Through Indigo's Eyes (5 page)

We were on our way to the Glebe, my favorite neighborhood in Ottawa because it was so funky. Both of us remained silent. Bank Street ran through some neighborhoods, then a business area, then more neighborhoods, right into downtown. The Glebe was one of the last neighborhoods before the downtown core.

“So,” I said after we'd driven a little way, “what are your plans for next year?”

“It's my draft year,” said Burke. “I'm hoping to go pretty high, then I can get to a rookie camp and hopefully a main NHL camp. I might have to play in the OHL again next year, but my big goal is to play NHL. So next year is hockey. What about you?”

I fiddled with the snaps on my jean jacket.
Good question, Burke
, I thought. I had no idea what my plans were. “Work for a year, maybe.”

“You seriously have no idea
what
you want to do?”

I shrugged and slouched in my seat. “Maybe I'll travel. Who knows? I
definitely
don't want to go to school. Me and school don't mix.”

I wished I could answer those questions. I turned my head and stared out the window again. Just because he knew exactly what he was going to do didn't mean that I did. A sudden flash of hot air surged through me, and I felt as if I were burning up. Thankfully, we were almost in the Glebe; I could get out of the car soon. I undid the top snap of my jean jacket and loosened my scarf as I continued to stare out the window, telling myself to breathe. I wanted to fan myself. What was I reacting to? His questions? My inability to answer anything about my future? Or his assuredness?

“Who do you play next?” I had to keep talking so he didn't notice that something was wrong with me.

“The Kitchener Rangers.”

Then he proceeded to tell me all their stats and that they were a good team, blah, blah, blah. In a way, I was thankful for his rambling because then I didn't have to talk. As Burke chatted on, we drove into the Glebe, and I kept staring out the window as we passed upscale shops, specialty shops, bohemian shops, cafés, and tons of great restaurants: Thai, Vietnamese, vegetarian, and even trendy burger joints. My temperature began to return to normal, and I relaxed a little bit. The Glebe was a mix of old and new. Yes, there were beautiful old heritage buildings made of the classic red brick, but there were also newer condo complexes with large windows and modern features.

One day I wanted to have my own apartment in the Glebe.

Could that happen next year? Was that what I was going to do? Get a job and live in the Glebe?

“Maybe I'll get an apartment in the Glebe,” I said, my words coming out of nowhere.

I snuck a glance at Burke. And then it happened. My mind went blank. I gripped the door handle of the car.
No. Not now. Please.

But it was over so fast I didn't have time to blink. I saw a black and gold hockey jersey—then it was gone. Sometimes I got snapshots, still images instead of scenes. I breathed, thankful for the quick picture but totally bugged that I would see a stupid hockey jersey, as if I didn't get enough hockey just living in Ottawa.

“The Glebe would be a cool place to live. Expensive though, eh?” he said.

“Yeah, that's for sure.” I paused. I didn't want the conversation to veer to me; I hated talking about myself. Plus, I wanted to find out more about what I had just seen. “What team do you want to pick you?”

“What do you mean, pick me?”

“Whatever you said before. It's some big year for you.”

“You mean draft me?”

“Yeah.”

“Pittsburgh Penguins.”

“What color are their uniforms?”

He laughed. “You mean jerseys?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Jerseys.”

“Black and gold.”

I knew that.

I glanced out the window again. Why did I always know everything about everyone else but nothing about myself? Was I going to live in the Glebe next year? Was that what I was feeling? Some days I had 20 visions, then other days, it seemed like hundreds of snapshots clicked through my brain, and then on my busy, distracted days, I had zero come to me. And none were about me! Sometimes they were powerful and gave me headaches, like the one about Burke and Amber, and other times I just heard words or saw a quick snapshot, like the jersey. It was all so confusing.

