Indigo Blues

by Danielle Joseph

  I track Cat down in the science wing before physics. She has a whole stack of books in her arms. I peer at her collection. "Anything on surviving a double date?"

  "Who? You?"

  I take half her stack and walk toward her class. "Yeah, with Sam and Krista."

  "Ooo, the TV gossip queen."

  "See, I knew I should've said no."

  "No, you so need this date."

  "Thanks. Am I that desperate?" I hand her the books back.

  "I don't mean it like that. You'll be fine. You working today?"

  "Yeah. Two-thirty."

  "Okay, call me tonight."

  I shuffle over to physics. All I want to do is get lost in the drone of Mr. Reed's voice.

  He has something written on the board in big black letters. It looks like bullies, but really says pulleys. If he needs me to, I could name a bully-Krista. I know that technically, she never did anything really bad to me. It's just her whole aura. One run-in with her last year was enough.

  Out of the blue, she accused me of trying to steal her boyfriend, Eric Stone, because we were studying together in the school library for a chemistry test. It was the weirdest thing. All of a sudden I felt someone literally breathing down my neck and I jumped. When I turned around, she was huffing and had her arms crossed. Eric was so oblivious that he kept on rattling off different formulas. I finally asked her what she wanted and she said, "Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing." When I told her I had no idea what she was talking about, she threw a fit. The librarian had to come over and tell us to quiet down. I took that as my cue to exit and after that avoided both Eric and Krista. I was surprised that their relationship actually lasted another two months. And now lucky Sam has been dating her for four months.

  Mr. Reed explains that pulleys change the direction of the tension force in the cords that are attached to them. Maybe I could strap one to Krista and, if she says anything bitchy, I could put more force on the pulley, giving her a small shock.

  On the whiteboard is a free body diagram-two arrows forming a cross. Mr. Reed finishes writing and turns to face us. His shirt is half tucked in at the bottom and one sleeve is rolled up. "Assume that this table top is frictionless."

  I write frictionless on my paper, followed by, Date conversation with Tripp and Company should be frictionless.

  Frictionless Conversation Topics:

  Pets

  Football

  Senior Trip (I'm sure Krista has some grand event planned with her girls)

  College

  Friction Conversation Topics to Avoid:

  Music/Bands

  Media

  Candi Campbell

  Krista's job in the TV Studio on Raiders' Pride

  Anything to do with me

  Crap, she better not bring up the Wake Up, America show. I add TV to the list of nos.

  I try to focus on the pulleys for the rest of class. On Monday we're going to make our own. Too late for my double date.

  The bell rings and it's candy time. I rush out of the building and don't stop for anyone. I'm about to jump into Darnell when I see a note tucked under one of my wipers.

  I unfold it and read, Indigo, I'd love to get a picture of you and your car in this parking spot for an article that I'm writing. Call me. Patrick Wendell, The Caulder Townsman.

  Even my local paper had to hunt me down. Don't know why I'm surprised-the last big thing to happen in this town was when they had to find new homes for Herman Hendricks and his thirty-five cats. Poor lonely old guy.

  I ball the note up and climb into Darnell. We peel out of the school parking lot. I'm glad I have somewhere to go, somewhere to forget about my life for a few hours and just dish out candy.

  The light turns green on Washington Street, but before I can accelerate, a black car cuts in front of me. I freeze. Is that Adam? Wait, wasn't he just on national TV in New York City? Does he still have that old Honda? The car behind me beeps as my heart beats faster than a bongo drummer. This is so not my day.

  I pull into Rock Candy's parking lot, but don't get out. A short chubby blond guy emerges from the Honda, carrying his dry cleaning. I'm such a loser. How could I think that was Adam stopping by? Paranoid much? I desperately need a handful of M&Ms. I'm so relieved when I get out of the car that I wave to the short guy, my secret way of saying thanks for not being Adam. He waves back.

  No time for a chocolate fix when I get inside because there's a Brownie troop already waiting in line. Tony has his shirt sleeves rolled up and is dipping pretzel rods like he's going for the title of Fastest Chocolate Dipper in The Guinness Book of World Records. "Indigo, good to see you."

