Through Indigo's Eyes (30 page)

They all started laughing. My face grew hot, and my body shook.

“Look into your crystal ball. Woooooo,” another girl said, in a phony gypsy accent.

Just keep walking.

If I ran, I'd just encourage them.

When it was time for lunch, I was so relieved. Nothing more had been said to me. I headed outside to wait for John. The weather was crappy, cloudy, and gray, hovering just above freezing, so the snow was melting. I shivered under my light jacket. Why hadn't I worn my winter coat? I hated this time of year and wanted it to be spring, so I'd worn my spring coat just because. I wanted sun and warm air, not cold, dirty slush.

Time passed. I glanced at my watch and tapped my foot. With every passing minute, my heart sped faster and faster and my stomach twirled. Something was wrong.

I waited for 15 minutes. Then I scooped up my backpack, flung it over my shoulders, and ran into the school. I had to find him. I sped to John's locker. He wasn't there.

I ran to the smoking area. Not there either. My heart thudded.
Think, Indie, think.
I sucked in air as fast as I could to keep up with my gasping breath.

“John, where are you?” I whispered.

Come on, Indie, think.

The library!

I raced down the hall, skidding as I rounded corners. And I didn't slow, even when I got to the library. I barged in, looking, running through the aisles.

And then I saw him. He was at a table in the very back of the library. His legs were stretched out, and he was slouched in the chair, reading what looked like a paper of some sort.

I stopped. He looked exactly the way he had on the day, way back in September, when we were in the library together and had our first real conversation.

That day had been the beginning of us.

From the downward turn of his mouth, the dull look in his eyes, and the slumped body posture, I knew he'd heard. I'd told him repeatedly that I didn't believe in Edgar Cayce, in people who had visions, and I'd made it perfectly clear that I didn't agree with anything he thought about the spiritual dimension.

“John,” I said quietly.

He looked up and just stared at me.

“I waited for you,” I said. “Under the tree. Have you eaten lunch yet?”

“Let's see. Have I eaten lunch?” His words were deliberate and slow. “Maybe you could have one of your visions and find out. Did I have egg salad or tuna, Indie?”

I stood frozen, afraid to even move a finger or breathe.

John narrowed his eyes. “You do have visions, don't you, Indie?”

I swallowed.

“Are you going to answer me?”

“Yes,” I said quietly.

Cynically, he raised his hands, palms up. “Yes, you're going to answer me, or yes, you have visions?”

“I sometimes have visions,” I spoke slowly. “I've had them since I was young.”

He contorted his face into a scowl and shook his head. “All this time, you've lied to me. Out and out lied.” Then he mimicked me and said, “I don't know about Edgar Cayce. I think he's a quack. I don't believe people can have visions. No one can do that.”

“I didn't want you to know.” I choked out my words. “I didn't want you not to like me.”

He frowned, his eyes almost slits. “And you think lying makes someone like you?”

“No.”

“Relationships are about trust. Trust, Indie.” He raised his voice, and I wanted to shrivel, curl into a small cocoon and forget the world around me. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry I found out? Or sorry you didn't tell me? Which is it, Indie?”

“Sorry I didn't tell you,” I barely whispered.

“What
visions
have you had since we started going out?”

My throat clogged. The shovel, the locket—how was I going to tell him about those visions? They made no sense to me. Had the shovel just been a vision to tell me that my secrets couldn't stay buried? That they would be dug up? What about the man in the locket? I tried to speak, but no words would come out. I was lost. Nothing made sense. Energy depleted, I just stood in front of him, speechless.

He glared at me, then stood, holding up his hands. “Forget it! I don't want to know.” He picked up his books and stuffed them in his backpack.

“Okay, I'll tell you,” I said.

He rapidly shook his head and refused to make eye contact. “I said forget it.” His words were clipped.

Then suddenly he picked up the paper that he had been reading when I first saw him. “See this?” He almost shoved the paper in my face. A big red A
⁺
was written on the front. “This is my paper, Indie. Mr. White just gave it back to me. How ironic is that?”