After a few seconds, I turned back to Burke and glanced at his profile. I wanted to tell him not to get involved with Amber; it would not be the right thing to do. And I also wanted to let him know he was going to get drafted by the Pittsburgh Penguins, that'd I'd seen the jersey. But a big glob of something got stuck in my throat, and I couldn't speak. And I felt funny. My body started to shake, my palms started to sweat, and my throat felt dry. I placed my hands on my lap, holding them tightly to stop the shaking, hoping Burke wouldn't notice my white knuckles. What the hell was wrong with me?

Why couldn't I talk?

Why couldn't I help my best friend by telling her boyfriend not to mess around? And I had just seen a black and gold jersey. Why couldn't I just tell him that the team he wanted was going to draft him?

Was I supposed to just butt out and not use these stupid visions? The jersey was good news. Wasn't it? Was I missing something?

He'll think you're crazy.

Of course, that was it. I had to keep my mouth shut. We turned onto a residential street with nice big trees, including oaks and willows. The houses in the Glebe were different than in my neighborhood because they were much older, and most were the classic style: tall two-story red-brick buildings. Some of the houses here might have even been built in the late 1800s and early 1900s. When Burke drove up to the curb in front of a stately brick house, I exhaled. Finally, I could get out of the car and get some air.

We walked toward the house. Burke lifted the latch on the black iron gate and, like a perfect gentleman, ushered me through first. I walked down the narrow concrete walkway and climbed the four steps to the old-fashioned front porch that wrapped around the house. Outdoor wicker furniture sat empty on the deck, although I did notice the overflowing ashtray on the small table between the two cushioned chairs. Someone had been sitting in them recently. The noise from the party was emanating from the two front windows. My body started to vibrate, and my head ached. My body didn't respond to parties like Lacey's did. When she heard the music and loud noise, she would smile and dance and talk with animated gestures. For me, the walls seemed to move in and out and warp, and the only way I could stand it was to find a corner of the room and stay there all night.

I lifted my hand to knock on the door, but Burke laughed and just pushed it open. “I don't think anyone will hear you knock,” he said. “This is going to be shaker.”

I swallowed, trying to wet my dry throat. It had taken me an hour to decide what to wear, and in the end, I had on nondescript jeans and a plain V-neck. I had added a silver necklace and hoop earrings for dramatic effect. And I had tried to curl my hair—unsuccessfully, I might add—and put on eye shadow (borrowed from Lacey), mascara, and some lip gloss.

We walked through the front door, and I immediately saw the carved newel post and wooden staircase leading to an upstairs. Kids were looming over the staircase, looking me up and down. Then I looked down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. The house was packed, bodies milling over every square inch. Burke pulled a bottle of something out of his shirt, ignoring me. The guy obviously didn't want to babysit his girlfriend's friend anymore. I mean, we were past the front door, right?

What was I going to do now? Who would I talk to?

Was John here?

I glanced at the crowd, but all the faces and bodies melted together, like a buzzing blur of bees. The drone became louder and louder, and I stood in the middle of the room, my feet feeling as if they were glued to the floor. Why had I come? What was I trying to prove? I wished I were home in my room watching television or reading or … I took a few deep breaths to slow down my racing insecurities. I closed my eyes to escape for just a minute. Crowds made me crazy. It was like my blood absorbed everything that everyone was feeling, so I could feel their joy or sorrow, and it washed over me, making me either super hyper or totally depressed.

After a few good phys-ed-worthy inhalations, I opened my eyes and willed my body to calm down. I came to help out my best friend.

And to see John.

I jostled my way through the crowd and headed to the kitchen. Burke was ahead of me, weaving his way down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house. I walked a few steps behind him, so he wouldn't know I was following. I glanced around as soon as I walked in the kitchen.

Then I saw him.

He was alone, leaning against the counter, holding a red cup. He looked so out of place, exactly how I felt. He wore his usual: jeans, flip-flops, and the same plain hooded sweatshirt, no logos. From the pouch of his sweatshirt, a tattered paperback peeked out. From where I stood I couldn't read the title. I stopped moving, lowered my head, and stared at my feet. Had he seen me looking at him?

