Chapter 10 - Black Hairstreak
August 31, still Friday - This day keeps gettin' weirder.

“Coincidence. It’s a coincidence.”

Joel stands away from his chair in order to greet our newest arrival...and most likely to get away from his twin brother, who has begun to chant words that vaguely resemble Spanish prayers sprinkled on top of some very discernible gibberish. From an arm's length away, I have a better look at the skulls tattooed on Ortega’s upper eyelids.

What the flying Ringlet is his deal?

I’m almost sure Gina wants to leave. Her eyes peer out the door. Her body sways in that direction as well. A little longer, and maybe she’ll flutter away. I wouldn’t blame her.

Joel perceives, as do I through simple observation, her growing discomfort. “Don't mind him. He claims he’s a psychic. Really fits the unique aesthetic we’re going for, but I assure you, we’re not an occult club.” He extends his hand. “Thank you so much for coming. You’re Gina from AP psych, right? My name’s Joel."

Ortega opens his eyes, dark brown like my own. “We are psychics. And I’m not claiming jack.”  It's such a defensive statement that I have no question he truly believes himself. Behind them, I watch Tigo dip his head and bite the laugh his shoulders aren’t hiding very well. 

Gina shyly glances away from the twin psychic. I would too if someone were watching me through a “third eye”. (Ortega is boldly holding his hand to his forehead) 

“I recognize you both. Hi.” She says carefully, eventually taking Joel’s blue-bandaid covered hand. I end up rolling my eyes when she looks at me, a clear reminder that I'm the one person so far who has no idea who she is. Not my fault: you'd have to be famous for your name to get through my skull. The frequent and consistent exposure would do the trick, and even then, I'd need reminders. 

“Glad you guys decided to come. Especially you, Butterfly.” I catch sight of Argus, and I feel like rolling my eyes all over again. 

“It's Mari. Get off my case.”

“Mariposa?” He tests.

“Mari.”

“Mari, you owe me a phone number.” He wags his finger at me like I’m his granddaughter. I'd snap his digit off but unfortunately, I've turned a new leaf too early.

I’m about to refuse when Tigo’s voice clips between us.

“Gettin’ digits from your stalker?”

He sits on one of the desk tables, a journal open in his lap, rubbing his thumb against a pen that lingers on the scribbles of his page. I guess I’m not the only one embracing the asshole-dressed-in-black aesthetic. He wears a thin dark jacket, over a gray shirt, and fitted dark jeans. He doesn’t look my way nor at the contempt on my face. Whatever his damage, he should keep it away from my own.

“Ignore him,” says Argus. “Ortega says his chakras are off.”

“They are,” Ortega confirms.

I tap lightly on Gina’s forearm. She takes it as a cue to sit and puts her backpack down. “Whatever.” I say. “Y'all should get her name down. I’ll give her my number.”

Gina doesn’t object, but Argus makes a noise with his teeth and the side of his cheek. “C’mon, you promised.”

“I didn’t.”

"That's totally fine," Joel slides his notebook in front of me and says, “is it okay to ask for your email then? To send announcements.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, did I forget a pen? Lemme get one." He shuffles to his bag under the chair next to me. We can still hear him. "Anyway, if you’re wondering where our leader is, he's out. Craig was supposed to make an official roster, but he’s kind of busy getting his life together.”

Gina lines up behind me, but I move away so that’s she’s standing adjacently instead.

“Aren’t we all?” I respond.

A harsh tap sounds against the desk. I watch Tigo’s pen roll and roll until the spiral of the notebook stops it. I lock eyes with him for a moment and then look away after Joel resurfaces from under the desk.

Gina says thank you then bends in order to sign away her name to the club. These losers might not be coming for her now, but when she starts missing meetings to hide the obvious, they might get snippy. Perhaps bringing her here wasn’t such a good idea. And yet, I can’t muster the energy to force her back into the clearly superior club that is Hope’s Heart.

As if they’d treat her any better.

I sign the paper.

“Mari. Your energy.” Ortega’s hand suddenly appears hovering over my face. My bald brows lower further than they previously were. “It’s dark. Like blueberries.”

“You’re an idiot.”

"I'm a spiritualist."

"Same thing."

“Blueberries are more deep purple. Something to do with anthocyanin,” Gina says helpfully, mediating our exchange as Ortega hovers his hands over her “aura.” He agrees as if he has every idea what anthocyanin is.

“You’re deep purple, too.” He responds in all seriousness. He’s way too close to her face, but she’s not moving away. Even as his hands land on her temples, something I would find invasive, a timid smile forms on her face. How dumb, I think. She’s notably entertained by the oddness of him.

“I don’t believe in auras," she says. "But purple is my favorite color. So thank you.”

“Oh, here we go,” says Argus.

“Auras are real, Gringita.” Psychic twin lets his hands fall to his side.

“Ortega,” sighs Joel.

“They are, man. I’m not messin’”

"Clearly, you are."

"You always think I'm messin'."

"Because you're acting immature."

"I'm not.

“We’re seniors. It was fun when we were-”

Ortega cuts him off abruptly. “That should be the topic of our first meeting. Auras.”

“Nah, man. I’m not letting you near me with that black spirit stuff.” Tigo waves his pen at him before signing the attendance sheet. “Racist.”

