Through Indigo's Eyes (13 page)

Tears sat behind my eyelids. I missed her, missed the one person I could trust.

What did the voice mean by telling me she needed me? I needed her just as much.

Warm air misted my neck.

“I like you, too,” John whispered through my hair.

My body calmed, my tears dissolved, and I pivoted slowly to see John staring down at me. He winked but didn't touch me. And I really wanted him to. Our eyes connected, like, really connected, and it was the first time I'd noticed how his hazel irises were flecked with tiny dots of gray. Behind his eyes lurked deep mysterious emotions, and I liked that about him. I swear, if the bell hadn't rung, I would have kissed him in the hallway.

At lunch I looked for John but couldn't find him, so I met up with Sarah and Zoe in the smoking area.

“Hey, did you hear some woman had a heart attack last night by the bookstore near Denny's?” said Zoe, blowing out one of her famous smoke rings. “The ambulance flew by us. Rumor was she just collapsed.”

I nodded as I blew out smoke, tilting my chin up to look cool. “I saw her,” I said.

“What happened?” Sarah asked.

“She just grabbed her chest and went down.” I flicked the ashes off my cigarette.

“Were you, like, close to her?” Zoe's eyes widened.

“No,” I said quickly. “But there was a crowd.”

“I heard some girl saved her. The family was on the radio this morning. The woman who had the attack wants to find her to say thanks. Said she was like this angel sent from heaven or some crap like that. Angels are so in right now. Who believes that shit anyway?”

“Not me.” I tried to laugh, hoping I sounded convincing. “I sure didn't see any angel swoop down.” I used my hands to mock the word
swoop.
The gesture must have worked, because Sarah and Zoe laughed.

“Yeah, like, who really wants to be classified as an angel, anyway?” said Zoe. “It's more fun being baaaad girls. Hey, that's what we should call our band! Bad Girls.”

“I'm with ya, sister,” I said, bumping her with my hip.

Nothing physical happened between me and John all week long, and I found that both confusing and annoying. I kept waiting for something, anything—a touch on the arm, a hug—and I couldn't help thinking he didn't like me, despite what he'd said.

Finally, Friday rolled around, and I wondered what his plans were for the weekend. He'd told me he liked me, so why was he being so evasive? I had no idea if I should ask him about his plans or just leave it and go about my own business.

At lunch, when I was heading out to the smoking area, I saw him sitting under a tree engrossed in a book. The weather had changed again, and the autumn sun had returned, heating the ground, drying up the moisture. The colored leaves were now in full regalia, shining against a cerulean sky. John looked romantic, sitting there reading. I sauntered up to him, trying to be cool. “Hi, John,” I said.

He shut his book so I couldn't see the cover. Suddenly all my romantic feelings were gone, because I got the distinct feeling that he didn't want me to know what he was reading. What was he hiding?

“Sit down,” he said, patting the grass like I was a child.

I sat beside him.

We didn't talk for a few moments. He picked at the grass and threw some into the air.

“You going to Zoe's party tonight?” I finally asked.

He shrugged. “Not sure.” He paused for a few seconds before he asked, “Are you?”

“Maybe. I'm supposed to sleep over so we can rehearse tomorrow.”

“Rehearse?”

“Yeah, we kind of have a band.”

He gave me a funny little smirk. “Like a lame chick band? Please don't tell me you're the drummer.”

“No. Sarah is.”

“What do you play? Tambourine? Or the”—he clapped his fingers together—”castanets? Or maybe you're the triangle girl.”

I laughed, even though it was a little insulting. “No,” I said. “Guitar.”

“Hey, I'm going to the junior hockey game tonight,” he said, totally changing the subject.

Surprised that John would like hockey or any sports for that matter and a little ticked he had been so sarcastic about our band, I replied with one word: “Oh.”

“I know a couple of guys on the team, and they gave me some free tickets. I might go to Zoe's after.” He looked at me. “You want to come to the game with me?”

Was this going to be our first date? “Sure.”

“Great,” he replied.

Silence hung between us for a few seconds, and then I asked, “What were you reading?”

He playfully pinched my cheek, the touch of his fingers almost sending my body into spasms. “Philosophical stuff. Nothing you'd be interested in.”

John brushed off his pants and stood. Then he held out his hand to help me up. Just the feel of his skin sent shivers cascading through the length of my body, and I physically craved him in some surreal way.

We started to walk back to the school, and we were partway there when I smelled … the cigar smoke. My skin got clammy, and my heart raced like a speeding car.
No. Not now. Please.

This was the second time I'd sensed this guy when I was with John. Why? And where was he? Not in my field of vision yet. There was only the smell of smoke. Determined not to let him in my view, I stared straight ahead. I didn't want to see him sitting under a tree or lurking by the back door. With my eyes lowered to the ground, I tried to appear normal, letting John carry the conversation. Thankfully, he was on a roll about the value of a socialist government and how we should treat homeless people with more respect.

Keep walking, keep walking. Ignore the smell. Hang on. You can do this.

