Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content (9 page)

The room gets quiet now and it seems that Felicia is stumped.

“I think you can,” says Edgar finally.

“Oh, no, here we go,” says Amy. “Thanks a lot, Kara!”

Edgar adjusts his glasses then glances over at Felicia. “I know that you and I believe pretty much the same things, but I guess I take it more seriously.”

“Maybe,” says Felicia. “But it’s no secret that I’m a Christian. I just don’t go over the top like some people.”

“Over the top?” I venture.

She shrugs. “Let Edgar explain.”

He smiles. “Yeah, Felicia sometimes thinks that I’m a religious fanatic. And maybe I am. I just happen to believe in God and Jesus Christ and the Bible. And I think that you can have a personal relationship with God when you invite Jesus into your heart. It’s not that complicated, really. It’s just what I personally believe. I have no reason not to.”

“See the can of worms you just opened, Kara,” says Amy as she reaches for another piece of pizza.

I’m not quite sure what she means.

“I believe in most of that too,” offers Felicia. “But Edgar’s right. I don’t take it as seriously he does. He goes to church about five times a week.”

He holds up three fingers. “Not quite.”

“Still.” Felicia shakes her head. “Three times a week. I’m doing good to make it on Sundays. Not only that, but Edgar reads his Bible every single day. Maybe he reads it twice a day. And he prays all the time.”

I’m looking at Edgar now like he’s someone from another planet. Can that really be true? Can a normal person possibly read the Bible and pray and go to church
that much?
Of course, I remember, Edgar’s not exactly normal.

“And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” continues Felicia. “In some ways I admire him. I’m just not like that.”

“And that’s okay,” says Edgar. “It’s good to be different. God made us all unique people. For me it’s the right thing to do. I need to go to church a lot and read a lot and pray a lot. It’s like breathing
air and eating food. My spirit requires these things. But Felicia seems to be doing just fine with the way she’s living too.”

She makes a funny grin. “Thanks.”

“No, really, I mean it. I admire you too.”

“Oh, man!” says Amy with a dramatic rolling of the eyes. “You guys are gonna make me lose my lunch.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly, feeling like I’m in way over my head here anyway. “I didn’t mean to get us all involved in a religious discussion. I just wondered what you thought about that.”

“I think it’s a bunch of hooey,” says Amy, taking another slice of veggie pizza and stringing the cheese around her finger. “I say, live and let live. And if there really is a God up there, then why’d he let the world turn into such a pathetic mess? I say, he must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. Or he’s like the guy in that book you just read, driving drunk and about to kill another innocent bystander along the way.”

“Oh, Amy,” says Felicia.

“Don’t worry,” says Edgar. “God’s a big boy. He can take it.”

“What makes you so sure?” I ask.

“I just know inside here.” He taps on his chest and smiles. “Some things have to be experienced before you really understand. Faith is like that.”

“Well, I don’t get it.” I reach for another piece of pizza.

“Faith is like walking through a door you’ve never seen before. You don’t know what’s on the other side until you walk through. People can tell you, but you won’t get it. You just have to go and see for yourself.”

Felicia nods now. “I have to agree with him there. Getting to know God is a personal journey that’s different for everyone.”

I’m sure I look more confused than ever, and Amy pats me
reassuringly on the back. “Hey, don’t worry, Kara. I seriously doubt that God, if he’s really there, even gives a rip what we think one way or another. Religion is just this game that people made up a long time ago when they had too much time on their hands and no good movies to see.”

Then the buzzer rings and we begin to clean up our pizza mess, leaving the two leftover pieces for Ms. Clark.

“She likes it when we do that,” explains Felicia as we arrange the pizza with a little note. “She usually spends her lunch break running over to visit her mom in the nursing home and doesn’t have time to eat anyway.”

For the first time Felicia and I walk together from the art room. “So, what are you doing this weekend?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“I heard about an art show at the university that I’d like to go see on Saturday. It’s American Impressionists and it’s supposed to be good. You want to come?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

So I give her my phone number and address and she promises to pick me up around eleven on Saturday. I am curious as to how she plans to pick me up because she, like me, is only a sophomore, but I suppose it’s possible she’s already turned sixteen and has her license. Anyway, I’m so thankful that I have something to do this weekend that I don’t even care if her great-grandmother is driving us.

