She nods now, with tears streaming down her cheeks. I feel a lump growing in my throat and realize I can’t take it anymore. I lift the remote and turn off the TV.
I stand up and turn on the spotlight above the painting that hangs over the stone sofa. I’ve been studying it a lot lately. At first I thought I was trying to understand it from an artistic perspective. But now I realize it’s something more. I think that if I stare at it long enough or hard enough, I might actually figure out who my dad really is and why he couldn’t get it together with his family. But it’s not working.
The painting consists of about five colors. Mostly black and white swirls and splatters, with a few splashes of blue and red and yellow on top. I guess it’s an abstract, which is probably why it doesn’t make any sense to me. Then there’s this shiny red ball in the lower left-hand corner. But what does it mean? Does it mean that the world is a squiggly, mixed-up mess of color and darkness and light? Is the red ball in the corner symbolic of something? My dad? His pain? His heart? What???
After looking at this frustrating painting for a while, my head begins to throb. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m thinking so hard or because my eyes are just getting strained from trying to untangle the mess. Finally I just look away and my eyes thank me. I haven’t done any better with his other paintings or even his sculpture. The bronze piece that sits on the table in the hallway appears to be something between a horse, a dog, and a man, although it’s all conglomerated together in one big mesh of metal. Everything my dad created appears to be tangled and twisted and mixed up and messy. What does it mean?
If my dad was around I could ask him. And I could ask him to explain what he was thinking when he made these frustrating images. And what was he thinking when he walked out of our lives and never came back. And what I am supposed to do with my messed up life now. I wonder if my dad was painting about me and my life. Maybe he was a prophet. Maybe he knew that I was going to turn out to be a mess. Or maybe I’m just like him.
I consider asking my mom some questions about my dad, but then I remember the last time I asked. I was about twelve and curious about my roots. But my questions eventually drove my mom to tears and I never really did get to the bottom of it. Finally, I just gave up and promised myself to never do that again. Still, I wonder. I even consider writing him a letter. I could pour out my heart to him and send it—where? I wouldn’t have a clue. I wonder if I should go online and see if I can find him. But what if he doesn’t want to be found? What if he rejects me —again? I don’t think I could handle it. It might ruin me for life.
I grab up the remote, hurrying to turn Dr. Bill back on, since I realize now that I desperately need to know what he was saying to those poor fatherless women. But it’s too late, the dorky end-of-the-show music is already playing and he’s winding down. I chastise myself for turning it off too soon. I might’ve actually learned something useful.
I watch as Dr. Bill talks about tomorrow’s show, but I mute the sound now and I study this small, slightly bald middle-aged guy with kind blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and I wonder what it would be like to have a dad like that. I imagine Dr. Bill coming home from work and asking me about my day. I would tell him everything about Jordan dumping me and how my life sucks, and I’m sure he would hug me and come up with all the perfect answers. I’m sure he could put me all back together again. I actually toy with the idea of writing Dr. Bill a letter and asking him if he will adopt me, although I realize it’s ridiculous. I’m too old for that sort of thing and I’m sure it would hurt my mom’s feelings. Besides, he probably gets thousands of letters like that every single day. I would be just one more hopeless loser, lost in the great big pile of pitiful.
My week continues, one boring day following the next. Nothing seems to change and nothing gets any better. I’ve become an expert at avoiding Jordan and her ridiculous friends. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks about me anymore. Does she think that I have simply vanished? Or perhaps transferred to another school? Or died of a broken heart? Does she even care?
I saw Jordan’s dad picking her up at school one afternoon. He was standing next to their old silver Volvo station wagon and waving. For a minute I actually thought he was waving at me. I think I might’ve even lifted my hand to wave back at him. But then I noticed Jordan running down the other side of the steps to meet him. Naturally, she completely ignored me. Okay, maybe she didn’t even see me. I realize how good I’ve been getting at making myself invisible. Jordan’s dad gave her a big bear hug then ceremoniously opened the passenger door and, like a little princess, she just hopped in. It looked like they were going off to do something really great. I tried not to let myself think about that though. I have enough pain in my life without consciously inviting more.
