Through Indigo's Eyes (9 page)

He pulled the book out of the back pocket of his jeans, and when he passed it to me, our hands touched. There was that feeling again, the one that ran through my entire body like a jolt from an electrical storm. I loved the electrical storms that sometimes happened in Ottawa and the blinding rain that followed. I loved rain. Loved standing outside with my coat off, having the droplets run down my face.

“Don't worry about dog-earing any interesting pages,” he said. “I got it at a used book sale.”

“Sure,” I said. Then I smiled at him. “If I get a seat, maybe I can read it on the bus.”

“Yeah, let me know what you …” He let the end of his sentence trail off, raked his hand through his thick locks of hair, and exhaled, creating an odd noise I'd never heard come from him before.

Something about his raspy breathing and the sudden slouch of his usually straight shoulders made my body take on extra weight, like a barbell had been placed on my shoulders. His calm and cool demeanor receded, revealing a vulnerability that I'd never seen in him before. In that moment, I ached along with him, but for what—I had no idea. At a time like this, I wanted to see something, a snapshot to tell me what was bothering him. But all I could hear was him breathing and the end-of-school-day hallway noise. It all sounded so loud. And the pain I was feeling for him was so real, so intense. Why couldn't I focus? It was almost as if my pain for him overshadowed my ability to see what was wrong. But something troubled him. I knew that much.

He looked down at the floor and kicked a piece of mud before he said, “I gotta go. Enjoy the book.”

Then he turned and left.

I watched him walk away, his steps heavy, his confident stride replaced with trudging tracks. I wanted to run after him, try to make him feel better.

But I didn't.

I knew he wouldn't let me in. Not yet, anyway.

I gathered my books and headed outside to my bus stop. It was a very gloomy day; clouds stalked the sky, and the sun didn't have a hope. It was that typical fall day that made you feel that winter was just around the corner. I did manage to get a window seat on the bus, but I didn't pull out the Cayce book. Instead I stared out the window at the drab gray clouds that hung low in the sky. Sometimes by Halloween there was snow. The darkness of the sky sheathed me in a damp cold. I sat alone with an empty seat beside me. In my mind, I replayed John's hushed voice and how it seemed to crack, his slouched shoulders and loud sighs.

The bus lurched to a stop, and the doors opened, letting in a gust of cold air. I hunkered in my seat and once again stared out the window. Three stops before mine, I saw the man enter, talking animatedly to himself.
He
would sit beside me. They always did—the ones with mental issues. A part of me wanted to get up, but I couldn't do that to the guy. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Sure enough, he sat beside me and continued to babble. I didn't respond to him, but I also didn't try to shut him out.

When I got off the bus, I walked home with my head down. My legs were so heavy; they made my feet hard to lift. I was exhausted. I was always so tired after I sat beside someone like that guy—it was as if he sapped all my energy in just one bus ride. I knew if I were to lie down on my bed, I would fall asleep for hours. Sometimes, when I felt like this, I could sleep for 17 hours straight. To ease my tiredness, I shifted my focus to John. Everything about his body language had said he was headed someplace he didn't want to go.

But where?

My feelings for him were growing, and the mystery darkening him increased my obsession. I wanted to know everything about him. We were close to forging something, but not close enough. I wanted him to touch my hair again, and I wanted him to kiss me. How was I going to let him know that I liked him? Perhaps I could take the easy way out. Get Lacey to give him a note for me. What did I have to lose?

The wind whipped my hair around my face. I was in my last year of high school. Who cared about my reputation? I pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth, wondering about Burke's question about the future. What
was
I going to do next year? Some of my friends were planning on traveling, some were going to get jobs and work full-time so they could move out on their own, and a few others were planning to go on to college and university. But I had no plans, no idea what should come next. My grades weren't great, and I had no real skills.

Was I indifferent? Like the theme in
The Handmaid's Tale
? The math and science teachers often said I was indifferent to my education. I think I might have been labeled indifferent since I'd started school. How sad was that?