Feeling slightly better about life, I continue on toward my next class. Naturally, I notice that Jordan and her pack of friends are clustered together like a flock of sheep in the middle of the hallway. They are unavoidable. Forcing everyone else to walk around them as they take up more than their fair share of space, they act like they think they own the place. And maybe they do, for all I know. Maybe when
you become a cheerleader you are given a secret set of keys to the entire high school, perhaps even the town, maybe the universe too.

It is so aggravating to see Jordan now, just when I was beginning to feel almost normal. It’s like seeing her just jangles my nerves or rattles my brain. It’s like that feeling you get when someone honks a horn unexpectedly or pops a balloon right in your ear. It’s just completely unsettling.

So I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself as I go out of my way to walk
around
this clog of stupid cheerleaders. Now it’s not that I expect Jordan to stop chattering with her friends and say “hi” to me or even carry on the most superficial of conversations. I fully realize that we are far beyond that now. But at the same time it just feels so weird to be so utterly ignored by a girl who was once closer than a sister. And it still hurts me deep inside to remember that I once trusted this person with all my secrets, hopes, and dreams. It makes me feel stupid and vulnerable and weak. And I hate it!

I see her eyes dart toward me, then back to Shawna, who, judging by the high-pitched squeals of laughter, appears to be telling the funniest story of all times. I can tell that Jordan saw me though. And I know by that look in her eye that she wished she hadn’t. I suspect that nothing would make Jordan happier than if I were to just—now you see her, now you don’t,
poof
—disappear from the face of the planet without the slightest trace. Then no one could ever say to her, “Oh, Jordan, there goes that poor loser of a girl that you used to be friends with. What on earth were you thinking?”

For I am certain that I am a bone of contention for Jordan Ferguson. I am that hideous and embarrassing remnant of her less than illustrious and not very popular past, a living reminder that Jordan Ferguson isn’t quite as cool as she’d like to be.

I
GET UP EARLY ON
S
ATURDAY TO GO RUNNING
. I
T’S NOT HARD TO DO
since I stayed home, again, on a Friday night last night. There was a football game, but I couldn’t bring myself to go. Like that old Carly Simon song goes, “I haven’t got time for the pain.” But this morning, I am thinking more positively about my life.

As I run through our still-sleeping town, I am hoping that perhaps Felicia and I are going to become good friends, starting today. Maybe even best friends eventually. It could happen. I realize she’s very different from Jordan, and I’m okay with that. In some ways I think she is more trustworthy, since she seems a little more grounded and down-to-earth. I realize that she might not be as fun or crazy as Jordan. But at the same time I don’t think she’s the kind of girl who would dump a friend just because she suddenly became “popular.” Still, you never know. From here on out, I will proceed with caution.

I change my clothes several times before it’s time for Felicia to pick me up. I tell myself this is really stupid. We’re only going to an art show for pity’s sake. And Felicia doesn’t seem to be into fashion, at least not like Jordan is. But it seems so important to me to look perfect. I am so lame. You’d think I was going out on a date or something. Finally I settle on something safe. Khakis and a black turtleneck sweater. I tell myself that it looks a little bit artsy.
And really, I look pretty good in this sweater.

Around eleven I decide to go downstairs and wait. I’m not really ready for Felicia to see where I live yet. Not that I’m ashamed of our apartment. Mom has worked hard to make it look fairly decent, even though her taste in décor isn’t my first choice. But still it’s small compared to most kids’ houses (or so I assume). I know it’s about a quarter of the size of the Ferguson home.

Finally a yellow Mustang pulls up and I see Felicia waving from the passenger side. I run over and wait for her to get out so that I can climb into the back.

“Do you know Jessie?” asks Felicia as she hops back inside.

“Yeah,” I say from the backseat. “Jessie Rubenstein, you’re a junior, right?”

The brown-haired girl behind the wheel nods. “Yeah, I think I remember you from middle school. Weren’t you good friends with Jordan Ferguson?”