I have a new habit now. I watch Dr. Bill every day after school. I hurry home and turn on the TV and pretend that he’s really my dad. I feel quite proud of him as I watch him helping all these crazy, whacked-out people. Who knew there were so many nutcases in this country? Dr. Bill probably has guests lined up until 2073.
Then, during commercial breaks, I imagine Dr. Bill getting a milkshake with me, or teaching me to drive. I envision him taking me to the DMV to get my driver’s license. I imagine him giving me a gold charm bracelet for my birthday and coming to my graduation. I can see him giving me away at my wedding, wiping a tear from his eye as he tells me I’m the prettiest girl in the world.
I know that other people would think I am totally nuts if they knew about my new Dr. Bill obsession, and I would never admit it to anyone, but for some reason it makes me feel a little bit better about my life.
fifteen
IT’S BEEN A TOTALLY CRUDDY DAY TODAY. AND IT DOESN’T HELP KNOWING that it’s Jordan’s birthday. Her sixteenth too! But, naturally, this has nothing to do with me. Why would I even imagine it would? Of course, I have NOT been invited by her or her family to participate in any birthday celebrations or activities. Even though I’ve always been there, smiling and singing to her, for the last ten years. I remember how Jordan always swore that she’d get her driver’s license on her birthday. Well, I hope beyond hope that she fails big time today. I think I will cross my fingers all afternoon as I imagine her ramming her dad’s Volvo right into the fire hydrant on Main Street. And I hope she gets that really mean driving-test lady, the one who dyes her hair a different color every week. I can just imagine that woman swearing at her as she leaps out of the car and gets soaking wet. That will show her.
I try to push my vindictive thoughts about Jordan from my mind as I go up the stairs to the apartment. I know that Dr. Bill would say that this kind of thinking is not healthy. As usual, no one’s at home when I unlock the door. Bree has her soccer and Mom doesn’t get off work until five. Normally, this absence of family spectators is a relief to me. It’s my chance to sit down with Dr. Bill and just veg out for a couple of hours. But for some reason my home just feels lonelier than usual today.
Besides feeling lonely, I realize that I’m also hungry, which is rather interesting since I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. But for some reason I feel absolutely ravenous today. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m finally getting over this whole stupid Jordan thing. I hope so.
Before turning on the TV, I head for the kitchen and start out, innocently enough, by quickly snarfing down the remnants of a bag of tortilla chips that were left sitting on the counter. Still not satisfied, I head for the refrigerator. I quickly concoct a sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pour a tall glass of milk. But in no time I have devoured these and still feel hungry.
I peel and eat a banana as I gaze blankly into the freezer compartment. Finally I spy what appears to be a carton of Goo Goo Cluster ice cream tucked way in the back. It is neatly hidden behind a bag of frozen peas. I’m fairly certain that this is the work of my greedy little sister. I retrieve the carton and open it up to find there’s about a quarter of the sweet, sticky substance left. Then, instead of putting some in a bow
l like a civilized person, I simply stick in a big spoon and head for the TV.
Mad at myself for missing the beginning of my favorite show, I flop down on the stone sofa and turn on the TV. Dr. Bill is talking to this really obese blonde. He looks really intense and as I eat my ice cream I lean forward to listen better. Today’s topic is morbid obesity (that means you’re fat enough to actually die from it, or perhaps from a side effect of it, I can’t really remember). But all of his guests look like they weigh at least four or five hundred pounds. I wonder how they got there. Do they fly in a regular commercial airplane? Or do they have to make some kind of special arrangements to accommodate their size? I stare at these overly large people, mostly women, with a weird mix of pity and fascination. I am amazed that they would go on national television looking like that. But more than that, I wonder, how does a person actually let themselves go that far? Don’t they ever look in the mirror?