“That’s not what he meant when he said your spirit was black.” Joel couldn’t prevent himself from sighing again. “And that’s not why we’re here. Honestly, if you guys haven’t noticed. Our club is dying before it’s even alive.”

Silence befalls us. What little positivity remained among us was succumbing to the reality. Clubs at Cardinal’s High don’t survive without members. At this rate, I’d be back inside my van by six-o-clock.

“Is this really everyone?” Gina asks.

“Yeah, and there’s no way we can officialize our club if we don’t have the manpower to run booths, put on club performances, and recruit for the summer. I’m pretty sure we’re all seniors here.”

“We’ll be gone next year.”

“That’s not the worst of it. Craig put me in charge. Oh god, this is so embarrassing.” Joel sits defeated. His curly pompadour squishes between his desk and his head.

After signing his name on the roster, Argus taps the journal resting on the desk in front of Joel, and the despondent twin gingerly lifts his head.

“We got time, Joel. I mean Senioritis is bound to get some bored people in here.”

"He's right." Ortega signs the journal when the pen becomes available, leaving his name dramatically lopsided as to avoid Argus’ cursive “g.” He drops the psychic vibes and watches his brother with worry and a bit of something else I don’t recognize.

“Thanks for helping. But, unless we all sacrifice a considerable amount of time, this club is going to disband.”

I swallow dry.

What can I do? I don’t have the first clue how to trick people into joining a multipurpose club nor do I have the demeanor required to schmooze a bunch of strangers. I barely get along with the people in this room.

“I have some time,” Gina says. Her lips press tight before opening again. “I can help. Like a lot.”

“How?” Tigo asks. Doesn’t look like he believes her.

“Well, experience. I used to run Hope’s Heart. I was the president of the club for two years.”

Why am I not surprised?

“Yeah? So?” Tigo sounds unimpressed and irritated. Gina’s not dumb. She picks up on his mood, and her mouth closes as if the rest of her sentence is not worth saying. It irritates me.

“She has special privileges, cabeza de pija.” I say. “Copy room. Booth spaces. Permits. The more involved you are the more privileges you get at this school.”

“What’d she call me?” He directs his question towards Ortega, ignoring Argus’ cautionary hand in the air. I don’t let either of them answer.

“Called you beautiful, the fuck you think I called you.”

“Woah, okay. Time out.” Joel makes a T sign with his hands. “There are way more important things to argue about." He puts his hands on Gina's shoulders carefully, and this successfully placates my anger. Having something else to focus on tends to do that.

"Gina...I will literally rename this club if everything Mari said is true.”

Straightening her back, she makes herself a little taller and says. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not returning to Hope’s Heart. Certain...things have changed, and I don’t really feel like being their coordinator. I’d love to help you.”

“Great! Oh my god, yes."

He claps his hands.

"Can we have permits to go off campus and volunteer?”

“Probably.”

“Can we make some fliers?”

“Of course.”

“And can you help our club survive?” Joel asks in finality. His question a reflection of the thoughts in everybody else's head.

My arm brushes against Gina's. It’s an accident. I'm anticipating her answer as much as the others.

“I think yes. Definitely. But I’ll need some help.”

Elation sweeps away Joel’s low spirits like a tide would the trash on Galveston’s shore. He really cares for this club, and it’s kind of nice to see. Truthfully, I admire this guy’s ability to shake off pessimism, bounce back from disheartening realities. How fast his words become when he has a driving incentive shocks me as well. 

He descends upon Gina, leading her to the back of the class, questions racing from his mouth, and the faint hope in his voice wells up. Ortega and Tigo join them around the T.A’s desk right after. One of them to possibly to get away from me. Regardless, gratefulness nestles into my chest when I watch them go.

“Mari.”

Argus Miller’s wheelchair tickles the side of my leg, and I don’t stop the glare that befalls him. He holds a piece of paper with a phone number on it, and then he slips his other hand out from his back and pulls his phone.

“Here’s mine. Here’s Tigo’s.” He finishes writing a second number down.

“Why are you giving me this?” I take it.

“So that you can prank call him, mess with his head, get revenge. He’s had a bad week, but that’s not really an excuse for how he’s been treating people. The guy's my best friend, but he has issues.”

“I called him a dickhead. We’re even.”

“Ohh, that’s what it means.” He snaps his fingers together. “Need to remember that.”

“You can keep this.”

“Hey, don’t.” He refuses instantly. “I’m not giving you my number cause I feel pity that not many people like you. If that's what you're thinking, because I would know.”

I put my hand down, and for a good three seconds, I debate inside my own head. This whole week has been a massive disturbance to my regular programming. Someone's left dirt, twigs, and caterpillars in my mind. The result, I'm making choices that I know will bother me later.

“Fine. I’ll keep them, but here.” I steal Tigo’s forgotten pen, grab Argus' hand, and stab the ink into his forearm.

“Ssn—ah!”

“Hold still. Strictly club member purposes. Don’t call me if you don’t need me.”

“Ow. Promise.”

“Alright.” I place the pen down, letting his forearm fall back into his lap. My number is drawn in dark letters, followed by a small sketch of a butterfly. I snort when he touches his arm and pouts excessively.

I shouldn't forget to write it down on some paper for Gina.

“Argus don’t be lazy.” Joel beckons us to the T.A’s spot.

Gina waves. 

"Com'ere, you two. I think I can help."