Through Indigo's Eyes (18 page)

“I love grilled cheese,” I answered. And I did. It was my favorite sandwich.

I tried to scan the room for houseplants without them noticing. Perhaps there was a cactus or some creepy vine plant or even just a flowerpot.

Although my heart rate had slowed and the shovel and dirt smell had disappeared, I still felt off: dizzy, unbalanced, and nauseous. I tipped the glass of water to my mouth and managed a sip, allowing it to soothe my parched throat.

“Can I help?” I asked John.

“Indie, it's grilled cheese. I can make these blindfolded. I eat them, like, every other day.”

“That makes me sound like a horrible mother,” said Mrs. Smith.

John didn't reply and kept his back to his mother. An awkward silence filled the small kitchen.

Mrs. Smith wrung her hands before she turned to me. “Are sandwiches okay, Indie?” Concern laced her voice, as if she hadn't made the right food for my visit.

By now, I was starting to feel better, so I smiled and said for the second time, “Mrs. Smith, I love grilled cheese sandwiches. They're comfort food to me.”

John finished frying the sandwiches, slid them onto plates, and dumped the pan in the sink. We sat down at the dining-room table with our sandwiches, the ketchup bottle, a jar of pickles, and a big veggie tray. John got the two of us a beer (which was totally weird for me but kind of cool, too) and gave his mother water, even after she told him that she wanted a beer. When he gave her the water, he avoided her gaze, and she didn't say anything to him about not getting her what she had asked for. I thought the role reversal was strange, so unlike my relationship with my parents.

Dinner went well, and we discussed trivial things, like the weather, a few television shows and movies that we had all seen, and our favorite and not-so-favorite actors. We even talked about a few of the new fashions coming out, which was kind of funny because his mom and I both agreed that we liked more of a casual style and that Winners was our favorite store. I liked his mother; she was shy, like me.

But … why the shovel? Why the dirt? I was baffled.

At the end of the meal, she said, “Indie, thank you for coming over. John doesn't bring many friends home.”

“It was nice to finally meet you, too.” I smiled at her. Under the table, I put my foot on top of John's. “Thank
you
for dinner.”

When she looked at me, her eyes were misty. “It wasn't much. It was really more like lunch.” She glanced John's way. “I'm very lucky to have a son like John.”

John stood and started gathering the plates. “I'll do dishes.”

“I'll help,” I said, trying to lighten the mood that had suddenly settled over the table.

“John said you were different than most girls.” She put her hand on my arm.

Something about her touch burned my skin, as if I had been seared by the frying pan. Although I was shocked, I didn't pull my hand away. Instead I let the pain flow through me, because I didn't know what else to do but let it all happen. After what was probably only seconds, but seemed like minutes, she removed her hand. Free to escape, I picked up my plate and walked into the kitchen.

John was huddled over the kitchen sink. I sidled up beside him. “Need help?”

“I'm good.”

I nodded, even though he didn't look at me. I circled my arms around his body and hugged him, resting my cheek on the middle of his back.

He stopped rinsing the dishes and just stood at the sink with his back to me for a few seconds. Then he turned to face me, pulling me toward him to kiss the top of my head. “You made my mom happy,” he whispered.

If I made her happy, why do I feel so drained?

I looked up at him, and our eyes immediately connected. I saw his pain. Then he lowered his head, and we kissed until we heard a couple of loud coughs at the door.

I only stayed about an hour longer, because it was a school night. We both had homework to do, and John still had to drive me home.

On our way out, Mrs. Smith said, “Please, come over again, Indie. I'd like to get to know you better.” She smiled. “John tells me you're in a band. I think that sounds fun.”

Again, my throat felt like it was a desert, and my heart started to pound. “Sure,” I replied. “Next time I'll tell you all about the band.”

Once in the car, my body relaxed. Exhausted, I leaned my head back on the headrest.

“My mom liked you,” he said.

“I liked her, too,” I replied. Cold air washed over me. My stomach churned. My head suddenly throbbed.
Know me better?

Was that why I saw the shovel? Was my vision trying to tell me that she was going to dig up the dirt I had thrown over my past and who I really was? That would make sense.

Is she going to be the one to burst my bubble?

I got home, said hello to my mom, begged off answering her 101 questions about my visit, and told her I was going to my room to do my homework. Instead of opening my books, I flopped onto my bed and fell right to sleep.

When I woke up, groggy and disoriented, my room was dark, and the red lights on my alarm clock said it was 3:00
A.M.
I was still in the clothes I had worn to John's. When I stood up to change into my pajamas and wash off my makeup, my legs felt as if I were wearing ankle weights.

What is going on? The shovel!

That was it. If Mrs. Smith managed to dig up that I saw crazy visions and dead people, she would tell John, and he would drop me ASAP. The thought of not having John in my life made me nauseous.

First Lacey. Then John. What would I do if I lost him?

I had never been in love before, but I knew this was it. I spent all my waking moments thinking about John, and when I was near him, all I wanted was his touch, his hands on my body and his lips on my skin. He had this crazy power over me.

