"But nobody else sees it that way. Everyone just feels bad for poor Adam. I mean, we only went out for three months. He makes it seem like we'd been dating since birth."
Cat laughs. "That's all? I thought it was longer."
"Well, he asked me out about a month after we met at his show, but remember how it took me over six months to say yes?"
"Yeah, and he gave you that cheesy flea market ring."
"Right." I look toward the bottom desk drawer where the ring still sits, but I don't pull it out.
"But seriously, Adam is so whack." Cat gets up from the floor and sits down at my desk. "So there's got to be some dirt on him on the web." She types "Adam Spade" into the Google search bar.
"Okay, there's a dishwasher in lower Manhattan who blogs. And a gardener in Ohio who just opened up landscaping services. Ooo, here's a newspaper interview with the band. Damn, you have to register to actually read it."
"Cat, exactly what are you looking for?"
"Maybe there's another girl out there that..."
"That he wrote a song about? Kathy Blues, you make me snooze, la, la, Ia." I sashay across my room.
Cat's still at the computer. "Or Jackie Blues, you lose... slut..."
I crack up. "I have one. Cat Blues, I've got news, you have to pay your dues, slut..."
She pulls a tampon from the box on my desk and chucks it at me.
"Ouch." I rub my forehead dramatically. "I'm going to write my own song about you. Catherine Owens threw a deadly object at my head and left me for dead." I drop to the floor.
Cat cracks up too and throws another one at me. "Then I went back for one more, just to make sure she was really a goner!"
Now we both can't stop laughing. This is so funny and so sad and so stupid all at the same time.
I hear a big sigh over by my door and look up. It's Eli, dressed in khakis and a button-down Polo shirt.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Got a date?" Cat tries to compose herself.
"I have an interview to film a recycling video," my brother says, barely moving a facial muscle. "And if you want to be taken seriously, then you have to dress like a professional."
"Oh, sorry." I stand up and pull a straw hat off of my oversized teddy bear and put it on. "How's this?"
Cat grabs my orange-and-purple-striped scarf off my desk and drapes it around her neck. "How about me? Will people listen to what I have to say?"
Eli gives us the finger.
By now both Cat and I have lost it. Giggles pour out of us like hit singles being downloaded from iTunes by the second. I grab the rest of the tampons from the box and start chucking them at Eli.
"You guys suck." Eli stomps away down the hall.
"Perhaps we do," I say, in the sultriest voice I can muster.
"Yes, darling." Cat lowers her voice, too. "Perhaps we do."
slam my cell down. I fucked up. Maybe I shouldn't have yelled at her. But she drives me so damn crazy. I've been trying to reach her all day. I grab my guitar from its stand and start picking at the chords. This is not how it was supposed to go down. I know I wrote the song to get back at her, but I also wanted it to bring us closer, like a foreverforged bond.
The framed photo of her on my desk is a reminder of how things used to be. I took it when we went ice skating on Boston Common. It was our third official date. She's wearing a yellow knit hat and a black coat zipped up to her chin, and she still looks hot. I lean down and kiss her cherry red lips, and close my eyes and sing. "Indigo, how could you let me go. You drew me in like a figure in a coloring book... "
I shake the chord on the last note on my guitar.
It makes a trill sound. I picture a wounded circus elephant, struggling to stand up.
But stumbling again.
And again.
My arm goes slack.
I can't get the elephant to rise.
My thumb and forefinger are numb.
I finally let go. The guitar hangs from my neck by its leather strap.
That was some freaky shit. I'm sweating and my mouth is dry. I take a sip of water and breathe.
If you manipulate an electric guitar enough, it can produce some funky noises. I once got mine to sound like our high school principal, Mrs. Mandel, blabbing over the PA system. Very high-pitched and crackly. But Zach says the best noise is the signature "tandem fart," when we both let our guitars rip at the same time.
