A Different Blue

by Amy Harmon

  “Six weeks, Echohawk, and the world is yours.”

  I just shrugged and waved, the weight of that world heavy on my shoulders and farther from my grasp than ever before.

  Graduation was held on a late May morning out on the football field. It meant plenty of seats on the hard bleachers for family and friends and relatively bearable temperatures. I say relative because it was 90 degrees at ten am. I was extremely nauseous and the heat didn't help. I considered ditching, but wanted my moment. I wanted to wear my cap and gown, receive my diploma, and silently give the bird to all the haters that rolled their eyes when I walked by or thought I would drop out before the end of sophomore year. But I had made it. Just barely, but I had. Unfortunately, I ended up racing for the bathroom minutes before we were supposed to line up to make our entrance. I threw up what little was in my stomach and tried to breathe through the aftershocks, my stomach heaving and rolling like an angry sea.

  I gathered myself together, rinsed my mouth, and dug in my purse for the crackers I had started to carry everywhere I went. I was almost four months along. Wasn't the morning sickness supposed to ease up by now? I ate a cracker, gulped a little water from the faucet – trying not to wonder how much chlorine it contained – and fixed my makeup where my eyeliner had smeared and left black smudges under my eyes. Then I slicked on some lip gloss, re-attached my sneer, and walked back to the cafeteria where all the graduates were gathered, only to find that they had left to make their entrance without me. I sank down at a lunch table and began to ponder why my life sucked so much. There was a lump in my throat that pounded with the ache in my heart. I couldn't go out there now. I had missed it.

  “Blue?”

  I jumped, taken completely by surprise, and lifted my head from where I had cradled it in my hands.

  Mr. Wilson stood about ten feet away, his hand poised on the light switch by the door closest to where I sat. He wore his customary pin-striped shirt and slacks but had left the tie at home. Most of the teachers played a role at graduation, whether it was collecting caps and gowns, mingling with parents and students, or checking for stragglers. It seemed Wilson was in charge of the latter. I straightened and glared at him, upset that he had found me vulnerable once again.

  “Are you . . . all right? You missed the entrance. Everybody is on the field.”

  “Yeah. I kinda got that.” The lump in my throat doubled in size, and I looked away from Wilson dismissively. I stood and pulled off my cap and tossed it on the table. I started to yank my robe off over my head, revealing the pink shorts and white t-shirt I wore underneath. We were supposed to wear dresses beneath our robes, but who was going to see?

  “Wait!” Wilson called out, and he started moving toward me, his hand out-stretched. “It isn't too late. You can still make it.”

  I had stood up too quickly, and the room swam around me. Ohh, please, no! I bore down on the nausea and willed it away, only to realize I wasn't going to make it to the bathroom this time. Throwing my robe aside, I raced toward the door, flying past Wilson, barely making it to the trash can before I threw up the crackers and water I'd just consumed. I felt hands in my hair, pulling it back from my face and wanted to push Wilson away . . . oh, please, no . . . but I was too busy shuddering and heaving to follow through. I eventually gained dominion over my stomach and wished desperately for something to wipe my mouth on. Almost immediately, a neatly folded square of cloth appeared in my line of sight. I took it from Wilson's hand gratefully. It was the second time I'd used one of his handkerchiefs. I hadn't given the last one back. I had washed it and pressed it, but I knew it smelled like cigarette smoke and I was too embarrassed to return it. I straightened, and Wilson's hand released my hair as he stepped back from me.

  He turned and left quickly, only to return less than a minute later with a little paper cup of icy water. “Compliments of the teacher's lounge.”

  I sipped the water, grateful – but again – refusing to acknowledge it.

  “If you think you can, I think you should put on your cap and gown and head out to the field. You haven't missed anything important.”

  “Ha! I'm not walking out there by myself.”

  “I'll walk with you. Easy peasy. Once you're seated, the embarrassment will be over, and in the end you will be glad you didn't miss your own graduation.”

