Through Indigo's Eyes (7 page)

“No,” I replied. It wasn't really a lie. I had seen them together at the party, but they weren't making out.

Lacey sighed in relief. “Thanks. You're a doll.”

“I was kind of drunk.”

“Yeah, but you probably still would have heard something or seen something. I mean you do have that freaky ability to sense things. Anyway, I'm sure Adriana is lying. She's just trying to get to Burke because she wants him for herself. And anyway, there is no way he would hook up with Amber. She's not his type.”

I thought of Amber's fingers secured into Burke's belt loops. I vaguely remember Sarah saying something, too.

And then, of course,
there were my visions
, as Lacey had just pointed out. But she wouldn't want to know about the one I had about Burke and Amber, that was for sure.

“I know Burke would never cheat on me,” said Lacey. “We're incredibly close. Maybe I should just do it with him, because when you love someone, it is a beautiful expression.” Her last line was said more to herself than to me.

“Don't just do it to do it,” I replied.

“I won't.”

“Do it when it feels right.”

Lacey snorted. “Are you giving me advice on guys?”

“Hardly.”

“I trust Burke, and no one is going to make me doubt him. I want him to be my first.”

How to reply? I guessed I could own up to my vision. But she probably wouldn't have believed me anyway. Maybe Burke wouldn't do it again. Maybe it was a one-time thing that Lacey didn't need to know about. The guy had given me a ride home, and he had been so nice. Deep down, Lacey had to know something was wrong between her and Burke. Didn't she? Was it my place to tell her?

When I hung up the phone, I pressed my head back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling. This was when my visions really confused me. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with them.

Tell me what to do. Please.

I didn't want to be a bad friend. If it were true about Burke, she didn't deserve to have a boyfriend who cheated on her. But then I also didn't want to tell her something that wasn't true. Cold swirled around me as if a sudden flash of winter wind had arrived in my room unannounced. I shivered uncontrollably, goose bumps sprouting all over my body. I slid under my covers, wrapping my arms around my body. Even with my blankets pulled up under my chin, I couldn't get warm.

Why do I have to be cursed?

I closed my eyes, hoping that I could go back to sleep. But the sun shone so brightly that I could see it and feel it even with my eyes closed. With a huge moan, I got out of bed to pull my curtains shut. Our in-ground pool still had water in it, and the sun bounced along the surface, creating sparkles that momentarily blinded me and made my head throb. I shielded my eyes.

Indie, no one can figure out anything about you.

My stomach heaved. I closed my curtains and crawled back into bed. My head was buried under my covers, and I was almost asleep when the door banged open.

“Okay, miss. That was your one get-out-of-jail-free card. You're lucky your father isn't home. You know how he feels about drinking underage. I don't want to ever see you like that again.” My mother stalked into my room and flung open the curtains I had just shut.

“Don't open the curtains.” I rolled over to face the wall, the covers still over my head.

“I need you to help clean the pool.”

“Now?”

“Not this exact minute but soon.”

“Can't Brian do it?”

“You are both working today.”

My mom sat down on the end of my bed. She was quiet for a moment. Then, in one gentle swoop, she drew the bedcovers off my head. She placed her warm palm on my cheek and asked, “Do you want to talk about anything?” Her voice had lost its edge.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mom, I'm fine.” I rolled away from her and closed my eyes.

“You mentioned a boy last night. Were you drinking with him?”

“No!”

She stood up and walked toward the door. “Well, if you're fine, then I definitely want you to help with the pool.”

The door slammed, and I groaned.
Fine.
What a word. Was I fine? Hardly. I was hungover, I'd seen an unpleasant vision that would hurt my best friend, the guy I liked had left the party without saying good-bye, and I'd gotten so drunk I'd puked and made a fool of myself.

Let's face it, Indie, you've never been fine
.

My mother probably thought my getting drunk was some sort of escape from my problems. I groaned again. If she made a doctor's appointment for me because of this, I would honestly freak out on her.

At age seven, when I'd blurted out that I'd talked to my papa, my horrified parents had become “concerned.” Before Papa's death, I had figured that everyone saw wavering bright colored lights above heads and had translucent people visit their rooms after dark. If I'd known then what I know now, I would never have admitted a damn thing to my parents. When their “concern” started, so did a bunch of my physical symptoms.