Zach's picking me up at eleven. I better get into party mode or he'll be on my ass to loosen up all night. We're all going to hit a few clubs and, in his words, "get double fucked," meaning get obliterated and laid, in that order. He says we need a serious night out on the town to celebrate. It's true that if Indigo never broke my heart, then I might not have had this hit song, because nobody wants to hear a song about the guy that won the girl and lived happily ever after.
I shuffle a few shirts around in my closet until I find one that is wearable. I have to do laundry soon or I'll be wearing the clothes my grandmother sent me for media interviews. We're talking pastel button-down shirts with big collars that make me look like I'm about to be sucked into cubicleland and spit out as an accountant.
A plain gray T-shirt calls to me. I smell the pits. Clean. It goes on. I run a comb through my hair and reach for a beer in the fridge. Some say you can tell a lot about a person by glancing into their fridge. I wonder what an eightpack of Dannon vanilla yogurt, a six-pack of Bud, a carton of eggs, and four types of mustard says about me?
I flip off the top of the beer and take a huge swig. As the cool liquid makes its way through my body, I begin to relax. Beer is a guy's best friend.
I'm halfway done with my second bottleneck when Zach buzzes me from downstairs. I grab my keys and jet down. Since the guys all live together, I'm always the last one to be picked up. Conjunction Jack is riding shotgun, so I scoot in the back with Tommy and his girl, Heidi. I thought this was a guys' night out, but whatever.
"You ready to get fucked, Adam?" Zach pulls his Jeep out into the street.
"No, Indigo already did that to me." Or maybe I did it to myself because now that the song is out, I can't go ten minutes without hearing her name. Without being reminded of her.
"You spoke to her today, didn't you?" Tommy accuses me.
"Yeah. How do you know?" I fish my seat belt out from the seat cushions and buckle up. Let's just say that Zach drives like he performs onstage, all over the place.
"Sixth sense," Conjunction Jack offers. He was christened Conjunction Jack back in high school, not for his use of connecting words but for the lack of. As few words as possible is Jack's motto.
"No, you're wearing gray, the color of heartache." Heidi twirls a strand of her dyed red hair. Which matches her sparkly tank top. Happy. Happy. Happy.
"Gray is sad," Zach says in a mocking tone.
I scan the guys to see if anyone else is on the heartache team. Nope. Navy for Tommy, green for Conjunction Jack and white and blue pinstripes for Zach.
"I wear gray all the time," I mutter.
"Exactly!" Tommy laughs and everyone else joins in.
I force a grin onto my face. "Okay, let's get this party started." I don't need any more attention brought to my broken heart.
"That's my man!" Zach screeches to a halt at a light on the corner of 14th and Washington.
"Easy on the old folk," I say as he barely misses the toes of two old ladies trying to cross the street. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Conjunction's cousin just got a job at Hatchback on Little West."
"Hot chicks galore." Tommy smiles.
"Hey!" Heidi elbows him.
"That's why you're coming." Tommy makes a quick save.
Heidi just rolls her eyes and Zach pulls into a parking spot half a block down from the bar.
There's a small line at Hatchback's door. The bouncer is shorter than most of the bouncers at the city's bars and skinny, too. There are a couple of girls in tight skirts at the front of the crowd. Tommy's right,
they are hot-long legs, thin, and big boobs. Zach cuts in front of them and says to the bouncer, pointing to Jack, "He's Pat's cousin." Which translates to, don't check our IDs because they're bad fakes and only one out of the five of us, Zach, is twenty-one.
"Oh, my God," the blonder of the girls gasps. "Aren't you Zach from Blank Stare?" As the group's founder, Zach is always the first one of us to get noticed. A reporter back home coined him the "Gerber Boy." She said he looked like the Gerber baby all grown up. He wasn't too happy about that because he thinks it hurts him with the ladies, so we save it for insults.
"Yeah." Zach blushes.
The girl leans forward and kisses his cheek.
"So is Indigo real?" The other girl asks.
Immediately the guys turn to me.
I feel my face go red. What kind of question is that? Of course she's real. My pain is real.
The bouncer opens the door for us before anyone can answer.
Zach points to the girls and says, "They're with us."
