The Static Blue

Seven. God, seven was a screaming orange, sharp as a rusted nail, a metallic tang that made Leo’s teeth ache. And two, always that dull, waxy brown, like old shoe leather, thick and flavorless. Mrs. Davison droned on at the whiteboard, her voice a flat, persistent gray, trying to drill multiplication into their heads. Leo gripped his pencil, knuckles white. The numbers on the page swam, each one a clamor of flavor and texture fighting for space on his tongue, behind his eyes. It wasn’t a distraction, not really. It was just... how things were. How they’d always been.

“Leo? Are you with us?” Mrs. Davison’s voice cut through the cacophony. Not gray anymore. Now it was a rough, sandpaper yellow, scraping against his ears. He blinked, trying to clear the taste of chalky beige from the fraction she’d just drawn. He could feel sweat prickle at his neck. Everyone else just looked at the numbers, saw black ink on white paper. He saw a riot. He felt a mess. He nodded, trying to appear attentive, but his stomach clenched with the knowledge he hadn't heard a single word of her explanation.

After school, his mother picked at the edge of the placemat, her brow furrowed. “Mrs. Davison called again. She says you’re… disengaged. Not paying attention.” His father, reading the newspaper, grunted. “Head in the clouds again, Leo? School’s important, son.” How could he explain? How do you tell them that the word ‘disengaged’ tasted like dry sawdust and made his throat itch? He just shrugged, pushing the peas around his plate. Peas, at least, tasted exactly like peas. A small mercy.

Days bled into weeks. The chaos in Leo's head intensified. Math became a battlefield of competing tastes. Reading was a bumpy road, each letter a different shape and flavor: ‘A’ a sweet, smooth red; ‘B’ a bitter, grainy blue. Sometimes, the sounds of the classroom—the scrape of chairs, the murmuring voices—had colors too, thin, reedy yellows and purples that pricked at his skin. It was exhausting. He couldn't keep up. He’d try to write down a word, but the letter’s taste would fight with the word’s overall flavor, twisting his concentration into a knot.

Then came the history project. Mrs. Davison, bless her heart, had tried to make it ‘interactive.’ They were studying ancient Egypt. “Each group will build a diorama,” she announced, her voice a surprisingly pleasant, earthy green this morning. “Think about the colors, the textures.” Leo's group got ‘The Nile River.’ Nile. He liked the sound of it, a gentle, flowing sensation, like cool water. But then came the blues for the river. All the blues.

He stared at the pile of construction paper. Sky blue, royal blue, navy, turquoise. Each one, a distinct assault. Sky blue was a high-pitched whine, sharp and almost painful, like a static shock. Royal blue was colder, a metallic chill, the sharp, clean taste of a freshly sharpened pencil. Navy was deeper, a rich, dark earthiness, like mud and cold steel mixed together. And turquoise… turquoise was the worst. It had a gritty, unpleasant texture, like biting into a piece of chalk, but bitter, like medicine.

He broke. Just sat there, tears welling, unable to pick up a single sheet. The other kids in his group, Sarah and Mike, stared. “What’s wrong, Leo?” Sarah asked, her voice a soft, reassuring pink. But Mike’s was a confused, prickly brown. Leo couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, pushing the blues away from him as if they were venomous. He could taste the static, the cold metal, the bitter chalk. It was too much. The river, the whole damn Nile, was going to kill him.

Mrs. Davison knelt beside him, her face softer than usual. “Leo, what is it?” Her voice, now, was a warm, muted orange, surprisingly comforting. He tried to explain, mumbled something about colors having tastes, about the blue being too much, too sharp, too cold. She listened, really listened, without judgment, which was new. She didn’t scold him. She just nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on her face. Later that day, she pulled him aside.

“I did some reading,” she said, her voice a gentle, inquisitive purple. “About synesthesia.” Leo looked up, startled. Someone else knew? Someone else understood, even a little? She held out a small, unwrapped blue crayon. “What does this taste like to you, Leo? Not to eat, just… what do you perceive?” He hesitated, then took a deep breath. He looked at the crayon, really focused. “It’s… cold,” he started, his voice a whisper. “Like… like the edge of a clean spoon. A little… metallic. And quiet. It’s a quiet taste.”

Mrs. Davison nodded, a small smile forming. “Quiet taste,” she repeated, almost to herself. She paused, then picked up a dark blue felt pen. “And this one?” Leo peered at it. “This one’s different. It’s… it’s like a dull hum. Low. And a bit like… old wood. Deep, but not sharp.” She scribbled something on a notepad, a low hum of a sound. Then, she pushed a small stack of different shades of blue paper towards him. “Okay, Leo. We’re still building the Nile. But maybe… maybe you can show me which blue tastes like ‘flow.’ Which one tastes like ‘quiet.’ We’ll work with that.” He looked at the paper, then at her. The colors were still there, still tasted, but for the first time, someone wasn’t just looking at the paper. They were trying to taste the blue right alongside him.