Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content (11 page)

“It’s like having your brother take you to the dance,” says Amy with one raised brow. “Kinda weird if you ask me.”

“No one’s asking,” says Felicia. Then she turns to me. “I’m going with Aaron Rubenstein. He’s a senior.”

“Jessie’s brother?”

Felicia nods. “He’s a nice guy who drives a nice car, and Jessie and her boyfriend are doubling with us.”

“Convenient,” says Amy as if it’s a disgusting arrangement.

“Hey, it works for us. And it’s better than pretending to be in college to hook up with some desperate old guy.”

Fortunately this makes Amy laugh. I sigh with relief.

Amy slaps Felicia on the back now. “Hey, I’m sorry to be on your case. I guess my Bible-thumping aunt just put me in a bad mood. It’s a free country and you can go out with whoever you please.”

Then the bell rings and we clean up our lunch stuff and all go our separate ways. As I walk toward the math department I feel a surprising wave of jealousy as I consider Felicia’s “convenient little arrangement.” I wish that my family had connections like that. In some ways, I used to have that with Jordan.

Even though Jordan and I both agreed that the Harvest Dance was “totally stupid” last year, I’ll bet all my babysitting money that she plans to go this year. And if I was still her best friend I’d probably be going too. Oh, life is so unfair!

On my way home from school, I briefly toy with the idea of walking up to Jeremy Thatcher and just inviting him to go to the Harvest Dance with me. I try to convince myself this would be quite the liberated thing for me to do. But, of course, I realize that it only shows how pathetically desperate I am. Still I can’t help but run the possibility through my mind. But the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s totally lame.

For starters, poor Jeremy would probably drop over dead if I actually asked him out. But then, if by some miracle he accepted, he’d probably be so paralyzed with fear that he’d be completely and embarrassingly dysfunctional at the dance. I can imagine myself stuck on the sidelines with the red-faced immovable boy. And more than likely, we’d be the brunt of everyone’s jokes too. “Look at those
two social rejects over there.” “Who do they think they’re fooling?” I can especially imagine the kinds of things that Jordan’s little crowd might say. Subtle little jabs that they would quietly snicker at among themselves.

Besides that, how would we get to the stupid dance in the first place? I’ve only seen Jeremy riding a bike to school and around town. I seriously doubt that he’s even old enough to drive yet. Maybe, I thought, his parents could drive us. Sheesh, I don’t even know why I bother my brain with such ridiculous ideas.

I
EXCHANGE MY DREAMS OF
J
EREMY FOR THE REMOTE CONTROL AS
I
FLOP
down on the sofa with a can of cream soda. Dr. Bill’s pop psychology talk show is on after school every day and lately I’ve become something of an addict. I suppose that watching other people with their own problems, often much more serious than mine, is somewhat reassuring. Or else I’m just such a loser that I have nothing better to do.

Today Dr. Bill is hitting pretty close to home and it’s starting to make me a little uncomfortable. He’s talking about daughters with absent fathers. And I suppose that would describe me. Still, it’s not something I like to think about too much. I mean, what good does it really do?

“When was the last time you saw your father?” Dr. Bill asks a woman who looks to be in her twenties.

“I was about seven,” she answers.

“And you’re okay with that?” Dr. Bill looks as if he’s skeptical.

“Yeah. I missed him at first, but then I moved on with my life.”

“So why are you here then?”

She looks over to the audience. “My mom thinks I have a problem.”

“A problem?” echoes Dr. Bill. I’ve noticed he does this a lot. I
can’t tell if he’s trying to buy time or just hoping to make his guests a little uncomfortable.

“Yeah, with relationships.”

“With guys?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, according to your mother, you have some real serious problems with your relationships with guys. Let’s roll the video.”

Fade to video. An older woman, I’m guessing the mother, is explaining how her daughter moves from guy to guy to guy, how she’s never able to make a commitment and always looking for the perfect guy.

“I’m afraid she’s ruining her life,” says the mom as she literally wrings her hands. “She’s a lovely girl, but this relentless search for her father is making her miserable.”

