by Nikki Roman
“How long have you been awake?” Dad asks, his face as white as the moon shining down on me and the mess of bottles.
“Long,” I say.
“It’s time for bed,” Mom says. “Go to sleep.”
“Why? So, you can continue talking about me and how fucked up I am?”
“Don’t use that language with me,” Mom says.
“Fuck,” I say. “Fuck you, fuck Dad, fuck Spencer and fuck it all!” I kick the bottles and storm into the bathroom locking out Angel, who had been trailing behind me.
“We really fucked up,” Dad says to Mom. “You better let me talk to her. I think I can calm her down.”
Dad knocks on the door. “Open the door, sweetie,” he says.
“I’m not sweetie,” I snarl.
“Bailey.”
“I’m not Bailey! Spencer loved Bailey!”
No, I’m Indigo. That’s who I am. Like the night, like the darkness that takes my breath away, like the nightclub that has demeaned my mother and myself.
“Call me Indigo,” I demand.
“Aren’t you a little old for nicknames?” Mom says.
“Open the door…Indigo,” Dad says.
I turn off the light and open the door to him. He finds me in the darkness and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry. We didn’t think you were listening. We shouldn’t have said those things. You aren’t crazy, we are, for treating you this way.”
“It’s okay, Daddy, I love you.” Indigo loves you. But Bailey is a little unsure, now.
He ruffles my hair and shows me to bed. I crawl on top of the covers and he pulls them out from under me. Tucking me in for the second time tonight, he kisses my cheek. His breath smells chocolaty, I bet he and Mom were sipping hot chocolates when I interrupted them.
“It’s pretty dark in here, do you want the light on?” he asks.
“No. I’m indigo. I am the dark.”
“You aren’t scared anymore?”
“I’m not scared of myself.”
“Indigo, huh? I had a nickname once. My buddies used to call me Italy, because they thought I looked kind of Italian.”
“My buddies call me Indigo because I guess that’s what they want me to be. I don’t think anyone wants Bailey anymore,” I say. “Spencer certainly doesn’t.”
“I love Bailey,” Dad says. “She’s funny and sweet, and so, so strong. Even when the darkness frightens her she turns on the light to chase it away. Indigo isn’t brave enough, she’d rather the dark become her.”
“I don’t feel strong, anymore. Couldn’t you let me be Indigo for a while?”
“You can be whoever you want to be,” he says. “Do you want Mom to sleep with you tonight?”
“Yes,” I say. “Bring her in.”
She curls up next to me on the bed, her arms looping around my body like she is a giant squid and I am a tiny ship wrapped in her tentacles.
“Goodnight, girls,” Dad says closing the bedroom door.
“When is that baby gonna come?”
“Soon,” Mom says, “hopefully before my stomach pops.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Not yet, I’m still thinking of one.”
“I’m tired. I’m going to go to sleep,” I murmur. “Will you play with my hair?”
Gently, Mom’s hands rake through my hair and I remember the thorns. The day comes flooding in, but I put up a mental dam before it can drown me. I will myself to fall asleep the same way Ashten does, to pass out like I have been knocked in the head. And in a hot second I am conscious only in my dreams.
Empty dreams with empty faces. I have an empty heart and an empty head. An expanse of empty land ahead of me, a desert with tumble weeds and rattle snakes curled up under cool rocks. I’m thirsty in mind and soul, but what I want to drink doesn’t seem to be here in this empty dream.
Maybe it isn’t in a dream at all.
•••
My arms are stretched above my head, the comforter covering my face. Fingers brush against my skin and push the covers off of me. Mom’s hand glides over tiny red cuts.
“What happened?”
“Spencer pushed me into a rosebush.” I sit up and pull my arm away from her hand. It’s late morning, but it feels like I went to bed only seconds ago.
“That’s mean,” Mom says.
“You don’t even know,” I say. “He can be real heartless.”
Indigo doesn’t have a heart. She can’t be hurt by heartless actions.
“I’m sorry about last night… I shouldn’t have been talking about you like that,” Mom says.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she says squeezing my hand. “It’s not okay, but I’m going to make it up you.”
