Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content (5 page)

The apartment is quiet and dark and cold when I get home. I don’t even bother to turn on the lights or heat. And, relieved that my mom isn’t there to ask how my evening went, I retreat to my room and lay down on my bed with my clothes still on. I lay there in the darkness and try not to cry. It feels as if someone has placed a bag of heavy rocks upon my chest. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to live.

Part of me feels pretty stupid, fairly ridiculous, and even slightly neurotic for caring this much. And I wonder why I am acting like such a total nerd? But another part of me is dark blue, and I feel buried alive in a deep and bitter grief. I am certain my life is over.

W
HAT DO YOU DO ALL WEEKEND WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE A FRIEND TO
hang with? Thanks to going to bed early on Friday night, I wake up earlier than usual the next day. The apartment is quiet and still. I figure my mom is sleeping in, and Bree is probably still sacked out at the slumber party. It’s times like this when I wish I had a dog, or even a cat. Of course, pets aren’t allowed at our apartment complex.

For years Mom has been saying we’re going to move into a “real” house, but it never seems to happen. This is probably my dad’s fault, since he’s about ten years delinquent on his child-support payments. Mom says if he ever gets caught he’ll probably go to prison for a long time. Sometimes I feel sorry for him, but not today. Today I think it’s his fault that my life is such a mess. I’m not exactly sure what brings me to this particular conclusion, but somehow it makes sense.

I fix myself a bowl of granola cereal and mechanically shovel it down without actually tasting it. I rinse my bowl in the sink then glance up at the kitchen clock to see that it’s only 7:32. Already I am asking myself if I should call Jordan today. I rehearse in my head what I might say to her. I would casually ask why she didn’t show at the dance last night. And when she answers I would just act like, “Hey, that’s cool. No big deal.” And then she would invite me to
come over and hang with her. Maybe we’d go see that new movie that she’s been waiting to see.

But I know that I’m not really going to call her today. And I seriously doubt that she will call me. I’m not even sure why I know this. I guess I can just feel it in my bones.

I throw on my sweats and lace up my running shoes. Jordan was the one who got me into jogging. She did it to keep her weight down. I did it just to be with her. But I haven’t jogged in weeks and I think maybe I need to today. Maybe it will help eject me out of this funk. Then, as I’m about to go out the door, I decide to do something different. I slip a sketch pad and some pencils into an old backpack, then put it on and take off.

I jog at a pretty good pace for about thirty minutes, but by then I’m out of breath and developing a side ache. I should’ve known I was out of shape and taken it easier. But maybe I don’t care. In some ways I think this physical pain is much easier to deal with than the ache that’s going on inside of me. I stop running when I reach the park. Rubbing my side, I simply walk. Other joggers run past me, usually in pairs. I remember how Jordan and I used to meet here and run together. But shortly before school started she told me jogging wasn’t her favorite type of exercise. She’d started working out on her mom’s treadmill in front of the TV. I might’ve opted for something like that too, if it were an option. Or not. There is something calming about having the sky overhead.

As I walk through the park, it occurs to me that I really don’t know who I am anymore. I wonder if I ever did. I wonder if I have always been living in Jordan’s shadow, making the choices that I hoped would please her, altering myself to fit in better with her life and to complement her personality. When she bubbled, I watched. When she talked, I listened. When she told me to jump, I asked
how high. Suddenly I wonder if I have a personality of my own at all. I wonder if I even exist or am simply something that Jordan Ferguson conjured up—like an imaginary playmate that she no longer needs. I see a squashed soda can in the grass beside the foot path, and I know how it must feel. Used up and discarded. I pick it up and toss it into the trash can.

I stop walking when I reach the duck pond and sit down on a damp cement bench. I can feel the cold wetness soaking through my sweats, but I don’t really care. I remember how Jordan and I used to come here as kids. We always brought a few pieces of stale bread to feed the ducks. A couple of curious ducks approach me now, probably thinking I have something for them. But I do not. I don’t have anything for anyone—not even for myself.

I feel that familiar lump growing in my throat again and I’m afraid I’m going to cry, but I’m determined not to. Crying won’t change anything. All it does is make my eyes puffy.