Now the camera is back on the girl again. And she is quietly crying.

“Do you think that’s true?” asks Dr. Bill.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think you’re looking for someone to take the place of your missing father?”

She nods now, with tears streaming down her cheeks. I feel a lump growing in my throat and realize I can’t take it anymore. I lift the remote and turn off the TV.

I stand up and turn on the spotlight above the painting that hangs over the stone sofa. I’ve been studying it a lot lately. At first I thought I was trying to understand it from an artistic perspective. But now I realize it’s something more. I think that if I stare at it long enough or hard enough, I might actually figure out who my dad really is and why he couldn’t get it together with his family. But it’s not working.

The painting consists of about five colors. Mostly black and white swirls and splatters, with a few splashes of blue and red and yellow on top. I guess it’s an abstract, which is probably why it doesn’t make any sense to me. Then there’s this shiny red ball in the lower left-hand corner. But what does it mean? Does it mean that the world is a squiggly, mixed-up mess of color and darkness and light? Is the red ball in the corner symbolic of something? My dad? His pain? His heart? What???

After looking at this frustrating painting for a while, my head begins to throb. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m thinking so hard or because my eyes are just getting strained from trying to untangle the mess. Finally I just look away and my eyes thank me. I haven’t done any better with his other paintings or even his sculpture. The bronze piece that sits on the table in the hallway appears to be something between a horse, a dog, and a man, although it’s all conglomerated together in one big mesh of metal. Everything my dad created appears to be tangled and twisted and mixed up and messy. What does it mean?

If my dad was around I could ask him. And I could ask him to explain what he was thinking when he made these frustrating images. And what was he thinking when he walked out of our lives and never came back. And what I am supposed to do with my messed up life now. I wonder if my dad was painting about me and my life. Maybe he was a prophet. Maybe he knew that I was going to turn out to be a mess. Or maybe I’m just like him.

I consider asking my mom some questions about my dad, but then I remember the last time I asked. I was about twelve and curious about my roots. But my questions eventually drove my mom to tears and I never really did get to the bottom of it. Finally, I just gave up and promised myself to never do that again. Still, I wonder. I
even consider writing him a letter. I could pour out my heart to him and send it—where? I wouldn’t have a clue. I wonder if I should go online and see if I can find him. But what if he doesn’t want to be found? What if he rejects me —
again?
I don’t think I could handle it. It might ruin me for life.

I grab up the remote, hurrying to turn Dr. Bill back on, since I realize now that I desperately need to know what he was saying to those poor fatherless women. But it’s too late, the dorky end-of-the-show music is already playing and he’s winding down. I chastise myself for turning it off too soon. I might’ve actually learned something useful.

I watch as Dr. Bill talks about tomorrow’s show, but I mute the sound now and I study this small, slightly bald middle-aged guy with kind blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and I wonder what it would be like to have a dad like that. I imagine Dr. Bill coming home from work and asking me about my day. I would tell him everything about Jordan dumping me and how my life sucks, and I’m sure he would hug me and come up with all the perfect answers. I’m sure he could put me all back together again. I actually toy with the idea of writing Dr. Bill a letter and asking him if he will adopt me, although I realize it’s ridiculous. I’m too old for that sort of thing and I’m sure it would hurt my mom’s feelings. Besides, he probably gets thousands of letters like that every single day. I would be just one more hopeless loser, lost in the great big pile of
pitiful
.

My week continues, one boring day following the next. Nothing seems to change and nothing gets any better. I’ve become an expert at avoiding Jordan and her ridiculous friends. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks about me anymore. Does she think that I have simply vanished? Or perhaps transferred to another school? Or died of a broken heart? Does she even care?

I saw Jordan’s dad picking her up at school one afternoon. He was standing next to their old silver Volvo station wagon and waving. For a minute I actually thought he was waving at me. I think I might’ve even lifted my hand to wave back at him. But then I noticed Jordan running down the other side of the steps to meet him. Naturally, she completely ignored me. Okay, maybe she didn’t even see me. I realize how good I’ve been getting at making myself invisible. Jordan’s dad gave her a big bear hug then ceremoniously opened the passenger door and, like a little princess, she just hopped in. It looked like they were going off to do something really great. I tried not to let myself think about that though. I have enough pain in my life without consciously inviting more.