“Okay, Mom,” I say unhinging our hands and getting out of bed before I can fall any more victim to its vindictive comfort.
I have to pass the window to go to the bathroom; I stop in front of it, my pathway impassable by my horde of prescription bottles. They are standing upright in the shape of a heart. A sticky note is stuck to one of the bottles and it reads, My heart for you, in green crayon.
“What are you looking at?” Mom asks.
I pitch forwards, pocketing the sticky note and bulldozing the bottles in one fluid motion. “Nothing,” I say, continuing on to the bathroom. Indigo is ruthless. Indigo doesn’t share her father’s love.
I scrub myself clean, suds and toothpaste choking me in my hurry to wash myself of Bailey.
Bailey who is hurt too easily, who doesn’t shower regularly, and wears used clothes. Natural beauty, Spencer once called it. Natural, like the dirt I had been rolling in.
•••
Mom has finally peeled herself out of bed and is in the kitchen, sizzling bacon and scrambling eggs, when I come out of the shower; finished with the arduous task of scrubbing Bailey away. I throw my nightgown on from the night before and put my hair in a towel. I walk into the kitchen, my wet feet padding against the wood floor.
Mom’s hair is pieced out like an old dolls’ nylon hair, patches of her white scalp showing through. “Your hair is falling out,” I say.
Indigo is careless.
Her hands fly to her head, smoothing over her hair and feeling for bald spots. “That isn’t nice.” She pouts. “You’re making me bald.”
“And you’re giving me a headache,” I say grabbing plates to set the table with.
“Watch your attitude, young lady.”
“You watch yours,” I sneer.
I guess Indigo has decided to take over this morning.
I fold napkins and set out forks. Mom pours us orange juice and I take my seat.
“Your dad and I, we were talking earlier this morning,” she says, swishing orange juice in her mouth.
“About me?”
Always about me. Their world revolves around me.
“Yes, nothing bad. We just wanted to give you something. Your dad would have liked to give you it, but you looked so tired this morning he didn’t want to wake you.”
“What is it?”
“Here,” Mom says, passing a hundred dollar bill to me.
“A hundred dollars?” Bailey asks in wonder. Indigo scoffs at the small amount.
“Go shopping, or see a movie with Alana. We just want you to have fun with it. You’re only sixteen once.”
I roll the money into my fist. I’ve never seen such a large bill in my hand before; I feel its lightness but imagine it’s heavy as a gold bar. I reach across the table and kiss my mother’s cheek; she flushes at my affection. Maybe Indigo and Bailey could take turns. Best of both worlds.
I spoon hot eggs into my mouth and tear at the chewy bacon with my teeth. Mom eats a yogurt parfait, an attempt at cleaning up her diet for the baby.
“You’ve gotten thicker,” she says. “Your dad feeds you well.”
“He’s got everything in his pantry!” I gush. “And his refrigerator is never empty.”
“Well, I couldn’t get you to eat when we did hav
e food.”
I finish the eggs and bacon, and a bit of strawberries and granola that have sunken to the bottom of Mom’s yogurt. “I’m going to Cape Coral today. To see Alana.”
“Spend the money wisely,” Mom says.
“Aren’t you going to work?”
“I have today off. Go have fun. I’ll make dinner for you and Daddy, and maybe read a book or two. It’ll be a good day.”
I stare at her for a second, seeing my old mother, the one who made dinners from scratch and dressed me to the nines.
“Mom,” I say, “don’t do that. What you used to do, that’s what started this all.”
“Your father being too controlling is what started it,” she corrects me. “He loved it when I cooked for him. Go on and do something with that money, before I take it back.”
I do a Peter Pan jump into the bedroom and lower myself to the floor. Under the bed is a plastic box, stocked with craft supplies. I pick the laces out my new boots, push my bare feet into them, and then find a roll of duct tape in the box.
Tossing my laces under the bed, I put strips of duct tape over the tongue of my boots. They flare out at the tops without the laces to keep them in place. I press down in them, see how they feel. I twist my calves and decide I like my boots better this way. Indigo likes them better this way.
