by Tara Taylor
I thought of Amber’s fingers secured into Burke’s belt loops. I vaguely remember Sarah saying something, too.
And then, of course, there were my visions, as Lacey had just pointed out. But she wouldn’t want to know about the one I had about Burke and Amber, that was for sure.
“I know Burke would never cheat on me,” said Lacey. “We’re incredibly close. Maybe I should just do it with him, because when you love someone, it is a beautiful expression.” Her last line was said more to herself than to me.
“Don’t just do it to do it,” I replied.
“I won’t.”
“Do it when it feels right.”
Lacey snorted. “Are you giving me advice on guys?”
“Hardly.”
“I trust Burke, and no one is going to make me doubt him. I want him to be my first.”
How to reply? I guessed I could own up to my vision. But she probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway. Maybe Burke wouldn’t do it again. Maybe it was a one-time thing that Lacey didn’t need to know about. The guy had given me a ride home, and he had been so nice. Deep down, Lacey had to know something was wrong between her and Burke. Didn’t she? Was it my place to tell her?
When I hung up the phone, I pressed my head back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling. This was when my visions really confused me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with them.
Tell me what to do. Please.
I didn’t want to be a bad friend. If it were true about Burke, she didn’t deserve to have a boyfriend who cheated on her. But then I also didn’t want to tell her something that wasn’t true. Cold swirled around me as if a sudden flash of winter wind had arrived in my room unannounced. I shivered uncontrollably, goose bumps sprouting all over my body. I slid under my covers, wrapping my arms around my body. Even with my blankets pulled up under my chin, I couldn’t get warm.
Why do I have to be cursed?
I closed my eyes, hoping that I could go back to sleep. But the sun shone so brightly that I could see it and feel it even with my eyes closed. With a huge moan, I got out of bed to pull my curtains shut. Our in-ground pool still had water in it, and the sun bounced along the surface, creating sparkles that momentarily blinded me and made my head throb. I shielded my eyes.
Indie, no one can figure out anything about you.
My stomach heaved. I closed my curtains and crawled back into bed. My head was buried under my covers, and I was almost asleep when the door banged open.
“Okay, miss. That was your one get-out-of-jail-free card. You’re lucky your father isn’t home. You know how he feels about drinking underage. I don’t want to ever see you like that again.” My mother stalked into my room and flung open the curtains I had just shut.
“Don’t open the curtains.” I rolled over to face the wall, the covers still over my head.
“I need you to help clean the pool.”
“Now?”
“Not this exact minute but soon.”
“Can’t Brian do it?”
“You are both working today.”
My mom sat down on the end of my bed. She was quiet for a moment. Then, in one gentle swoop, she drew the bedcovers off my head. She placed her warm palm on my cheek and asked, “Do you want to talk about anything?” Her voice had lost its edge.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mom, I’m fine.” I rolled away from her and closed my eyes.
“You mentioned a boy last night. Were you drinking with him?”
“No!”
She stood up and walked toward the door. “Well, if you’re fine, then I definitely want you to help with the pool.”
The door slammed, and I groaned. Fine. What a word. Was I fine? Hardly. I was hungover, I’d seen an unpleasant vision that would hurt my best friend, the guy I liked had left the party without saying good-bye, and I’d gotten so drunk I’d puked and made a fool of myself.
Let’s face it, Indie, you’ve never been fine.
My mother probably thought my getting drunk was some sort of escape from my problems. I groaned again. If she made a doctor’s appointment for me because of this, I would honestly freak out on her.
At age seven, when I’d blurted out that I’d talked to my papa, my horrified parents had become “concerned.” Before Papa’s death, I had figured that everyone saw wavering bright colored lights above heads and had translucent people visit their rooms after dark. If I’d known then what I know now, I would never have admitted a damn thing to my parents. When their “concern” started, so did a bunch of my physical symptoms.
I pressed my hand to my stomach. When I started having stomach pains, at the age of ten, my mom carted me to our family doctor. “There’s nothing wrong with her,” the doctor said every time I went in. I swear he used to look at me cross-eyed, like I was one big hypochondriac.