  I looked over at my cap and gown wistfully. Wilson must have seen my hesitation and pressed me further. “Come on. You like making entrances, remember?”

  I smiled a little, but the smile fell as I considered the likelihood that I wouldn't make it through the ceremony without needing to make another run for the commode.

  “I can't do it.”

  “Sure you can,” Wilson picked up my cap and gown and held them out to me, an encouraging look on his face. He reminded me of a dog begging for a walk around the block, his big, heavily-lashed eyes pleading, his mouth turned up the slightest bit in supplication.

  “I can't do it,” I repeated more forcefully.

  “You need to,” Wilson said just as forcefully. “I get that you're feeling dicky –”

  “I'm not dicky, whatever that means! I'm pregnant!” I whispered, interrupting him. Wilson's face went slack, as if I'd just told him I was having an affair with Prince William. The lump was back, and I felt a stinging in my eyes that caused me to blink rapidly and grit my teeth.

  “I see,” Wilson said softly, and his hands fell to his sides, my cap and gown still held in his hand. A strange expression stole across his features, as if he was putting everything together, and his jaw clenched as his gaze stayed locked on my face. I wanted to look away, but pride kept my stare steady and belligerent.

  I took the cap and gown from him and turned away, feeling suddenly very shy in my short Daisy Dukes and my flimsy t-shirt, as if my skimpy choice of clothing underscored my humiliating confession. I suddenly despised myself and wanted nothing more than to get away from Darcy Wilson – the one teacher, the one person, who seemed to give a damn about me. He had become a friend, and I realized in that moment that I had probably disappointed him. I started to walk away. His voice was insistent behind me.

  “I didn't go to my father's funeral.”

  I turned, confused. “Wh-what?”

  “I didn't go to my father's funeral.” He walked toward me until he stood directly in front of me.

  “Why?”

  Wilson shrugged and shook his head. “I thought I was responsible for his death. The night he died we had a huge fight and I stormed out. I didn't want to go to medical school; he thought I was being a fool. It was the only time I had ever fought like that with my father. Later that night, he had a massive heart attack in his car in the hospital parking lot. He had been paged but never made it through the hospital doors. They might have saved him if he had.

  “Naturally, I blamed myself for the heart attack. I was devastated and guilty . . . so I didn't go.” Wilson stopped talking and looked down at his hands as if they held answers that he had yet to find. “My mother begged and pleaded. She told me I would regret not going for the rest of my life.” He looked up at me. “She was right.”

  I looked down at my own hands, knowing exactly what he was trying to say.

  “Some moments you don't get back, Blue. You don't want to spend a lifetime wondering about those moments you didn't seize, about the things you should have done but were too scared to do.”

  “It's just a stupid ceremony,” I protested.

  “No. It's more than that, because it means something to you. It's something you've earned and no one can take it away from you. This journey hasn't been an easy one for you, and you deserve this moment, maybe more than any student out there.” Wilson pointed toward the football field that lay beyond the walls of the cafeteria.

  “Nobody will miss me. I don't have anyone out there waiting to see me walk across the stage.”

  “I'll be there, and I'll clap and holler and yell your name.”

  “If you do, I'll kick your ass!”
I snapped, horrified.

  Wilson busted out laughing. “There's the girl I know.” He pointed to my cap and gown. “Let's go.”

  I ended up attending my graduation ceremony after all. Turns out, I hadn't missed much. I walked out onto the field, Wilson by my side. I held myself stiffly and didn't hurry, and I made my way to my empty seat without flinching, although heads were swiveling right and left. Wilson sat with the row of teachers and true to his word, whistled and yelled when my name was called. I have to admit I kind of liked it, and my classmates and the other teachers laughed, most likely thinking Wilson was clapping because he was glad to get rid of me. I tried not to smile but, in spite of my best efforts, at the last minute a huge grin split my face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I spent as little time in the apartment as possible. It reeked of cigarettes, and although I tried to keep my door shut off from the rest of the apartment and the windows to my room open at all times, May in Las Vegas is hot, and my room was unbearable. My little storage unit at the back of the complex was just as hot, but I had fresh air and my projects to distract me. I was lost in my latest creation – filing and sanding and grinding away – when a car rolled up beyond the sliding metal door. I turned to see Wilson step from his grey Subaru and slam the door behind him. I walked out into the bright sunlight, shading my eyes as he approached.