I pressed my hand to my stomach. When I started having stomach pains, at the age of ten, my mom carted me to our family doctor. “There's nothing wrong with her,” the doctor said every time I went in. I swear he used to look at me cross-eyed, like I was one big hypochondriac.

That made Mom change doctors. The woman I saw next asked me questions that had nothing to do with anything physical. She asked about my boyfriends and my friends. I liked Dr. Z. That's what I called her. Then one day when I was in her office, I picked up a photo of her with her son, and I randomly said, “He's cute. He likes to draw.” Dr. Z looked around her office, and there were none of his drawings anywhere. She gave me a funny look.

“Yes, he does,” she said slowly.

Without thinking, I continued, “He has a hard time socializing.”

This time she narrowed her eyes. “Yes, that is true,” she'd replied.

Another day, we were sitting in her office, just the two of us, and she looked at me and said, “You are different. I think you have something like ESP.”

I was different. That was my diagnoses? What the hell was ESP?

And it wasn't going away like the chicken pox did. I had told my mom about ESP the night after Dr. Z mentioned it to me, and she dismissed it—said I was “sensitive.” Although I knew she did research behind my back.

This sensitivity I was supposed to have made my parents check out a psychologist for me on Dr. Z's referral. I'd been to my first therapy session in my early teens, and that guy had diagnosed me with ADHD.

Another stomach cramp made me curl into a tight ball. From going to all the doctors and psychologists, I had developed ulcers. I rubbed my stomach, hoping that the lining wasn't inflamed again. My ulcers couldn't return. And if they did, I would hide the pain and blood so my parents wouldn't become “concerned” again. Pink Pepto-Bismol did wonders and was cheap. I could still hear my father's voice when my mom and I had come home from the doctor's. “What little kid gets ulcers?” he asked. “She should be playing with her dolls, riding her bike, coloring pictures with other little girls her age.”

“She is a little girl who internalizes everything,” my mother had replied.

I pulled my blanket over my head again. Fine, yeah, right. I was a walking freak. What guy would want to have anything to do with me? Especially a guy as smart as John. But I wanted him.

I would have to outsmart him and keep my secrets to myself.

Cozily snuggled underneath the blanket, curled in a small ball, I heard Mom's loud voice: “Indie, get up! Time to clean the pool.”

“You missed a spot,” said Brian, pointing to a bug floating on top of the water. He was leaning back in a plastic pool chair, with his hands clasped comfortably behind his head.

“You're supposed to be helping,” I retorted. “I wish Mom and Dad would just close the pool. It's fall, and no one swims anymore.”

“I do,” said Brian. “It's heated, you know.” He paused. “Oh, right. You don't know, because you're scared of the monsters in the deep end.”

“Shut up.” I skimmed the pool strainer across the water, picking up the dead bug.

“Little sister, you owe me one. I saved your butt last night, ‘cause there was no way you had just one drink. By the way, who's
John
? Should I beat him up for ditching you last night?”

“No! Stop talking and help me.”

“Not a chance.”

“You're not being nice.”

“What can I say? I'm not a good Christian.”

“What does being a good Christian have to do with helping me clean the pool?” I stomped to the other side of the pool and picked up the pool vacuum.

“Did I ever tell you I believe in the chaos theory? That every movement in the world creates change, and nothing is predictable. It's all very mathematical and not airy-fairy at all.”

I glared at him. I knew he was taking a direct jab at my ability to see visions. He'd never believed me and thought I made everything up just to get Mom and Dad's attention. Feeling as crappy as I did, I had no desire to argue with him. I picked up the skimmer and tossed it at him.

“Okay, let's try your chaos theory or whatever it's called. Maybe your movement can change how this pool looks.”

Monday arrived more quickly than I wanted it to, and I swear I still had a hangover when I walked to the bus stop. The alcohol was slow to move out of my system. My bowels had acted up all day Sunday and were still messed up.

The nice autumn weather had changed, and now dark rain clouds hovered in the sky, but they suited my mood. I did up the snaps on my jean jacket and lowered my head to the brisk wind, knowing that soon I would have to pull out my winter coat. For today, the bright Indian summer had been replaced with dreary fall, and the warm winds had become a biting cold blast.

I arrived at school early, and the halls were empty. I didn't stop at my locker but went directly to the library, as I had something to look up for an English project I was working on for first period.