  "Looks like you can use some assistance." I grab an apron, then wash up. Armed with a pair of plastic gloves, I help the next Brownie in line. "What can I get for you?"

  "Can I try the mini white Oreos?"

  "Sure." I lean over the counter and pull a cookie covered in white chocolate from the jar.

  Miley Cyrus' voice floats through the air on Tony's iPod. All the girls squeal like they haven't heard this song a million times, like their rooms are not decorated in Hannah Montana garb.

  "I love her," the apple-faced girl in front of me announces.

  "Do you like the cookie?" I ask her.

  "Yeah. Can I have a small bag of them?"

  I fill up a mini cellophane bag for her and move on to the next girl. I can handle this gig. I might even miss this place when I go off to college next year. Let's face it, candy makes people happy. And when they complain about all the calories, it's only after they've scarfed down a whole bag. Okay, so I've been guilty of a sugar overload once or twice.

  The next two girls get chocolate-covered pretzels with rainbow sprinkles. I take the last girl's order while Tony rings the whole troop up.

  "What can I get you?"

  "A jumbo cookie monster." She grins, tight pigtails flopping from side to side.

  The leader turns away from Tony and reminds the girl that it's either a small bag of candy or one item from the case.

  So the girl just stands in front of me with a frowny face. She's staring at two huge chocolate chip cookies, with white and green icing, that are made to look like a "cookie monster." They're our specialty, but they are pretty bigperfect for sharing or taking home.

  Miley Cyrus is done and the next song from Tony's iPod is like an electric shock. `Indigo, how could you let me go... "

  Traitor. He spent money on that song?

  "How could you?" I slam my gloved hand down onto the glass counter top.

  "I'm sorry," the little girl blubbers. I stare at the tears forming in her eyes.

  Oh, my God, she thinks I'm talking to her.

  "Now that the laughs have faded away and you ve left me all alone... "

  "Sorry, honey." I lean over the counter. "I wasn't talking to you."

  The leader stops counting the envelope of Brownie money and glares at me.

  "I was talking to the music," I try to clarify.

  Subject change, pronto.

  "One cookie monster coming right up!"

  The little girl smiles and wipes her nose with the sleeve of her uniform. Blank Stare blares on. My ears burn. I smush the dessert down to fit into the clear plastic container. Green icing oozes from the sides. I snap the lid shut and throw the sugar overload into a bag.

  The little girl still has her cloudy blue eyes on me. "Are you Indigo from that song?"

  I look down at my name tag and cover the letters with my hand. "Different Indigo. Popular name, I guess."

  "Really?" The troop leader gives me the once-over, too. Same blue eyes. I should've known Cookie Monster was her daughter.

  I'm sticking to my story. "Really."

  Tony quickly grabs a bunch of store pencils from under the counter. "Who would like one?"

  Several grubby hands shoot up. He gives them to the lady. "Thanks." She nods. "Girls what do you say?"

  "Thank you," they say in unison.

  I Windex th
e counter as they sit at the tables and chomp away. I try and act as un-Indigo-like as I can, so they don't mistake me for the girl in that song again. Hmmm, the girl in the song might frown a lot. I clean with a huge smile. The other Indigo probably never studies, so I ramble on to Tony about my physics lecture today. I even swing by the tables with some Dixie cups and a pitcher of water.

  At three-thirty the troop leader tells them to throw away their trash and line up at the door. They all wave good-bye. Cookie Monster is last. She turns to me and says, "You don't seem that mean."

  My mouth drops. A friggin' eight-year-old knows my business. I'll never survive another day in this town, let alone a whole school year. "Don't believe everything you hear," I call after her.

  The first thing I do when I can't see their faces anymore is rip off my name tag and pull out the label maker from under the register. I type out random names. Pearl. Then Ivy.

  Tony returns from stocking the freezer. "Something eating at you today?"

  Ha. I hold up the two names. "Which one suits me better?"