“I eat when I’m sad,” says the heavy blonde with the pretty blue eyes. Her pale arms are so flabby that they look like they’re literally pouring out of her bright red tent dress.
“I eat when I’m lonely,” says another heavy woman. She has short, dark hair and her face is so fat that I can’t even make out her neck and chin. It’s just like one big heap of flesh emerging from the neck of her blouse. Of course, she has facial features, but even those look unreal, as if they’ve been painted on. It’s hard for me to imagine that there’s a real live person living inside that enormous bulk of body.
“Food is my friend,” she continues in a dead-serious voice. “It never lets me down. It never hurts or disappoints me.”
“But it does make you fat,” drawls Dr. Bill in that no-nonsense southern drawl that I’ve come to love.
“That’s true,” she says sadly.
“So, I gotta ask, how’s that working for you?” he says. I smile at this question. It’s a Dr. Bill favorite.
She shakes her head, causing the loose skin around her neck to jiggle like a warm bowl of tapioca pudding. “Not so well, I guess.”
“So tell me, when did you first start putting on the weight?” he asks both of the women, speaking more gently now, like he’s trying to ease the answer out of them. “I want you both to try to remember the specific time when food and weight first started becoming a real problem for you.”
“It was back when I was a teenager,” the blonde finally says. “I was really sad because my best friend had moved away, and I was so lonely that I just started to eat. I realize now that it was mostly sweets and carbohydrates. But it was so satisfying. Food just seemed to make my troubles melt away. It always made me feel—”
But before that woman can finish another sentence, I grab up the remote and turn off the TV. For a long time I sit staring at the blank TV screen and then I look down at the empty carton of ice cream still sitting in my lap. I feel slightly stunned as I consider my binge. And suddenly I want to gag myself and simply throw up. But I know enough about bulimia to realize that’s not such a great idea either. What is wrong with me?
Totally disgusted with myself, I get up and head for the kitchen thinking that I’m probably going to turn out just like those poor women on Dr. Bill’s show. Maybe I already have. I pause by the mirror near the front door, but I’m almost afraid to look. Finally I do, bracing myself.
But I look just the same as always. Same face, same hair, same hopeless expression.
“What in the world is wrong with you?” I demand as I stare at my pitiful image. I shake my finger in my face. “You better watch out, Kara!” But even as I’m looking I can imagine myself growing bigger and bigger. Just like that little girl who turns into a giant blueberry in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I can see myself eating and eating until I look exactly like those ladies. And for the first time, I think I can really understand how things like that can actually happen to real people. And for the first time, I realize something like that could actually happen to me. It might already be happening! And the mere idea of it is chilling.
I throw away the empty ice-cream carton and go straight to my room. I quickly change into my sweats and running shoes, barely bothering to tie them properly. There’s no time to waste. Okay, I realize there’s nothing I can do about what I’ve already consumed, but at least I can try to work some of those calories off.
And yet I feel slow and sluggish and fat as I plod through town. I am jogging more than running now, and before long my bloated stomach begins to complain. I stop and simply walk for a while. Clutching my aching middle, I head for the park, seriously hoping that I’m not about to hurl. Not that I wouldn’t mind losing all the crud that I consumed earlier. But the park is fairly crowded just now. There are kids playing soccer and people walking dogs and moms with little kids, and for whatever reason I just don’t care to make a complete fool of myself today.
I go down to the duck pond and flop my out-of-shape self onto the cement bench. I try to breathe deeply, trying to calm my upset and overtaxed digestive system. I watch the ducks going in and out of the water. Some waddle over and peer curiously at me, hoping, I’m sure, that I might have some handouts for them. I feel ashamed to think of that bag of chips that I selfishly inhaled about an hour ago. I could’ve brought it down here to my little duck friends.
“Next time,” I promise them. “I’ll bring you something really good next time.” I watch the big mallard, who keeps looking at me from the corner of his eye, almost like he’s flirting with me. I think I’d like to give him a name. Maybe I’ll call him Henry. Perhaps I’ll name all of these ducks. I begin thinking of good names. I like the sound of Gladys and Orville and Gertrude for my fine feathered friends.