I gaze out on the pond and tell myself it’s a pretty sight that I should attempt to enjoy. Then I remember that I brought along my sketch pad. I remove my backpack and pull out the pad, opening it up to reveal a clean white page. I take out a pencil and chew on its eraser as I look out over the scene before me. Three tall evergreen trees cut into the cloudy sky on the far side of the pond. Several ducks move gracefully over the glassy surface of the water.

I stare at the drawing paper for several minutes. I imagine myself hunched over as I intently sketch the general outline. Then I would fill it in, giving the picture details and textures and shadows and light. But I just sit there and do nothing but stare at the blank piece of paper. It’s like a self-portrait of my life. Empty and flat and bleak. And I don’t even know where to begin to make it into anything else. I close the pad, shove it into my backpack, and stand.

With a lump in my throat, I begin walking toward home. I think maybe I will go back to bed. But by the time I reach the apartment complex I am already hoping that Jordan has unexpectedly dropped by. She’s been known to do that sometimes. I imagine her and my mom sitting at the breakfast bar drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee. I dash up the stairs and open the door to see the apartment is still quiet, just the way I left it. I glance at the clock to see it’s barely past nine, and I feel lost to think of all the time that is left in this day. It’s like a desert of loneliness stretching out for miles and miles.

Then, with the tiniest spark of hope, I go over to check our answering machine. It’s entirely possible that Jordan called while I was out, and that she might be, right this very minute, cooking up some fantastic plan for our day. But the little red light is not blinking. Like me, it is dark and blank.

I take a long shower and, after I wash my hair, I realize I am out of conditioner. I shake and squeeze the stubborn bottle but can barely get a drop out of it. It’s a special kind of salon conditioner, with aloe and avocado, which Jordan’s sister Abbie insists is perfect for my kind of hair. But like everything else in my life, it’s bailed on me as well. I finally give up and toss the stupid thing onto the floor. But at least I have something to do now. As I towel dry I decide I must go to the mall to get some more. A feeble excuse for an outing, perhaps, but it’s all I have at the moment.

I take great care to dress, putting on my best jeans and my second-favorite top, a hooded sweatshirt with what I hope is still a fairly cool logo. You never know when something will go out of style on you. According to Jordan, one day it’s hot and the next day it’s not. I’ve never been very good at figuring these things out for myself, and I’m pretty certain that I am about to become Jackson High’s next fashion disaster now that Jordan’s influence is evaporating from my life.

I take more care than usual with my makeup too. Not that I use much, because I don’t. But I make sure that my lip gloss is on evenly. And I even apply mascara, remembering how Abbie says that everyone should wear it. I give myself a final inspection and decide that it will have to do. Of course, I won’t consciously acknowledge why I am going to such trouble just to go pick up a bottle of hair conditioner. But the truth is, I’m seriously hoping to run into Jordan at the mall. I know it’s totally pathetic, but I cannot seem to help myself.

“Where’re you going?” asks my mom from her usual Saturday spot. She’s curled up on the leather couch by the window, looking out of context in her fuzzy blue bathrobe, a mug of coffee in one hand, and the partially read newspaper spread out all over her lap.

“The mall,” I answer.

“Meeting Jordan there?”

I shrug. “Maybe.” I can feel my mom studying me now, and all I want to do is get out of there before she says something upsetting.

“Everything okay, Kara?”

“I guess so.”

“Bree thinks that you and Jordan had a fight or something.”

“We
didn’t
have a fight.” I can hear the sharp edge of exasperation in my voice now. But I’m irritated that my mom thinks she can get accurate information about
my
life from Bree. If she wanted to know about
my
life, why didn’t she just come straight to
me?
Okay, maybe I’m being a little unreasonable.

“Well, I haven’t seen Jordan around here much lately.” My mom sets her coffee mug down on the side table with a thud. “So, how does she like cheerleading? Wasn’t last night the first game?”

I can tell this is a trick question. She’s trying to reel me in and find out what’s going on. This might’ve worked a few days ago, but
I don’t really want to talk about it now. “Jordan likes cheerleading just fine.”