I fell back into a fitful sleep and had horrible dreams about shovels and dirt and holes in the ground and Lacey's necklace. Everything intertwined and nothing made sense, and when I woke up for the second time, the sun was streaming through my window and my pajamas were drenched in sweat.

 

Chapter
Eleven

My mother was sitting at the counter with her coffee, newspaper, and one piece of toast with peanut butter when I walked into the kitchen. She immediately glanced my way, looking at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “So, how was your dinner last night? You didn't say too much when you got home.”

“I had homework.” I poured cereal.

“Did it not go well?”

“Why do you always have to think the worst?”

She folded her newspaper and placed it on the counter. “I'm not thinking the worst. You just seemed like you didn't want to talk about something. I worry when you bottle things inside.”

“His mom was nice. Everything went well.”

She paused and folded her napkin, which I knew meant she was thinking about what she wanted to say next. I hated when she did that. Finally, she said, “You haven't told him yet, have you?”

I stood up and threw my cereal down the disposal. I had lost my appetite. Then I stared at her. “No, Mom, I haven't. And don't you tell him either.”

“Indie, I think he would understand you.”

“No, he wouldn't. He would be like everyone else and think I was a freak.”

She held up her hands. “Okay. Let's drop the subject.” She paused, but only for a second. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, I ran into Carol. She says she misses you and wonders if you and Lacey had a bit of a tiff.”

To get out of this conversation, I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “I'm not thrilled with her boyfriend.”

“Neither is Carol. She is worried about Lacey. She says Lacey doesn't hang out with her girlfriends anymore, and this boy has alienated her from everyone. She's even thinking of quitting the volleyball team. And she might have a scholarship. Maybe you should try to patch things up.”

“I'll try, but I'm not promising anything. I have to get going.”

Then for some reason, I thought about Papa's visit from a month ago. Perhaps it was the worry lines stretching across my mom's forehead that made me remember. As I walked out the kitchen and toward the front door, I said over my shoulder, “By the way, a smile can brighten a dull day.”

My mom gasped, and I turned to look at her. By the expression on her face, I knew she had figured out that Papa had been to see me again. I laughed as I stepped outside and slammed the front door.

When I got on my bus, I was surprised to see Nathan. Of course, he had an empty seat beside him even though the bus was jammed.

I sat beside him. “I've never seen you on this bus,” I said as I put my backpack on my lap.

Nathan pulled his finger out of his nose. Kids teased him constantly for that habit. Although he was just one grade younger than me, he acted like an eight-year-old. “My parents divorced, so I've moved,” he said.

“That sucks,” I replied. “At least you didn't have to switch schools.”

“I wanted to,” he whispered. “Ridgemont scares me. I wish I didn't have to go swimming today in phys ed. I hate phys ed.”

Something in his hushed tone made me glance at him. The poor kid had fear stamped all over his face; he was a walking target for ridicule. To put on a bathing suit in a locker room full of macho guys must be so awkward for him.

“Just pretend you're sick,” I said. “And sit and watch from the sidelines. I've done that before.” I faked a cough, and Nathan laughed.

Suddenly, I felt a push on the middle of my back and I had to brace my hands on the seat in front to stop from flying forward. I turned around. The girl behind me was slouched in her seat with headphones shoved in her ears. Her feet were on the ground and not on the seat. Had she kicked my seat?

“What's the matter?” Nathan asked.

I faced front again. “Did you feel that girl kick the seat?”

He shook his head. “Sometimes they do that to me.” Then he smiled broadly at me, showing a mouthful of metal. “But not when I'm with you. Thanks again for sitting with me
and
for giving me advice on my stupid swimming class.”

He faked a cough, which made us both burst out laughing.

John didn't meet me at my locker, and I had no idea why. Since we had started going out, he'd met me every morning. I stuck my pager in my pocket, just in case he called. My brother had just given me his old pager, and I had given John the number. When he called, I always pretended I needed to use the bathroom to step outside and get to a phone. In my hurry to get my books, I knocked a bunch of stuff out of my locker.

I bent over and randomly gathered everything, and that's when I saw Lacey's silver best friend necklace on the tiled floor. I threw all the rest of my crap on the shelf then bent back down to pick up the necklace.

It was tangled, with several small knots and one really big one.

I shoved it in my pocket, threw my books in my backpack, and slammed my locker door shut.

As I walked to class, my mind was a jumble of thoughts. I had felt a kick to my seat even if Nathan hadn't. What was with that? And I'd seen a shovel last night at John's? And I'd dreamed about everything, even Lacey's necklace. And now it was tangled in my pocket.

I hardly heard a word in math, and by the end of the class, I had a full page of doodles. Still immersed in my thoughts, I got up to leave and shouldered someone, causing me to lose my balance and sending my books tumbling to the floor.

“Watch where you're going,” Lacey muttered.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, bending over to pick up my books for the second time that day. Of the 30 people in class, I would have to pick Lacey to smack into. I thought about the necklace. Had that been a sign that I was going to run into her today? Was I supposed to pick up on these signs?

When I stood, I was so hoping she would have vacated the room, but she was still standing there. Now she was eyeing me instead of glaring.