Through Indigo's Eyes (8 page)

No one was in the library. I went immediately to the literature section and pulled out a book on the feminist movement. I had to do a comparison study for the novel we were reading in class,
The Handmaid's Tale
, by Margaret Atwood. It was a dystopian novel about the oppression of women and almost a warning to women about being complacent. It was also about indifference. Or at least that was my take on it.

I took the book back to a table and sat down to copy out a few notes for my essay on women being oppressed. My pen scratching on the paper was the only noise in the library until I heard footsteps.

Without looking up, I kept scrawling.

“Indigo.” The familiar buttery voice made me jump.

“So I see you've scooped the book I wanted.” John seemed to glide into the chair that was across from me, stretching out his long legs like life was just one easy movement. I glanced at him, allowing my hair to fall in front of my face. Even in the morning he looked hot, with his thick hair falling across his forehead and his hazel eyes appearing deep and brooding. I detected the familiar musky smell of man's soap and cigarettes. “I'm almost done with it,” I managed to stammer as I continued writing.

He pulled out a book from his backpack. “I'll wait.”

I snuck a glance to see it was. I shuddered when I saw it was that
Sleeping Prophet
book again. But looking at it also made me remember the party and how we had stood on the back deck, under the full moon, and shared a cigarette.

“Are you reading that for some class?” I tried to ask nonchalantly as I kept my pen moving. I hoped he couldn't hear my voice tremble.

“Started off reading it for psychology, but now I'm reading it strictly for pleasure,” he replied.

“Did you enjoy
The Handmaid's Tale
?”

“Yeah. I like Atwood. She's deep, and her work can be discussed on a lot of levels. I liked how she made me think about complacency and how if you just trust that everything will always be the same, you risk losing everything. There are so many complacent people in our society, and to me complacency breeds mediocrity. Do you want to just be mediocre? Or do you want to do something with your life that will help the world?”

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life. Was I just going to be someone who did nothing, who as John said, was “mediocre”? Just recently a teacher had told me that I would never amount to anything.

“I liked her message about oppression,” I said. “I'm looking at the feminist movement and how it has helped many women, but there are still countries today where women are oppressed.” I finished writing and passed him the book, surprised that I had actually shared my thoughts with him.

“It's all yours,” I said.

He pulled the book across the table toward his open binder. “I like your topic,” he said. “Hey, do you take pysch?”

I shook my head. “Nope.” There was no way I'd take psychology, even though my mom thought I should because it could have boosted my GPA. I probably knew more than the teacher from all my visits to doctors.

“It's a cool subject. And easy. Good GPA booster.”

“So I've heard.”

“Too bad you don't take it. I need some help.”

I eyed him, checking to see if he was mocking me, like he did on Saturday night after I had taken a drag of his cigarette, but I detected none of that. Was he actually asking
me
for help? “Sorry,” I replied.

He tapped his pen on the table. “It's a full-year course, and there are two midterms, two exams, and a huge paper due sometime in January. I want to do it on Edgar Cayce and how he had visions that came true. I want to compare him to Sigmund Freud. But it's a stretch, and maybe there isn't a basis for the comparison. Maybe I should just write on Cayce.”

I shut my book. “January is forever away.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I'll probably read the books I
like
for months, then write the paper the night before.”

“I don't think I can help. I haven't heard of him.”

“Freud?”

“Of course I've heard of Freud. I'm talking about Cayce.”

This time he smirked instead of grinning. “You already told me you didn't know him on Saturday night. At the party. Remember? Or has the entire night escaped your memory?”

Had he heard about me getting drunk? Perhaps he had been at the party all night. Up in a bedroom somewhere. “Of course I remember,” I replied. To change the subject, I started putting my books in my backpack.

“If you want to know more about him, I can lend you my book.”

“That's okay,” I replied. “You need to finish it first.”

Why was he talking to me about this? Did he know something about me?

He leaned back in his chair, rocking it so he was balancing on the rear legs. “It's kind of unbelievable how he did it.”

“Did what?”

He snapped the chair forward. Then he leaned toward me, his dark hair flipping across his forehead, his warm breath swirling in front of me. All I wanted to do was reach across the table and touch him. Feel his hair. Run my fingers through it. Touch his skin. Feel the stubble on his chin. Have it caress my fingertips. I wanted to be back on the porch with him when he stroked my hair, only this time, I wanted him to pull me close to his body. Or … I wanted him to lean across the table and kiss me. Right here in the library.

But he continued talking. “Had visions that came true. He was able to heal people of illnesses by seeing what was wrong when he was miles away from them. All he needed was a name. Do you know how utterly amazing and unbelievable that is?”

The heat in the room had risen to well over a hundred degrees, I was sure. I felt like I was sitting outside on a humid summer day. Sweat dripped under my shirt, and I could feel it running down my body. Was my face as red as it felt?

I wished he would stop talking about this stuff. And just focus on me. Look me in the eyes, and put his finger on my cheek and keep it there.