“John, I said I'm sorry.”

Suddenly, he started ripping the paper into shreds.

I reached out to try to stop him. “Don't,” I cried, touching his arm.

He yanked his arm away from me. “You know, Indie, every time I tried to talk about anything in this paper, you just fed me another one of your lies.” He kept tearing, letting the tiny pieces of paper fall to the library floor.

And he continued. “You know, what's really, really ironic about all of this is that I would have respected you. I would have honored your gift. But you couldn't respect
me
enough to even tell me. Do you think I'm such a horrible person that I wouldn't have wanted to go out with you anymore? How could you think I was like that? That's what hurts the most. You didn't have any faith in me as a decent human being. You didn't want me to know because … what? I was going to laugh at you?”

“I wanted to tell you. I did. Honest.”

“Indie, that's bullshit!”

John threw what was left of his paper on the floor. Then he came toward me and I tried to hug him, but he shoved me away. For a second, he glared at me before he stormed out of the library, leaving me alone with a big mess.

By now sobs racked my body, tears falling like March rain down my cheeks, the pain in my chest excruciating. I got down on my hands and knees, picking up the tiny pieces of paper and putting them in a big pile. After I had gathered up every piece of paper from the dirty carpet, I stuffed them in my backpack.

Then I quickly left the school and went home.

The bus ride seemed to go on forever, and I wished I had Nathan to keep me company.

Once home, I called to my mom but she wasn't home. I trudged up to my room and removed John's paper from my backpack, carefully putting it all in a shoebox alongside my crafts from elementary school. After storing the box in my closet, I curled into a tiny ball on my bed and pulled my comforter over my head.

I must have slept. I don't really know. All I know is that when my mom popped up to my room to ask me about school and dinner, I told her I'd be down.

I cleaned up in the bathroom and survived dinner. I don't know how I did it, but I did. It was as if I were on some sort of robotic mission to make like everything was okay when, very clearly, my life was a mess. I ate enough for my mom not to ask questions, then I excused myself, saying I had homework. Again, I curled up on my bed and slept.

Dreams crept into my psyche, and I woke up in the middle of the night, my pajama top soaked with sweat. I lay in the dark, curled under my covers, thinking about what had happened. I was never going to be normal. Ever. I hated myself. I wished I could cry again, but I couldn't. It was as if my tears had dried up and my heart had shriveled like a rotting apple.

The tears were gone. My anger was gone. And most of all, my joy was gone.

I was numb; I felt nothing.

I fell back to sleep.

In the morning, I got up as usual and got ready for school. Why not? I had to graduate, even though I might not get to go to grad. Or maybe I wouldn't graduate. I hadn't done my homework last night, and I hadn't studied for the test I had today. What difference did it make if I graduated? I wasn't going on to school. I wasn't going to England with John. I wasn't going to do anything with my life. And John wasn't going to be my date for the ceremony. He would probably go with Amber.

When I got to school, I talked to no one, listened to no one, just went directly to my locker. I stood in front of it for a few minutes, staring at the pieces of paper taped haphazardly all over it.

“Weirdo.”

“Nutjob.”

“Crazy lady!”

“Indie Russell was spawned from the devil.”

“Witch! Cackle. Cackle.”

And leaning against my locker was a broomstick with my Halloween witch's hat perched on top

For the first few minutes, after seeing the crap on my locker, I couldn't move. I just stood there, reading the words over and over.

Totally out of character for me, I completely lost it and started tearing at the paper. I ripped and I tore and chucked the paper so it fell, littering the school's floor. I lost all my ability to think rationally, and something kept driving me forward. “I hate this! I hate this!”

I kept tearing.

When there was nothing left on my locker, my body felt like a tire losing air, hissing, until it was completely deflated. The rage was over. I had no more left in me. The calm that I'd had at breakfast returned, and I felt the void again. A small crowd had gathered around me to watch my performance.