But then there he was, standing by the door we were about to enter. Sweat trickled down my face. My throat tightened so I could hardly breathe. I braced myself to walk by him. I had to do this, get through this without John suspecting anything. As I passed through the doorway, I tried to maintain my composure, and I didn't make eye contact with him. Oddly enough, like before, he didn't try to talk to me, not one word. And then, although I tried to avoid him, he stepped into my path. He put his hand to his throat. I just lowered my head and kept walking.

“I won't see you after school,” said John once we were inside. “I have to leave early.” He looked away. I sensed he didn't want to go wherever he had to go.

“Okay,” I answered, not wanting to say more, in case he detected nervousness in my voice.

“How about I call you?” He turned back to me.

The cigar smell still lingered, but it was faint. Had the spirit followed me into the school? “Great,” I managed to spit out.

“I need your number,” John reminded me, smirking.

I took a pen from my pocket, then took out a matchbook. My hands shook as I tried to rip the cardboard back off the matchbook cover.

John eyed me, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Your face is white. And you're shaking. Do you feel okay?” He took the matchbook from me and tore the cover off. Then he handed it back.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” I wrote down my number, willing my hand to stop shaking. “It's the sun,” I said as I wrote. “I'm fair, and it doesn't always agree with me.”

“Okay.” He didn't sound convinced. “You were out in it for all of a second.”

After he took my number, we parted, and as soon as I hit the main hall, the cigar smell faded completely and my heart rate returned to normal. I hurriedly headed in the direction of the library, praying that I could get on a computer. Forget biology—I had some school history to look up.

I tried every search engine possible but couldn't find anything about a middle-aged guy who had been arrested for harming any students or staff. I learned all about the history of the school, when it had been built, who was the first principal, blah, blah, blah. For an hour, I read about my school in minute detail and didn't uncover one single lead about the man with the cigar. But I did find out about Brian and the food fight riot he had led in grade nine. Although his name wasn't mentioned, I knew the article was all about him. I tried to contain my laughter in the hushed silence of the library.

Disappointed and discouraged, I logged off the computer when it was time for me to head to my last class of the day.

If there was nothing on the Internet, how was I ever going to find out who this guy was?

That afternoon, with the sun streaming through my window, I crawled into bed thinking my life was like a yo-yo, constantly going up and down. Last night I'd helped save a woman who was having a heart attack, then today I had seen the creepy ghost again, and for no good reason. One good thing, one bad thing. Why couldn't my life just be normal, or at least make sense? As I lay in bed counting the dots on the ceiling, a funny but very familiar smell wafted through my room.

Wool and Old Spice cologne.

“Because you're you.”

At the sound of the hoarse, gravelly voice, I sat up in my bed. “Papa!”

There he was, in his dress slacks and shirt and black felt fedora, sitting on the edge of my bed, just like when I was seven years old. I smiled and felt my body instantly relax. When I was little, I'd loved crawling up onto his lap to absorb the smell of his Old Spice and his wool jacket. I wanted to be seven again, when I didn't know that I was different, when I thought everyone was like me.

“You haven't visited me in so long,” I said.

“You didn't want me to, my little sweetie pie.”

I hugged my pillow to my body. He always called me his little sweetie pie. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize, child.”

“Did you come because you have something important to tell me?” I wondered if he was going to tell me who the man was so I could stop obsessing about it.

“Your mother is worried about you.”

I sighed. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. “She's always worried about me. I'm weird.”

“Tell her a smile can brighten up a dull day. And tell your dad that Curtis says hello. And me too, of course.”

“I'll tell my mom about the smile,” I said. “But Dad won't believe me. You know what he's like.”

“I'm working on him,” he replied. “Through his dreams.”

I laughed. “You're funny, Papa.”

“So are you, my dear. Keep making your dad laugh for me. He likes your singing.”

“Tell me something, Papa. Who is the man at the school?”

Papa wagged his finger at me, then said, “You always have to negotiate.” He disappeared in a split second, leaving me sitting in an empty bedroom, hugging my pillow like I was a child. Only I wasn't a child anymore. I was a teenager in my last year of high school.

And I had been a teenager when Curtis had died. After Curtis had passed away and the funeral was over, Papa had come to me, just like he did today. “Curt is okay,” he had said. “He is with me now. Tell Aunt Cathy and your mom and dad that we're fishing all the time.”

A few days later, when Aunt Cathy came over for dinner, I approached my parents and her in the kitchen. “Oh, by the way, Papa told me to tell you that Curt is with him. And that they're fishing together.”

Silence encased the room. Then Aunt Cathy's eyes welled up with tears, as did my dad's. My dad went over to his sister and hugged her hard.

“I didn't know they fished together.” My dad tenderly patted his sister's back.

“He had some happy times fishing with Dad.”

Aunt Cathy wiped the tears from her cheeks, disengaged herself from my dad, and stepped toward me. My father remained where he was with his arms crossed.

She grabbed my hands in hers. “Thank you, Indie,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “Thank you.”

Aunt Cathy had believed me, but my dad hadn't.

I continued to hang on to my pillow for a few minutes. Why wouldn't Papa answer my question? Was I not supposed to know? Was I being tested? Was I supposed to figure it out on my own? Sometimes I wished my brain had an off button, or at least one for pause, so I could silence the thoughts for a while.