“Yeah, I used to be.”

“She’s doing a good job as a cheerleader. Did you go to the game last night?”

“No, I had something else to do,” I say, thinking,
Yeah sure, like I had to stay home and wash my hair.

“The cheerleaders did a pretty cool routine at halftime,” said Jessie. “Jordan was impressive.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jessie’s not really into art,” says Felicia quickly. I wonder if she realizes how this conversation about my ex-best friend is making me uncomfortable. “But I talked her into coming. Don’t you just love her car? If it gets warmer out maybe we can talk her into putting the top down. Can you believe that her parents got this for her sixteenth birthday?”

“Well, I have to work to pay for the insurance,” injects Jessie as she enters the freeway. “And that’s not cheap.”

“Man, I wish I could have it so hard,” teases Felicia. “My parents are so overly protective that I probably won’t even be able to get my license when I turn sixteen. And they would never in a million years get me a car as cool as this.”

I want to ask how they know each other. Are they neighbors or what? For some reason it seems odd to think of being close friends with someone a year older. But then what do I know about these things?

Then Jessie puts in a J. Lo CD and cranks it up so that conversation becomes impossible. I am relieved, since I really can’t think of anything very impressive to say. I’m a little taken aback by Jessie’s presence. I had imagined that it would be just Felicia and me hanging together and getting better acquainted.

The art exhibit is pretty good. But I find myself feeling more and more like an outsider as I follow behind Felicia and Jessie. In Felicia’s defense, she’s trying to get Jessie interested in art by explaining some things to her. Still, it makes me feel like a fifth wheel or maybe, since there are three of us, it should be third wheel, although that sounds more like a tricycle to me and rather childish.

Just the same, I try not to think about this too much as I look at the paintings and try to study the techniques. Besides my dad’s paintings at home, I’ve never really been this close to real art before, and it’s kind of exciting. Some of the paintings are really amazing, and I wonder what it must’ve felt like to create something so incredible. I feel that I am getting more and more pulled into art. It’s like something deep inside of me responds to it in a way that totally surprises me. Like there’s this mysterious magnet that’s tugging on my heart.

As I walk slowly down the aisles of paintings, I wonder if I
would have what it takes to become a serious artist. Although I take it somewhat for granted, I realize that my father was pretty artistic. Besides the painting over the couch, we still have a metal sculpture and a couple of smaller paintings in our house. But now I want to go home and study them more closely. It’s like I’m getting a fresh set of eyes when it comes to art.

I guess one reason I never think too much about my dad being an artist is because I’ve heard over and over about how his art was one of the main reasons their marriage broke up, which is slightly ironic since I’ve heard my mom tell other people that it was his art that attracted her to him in the first place. And she still likes his art and keeps it in our apartment. I guess it was the financial part of life that finally did them in. Apparently my dad had a hard time holding down a regular job with a regular paycheck. He preferred doing art, and according to Mom, although he had talent, his art did
not
pay the bills. Finally, she got tired of supporting him and bickering about money all the time, and eventually she kicked him out and when he didn’t come back she just filed for a divorce. And that was that.

Other than my parents fighting and yelling a lot, I barely remember those days. I was only five when they split, and I suppose I might have some sort of psychological block going on inside of me. When I was little, I used to always imagine that my father would come back to us and we’d all live happily ever after. But the years kept going by and he never did. To be perfectly honest, other than those times when I look at the painting over our couch, I rarely even think of him anymore. Or when I do, it’s not exactly happy thoughts. I suppose I’ve been angry at him for a lot of things over the years. I’ve held him personally responsible for stuff that’s gone wrong in my life, and our lack of finances, and even when my mom’s all grouchy. It’s hard to say whether or not these things are his fault, but it’s easy
to blame someone who’s not around to defend himself.

It occurs to me now that I have absolutely no idea whether or not he still pursues art. In fact, I know virtually nothing about the man. But with all my recent exposure to art, I’m beginning to feel surprisingly curious. I even begin to examine the names of the artists more carefully, almost expecting to spy the name Michael Hendricks among them. Of course, I know this is somewhat ridiculous since, as far as I know, my father was only into “modern” art.