School wasn't my thing. That I knew. I'd almost failed grade four. What normal kid does that? Because I didn't speak, they thought I was a slow learner. I sat in the middle of the third row, daydreaming about living in some faraway fantasy land that wasn't earth.

“Indigo, you need to do your work.” The teacher would come down the aisle and stop right in front of my desk. “You haven't even started. When were you going to get busy on this?”

I didn't answer. I looked down at the paper and all the numbers. What if I answered and somehow the kids found out I was different and that I saw dead people in my room, saw things before they even happened? They would laugh at me. Or run away from me. Look what had happened with my hamster, Teresa. Anna was traumatized, and she never came over again. Halfway through grade four, my parents were called in to see the teacher. Later that night, I heard them talking in the kitchen: the teacher wanted to fail me because I didn't talk.

Back then Lacey was the only constant in my life. She knew about my visions and stuck with me.

My steps slowed. Lacey. Lacey.

I'm so sorry, Lacey.

Snapshots of Lacey and me riding bikes, braiding our hair, and playing outside until the streetlights came on flashed through my head until I rounded the corner to my house. I knew we were drifting apart and had different interests, but we'd always been friends. I trusted her, and she trusted me to tell the truth.

Once I was home, I headed straight to my room and closed the door. Without taking off my jean jacket, I lay down on my bed. My room had always given me some sort of peace. Even when I was little, it was as if my bed had been my protector, a safe place to go to escape the craziness of my world. Of course, this was all so ironic. I hated feeling caged, yet I liked my room, which was a box with walls. Go figure.

You're so weird, Indie.

For a while, I lay quiet on my bed, thinking about way too many things.

What was I going to say to Lacey?

What was on John's mind when he left like that? Should I write him a note?

What was I going to say to Lacey?

Why was I crazy?

What was I going to say to Lacey?

I slowly sat up. Maybe playing the guitar would help. I pulled it out from under my bed and started to strum and sing random words that I tried to piece together to make a song that we could use with our band. It would be fun to get that going again. I strummed and sang:

Problem after problem,
Hurt after tears.
It's never going to go away,
That's what I fear.

I stopped singing. Today my words made no sense, and I didn't want to think about fear. I put the guitar away. I wasn't good anyway. And I was dog tired.

I stayed in my room, under my covers, until my mom called me for dinner. At the dinner table, I picked at my meat and pushed my potatoes around. She gave me a concerned look from across the table, so I sat up and shoveled some corn into my mouth. I did not want her coming to my room tonight asking questions, and she had that look that said she might. I refused to make further eye contact. When dinner ended, I helped with the dishes, all the while making small talk so she wouldn't pick up on my mood. When we were done, I begged off from any more conversation and headed down the hall to my room. Once in, I shut the door. Tightly.

I put on music and tried to listen to the lyrics for inspiration. Nothing helped take away the chill that I was now feeling. I wore two shirts, a sweater, socks, and sweatpants. My stomach ached, my head throbbed, and I kept glancing at the clock. I had to wait until nine to call Lacey. I knew she was out with Burke.

At least five times, I flopped down on my bed because I couldn't concentrate on anything but what I would say to Lacey. When I heard the beep on my clock radio, telling me it was nine, I sighed. I ran through my lines one more time before I punched in her number. She sounded breathless when she answered.

“Did you just get home?” I asked.

“Yeah. Literally like a minute ago,” she puffed.

“Can you talk?”

“Give me a sec.”

From the crashing sound, I guessed she had thrown her pink phone on her night table. The seconds ticked by, and they matched my beating heart. A delay was not what I needed or wanted. I heard a few more indistinct sounds, then finally her voice again. “Okay,” she said. “I'm good.” Although I couldn't see her, I knew Lacey had plopped onto her bed and was lying back on the pile of cushions and pillows that adorned it.

“I have something to tell you,” I said. No sense stalling. I'd stalled long enough.