But then I realize that these ducks, like everyone else in the rest of the world, already have their own circle of friends. And, most likely, I wouldn’t be welcome in their crowd either. I bend over and put my head in my hands, the defeated posture of a social wreck, a true reject, a total loser.
And I wonder if I will ever fit into life again.
sixteen
IT SEEMS LIKE EVERYONE AT SCHOOL IS OBSESSED WITH THE HARVEST Dance this year. It’s at the end of the week and posters are plastered everywhere. I’ve heard through the grapevine that Jordan is going with Caleb Andrews. Caleb’s a really good-looking junior who’s part jock and part academic. I’m sure that Jordan must be feeling pretty pleased with herself right now.
I actually made a couple more feeble attempts to get Jeremy Thatcher’s attention this week, but it’s utterly hopeless. Maybe I should’ve focused my efforts on someone less inhibited than poor Jeremy. Now I’m afraid it’s too late. Why I even want to go to this stupid dance is way beyond me. I think I must simply be a glutton for punishment. Or maybe it’s just that the feeling of being left out of absolutely everything is really bumming me out.
As it turns out, even Amy and her motley group of friends have decided to go to the dance together.
“We’re going to be crashers,” says Amy with a twinkle in her eye. “We’ll dress up really cool and come late and then just rock out until we’ve had enough. Then we’ll split. It’ll be cool.”
“You mean you’re not going to show up with your new college boyfriend?” teases Felicia at lunchtime on Thursday.
Amy narrows her eyes. “I told you, Leon doesn’t know that I’m still in high school.” She says this in a fairly uptight voice, and Felicia looks taken aback.
“How about you, Kara?” asks Felicia.
“Huh?” I look up from my current project. It’s a watercolor painting that’s not working out as well as I’d hoped. It’s supposed to be a tree behind a pond, but it’s looking more like a bush growing out of a mud puddle.
“She’s asking if you’re going to the dance,” says Amy, as if she’s a translator. Then she licks the tip of her drawing pencil and eyes me carefully. “So, are you?”
I shake my head and say, “Nah,” then return my attention to rinsing out my paintbrush.
“Why not?” demands Amy.
I look up at her and vaguely wonder what the correct answer to her impertinent question is supposed to be. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “Probably because no one has asked me.”
“You can go with us,” Amy says quickly.
I try to imagine myself with Amy and her wild friends. I feel pretty sure they’ll be getting high before “crashing” the dance. “Thanks,” I tell her. “But that’s okay.”
“Too good for us?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow in that intimidating way of hers.
I shake my head. “That’s not it. We’re just different, you know. I’m sure you guys will have a really great time. But I just don’t want to—”
“Why don’t you go with me?” says Edgar. I think that’s the first thing he’s said today.
“Huh?” I look at him incredulously. Did he really just say what I think he said? Judging by his expression, he probably did. Still, I cannot for the life of me imagine going to a dance, or anywhere else for that matter, with Edgar Peebles. It’s not that I’m a snob really. At least I hope not. But everyone has to draw their line somewhere.
“Why don’t we go to the dance together, Kara?” he tries again. “It doesn’t need to be like a real date. We could just go together. Sort of like Felicia and Aaron, you know?”
I stare at him and hope I don’t look too horrified. “Oh, I don’t know, Edgar. I don’t really think—”
“Why not?” demands Amy. “You guys should just go and have fun.”
“But I—”
“I know what you’re thinking, Kara,” says Amy as she suddenly stands up and goes over to where Edgar is sitting at the end of the table. “You’re thinking what we’re all thinking. You’re thinking that Edgar is a geek.” She pats him affectionately on the head. “Sorry, Edgar, but it’s the truth.”
He makes a funny face then just shrugs. “Yeah, I know.”
I feel horrible for Edgar now. So much so that I almost feel like saying I’ll go to the dance with him. But honestly, I can only push myself so far.
Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content Page 9