I have a new habit now. I watch Dr. Bill every day after school. I hurry home and turn on the TV and pretend that he’s really my dad. I feel quite proud of him as I watch him helping all these crazy, whacked-out people. Who knew there were so many nutcases in this country? Dr. Bill probably has guests lined up until 2073.

Then, during commercial breaks, I imagine Dr. Bill getting a milkshake with me, or teaching me to drive. I envision him taking me to the DMV to get my driver’s license. I imagine him giving me a gold charm bracelet for my birthday and coming to my graduation. I can see him giving me away at my wedding, wiping a tear from his eye as he tells me I’m the prettiest girl in the world.

I know that other people would think I am totally nuts if they knew about my new Dr. Bill obsession, and I would never admit it to anyone, but for some reason it makes me feel a little bit better about my life.

I
T’S BEEN A TOTALLY CRUDDY DAY TODAY
. A
ND IT DOESN’T HELP KNOWING
that it’s Jordan’s birthday. Her sixteenth too! But, naturally, this has nothing to do with me. Why would I even imagine it would? Of course, I have NOT been invited by her or her family to participate in any birthday celebrations or activities. Even though I’ve always been there, smiling and singing to her, for the last ten years. I remember how Jordan always swore that she’d get her driver’s license on her birthday. Well, I hope beyond hope that she fails big time today. I think I will cross my fingers all afternoon as I imagine her ramming her dad’s Volvo right into the fire hydrant on Main Street. And I hope she gets that really mean driving-test lady, the one who dyes her hair a different color every week. I can just imagine that woman swearing at her as she leaps out of the car and gets soaking wet. That will show her.

I try to push my vindictive thoughts about Jordan from my mind as I go up the stairs to the apartment. I know that Dr. Bill would say that this kind of thinking is not healthy. As usual, no one’s at home when I unlock the door. Bree has her soccer and Mom doesn’t get off work until five. Normally, this absence of family spectators is a relief to me. It’s my chance to sit down with Dr. Bill and just veg out for a couple of hours. But for some reason my home just feels lonelier than usual today.

Besides feeling lonely, I realize that I’m also hungry, which is rather interesting since I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. But for some reason I feel absolutely ravenous today. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m finally getting over this whole stupid Jordan thing. I hope so.

Before turning on the TV, I head for the kitchen and start out, innocently enough, by quickly snarfing down the remnants of a bag of tortilla chips that were left sitting on the counter. Still not satisfied, I head for the refrigerator. I quickly concoct a sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pour a tall glass of milk. But in no time I have devoured these and
still
feel hungry.

I peel and eat a banana as I gaze blankly into the freezer compartment. Finally I spy what appears to be a carton of Goo Goo Cluster ice cream tucked way in the back. It is neatly hidden behind a bag of frozen peas. I’m fairly certain that this is the work of my greedy little sister. I retrieve the carton and open it up to find there’s about a quarter of the sweet, sticky substance left. Then, instead of putting some in a bowl like a civilized person, I simply stick in a big spoon and head for the TV.

Mad at myself for missing the beginning of my favorite show, I flop down on the stone sofa and turn on the TV. Dr. Bill is talking to this really obese blonde. He looks really intense and as I eat my ice cream I lean forward to listen better. Today’s topic is morbid obesity (that means you’re fat enough to actually die from it, or perhaps from a side effect of it, I can’t really remember). But all of his guests look like they weigh at least four or five hundred pounds. I wonder how they got there. Do they fly in a regular commercial airplane? Or do they have to make some kind of special arrangements to accommodate their size? I stare at these overly large people, mostly women, with a weird mix of pity and fascination. I am amazed that they would go on national television looking like that. But more
than that, I wonder, how does a person actually let themselves go that far? Don’t they ever look in the mirror?