“Are you seriously going after John?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I saw you talking to him in the hallway today,” she continued. “Indie, I swear he likes you. I'm not his biggest fan, but hey, you like him, and that's all that maters. I want to see you happy, girlfriend.”

“I don't know about that, but I want to tell him I like him.”

“Then tell him.”

“I was thinking of passing him a note.”

“A note? Like we used to do in grade seven?”

“Okay, so dumb idea.”

“Not at all. At least he'd know. I'll do it for you.”

“Yeah, at least he'd know,” I said slowly. “And then I'd find out if he likes me back.” I paused. Life was about truth. Lacey deserved the truth. “I have something to tell you,” I said.

“‘Kay.” She paused. “Tell me what you have to tell me, then I have something super important to tell you.” She giggled. “But you go first.”

I breathed, swallowed, exhaled, then sucked in another big breath.

“Hurry up!” Lacey sounded so upbeat, but also really impatient. “What I have to tell you is so—just so amazing.”

“I had a vision,” I blurted out.

“Oh! Cool. Am I marrying Burke?”

“Not exactly.”

“Okay. We got engaged, and he gave me a big diamond?”

Why was she talking like this? “You're only in high school. Do you really want to get married?”

“Burke and I are thinking of applying to the same university. We could live together. Lots of couples do that.”

“But you're only seventeen.” Sometimes Lacey exasperated me. She was not a person to think anything through, unlike me. I thought everything through to the last minute detail and then did nothing about it.

“We will be eighteen by then. Anyway, love isn't about age.”

I tried to absorb her words—well, one word, really, the word
love
, which caused me to pause for a moment. She was madly in love with a guy who cheated on her. I decided to go for it so I spit out, “Listen … I'm so sorry, Lacey, but I saw him with Amber McKinnon before it happened.”

The phone went silent, although I could still hear her breathing. Then, very slowly, she said, “Before it happened?”

“Yes.”

“You mean you saw it in one of your visions?”

“Yes.”

“When did you have this
vision
?”

“A few days before the party.”

“So why are you just telling me about it now?”

“I don't know.” I stumbled over my words. “I didn't want to hurt you—”

“Hurt me? And what you're doing now isn't hurting me? Do you have proof? Besides your
vision
?” Again she said the word like it was poisonous.

“Not really. But at the party they were standing together, and Amber had her fingers in his belt loop.”

“For gawd's sake, Indie! That is not making out. Burke and Amber went to the same elementary school. They've known each other for years, and they're friends.”

“She looked like she wanted to be more than friends,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I'd really blown this.

“That's Amber. She's like that with every guy.”

“I know. That's my point.”

“Did you see them together in
real life
?” Her words were pointed and very sarcastic.

“Not completely. But she was leaning on him, if you know what I mean.”

“Burke would never, ever sleep with her, no matter how hard she tried to get him into bed.”

“What if they just made out a bit?”

She sucked in a sharp breath before she quickly said, “Made out a bit? Indie, making out is not standing beside each other. Well, maybe it is in your books, because you know nothing about guys. You've never even had a boyfriend.”

Her words stung, but I was not going to react to the comment. “My vision was very real,” I mumbled.

“Real? Are you freaking kidding me? You've lost your mind. Listen to me. Nothing—and I mean
nothing
—happened.” Her voice came out like static, clipped and purposeful.

“I think something did happen,” I whispered.

“You think! What do you mean you think? You either know, or you don't. And if you only
think
, then you don't know.”

“Okay,” I said. Confrontation was my worst enemy. I had told her, and now it was time to back off. Self-doubt crept into my mind. Maybe my vision was whacked. Maybe I was just a lunatic, like that Cayce guy. Did everything he saw come true?

“You know, Indie, I've always been your friend and never cared that you were different.”

My stomach churned, and my hands started to shake. I had ruined the one true friendship I had. And for what? A stupid vision that may or may not be true.