He's such a sucker for hotties.
The bouncer shrugs and waves us all in.
It's pretty crowded inside. Guys with hard-ons chatting up girls. Girls with mega-cleavage chatting up guys. A few couples sucking face in corners and varied loners spread throughout.
Heidi scores a table toward the back and Tommy grabs a few extra chairs so we can all sit together. Hatchback is a typical bar, filled with wooden tables, a small stage, and recessed lighting. I don't wait for someone to take our order, just head right up to the bartender to snag a beer. If I'm lucky enough, I'll get swallowed whole by the blur of faces.
I guzzle down my first brew without even turning my head. I check my phone-11:50. Too late to call Indigo and apologize, but that's what they made texting for.
Indigo sorry for hanging up on u
I hit send before I have a chance to write anything else stupid. Damn her if she doesn't like me. I'm a nice guy, sitting at the bar alone with an empty beer while his friends are at a table. Celebrating. Crap, we're supposed to be celebrating. I call the bartender over and order a round of Lemon Drops for the table in the back.
I slowly walk over to my peeps. Everyone's laughing, and Zach has his arm around one of the girls from outside.
"Dude, where have you been?" Zach pulls out a stool for me. "I was just about to send Hannah here to look for you.
Hannah, the hottie not claimed by Zach, smiles at me. I nod and take a seat. She's really pretty, with long blond hair and soft white skin. "I had to get a round of shots."
The waiter zigzags through the crowd and passes out the tray of Lemon Drops.
"Now we're talking," Tommy says.
We all grab our drinks, say cheers, and slam our empty glasses down onto the table.
I've got a buzz and figure what the hell, I might as well talk to Hannah. I lean over and ask, "So, where are you from?" Lame, I know, but I haven't even had time to warm up yet.
"Boulder, Colorado. But I'm a sophomore at SUNY Purchase."
"Colorado. Cool. You ski?" Dumb question. That's like asking a New Yorker if they've ever eaten good pizza.
"No. Not my thing."
Okay, not so dumb. One point for Adam.
"What's your thing?" I move in a little closer. She smells like strawberries. Indigo smelled like strawberries, too. They must use the same shampoo.
Hannah's eyes are big and round. Her lips shiny and moist. She leans in and our lips touch. She slides her tongue into my mouth and I hold on. I wonder if her lips are real. They're so large. So soft. I don't think I've ever kissed anyone with fake parts before. I run my fingers over her breasts. They feel real, but it's hard to tell through a ribbed shirt and bra.
"So that's what you like," I say.
Jack asks if anyone else wants another beer. I pass. I don't want to get wasted and end up doing something I'll regret. Like sleeping with a hot non-skier from Colorado with possible Botox lips but a tight ass and firm, real breasts. Plus, we have an interview on Wake Up, America on Monday and I don't need to slink in with a hickey. Everyone is going to be watching this one. My dad. Grandparents. Indigo? She'll be in school. Still, she could catch it later on the net.
"Well, do you?" Hannah pokes me in the shoulder.
I shoot her my huh? look.
"Dance?" She doesn't even wait for an answer. Instead, she yanks me by the arm. A bunch of people are dancing around in the middle of the room. Punk rock is blaring from the speakers, some old London '70s tunes mixed with new. None of that slow-dance middle-school crap, so I agree. Zach and Hannah's friend, Erica, are already smushed together like taffy. We get moving a few feet from them. I'm not gonna lie, it feels good to be this close to a beautiful girl.
I get lost in the music. Lost in the grooves of Hannah's body.
o try and forget this whole "Indigo Blues" mess, I've decided to focus all my energy on getting Tripp to ask me out. Usually I'm drooling over rock stars in Rolling Stone or actors in People magazine, but Tripp is that hot. I'll give myself one week to make it happen. And if it doesn't, then I'll ask him out myself.
The whole thing was Cat's idea, and at first I brushed it off because some of Cat's ideas are pretty nuts. After all, she was the one who suggested that last summer we buy one of those metal detectors and comb the beach for lost treasure to raise money to go to Six Flags. But after she left my house tonight, I really gave it some thought. I figure that at this point, I have nothing to lose.
