be able to take care of her.)

When we arrived at the house, tons of people already packed the rooms and lined the halls, and the air smelled just as awful as I remembered. I grabbed a drink to pretend to sip and made small talk with soccer players. Someone would say something like, "Hey! Why aren't you playing this year?" and every time it still felt like a punch to my gut. Drunk people generally don't have the best memory, so when it got to the point that I was answering this question every five minutes, I had to walk away.

"Have you seen Grace?" I asked a couple friends, but she was off somewhere with her boyfriend and I didn't feel like third-wheeling, so I ended up chilling with my phone on a couch in the living room.

After a while, someone staggered into the room and collapsed against the opposite wall. I was well used to drunk people, so I barely lifted my eyes from my phone until I realized that the person was Connor.

I can picture him like a photograph: Half-sitting against the pale gold wall, his head lolling back against the wallpaper, draped in that stupid red-and-black drug rug that he liked because he thought it made him like Bob Marley, his hands tucked deep into its front pocket as he just closed his eyes and smiled.

That was different. I hadn't seen him smile in ages.

For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to go over and talk to him. Maybe I was just lonely, I don't know.

"Hey, Connor. Connor."

I had to say his name a few times before he opened his eyes.

God. His eyes.

One small thing can spotlight your whole face. For Connor, it's always been about his eyes. How many times had I watched girls swoon over him as he chatted them up with a smile and a flash of those blue eyes? He could get just about anyone tripping all over themselves. I hated him for it, but I'll still admit that they're his best feature.

But right then, only a tiny rim of blue shone from his eyes, almost drowned out entirely by the black of his massively enlarged pupils. I stumbled backwards in a knee-jerk reaction, staring at him as he squinted at me and gave me a lazy smile.

"Hey-y-y, Riley. Whassup?"

"You okay, Connor?" I asked, waving my hand in front of his face in confusion. "You look a little out of it."

"Yeah, I'm good..." He reached out as if to touch my hair but instead grabbed at something just next to my head, giggling weakly. "This is fun, Riley..."

Feeling distinctly rattled, I patted his arm as I got to my feet and said, "I'm gonna see if I can find one of the guys, Connor, hang on."

"No, Riley –"

I waited, but he just smiled at me some more, his head dipping from side to side, and then he pulled up the hood of his drug rug and snuggled back against the wall.

This wasn't drunk Connor; I knew drunk Connor.

"I'll be right back," I said again, now more than a little freaked out, and I hurried out of the room, pushing through people as I looked for Grace or her boyfriend or one of the other guys on the team. I jostled a couple elbows on my way, drinks splashing on my shirt, but I didn't notice until later that evening.

"Hey, what's wrong?" asked Grace the second she saw my face.

"Connor's really fucked up, I think he needs help –"

She and her boyfriend put down their drinks and followed me back to the living room, where Connor still sat slumped against the wall, his hair drooping over his face. Grace's boyfriend went over to him and got him to talk for a couple minutes while we watched, and then he came back to us, shrugging.

"He's fine, Riley."

"Okay, no, that's not fine," I insisted, staring over his shoulder as Connor played with the strings of his drug rug hood and mouthed words to himself. "What did he drink?"

"Drink?" Her boyfriend laughed. "Riley, he's just tripping, chill."

"What?"

I looked at him in alarm, and then over at Grace, who didn't look as concerned as I thought she should be. She gave me a reassuring smile and grabbed my arm, tugging me away from the living room.

"Come on, let's go dance or something."

Dragging my feet, I glanced back once more at Connor. "What do you mean, he's just tripping?"

"Acid, Riley – don't you know anything?"

No. No, I really didn't.