  “Your aunt said I would find you out here,” he offered by way of greeting.

  “She answered the door? Wow. Wonders never cease.” She'd been asleep on the couch when I'd slipped out. I tried not to pull at my red tank top and my shredded jeans shorts. My belly had just started to round, but it wasn't noticeable in my clothing. I looked down at my flip flops and curled my painted toes. I had showered and shaved my legs, but my hair had still been wet when I had come outside, and I had pulled it up in a high ponytail to keep the wet strands off my neck. I hadn't even looked in the mirror. I didn't know what bothered me more: Wilson seeing my like this or the fact that I cared that Wilson was seeing me like this. He had stopped walking and was staring at me. I cringed and then immediately got defensive.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Wilson stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyebrows lowered quizzically over his somber gaze.

  “You look different.”

  “Well, yeah!” I scoffed self-consciously. “I look like crap. No makeup, my hair's not done, and I'm wearing these scruddy clothes.”

  “Scruddy?” Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

  “Yeah, you know. Cruddy and scummy make scruddy.”

  “I see,” Wilson nodded sagely. “Like scrummy, only . . . scruddy.” He tipped his head slightly. “It suits you.”

  “Scruddy suits me?” I tried not to be hurt. “Why thank you, Mr. Darcy!” I said in my southern belle accent and fluttered my eyelashes. “You are as romantic as your namesake.”

  “Natural suits you. You wear too much makeup,” Wilson shrugged and turned away.

  “A girl can never wear too much blue eye shadow,” I quipped, trying to pretend that I didn't care what he said or what he thought. I ran my hand over my hair, feeling the rumpled strands and the off-centered ponytail.

  “Tell me what you're doing.” Wilson moved to stand next to me. He reached a long finger out and followed a groove that widened into a hollow space.

  “I'm never sure what I'm doing,” I answered honestly.

  “Then how will you know when you've done it?” Wilson smiled.

  “That's always the question. When to stop. I usually start to get a feel for the shape as I work. It rarely comes to me before. The inspiration comes through action.” I bit at my lip in concentration. “Does that make sense?”

  Wilson nodded. “If I squint it almost looks like a cello that has been melted down and pulled . . . like taffy.”

  I didn't tell him that I kept seeing a cello too. It seemed too personal, as if it would again introduce the feelings that had risen within me when I had first heard him play that night in the high school, the night I'd vowed to change.

  “What's that?” Wilson indicated a small hole whorled into the now smooth surface of the wood.

  “A worm hole.”

  “Will you sand it away?”

  I shook my head. “Probably not. I'll just fill it with a little putty. The problem with fixing one problem is that sometimes you uncover two.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well this is a relatively small worm hole, right?”

  He nodded.

  “If I start cutting it away, the hole may widen and veer off into a new direction, creating a much bigger problem or, at the very least, a much bigger hole. There is no such thing as perfect, and honestly, if the wood were perfect it wouldn't be as beautiful. I seem to recall someone telling me that 'perfect was boring' anyway.”

  “You were listening!” Wilson smiled again.

  “I usually am,” I replied without thinking and then worried that I might have given something away.

  “How are you this morning?” Wilson's eyes were grave as he switched subjects.

  I stopped filing and flexed my muscles. “Tough as nails,” I said dryly, not wanting to talk about what I knew he was referring to. I had spent about an hour feeling absolutely hideous, bent over the toilet in the apartment. But I had managed to keep down about ten crackers and the fresh air outside was doing me good. I wondered again how long I was going to be able to stay in the smokey apartment. It wasn't good for me, and it definitely wasn't good for the baby inside me. My stomach knotted up instantly, and I wondered briefly if part of my on-going, never-ending nausea was just plain old fear.