“Hey, Indie,” said a voice I didn't recognize. I turned to see a girl standing beside me. She wore all black and had dyed black and purple hair, piercings on her face, and tattoos running like serpents on her arms. “I wanted to give you this.” She handed me a piece of paper. “We're part of the Extraterrestrial Club in the school and thought you might want to join our group.”

I took the paper and ripped it up in front of the girl's face. Then I threw it at her.

“Geez,” she said. “You always seemed so nice. When did you start being a bitch?”

Without even opening my locker, or picking the paper up off the floor, I walked away. I heard Sarah's voice in the distance calling my name, so I slowed down.

When she caught up, Sarah wrapped her arms around me. “You're still the nicest person I know,” she whispered. “This will all blow over. If you want to talk, give me a call. I'm still here for you, no matter what.”

I looked into Sarah's eyes. I couldn't believe she was being so nice to me. “Thanks,” I whispered. “I know I haven't exactly been a great friend lately.” I paused for a second. “Do you think he has something going with Amber?”

Sarah shook her head. “Nah. Nothing serious. They're just really good friends.” She paused for a split second before she spoke again. “But he doesn't treat you right, Indie.”

I felt a sharp jab to my stomach, and it began doing somersaults, making me want to throw up.

“I'm gonna go home,” I muttered. “I don't want to be here.”

Sarah nodded. “I understand. I'll call you later.”

No one was home at my house, because everyone had left for work. Instead of going to my room, I went to the washroom, shut the door, and locked it. I looked at myself in the mirror and could see nothing but a blank pink wall behind me. I couldn't see my face; it was as if I were nonexistent. But that's what I wanted to be. I didn't want to live without John. What about living together in England? Sharing a life together? Being together forever?

I thought I was going to collapse, so I sat on the edge of the tub. The pink room vibrated and throbbed, in and out, in and out.
Boom. Boom.
Pink and more pink. That's all I could see. Why was it pink? It should have been red, blood red.

I opened the medicine cabinet. My dad's pills lined the shelves. I picked up a bottle and looked at it. If I took the entire bottle in one dose, that would do. I turned the bottle around in my fingers and read the prescription.

Take one pill three times daily with meals.
Yes, I would take the whole bottle. I would go to sleep, and that would be that. John would never miss me. No. I shook my head, clutching the bottle to my chest. My dad needed these pills. I couldn't do that to him. I put them back and closed the medicine cabinet door.

This time when I looked in the mirror, I saw my papa behind me.

“This isn't right, Indie.”

“I'm coming to see you, Papa.”

“No, Indie. It's not your time.”

“It wasn't Nathan's time either, and he died. I want to die!”

A razor sat on the counter, and I picked it up. Would my blood match the pink pulsing walls? I would have to stick my arm in the tub so the blood wouldn't get all over the bath mat.

I hated myself.

Hated who I was.

Hated my visions.

Hated seeing dead people.

And hated hurting people I loved. Why did John have to find out? Now he hated me like I hated myself.

I put the razor down. Too much blood. My mom would have to clean up the mess. Wash the bath mat. Scrub the tub. Clean the floor. I grabbed a full bottle of aspirin, unlocked the bathroom door, and made my way down the hall.

The sun shone high in the sky, and the air had warmed and taken away some of the slush. Little rivers of water trickled into drains. I had no idea what time it was. I felt emotionless.

I walked to the bus stop and caught a bus, finding a seat at the back by myself. I clutched the aspirin bottle in the pocket of my jacket. If I jumped off the bridge, I would drown. Then my parents wouldn't blame themselves for being bad parents, for not seeing that something was wrong. I didn't want them to feel bad. They loved me, always had. They only wanted what was best for me. I wanted them to think I drowned, like Nathan drowned. I wanted everyone to think it was some sort of accident.

John. What would he think?

He wouldn't care.

He would go on without me and perhaps end up with Amber and take their friendship to another level. Something jabbed me deep inside, made me ache, my heart throb.

I looked at the trees and their lack of leaves. In a few months, the buds would come, then the leaves and the butterflies. I put my hand to my necklace.