Purple Blues [Elvis]

Chapter 1 - Take Me Far Away, Elvis

"Your parents are still in prison?"

"They're never gonna be let out, are they?"

"You're jailbird spawn!"

Tears burned my eyes and streamed down my cheeks as I cantered down Madison High School's hallway as those group of boys cackled, and as I hugged my history binder to my chest so tight I could barely breathe. I pushed the entrance doors open and came into warm California air... but all I felt was the bitter cold of people who didn't understand my pain and added salt to it.

I spotted Grandma Iris's blue Buick from 1977 and rushed to it. The moment I got in, she stared at me, sympathy in her aging brown eyes. "Oh, no, Katelyn, not again..."

"Let's just go, please, Grandma."

She drove on, and the school disappeared. Grandma glanced over at me now and then as houses passed us, and I eyed each one, wondering if the people in them were going through a hard time like me. No, not hard time, hard life. Yes, they probably were, but I doubted that they had the same problem.

"Katelyn, you don't have your backpack."

"I left it in my locker. I wanted to get out of that hell-hole as fast as possible."

She nodded, but then started shaking her head, making some of her shoulder-length curly gray hair move. "I'm so sorry you have to go through this every day, Katelyn. Some people just don't know how much they hurt others."

"Can I be home-schooled? Please?"

"I really wish I could, honey, but I have to work. Your Grandpa Jim can't do it, so I have to."

We had this conversation before many times, after the other instances I had come home from school in a foul mood. I knew it wasn't possible to have Grandma Iris home-school me, but I asked just in case something changed... Nothing ever did. I would always be the daughter of a man and woman who both knifed their neighbor for keying their new yellow Mustang convertible back in 2004, and I would always be one of those rare people who was born behind bars. But as Grandma said those times I was made fun of, it wasn't my fault that my parents were the way they were, and it wasn't my fault for being born in the place that I was. It was all not my fault, yet I was bullied for it.

We came up to the custard-yellow one-story manufactured home about two miles away from the school. I left the car as soon as it was stopped in the driveway, and I ran into the house, through the living room of aged decorations from the 60s on up, down the hallway of old and new family pictures—none of which had my parents in them—and into my room. I shut the door, dropped my binder on my bed and pulled out my white smartphone in a purple case. I started up Elvis Presley's "Let's Have a Party" on full volume.

The fun, jumpy tune and lyrics washed over me like a soothing wave of warm water, allowing me to take a deep breath and let go of the hurt in my heart.  I jumped up on my bed and danced to the beat and waved my head around, making my dark brown hair with purple streaks in it fly around my head.

The song ended after a couple of minutes and, out of breath, I sat back down on my bed, but then collapsed onto my back as my phone started playing the hopping song "Don't Be Cruel."

I stared at the white ceiling as the lyrics filled the room, and a smile started to spread across my face. Grandma Iris did what she could to help me feel better, but Elvis was the real healer. His music always had the power to bring me up when I felt down. He had done that all my life. Grandma said that when I was only five days old, and crying hysterically, she played "Always On My Mind" on her record player, and I stopped crying. It was the same ever since that day. I couldn't be soothed without the comforting, healing voice of The King.

It was the only music I played. He took me to a different and much better world.

"Elvis, take me far away now, please. I'm desperate."

Knocking sounded on the door as the song changed to the very one I just thought of.

Grandma came in and sat with me on my bed, and I smelled her rose perfume. For several seconds, we listened to the lyrics playing from my white phone with a purple case.

"I sang this song to you all the time when you were a baby. You would stop crying instantly."

"I know." I looked at her wrinkled face, but still beautiful. "I'm so jealous of you, that you were my age when he was starting out. You even got to go to one of his concerts. I wish I was born in that time and I could enjoy him in person. His voice—he—is magic."

She nodded. "Yes, he is. I will never forget the day when he locked eyes with me at that concert. It felt like he was singing 'Love Me Tender' for me and no one else. What a surreal moment that was. It was worth being grounded for a month."

I chuckled. "Yeah. Your parents did not allow you to go, but you went to the concert anyway."

"Yes. We lived in Memphis, so I just snuck out and took the bus to the theater and met my friends there. A lot of Elvis-crazed and love-struck girls did that."

"I would've done the same thing."

"Jailhouse Rock" started to play on my phone now, but I paused it. The song always reminded me of my parents and the bullying. It was the only Elvis song that I skipped over.

Grandma put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, honey. How about we go into the kitchen and get an after-school snack, huh? And we can listen to Grandpa go on and on about whatever hockey game he is watching online."

I let out a smile. "Okay, sounds good."

She got up and left the room. I stared down at my phone at Elvis's face on the red album cover displayed. "If only it were possible to meet you. If only I lived back then and I could tell you just how much you bless my life and make it better."

Grandma called my name, and I put my phone down on my purple comforter, Elvis's face still bright and smiling on the phone's screen.