“So, what do you think about it?”

“Cheerleading?” I try to look confused. “Oh, I guess it’s okay if that’s what you want to do.”

“That’s not what I meant, Kara. I mean, how is it affecting your friendship with Jordan? Is it hard on you watching your best friend do something you’re not involved in?”

It’s times like this when I wish my mom didn’t read Oprah’s magazine from cover to cover. It’s like she keeps trying to play junior psychiatrist with Bree and me. I wish she’d just give it up, or else just get real and
talk
about things instead of trying to find solutions for everything.

“Jordan has done lots of things that I’m not involved in,” I remind my mom. “Like she’s done debate team and gymnastics . . . ” I try to think of something else but come up empty.

“So, everything’s okay with you two girls then?” My mom is frowning like she’s still pretty skeptical.

“Everything’s fine.”

Now she smiles. “Well, you know you can talk to me, Kara. If you need to.”

I nod. “Thanks, Mom. I know I can.” And it’s weird, but I almost wish I hadn’t blown her off just then. Maybe I
can
talk to her. But now it’s too late.

“Have fun.”

So I head out the door with those two words ringing in my brain.
Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.
Yeah, sure!

By the time I reach the bus stop I’m thinking maybe this is a stupid idea. Maybe I’m just setting myself up for another big disappointment. But then, I really do need some conditioner.

By the time the bus pulls over at the mall, I am feeling much more positive about my day. I’m thinking I’ll probably run into Jordan for sure, and we’ll get some lunch together. Maybe sushi, since that’s been Jordan’s favorite lately. And we’ll laugh and talk, and everything will be just like old times.

It’s a little past noon when I go to the shop that carries my conditioner. I want to take care of my little “errand” first so that it will be obvious by my shopping bag that I had an actual reason to come to the mall. I mean I don’t want it to look like I’m just hanging out here, hoping I’ll run into Jordan. How pathetic is that? No, I came for honest-to-goodness shopping purposes.

“Can I help you?”

The voice is familiar, and I turn around and am shocked to see Ashley Crow standing behind the counter.

“You work here?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. My mom bought this shop last month and she’s been making me work here on Saturdays.”

“Well, at least it should save you some money on hair products and stuff.”

“Yeah. It is pretty cool to be able to just grab what you want when you need it.”

I tell her what I came for and then she asks me if I’ve tried this new conditioner.

“I think it would be great for your hair, Kara.”

“Really? I kind of liked the other one.”

“Yeah. It’s a really good conditioner too, but did you know that you’re supposed to alternate brands so that you don’t get buildup?”

I study her for a moment, wondering if this is some kind of a setup. Like, would I use this stuff and end up with hair that hangs like pond slime?

“Look, Kara, trust me, this stuff is good.” She opens the bottle and holds it out. “Smell it.”

“Hmmm, that is nice.”

“It’s what I use myself.”

I look at her hair, which is a nice dark shade of auburn and similar to mine in texture, and I decide to trust her.

“Thanks, Ashley,” I say as she gives me my change.

Then she leans forward and speaks to me in what seems a fairly confidential tone. “I know we can seem like a pretty tough crowd sometimes, Kara. But once you get used to us, we’re not so bad. You just have to hang in there is all.”

I feel encouraged as I leave the shop. On one hand I can hardly believe that Ashley Crow has been friendly to me, but at the same time I’m worried that there might be a trick too. Like maybe there really is something wrong with that conditioner. But I tell myself to quit being so paranoid. And, with my purple plastic bag in hand, I proceed down the mall, stopping at Jordan’s favorite shops and glancing all around as I walk past racks and shelves. But I’m not looking at the clothes, or even at the shoes, which everyone knows is my particular shopping weakness. Instead, I am searching the aisles for a certain petite someone with blonde hair.

Finally, I give up on the shops and head over to the eating area. Perhaps she’s already in line at the Sushi Bar. But she’s not. I consider standing in line myself, hoping that Jordan will come and discover me here already. She’ll laugh and say, “Can you believe it? We both wanted sushi at the same time!”

“Can I help you?” asks an Asian girl with lime-green hair from behind the counter.