This is what I know:
1. Tripp is so hot that his face should be plastered on the walls of teenagers' bedrooms across America.
2. He also has a younger brother, so he can share my pain.
3. His parents own Delilah's, the yummiest gourmet restaurant in town.
4. And most importantly, he said he likes my hair.
I finish the clasp on Cat's necklace just before midnight. I'm going to be so tired at school tomorrow, but I want to give it to her in the morning. I stand in front of the full-length mirror with it on. Hopefully she likes how it turned out. I wonder what Tripp's favorite colors are. I could make a necklace to wear for our impending date. Maybe football colors. Nah, mustard yellow and maroon will only make my skin look jaundiced. Trust me. I once wore a yellow dress to a holiday party and all night people kept asking me if I was sick.
Tripp wears a lot of red, my favorite color. Coincidence? I think not. Maybe I'll wear red crystals that'll draw attention to my beating heart and make him instantly fall in love with me. Okay, now I sound all psycho, like Adam. I quickly take off Cat's necklace and slip it into my backpack. I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. A second later, my phone beeps. I just received a text, but I don't even check who it is. I don't want to know.
I hustle downstairs and head straight to the kitchen. I have exactly three minutes to get out the door if I want to make it to school on time. My family's seated at the table munching away. At my seat are a blueberry muffin and a glass of orange juice. The whole kitchen smells like baked blueberries.
Still standing, I gulp down some juice and pull a piece of the muffin top off. "Thanks, Mom, you're the best."
"Just want to make sure you eat something nutritional," she says.
"Are you okay?" Eli asks me.
Dad glances up from the paper. Mom stops mid-chew.
"Yeah, why?"
Eli blurts out, "You're wearing two different sneakers."
I look down. One's gray, one's light blue. One Nike. One Adidas. "Whoops. Didn't notice that."
Eli pulls out his notepad and jots something down.
I shake my head, but don't have time to deal with him. Instead, I grab the muffin and run upstairs to change. Eli yells after me, "Hurry up, I don't want to be late!" Ever since he started high school, it's like I have a personal alarm clock up my ass.
I quickly switch my shoes. That would've been really embarrassing. It's not like I could play it off as a fashion statement-I think that the whole mismatched sneaker thing went out in the '90
s along with acid-washed jeans. Once I found a pair of those pants in the back of Mom's closet and nearly puked.
Eli's waiting for me at the front door with his backpack slung over his shoulder. I stop short and yell good-bye to Mom and Dad.
"Drive safe," Mom says.
I roll my eyes as usual, but thankfully she doesn't see.
Eli stares down at my feet. "Okay, they're the same now.
"Thanks. What would I do without you?" We head to my car. Hmmm, let me ponder that thought. Without Eli, I could keep all my personal information to myself. But I wouldn't have a fashion-faux-pas checker, or someone to watch TV with and just be plain old goofy with. So I guess for now he's a keeper.
We're about to get in the car when a Channel 33 truck pulls up in front of our house. A man in a blue sweater vest, who I don't recognize, steps out.
"Get in the car, quick." I motion to Eli.
"Don't worry, I'll handle this." He steps back.
"Just get rid of them," I say through clenched teeth.
That is really a new low, showing up at my house. Haven't people ever heard of calling? I get in the car and start it up, but roll down the window enough to listen to Eli tell them off.
"My sister's not ready to talk."
"I understand, but we just have a few questions." Sweater Vest taps his microphone against the side of his leg. I don't see a cameraman, but I'm sure there's one in the van.
Eli shakes his head. "Not a good day. We're going to be late for school."
"We could come back in the afternoon."
I honk my horn. I'm not wasting any more gas on this nonsense.
Eli takes control of the conversation. "Give me your card and we'll call you."
The guy thanks Eli and walks back to his truck. Eli hops in the car and reads the card. "Ari Fish. Funny name."
Indigo Blues Page 2