Someone pushed by me, and I stumbled a bit, which made me have to lift my chin and face the party. Immediately, I saw him staring at me—his hazel eyes pierced me, seared my skin. I thought about what Lacey would do in this situation, so I smiled. He raised his hand and coolly gave me a finger salute. The small movement made his thick dark hair randomly shift and move across his forehead in one small sweep. As if on autopilot, my feet started moving forward, step by step, until I stood in front of him.

“Hey,” he said almost lazily. Then he smirked. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

I shrugged.

“You don't strike me as the partygoer type.”

“I could say the same about you,” I replied.

He nodded, once. Then he tilted his head and stared at me. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't.

Finally, to break his gaze and the sweltering heat that had invaded me, I pointed to the book snuggled in his sweatshirt. “What are you reading?”

He pulled the paperback from his pouch, and when I saw the cover, I sank my feet in the floorboards and let my arms dangle at my side to maintain a casual look. The blood surged so fast through my veins that I might as well have been on a river raft fighting rapids.

“
The Sleeping Prophet
,” he said. “It's about a guy named Edgar Cayce. You ever heard of him?”

I had. Because of my visions, my mom had a million books on different psychics, and we had many books on Edgar Cayce, too many. I knew Cayce was a visionary from the late 1800s who had died sometime in the 1940s, but that's about all I knew, because I tried not to be interested. My mother liked to tell me that I had what he had, and if I would just accept, blah, blah, blah.

I shook my head. “Nope. Never heard of him.”

“He's interesting. Fascinating, actually.” He shoved the book in his back pocket. “You want to go outside? Get some air?”

“Sure,” I replied.

I followed John through the maze of bodies, moving steadily behind him, dodging arms, legs, feet, shoulders. Within seconds, we were outside, standing on the back porch. Translucent, silvery-blue light from the full moon lit the porch, and stars winked like gems in a clear ebony sky. A sudden eerie feeling washed over me, almost as if a burglar had crept into my body and stolen my energy. Since I was little, the full moon had had some sort of power over me. It used to stare at me through my bedroom window, and I would hide under my covers to get away from it. I shivered.

“You cold?” John asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped the pack on the porch railing. Once he had one in his hand, he rolled it around for a few beats before he leaned forward and cupped his hands to the autumn wind that blew around us. The cigarette sparked, and I stared at the tiny red specks. John threw his head back and inhaled, then he blew out a rush of smoke and handed the cigarette to me. I immediately took it and inhaled deeply, my lips touching the exact spot where his had been, tasting his mouth, wondering if this could classify as our first kiss. I let the smoke fill my lungs before I exhaled. When I handed the cigarette back to John, he had his head tilted to the side, and he wore a little smirk on his face, as if he were assessing me somehow, mocking me.

“What?” I asked.

“I didn't know you smoked.”

I shoved my hands in my back pockets and shifted my stance so my hip jutted out. I didn't want to tell him I smoked to be part of something, a group perhaps. That as an outsider I needed to belong somewhere. That I practiced in front of a mirror so I could join the smoking crowd outside, and that I used it as a social tool to help my awkwardness.

John put his finger under my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes, his touch sending quivers through my body. Butterflies invaded my throat, flying around as if they wanted to escape but couldn't.

He touched my hair, running his fingers down its length. When he got to the end of the strand, he rubbed it gently. Then he smiled. Immediately, I stopped shivering, and a rush of warm air spread through my limbs.

“Your eyes are the color of your name.”

I tilted my head so I could feel his hand touch my cheek, unable to speak as he continued to stroke my hair. I couldn't believe he was touching me. I couldn't believe he remembered my name.

“Smoking won't take away your innocence,” he murmured.

The back door flew open, and the moment evaporated. Sarah Sebert stumbled onto the porch. “Indie, I didn't know you were here,” she slurred.

I stepped back. The cold resurfaced. I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I came with Burke.”

Without saying a word to Sarah, John went inside, the back door thudding when it closed. I wanted to follow him, but Sarah grabbed my shoulder. “Is he not the coolest guy you've ever seen?” Her wild red hair and freckles glowed in the moonlight.