  "Indigo."

  "Not available."

  "Okay. Ivy, I guess." He shrugs. "But you know you might have trouble cashing paychecks made out to Ivy Jackson."

  "I'll take my chances."

  The doorbell chimes. A father and two boys in soccer uniforms walk in. The father is busy yelling at someone on his cell. The boys run straight for the chocolate case. I slap on my new name. "I'm Ivy, what can I get for you?"

  The younger boy points to his arm. "IV? Like the thing they put in your arm at the hospital? My grandma had one to give her medicine. She was really sick."

  The older boy bonks his brother on the head. "No, doofus, Ivy, like the plant that grows all over everything." And makes a huge mess.

  I take the sticky back off Pearl and slap it on top of Ivy. Pearls are nice and clean. "Better?"

  "Pearl's in my class. She picks her nose." The little boy frowns.

  "So do I." I smile until I realize that their father is no longer on the phone and is now staring at me.

  I laugh. He does not.

  Shoot me. Now.

  kay, I'm getting desperate now. Today seems eerily like yesterday and my progress is sluggish. I promised the new song to the gang by Saturday morning and all I have right now is a page full of words that rhyme with booger. I should chain myself to this desk until I pump out the song. I don't think there's a word to describe the predicament I'm in now, other than "fucked."

  I pop in an early Hendrix CD for inspiration. Bad idea. He's an immortal guitarist, someone I would never even try to compete with. I turn it off before the lyrics even start.

  I call Gina.

  "Gina, my brain is dead. I can't come up with a good song.

  "What about `Sugar Rush'?"

  I pick the half empty box of Nerds off my desk and toss them into the trash can. Get lost, little balls of sugar. "I don't even have the hook worked out yet."

  Silence.

  Dead silence.

  "Hey, are you there?" I say into the phone. All I need is my manager crapping out on me.

  "Sorry Adam, I just lost an earring. You know, the sapphire ones Chad gave me for my birthday."

  "No, I don't," I shout. Okay, maybe that was harsh, but keeping up with the presents my manager gets from her boyfriend is not something I'm interested in. "I'm dying over here, Gina."

  She goes into manager mode. Soft-voiced and sweet, "Okay, relax. Take a deep breath."

  I inhale. Then cough. "Not working."

  "Adam, I know this is a big deal, but you need to calm down."

  I get up from my computer chair and circle the room. My feet slide across the carpet. Like I'm six again, I try to get a shock from the static by revving up my socks and then touching something soft. Things would be so much better now if I were six. "I have writer's block. Maybe we need another jam session."

  "Well, you know the guys will be all over the song after you come up with the lyrics. But at this point we need something solid to work with."

  "Nothing like pressure." I try to release some air, but end up coughing instead.

  "Pick up your guitar, close your eyes, and just play some freestyle."

  "Sounds New Agey."

  "I didn't ask you to get into a yoga pose."

  "Yeah, but I'm totally stumped here. Believe me, my guitar's seen more action these past couple of days then I've seen in a long time."

  "Whoa." She laughs. "I've got plenty of people I could hook you up with."

  "This is not funny."

  "You're right. It's not. First things first. The song. I'm just asking you to get comfortable. Let go of some of the tension."

  "Do I have a choice?"

  No answer.

  I stop pacing and end up in a corner, facing the wall. "Okay, fine. I'll try it."

  "Good. Check in with me later," she says before hanging up.

  Okay, simple assignment. I can do this. I think.

  I take off my socks, grab my guitar, and put my feet up on my desk, all in an attempt to get comfortable. It feels weird to close my eyes in a room full of light-I've never been much of a napper. I get up to close my blinds, then settle back into the chair. It's been so hard to shake Indigo from my brain, but I will say one thing-there's nothing that I love more than music. More than the sounds that emanate from my guitar, than the words that flow from my mouth.

