Homer and Orange Boy

My name is Lane. Not as in bowling alleys, as in green. Let me explain.

I was born in Orange Beach, Alabama seventeen years ago. And I didn’t come from no hospital; I came straight out of my Momma. She wasn’t happy about it either. She spent nine months lugging me around before she even met me. I’d probably be pretty angry, too.

One day, somewhere around the nine month marker, I punched my way out of her. At the time, Momma was strolling through some woods that were a fve minute walk from our house. It was in the morning to be exact, and Momma was walking under pines with her sister. Well, Momma was waddling. Her sister walked.

Momma liked trees. Pine trees were her favorite. She saw a magnolia once and decided it wasn’t quite to her liking, so she always stuck with pines. Tey were simple and numerous, and she could walk beneath them anytime she wanted

Momma grabbed her sister’s arm when she realized I was busting out. My Auntie knew just then that I was coming for sure.

“Let’s get you down to the hospital,” she said.

“No,” Momma replied. “I ain’t doing nothing like that.” And she sure didn’t.

Momma never planned to birth me in a hospital bed. Now she would never tell you this, but I’m certain she knew I was coming out that day. I’m certain she went to those woods to have me beneath her trees.

Momma was like that. She did only what she wanted. And if you were there when she did it, like my poor Auntie, you had to go right along with her. Momma descended from Creek indians. She said that gave her strength; I think it gave her stubborness. I guess I got some of that, too. By the time Auntie realized Momma was on a mission to expel me under trees, she already knew she had to go along with it. Auntie never won an argument with her sister. Te only thing she could do better than Momma was grow herbs. She had a green thumb, and she pulled me out of my Momma with that green thumb.

I was all sticky when I came out. Because we were in the woods, some pine needles attached to me real quick. Tat’s when Momma named me Lane, which means “green” in Muscogee language. I was born a little, green girl: gooey and covered in pine prickles.

I used to think my name was just a name until Auntie told me about how I was born. Once I realized I was a color, I started seeing everything real diferent.

Did you know that Homer couldn’t see blue? It’s true. I read Te Odyssey when my teacher made me in the ninth grade.

I hated the story, but I thought the colors in it were strange. Nothing is described as blue. I wrote my essay on the part of Te Odyssey that talks about a “wine-dark sea.” Mostly I rewrote a bunch of scenes as though all the men in the story were actually sailing on wine instead of a sea. And because the wine-sea was always splashing up on the boat, they got some in their mouths and were constantly drunk and wobbly.

My teacher didn’t like my essay very much. “Lane, this is supposed to be a book report,” she said.

I thought it was real creative of myself. She just wasn’t aware of how important color is to people’s understanding of the world. But it didn’t matter too much because Davis liked my essay. “It’s pretty good,” he told me.

Davis is my best friend. He’s colorblind, which means he only sees in black and white. He sees like old TV shows. No, I’m just kidding.

He can see some colors, just not real good. It’s a crucial part of our relationship. In kindergarten he colored a lion green, and that’s how we met.

“Hey, kid,” I said, grabbing the green crayon out of his hand. “Tis crayon is green like me. And that thing you got on your paper looks like a lion.”

“Lions aren’t green?” he asked. I instantly felt sorry for him.

I wonder sometimes if he sees sunsets the same way I do. My most favorite part of living in Orange Beach is the sunsets. It’s hard to distinguish all the diferent colors in a sunset. I’ve seen purple, lilac, violet, and lavender in a single part of one sunset . . . I’ve seen orange, melon, and shrimp streaks . . . I’ve seen gold, yellow, and mustard . . . Pinks are always pretty exciting. And I like that sunsets are rarely blue. Makes me think I’m seeing like Homer, like we have some stuf in common. Davis couldn’t possibly see the sunset how I do. He can’t even color a lion.

We were friends all through grade school. Best friends. When we got to high school, I liked him a little more. We’re seniors now, and he can’t see that I like him a lot. I’ve been trying to force him into liking me a lot, too.

You know how people say everyone has “their color”? You know how you look real good in one specifc color because of how it mixes with your skin and eyes and hair? Well, my best color is pink. It makes my brown eyes pop.

I spent a long time trying to fgure out what color would look pink to Davis, so I could wear it, and he could see my eyes pop. But I never could fgure out which color that would be. So I just kept wearing pink.

Ten Davis asked me, “Why do you wear brown so much?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Tis is pink. It’s my color.”

“Pink looks brown to me,” he said. “You’re a brown.” “ I’m a green,” I said. “You know what my name means.”

It’s sad to think about though. To him, Valentine’s Day is a cluster of red and brown. To my mind, that’s not a good pairing.

Davis’s family used to own orange groves here, way back when we still had orange groves. I think it’s pretty funny that he lives in a place with a color in the name and comes from a family that grew a fruit called “orange.” Does he even know what orange is? I told him he should wear more orange clothing since his eyes are blue and those two colors are complementary. But it’s useless. He just doesn’t get it.

He comes from oranges like I come from pine needles. Orange and green. I’m okay with that pairing. Anyway, he must like me at least a little more than friends because he still hangs around with me. We go walking down the beach all that time. Te best time you can have is playing the “What color is this?” game.

On weekends, I point stuf out: Seashell. What color is this? Hermit crab. What color is this?

He’s usually wrong. But it’s okay. He has a good attitude about it.

We once saw an alligator in the marshy area near the state park. Tat whole day I was gonna try and grab his hand. It kept swinging right by mine, and it even brushed mine a few times. We walked down the nature trail for an hour and a half, an hour and a half of me failing to intertwine our fngers. I’d just about given up. I stopped talking and everything. Momma wouldn’t have been proud; she tells me to speak my mind all the time. Ten he saw the gator.

He grabbed my arm, yanking me back a bit. He pointed at the gator. “Tat’s green like you isn’t it?” he asked.

Te gator surprised me, but the arm grabbing surprised me more. It took me too long to answer him. “

Nope,” I said.

He let go of my arm, and I wished I would’ve just told him he was right. Ten the nervous talking started.

“People are always coloring alligators green,” I said. “But they aren’t green if you actually look real close at them. Tey’re a dark gray….maybe kinda brown, too, so they can blend in with the water.” I put a hand on Davis’s shoulder. “But you’re getting better. Alligators are more green than lions.” I was really proud of my hand on the shoulder move. He sat down right by the marsh before I could do anything further. Orange Boy looked fustered, so I just sat down beside him. “You okay?” I asked.

No answer.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m trying to fgure out what color you are, Lane,” he answered. “Huh?”

“I wanna see green right, so I can really know what your name means.” And that’s when he grabbed my hand.

“You don’t have to see the color,” I said. “Homer couldn’t even see blue.” He intertwined his fngers with mine. I think he likes me.