What he was talking about was too close to home. I felt like I should leave, get out of the library. But I couldn't move. It was as if he'd sucked me into a circle of energy that surrounded him. I wanted him to forget about schoolwork and ask me if I would share his cigarette.

“I would stick to doing your paper on Freud,” I muttered. “That Cayce guy is probably not legit.” I stammered when I talked.

“How do you know?” He stared at me, his eyes locking on mine. Stared. Without blinking. Just staring. His pupils were like deep, inky pools. I stared back, unable to look away from the wells of darkness.

Then he whispered, his voice husky and low, “You just said you don't know who he is.” His words came out slowly, direct and almost critical.

I had to do something. Move. Shift. Anything. He was making me uncomfortable, but he had this hold on me. Then without thinking, without analyzing my words, I blurted out, “Well, he sounds like a flake.” Then I pushed my chair away from the table.

And John moved his chair, too. Space hung between us. I'd ruined the moment.

With extreme coolness, he leaned back again, crossed his arms, tilted his head, and said, “You're judging the guy before you know anything about him? That's a bit presumptuous, Indigo Russell.”

The tone of his voice confused me. Was he simply teasing me or deriding me? I was reminded of his comment about me being innocent. Was that how he viewed me? I didn't want him to think of me like that; I wanted to be his equal. Not a handmaid.

“I'm not judging,” I said softly.

“Then what are you doing?”

I twirled my pen. “Expressing my opinion.”

He nodded, slowly. Then one corner of his mouth lifted. “I like that.”

Silence passed between us, the air still but the electricity hovering like a circling helicopter looking for something in the deep, dark woods. He broke the hush by tapping his pen on the table again.

“Cayce is an interesting study,” he said. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or to himself.

But then he looked at me, and I figured I was in the conversation. “I mean, you must think about these things,” he continued. “Right?”

I shrugged.

He continued, “Is there a world outside of us that we can't see but people like Cayce can? He went into trances, you know.”

I lowered my head, just slightly, and tucked my hair behind my ear. Again, I had this strong impulse to move, get away from this conversation, so I slipped my jean jacket on, and picked up my backpack and placed it on my lap. John was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't even notice I was getting ready to bolt.

He continued talking as if I weren't even there. “It's surreal.”

I stood. “I gotta go. I can't be late again. See you in class.”

With my backpack flapping against my legs, I left the library as quickly as I could.

The morning dragged. I couldn't stop thinking about John and his obsession with Edgar Cayce. We had books on him at home, but I had never read them; they were collecting dust in our den, a room I barely entered. I think Dr. Z had given my mom one. I had never read it because I just wasn't interested.

What would John say if he knew I had visions?

He mustn't find out.

He thinks Cayce is so fascinating but if he met the man in real life, he'd probably think he was freaky.

I caught up with Lacey just before lunch.

“You buying today?” she asked.

“Yeah. You?” I shut my locker door.

“Nah.” She shook her head and looked like she was going to cry.

“Hey,” I said softly. “What's wrong?”

“It's just this whole Burke thing.” Lacey's voice trembled. “It's like everyone in school is talking about it.”

When she looked at me, my heart ached, my arms and legs felt heavy, and my temples throbbed. I was feeling her pain. Her usually shining eyes were dull, and her radiant smile was gone.

“I need to tell you something,” I said quietly.

As I opened my mouth to speak, I saw Burke strutting down the hallway toward us. He grinned at me and put his finger to his lips to shush me. He tiptoed up behind Lacey, put his hands over her eyes, and whispered in her ear, “Guess who?”

She turned and looked up at him, her eyes greeting his with adoration. Burke touched Lacey's face so tenderly I had to glance down.

“I'll catch you later,” I muttered.

I turned my back on the lovebirds and walked away.

 

Chapter Five

The bell rang to end school. I don't remember walking to my locker, because my mind was so caught up in figuring out how to tell Lacey about my vision. I thought maybe I should read some of Morrison's poetry for help; perhaps he had written something that could make her understand the pain. He wrote a lot about pain. He also wrote about freedom. I liked his “The Opening of the Trunk” poem. It talked about inner freedom and opening the mind so the soul could wander. Maybe Lacey just needed to open up, and maybe her soul would realize that Burke was not good for her. If I did tell her, I had to be sensitive but honest, and then I wondered why I was thinking about telling her after they had looked so happy at lunch.

Because you're not normal, that's why.

What if she did have sex with him and found out afterward that he had been cheating on her? That would crush her completely. I had to tell her before they went all the way. I inhaled a huge breath of stale school air. I realized there was no way to make this go over well, but I had to do it anyway.

So, lost in thought, I was brought back to reality when I felt the bump.

“Hey, Indie.” John was standing beside me. “You walk fast.”

His shoulder rubbed against mine, the stimulating touch was enough to slow my steps. He fell into step beside me. “I'm finished with this Cayce book. I thought you might want to read it.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and saw he was serious. Had I expressed some interest in this? I thought I had been clear that none of this stuff was on my radar. Nor did I want it to be. All I said in return was, “Oh.”