  “Does your aunt know about the pregnancy?” Okay, now Wilson was being blunt.

  “Nope,” I responded shortly.

  “Have you been to see a doctor?”

  “Not yet.” I didn't make eye contact. I didn't think my trip to Planned Parenthood counted. His silence felt like condemnation. I stepped back from my sculpture and sighed loudly. “I have an appointment with someone at Health and Human services. I should be able to get some kind of medical assistance, and they will tell me where I can go to see a doctor, okay?”

  “Good,” Wilson replied shortly, nodding his head. “You know you're going to have to stop smoking too, right?”

  “I don't smoke!” It was as if Wilson had heard my thoughts moments before.

  Wilson lifted an eyebrow in disbelief, and smirked at me, waiting for me to come clean.

  “I don't smoke, Wilson! I just live with someone who smokes like a chimney. So I smell like an ashtray all the time. I can't help it if I reek, but thank you for noticing.”

  Wilson had lost his doubtful smirk, and he sighed gustily. “I'm sorry, Blue. I'm incredibly good at dropping clunkers. I don't have a big mouth, but somehow I manage to stick my foot in it quite frequently.”

  I shrugged, letting it go. He watched me work for a while, but he seemed preoccupied, and I wondered why he lingered.

  “Well that settles it . . .” he mumbled to himself. Then said to me, “Have you ever thought about getting a place of your own?”

  “Only every second of every day,” I replied wryly, not looking up from the line that was emerging, changing my cello into a full symphony. The curve suggested sound and movement and a continuity that I couldn't put into words but that somehow was conveyed in the line of the wood. It happened like that – beauty would emerge almost by accident and I had to let it take me where it wanted me to go. So often, I felt like my hands and heart knew something I did not, and I surrendered the art to them.

  “Can you take a break? I want to show you something that might interest you.”

  I worried my lip, wondering if I would lose the thread of inspiration if I walked away. It was almost done; I could go. I nodded to Wilson.

  “Let me run inside and change.”

  “You look fine. Let's go. It won't take long.”

  I tugged at my ponytail, pulling the elastic free. I ra
n my fingers through my hair and decided it didn't matter. In moments, my tools were put away and the unit locked up tight. I ran inside and grabbed my purse, yanking a brush through my hair while I pulled on a T-shirt that was a little less bare.

  “A guy with a funny accent came looking for you,” Cheryl mumbled from the couch. “He sounded like the professor from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But he was much younger – and cute too. Moving up in the world, huh?” Cheryl had a thing for Spike on the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She owned every season and watched it obsessively whenever she was between boyfriends. It made her believe that her perfect guy was still out there – immortal, blood sucking, and strangely attractive. Comparing Wilson to any member of the cast was high praise. I left without commenting.

  Wilson opened the passenger door for me me, and I managed not to say something sarcastic or tell him that he did remind me a little of a young Giles. We pulled up outside his house, and I remarked on the improved look of the exterior.

  “Initially, I focused all my attention on the interior, but once the three apartments were completed, I turned my attention to the outside. In the last month she's had a new roof put on, new fascia, new windows. We reformed the steps and laid them and the sidewalk in stone. The landscapers came in and really cleaned up the yard too. The old girl has had a complete makeover, really.”

  He bounded up the steps and unlocked the door. I followed more sedately. How would it be to have the money to instigate a makover like he'd given “the old girl?” Sure it was still work. It was probably still a headache to deal with contractors and construction. I couldn't imagine having the vision to put it all together. But how would it be to be able to do whatever you wanted . . . within reason? I wondered randomly if I was Wilson's new project. Maybe he would make me over.

  “This is what I wanted to show you.” He led me to a door off of the foyer that I hadn't even noticed the last time I had been inside. It was partially hidden behind the sweep of the stairs.