I ditch my nightgown for a mini-skirt, cutoff tank top, and skin-tight leather jacket. Mom brought over the rest of my clothes from her apartment. My hair is wet but the wind from riding Harley will dry it.
Mom gives me a passing glance as I go out the front door; she sighs at my outfit but doesn’t make me change. Angel follows me to the motorcycle. I whistle a tune for him and muss up his fur. “Watch Mommy, okay boy? You make sure that baby inside of her stays safe.”
His tongue hangs out; in doggy language the gesture is the same as a nod of the head.
I high-leg over Harley and drive away from the apartment. Angel faithfully sits his rump in the gravel, watching as I go out of sight, his tongue suspended from his mouth.
•••
Indigo loves Harley even more than Bailey does. She relishes in the looks she receives from older men as her skirt rides up past her thighs and her charcoal black hair whips behind her back. Indigo is a wrecking ball, everything Clad asked of Bailey that she fell short of. Indigo would have gunned down everyone on Bailey’s Bullet List, including Clad. No mercy. No regrets. No remorse. When I’m thinking, I let Indigo deal with the thoughts because they won’t scathe her like they do Bailey.
Spencer’s truck is parked—third spot right of the door—in the same place he’s parked it every day I’ve known him. Bailey comes out of hiding; for the time being she locks Indigo away.
His truck looks odd not speeding away from me as I scream and cry. Now that it’s stationary, I feel like I could have stopped him. Could have stopped us from breaking up. But a stationary object can’t rewind hurt and a parked truck is no help, unless there is someone inside of it to hear my cries.
I slog down the muddy hill and splash through the dirty water that has collected in the ditch. The grass outside Thomas’s shed squishes beneath my feet. Starkey cries inside; hunger cries, sick cries. I knock on the door and the baby wails louder. Thomas lets me in but asks that I be quiet. I sit on some newspapers that have been put out for me like a chair.
“She’s sick,” Thomas says hushing the baby girl.
Starkey’s eyes are tinted green, their stormy grey color like the building clouds before a twister touches down. “I’ve got a present for the both of you, but I’m not giving it until you promise to take it.”
“I promise I’ll take it,” Thomas says without hesitation.
I show him my hundred dollar bill, holding it like a cigarette in two fingers. His eyes enlarge and then shrink back in their sockets at the sight of it. “I want you to have it, all of it.”
“No, I can’t take it,” he refuses.
“But you promised.”
“It’s like taking money from a baby. Honey, it’s a nice gesture but I just can’t.”
“You’re right, taking money from babies is just wrong. So please, this is for Starkey, don’t take it away from her.” Quickly, I shove the bill into Starkey’s little palm. She stops fussing and brings it to her mouth to suck on.
“Where did you get it?” Thomas asks.
“My mom and dad gave it to me; they wanted me to go shopping or something. Anyway, I already have everything I need. Food, clothes, shoes, a roof over my head.”
“Some people think…” Thomas says, “I mean most people think that parents raise their children. But me, I think that children raise their parents.”
“I just do the opposite of whatever my mother does, it suits me,” I say.
“Well, you keep doing that, Bailey, because its working and you’ve woven yourself a heart of gold.”
I smile, Thomas smiles, and Starkey giggles, waving the hundred dollar bill in her hand, a green flag of victory. The three of us are as happy as peas in a pod, discussing the food Thomas will buy with the money, the toys and diapers he will get for Starkey. We play a game with Starkey, call it ‘pass the baby’, she laughs so hard I think her thin cheeks will be stuck that way forever.
In the midst of tickling Starkey, above the laughter and our happy noise, a frightening ding! Sends me to my feet. I run from the shed without saying goodbye, my boots slipping on the wet grass as Sarah comes out of Goodwill. She gathers rocks in her hands—decorative rocks peppered with holes—that look like they had once been a part of the Great Barrier Reef. I stop my climb for a second to catch my breath.
“Get the hell out of here, Sykes! Get off my property or I’ll have you arrested!” Sarah barks.