That made Mom change doctors. The woman I saw next asked me questions that had nothing to do with anything physical. She asked about my boyfriends and my friends. I liked Dr. Z. That’s what I called her. Then one day when I was in her office, I picked up a photo of her with her son, and I randomly said, “He’s cute. He likes to draw.” Dr. Z looked around her office, and there were none of his drawings anywhere. She gave me a funny look.
“Yes, he does,” she said slowly.
Without thinking, I continued, “He has a hard time socializing.”
This time she narrowed her eyes. “Yes, that is true,” she’d replied.
Another day, we were sitting in her office, just the two of us, and she looked at me and said, “You are different. I think you have something like ESP.”
I was different. That was my diagnoses? What the hell was ESP?
And it wasn’t going away like the chicken pox did. I had told my mom about ESP the night after Dr. Z mentioned it to me, and she dismissed it—said I was “sensitive.” Although I knew she did research behind my back.
This sensitivity I was supposed to have made my parents check out a psychologist for me on Dr. Z’s referral. I’d been to my first therapy session in my early teens, and that guy had diagnosed me with ADHD.
Another stomach cramp made me curl into a tight ball. From going to all the doctors and psychologists, I had developed ulcers. I rubbed my stomach, hoping that the lining wasn’t inflamed again. My ulcers couldn’t return. And if they did, I would hide the pain and blood so my parents wouldn’t become “concerned” again. Pink Pepto-Bismol did wonders and was cheap. I could still hear my father’s voice when my mom and I had come home from the doctor’s. “What little kid gets ulcers?” he asked. “She should be playing with her dolls, riding her bike, coloring pictures with other little girls her age.”
“She is a little girl who internalizes everything,” my mother had replied.
I pulled my blanket over my head again. Fine, yeah, right. I was a walking freak. What guy would want to have anything to do with me? Especially a guy as smart as John. But I wanted him.
I would have to outsmart him and keep my secrets to myself.
Cozily snuggled underneath the blanket, curled in a small ball, I heard Mom’s loud voice: “Indie, get up! Time to clean the pool.”
“You missed a spot,” said Brian, pointing to a bug floating on top of the water. He was leaning back in a plastic pool chair, with his hands clasped comfortably behind his head.
“You’re supposed to be helping,” I retorted. “I wish Mom and Dad would just close the pool. It’s fall, and no one swims anymore.”
“I do,” said Brian. “It’s heated, you know.” He paused. “Oh, right. You don’t know, because you’re scared of the monsters in the deep end.”
“Shut up.” I skimmed the pool strainer across the water, picking up the dead bug.
“Little sister, you owe me one. I saved your butt last night, ‘cause there was no way you had just one drink. By the way, who’s John? Should I beat him up for ditching you last night?”
“No! Stop talking and help me.”
“Not a chance.”
“You’re not being nice.”
“What can I say? I’m not a good Christian.”
“What does being a good Christian have to do with helping me clean the pool?” I stomped to the other side of the pool and picked up the pool vacuum.
“Did I ever tell you I believe in the chaos theory? That every movement in the world creates change, and nothing is predictable. It’s all very mathematical and not airy-fairy at all.”
I glared at him. I knew he was taking a direct jab at my ability to see visions. He’d never believed me and thought I made everything up just to get Mom and Dad’s attention. Feeling as crappy as I did, I had no desire to argue with him. I picked up the skimmer and tossed it at him.
“Okay, let’s try your chaos theory or whatever it’s called. Maybe your movement can change how this pool looks.”
Monday arrived more quickly than I wanted it to, and I swear I still had a hangover when I walked to the bus stop. The alcohol was slow to move out of my system. My bowels had acted up all day Sunday and were still messed up.
The nice autumn weather had changed, and now dark rain clouds hovered in the sky, but they suited my mood. I did up the snaps on my jean jacket and lowered my head to the brisk wind, knowing that soon I would have to pull out my winter coat. For today, the bright Indian summer had been replaced with dreary fall, and the warm winds had become a biting cold blast.
I arrived at school early, and the halls were empty. I didn’t stop at my locker but went directly to the library, as I had something to look up for an English project I was working on for first period.
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.
&
nbsp; “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.