**

Green is my favorite color.

When I was younger, I thought it was because it reminded me of the first time I saw grass.

My introduction to humans came from the Child Services staff that found me. I was frightened and nervous and they were tired and overworked. I was taken out of the brown desert, placed in a brown car, and driven down a series of dark, dirt-colored roads. I ended up at the orphanage.

The orphanage had a yard-nice grass, all lush and green. I was excited-I wasn't alone anymore, and I was somewhere that wasn't just sand and sky and dry heat. I knew-I knew-that the grass would feel cool and welcoming under my feet. I knew that the green softness that was out there would cushion me-would make my fall to Earth a little brighter, a little easier.

It turned out that the orphanage paid a lot of money to keep that tiny patch of grass green. A lot of money and a lot of chemicals. The lawn service guys came out twice a week, wearing their little masks, carrying their containers full of chemicals, working to keep that nice green color present on the lawn. We weren't allowed to play on that grass because of all the chemicals.

All that green could have made us orphans sick, and then who would have wanted us?

**

Later, I decided that green was my favorite color because it reminded me of Isabel's eyes.

Isabel's eyes aren't actually green. They're brown, but they look almost hazel-colored sometimes, in the right light. When I was fourteen, and first realized that girls could do more than irritate the hell out of you, I used to draw pictures of Isabel and I would spend hours coloring the eyes, her eyes. I spent hours combining green and brown into just the right proportions, to find the color that would capture her gaze perfectly.

I used to dream about Isabel, about her eyes, about the rest of her. I would go over to the Evans' house on any sort of flimsy pretext, put up with Mrs. Evans' sympathetic and terrified glances, just to sit near Isabel.

That year was the only year I passed all of my classes in school. I was too terrified of Isabel's rejection to try to kiss her, so we studied. Endless hours of her doing her homework and me watching her, looking at those green, green eyes that weren't really green at all.

**

I decided Isabel wasn't the girl for me about the time I decided that I liked the color green for another reason.

I liked the color green because it made me think of Ireland.

When I was fifteen, I was back to skipping school. I'd finally stopped drawing Isabel long enough to realize that she and I had very little in common. Whenever I brought up trying to find a way to go home, Isabel would change the subject. Or worse, she'd discuss it with me and then never do anything about it. I wanted someone who would share in my excitement-I wanted someone who would want answers too. Isabel was-she is-happy in Roswell.

When I was fifteen, I had to fill my days somehow. I watched tv for three months straight till I realized that I was doing exactly what Hank did when he had a day off from work.

I found my copy of Ulysses at a used book sale the library was running. It's an old copy, and the pages are yellowed and crisp. I bought the book because the preface said it had been banned in America once for lewdness.

Joyce's writing is fierce and strange, and I was hooked right away. I've read everything he wrote, though I still like Ulysses best. Joyce had a love-hate relationship with Ireland, and I can relate to that.

I read books about Ireland, looked at all the pictures of all those old rocks that tourists go to look at, looked at pictures of all those green fields and hills and valleys that are supposed to represent peace and happiness. And I thought of Joyce's writing-a scream against Ireland, for Ireland, and I thought I knew why green is my favorite color.

**

But today I realized why green is my favorite color.

Maria carries a little green bottle in her purse. She has all sort of oil and things in little bottles that she keeps all over her house, keeps with her.

The green bottle in her purse is her perfume. I saw her once, before I even ever talked to her, before she knew who I was. She had the little green bottle in her hand, and she shook it up, sniffed it. A few drops from the bottle on her fingers, and then shiny, glistening stuff on the skin of her neck.

I walked by her and she smelled like flowers and rain and soap and girl. I wanted to turn, to pull her into my arms and lick that spot on her neck, to inhale all that smell, all that fragrance, and let it sink inside me.

I didn't, of course, but when I went up to her the night of the Crash festival and "healed" her, I couldn't resist resting one of my fingers against her neck, just for a moment.

And later when I was stupid and lucky enough to touch her, I inhaled the smell of her-and I let it descend into me, let it fill all those little hollow places that live inside me. When the heatwave hit Roswell, and the December sun shone so hot and strong, the air was filled with the smell of her and I thought of the Sirens, and how they sat on their rocks and sang men, oh so sweetly, to their deaths.

I think of that little green bottle that she carries, of that scent she has that makes everything inside me feel awkward and strange and empty and full and angry and scared and happy and fearful...and I'm pretty sure I know why green is my color.