I carry on up the hill and run for my bike, keeping my eyes from wandering over to Sarah, who carries on screaming obscenities at me. Three quarters of the way to my bike, one of the rocks from Sarah’s hand blindsides me and hits my ear. The next one gets me just above my eyebrow. I throw myself on the bike and, with gravel spitting from the back tire, hurry down all the back roads, avoiding Spencer’s neighborhood.
I coax Indigo to come out of the cool, dark recess of my head where Bailey sent her. Tell her I need her ASAP, because Bailey will fall apart at any moment. Bailey, who is crying from the pain in her ear, and in her head, and in her heart. Weak-ass Bailey, in tears again, tears that can’t leave her eyes because of Harley and the wind. All the wind, so much of it in Bailey’s hair and clothes, yet she can’t breathe.
Indigo likes the wind. She especially likes it when it stings her face. I like the wind now. Welcome the sting. Welcome Indigo. I’m going to the Allie. I want to find Ashten, because Bailey has reminded Indigo of something she learnt in high school—that Ashten can dye and cut hair like a celebrity stylist.
I need a makeover; I look too much like Bailey; a sniveling, whimpering, unattractive creature.
Chapter 30
My clothes are itchy with fine pieces of Bailey’s hair, but I’m satisfied with the Indigo locks that now match my eyes and name.
Ashten cut one side of my hair short and left the other side long; some of Bailey’s black hair peeks through patches of dark blue. A long tiny braid swings over my shoulder and moves with me every time I turn my head. I look different. I look dangerous, Cairen says. Not sweet and innocent, nothing like Bailey and every bit like Indigo.
“That’s hot,” says Holden.
“It’s whatever,” I say.
“Well, I think you look sexy,” says Don.
Ashten places three pink pills in my hand; they look like Smarties. She tells me they’re called Mollys. I shove them in my pocket and forget about them.
“You’re one of us, now,” Cairen says. “You’re really an Allie now. Indigo, you’re badass. Someone fucks with you and you’ll bury ‘em.”
“I’ll do worse,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. I get to my feet and tower above him because he is sitting down. “You mess with me,” I flip my
braid forward, “and I’ll make you wish you were buried.”
“Prove it, Indigo.”
“Touch me again and I will,” I say. “Talk to my boyfriend again and I will cut your balls off and feed them to the Apocy cat.”
“He’s still your boyfriend?” Cairen asks surprised.
“No,” I say. “But he will be.”
“Show him Indigo and he won’t wanna’ leave,” Ashten says. “Pay him in bed, that’ll win him back!”
“I don’t need to do that,” I say, sounding too much like Bailey.
She’s starting to show through, like the clock has struck twelve and the magic of Indigo is fading. I’m pushing my luck being here; I don’t have a good enough grip on Bailey and if she comes on too quickly, I won’t be able to snub her out. So I long-leg it over the Allie fence, drop onto Harley, and take my two selves home.
•••
When I come through the door, smells from the kitchen greet me. Smells of roasted chicken and vegetables. Mom is tossing a salad and Dad is leaning over her, kissing her neck. I clear my throat and slam the door. Dad’s lips leave Mom’s neck so quickly that she frowns in displeasure before seeing me.
“What did you do to your hair?” Dad asks, alarmed by my Indigo makeover.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“If you do,” he says. “Come eat, Mom made dinner.”
Mom serves Dad and me before filling her own plate. We take tiny bites from our food, like we’re a family of mice.
“I have something to tell you, Bailey,” Mom says, pushing her salad away like she’s finished eating; she hasn’t even touched it.
“You’re pregnant?” I laugh. “Oh, wait, you already told us that one.”
“No,” Mom says gently. She forces a smile. “It’s not good news.”
“Is it about the baby?” I stop eating too.
“I got fired.”
“From Indigo?”
“Mhm.”
Dad smiles and covers Mom’s hand with his. “There’s more, go look in the bedroom,” he says.
I push my chair out and hurry into the room. There, pushing aside my pill bottles, are boxes and boxes toppled atop one another. Boxes of Mom’s things, of our pictures and her clothes. Indigo does backflips, tumbles of fury, in my head. I walk back into the kitchen and say, “You are not staying with us.”