  Here goes ... I take a deep breath as instructed and play around with some chords. I start with some basic stuff, then move to freestyle. I combine a few simple chords until I come out with a deeper bass sound that resonates with me. I know "Sugar Rush" is supposed to be more upbeat, but I figure the song can start off slow and simple and build its way up. My eyes flit from open to closed. I don't look at the pictures on my wall. I don't look at a certain framed photo on my desk.

  Instead, I imagine myself in the middle of Manhattan, in the heat of the action.

  Thoughts of Indigo float around in my head. A time when we were lying together on the sofa at Zach's house watching an old horror flick, Nightmare on Elm Street. Indigo grabbed me at all the scary parts. Eventually she just laid her head against my chest. It felt good keeping her safe. But I quickly shake the image of safety from my mind. I remind myself that it's only a memory. I clench my jaw and imagine plowing through the chaos.

  Finally my internal critic shuts down and Gina's voice in the back of my head telling me to relax eventually fades away. I force myself to close my eyes again. I see darkness. Then light.

  I focus on the beat of the music and churn out a few more lyrics. I scribble them down for fear of losing everything to a brain freeze.

  My phone rings. I don't answer it. I don't glance at the screen. It's just me, my guitar, and my grumbling stomach. When I look up at the time on my computer monitor, it's 12:47 p.m. I've been sitting here for over three hours. I get up to check my fridge. I'm as stiff as my high school PE joke-I mean, coach. I don't even know why I bother to open up the fridge door because I haven't been to the market in three weeks.

  I try to push away the growls in my stomach, but it's sucking up the airwaves to my brain and there's no sugar rush here. I figure I'll grab a sandwich from Subway, half a block down, chow, and get back to work.

  A foot-long turkey with everything, hold the mayo, and a large Coke later, I'm back to work. I stare at what I've written so far, hoping to be released from my food coma. Crap, it's not easy to jump right back in, to be creative on demand.

  My phone rings. This time I answer it. "What's up, Gina?"

  "Just checking in on you."

  "I didn't fall into a black hole."

  "Good, because I was worried." She laughs.

  I stretch my feet out under my desk. "I'm okay, getting back into the groove after a lunch break. What about you?"

  "I'm trying to iron out the tour schedule. Making a few adjustments."

  "Why? I thought everything was cool. Somebody bail?"

  "No, it's just that i
f we skip Boston it would take some stress away from you."

  Suddenly I feel like a balding over-fifty drowning from the rat race. Going on our first major tour should not cause a heart attack. Am I that fragile?

  "The guys are psyched about the homecoming show." I pick at a hangnail.

  "I know, but being in the vicinity of Indigo is not good for you."

  More hangnail picking. "I dunno. Don't want to screw the schedule up."

  "Listen, get back to work and don't worry about the tour. Make sure you take a rest every few hours."

  "A nap does sound good."

  "Well, ahhh ..." She hesitates. "If you can fit it in."

  "Kidding, Gina. I'm ready to roll. I've got the sugar rush."

  "I won't keep you then," she says, and we hang up.

  I can't think about Boston now. I can't think about playing for a huge crowd and spotting Indigo among the sea of faces. Maybe Gina is right. Maybe I would freak out. We can always go to Boston another time.

  I force myself to forget about the tour and focus on getting a kick-ass song down on paper. This one's for the band.

  I strum, I sing, I type. Finally, I just sing. I'm so glad these apartment walls are cinder block and the old lady next door is half deaf, because this song is a lot faster tempo than "Indigo Blues."

  I'm done. Sweat's dripping from my forehead like a mad man even though it's cool in my apartment today. I quickly type the rest of the lyrics into my keyboard, clinging to every word that comes out of my mouth. I need to see it all on the screen. This is my song. My life. I did it.

  Alone.

  ad and I sit on the couch watching the birth of a calf on TLC. What's wrong with this picture? Besides the fact that he's usually tucked away in his home office at this time and I'm sitting home on a Friday night. It's cool to actually hang out with Dad, though.

  "Do you think I should change my name?" I clasp a piece of plastic with my teeth while I sift through my beadbox for a pink bead. I'm making Mom a necklace for her birthday next week.