Indigo Blues (21 page)

Indigo, eat your heart out. There's a new song in town!
How do you like that, "Sugar Rush"?

'm on my floor painting my toenails black and white,
alternating toes, of course. Just trying to keep busy. The
phone rings. It's Cat. I have three toes left to go.

I pick up and say, "Nada."

"You know guys. They're not phone people."

"But you think Tripp could at least return my text.
How hard is it to respond to hey?" I attempt to finish my
nails with just one hand.

"Maybe you should've written more."

"That was the second text I sent. The first one said,
How was your weekend?"

"Okay, well, that's a question at least."

"Thanks, Cat. What would I do without you?"

"Listen, slut, the guy thinks you're hot, so he'll call."

"Yeah, but we've only talked on the phone once since
our disaster date. And I barely saw him in school this week.
The police officer definitely killed the mood." Things did
get pretty steamy, maybe a little too steamy. If we go out
again, I'm going to have to tell him to slow down.

"I still can't believe that happened to you. It's so movie
script."

I'm down to the last toe, but I smudge the black. "Lately
my life is feeling more and more like a movie. I just want my
boring life back."

"Once Tripp calls, you'll be happy to step back into the
love story."

"Well, he said he'd call when he got back from his cousin's wedding in Orlando today but today's almost over." I
look over at my clock: 10:30 p.m. "Maybe his flight was
delayed or something."

"You're hopeless."

My other line beeps. "Oh, my God, it's him."

"See, am I psychic or what?"

"Hold up," I say, and click to the other line. "Hi."

"Hey, Indigo. What's up?" Tripp's voice sounds thin
and withdrawn.

"Not much. Just chilling." I furiously scrub the black
polish off my last toe.

"Cool."

"So how was Orlando?"

"Listen, we have to talk."

I stare at my empty pinkie toe. It'll have to wait. "Okay."

"You're a nice girl and all, but I don't think this is
working out."

My heart sinks like a wrecked ocean liner. I know he
was kind of distant after the whole police incident, but I
thought he would get over it. Or at least his dick would. Is
it because I didn't put out fast enough? That's ridiculous.
"We got off to a rocky start. Get it? Rocky Ledge, and..."
He's not laughing. I let the joke die out.

"Being with you is too much trouble," he says. "I have
a football scholarship to worry about, and my mom, well,
she's not too happy about all this drama either."

"Your mom?" Did he tell her why we were at Rocky
Ledge? How he would've had sex with me right then and
there? How his boner was harder than a stale breadstick?
"And, how am I trouble? You're the one that was dying to
get in my pants."

"I've got to think about myself." I hear noise in the
background. Did he just turn on the TV?

"I don't think that will be much of a stretch for you.
You're so full of yourself"

"You're not going to write a song about me, are you?"
He laughs.

Has he heard anything I said?

"You wish." I hang up the phone.

It rings right back. "Hello?"

"So what did he say?"

"Oh, my God, Cat. You hung on that whole time? I'm
sorry. Tripp sucks."

"That bad?" She sighs.

My toe is still bare. I triple-coat it in black polish. "The
bastard's worried about me ruining his chances for a football scholarship."

"Get real."

"And his mommy doesn't think I'm good enough for
her little pervert."

"Screw him and his slut mother."

When we hang up, I pull out a sheet of paper and write
Tripp, I Hate You. This song's for you.

Oddly enough, I actually feel slightly better. Maybe
that's why Adam wrote "Indigo Blues" about me. It was all
therapeutic. Although it would've been much easier if he
had just shoved the tune in a drawer instead of making his
woes public.

The last thing I need is for my song to turn up on my
website, which would be enough fuel to ignite my angstgirl campaign and my utter hatred for the male species.
Not to mention that I'm the worst poet ever. So I shred the
paper and shove it into my wastebasket inside an empty
box of tampons, about the only place Eli won't dare search
for evidence.

I hardly have time to feel sorry for myself when I remember my interview with Krista on Monday. Oh, crappity crap.
She's the last person I need to see after being dumped by
Tripp. I can just picture the way she'll start off the interview:
"So I heard you got dumped last night. Seems like you're a
loser in the relationship department."

My toes are barely dry when there's a knock on my
door. I waddle over to open it, careful not to get any polish
on the carpet. "Eli, what do you want?"

"Nice to see you too, sis."

I plop down on my bed. "Listen, I had the worst day
ever so I'm not in the mood for any more surprises."

He sits down next to me. "What happened?"

I stare at his yellow tee. It's a frowny face. "I feel like
I'm staring into a mirror, looking at your shirt."

He looks down. "No, your skin isn't so yellow, and you
have more hair."

"Ha." I punch him. "Tripp says I'm trouble. Doesn't
want to see me anymore.

"Screw him."

"Funny, that's all he wanted."

"Whoa." Eli covers his face. "But that guy's bad news
any way. Seems full of himself."

"You could say that."

Eli leans his head on my shoulder. "Well, I've got
something to tell you."

"Just pile it on, Eli. Whatever you have, I can take."

He lifts his head. "Maybe I should tell you later."

"What?" I see he has something behind his back, so I
stick out my hand. "Hand over my death certificate."

It's a printout of Blank Stare's winter tour dates.

"They'll be at Brighton College over Thanksgiving
weekend."

"God, do they have to invade Boston, of all the cities
to go to?"

"Well, it's only one night, and it's not like you go to
Brighton anyway."

I put my hands over my eyes and take a deep breath.

"You could stay at Grandma and Grandpa's that night,"
Eli offers.

Why didn't I think of that before? I can go live with
Grandma and Grandpa out in farmland where I'm sure
nobody cares who I am. Where I would probably go crazy
talking to the birds all day.

I had a dream last night that due to budget cuts, the school
was forced to shut down the TV studio. That was right
after my dream about Krista being the unfortunate recipient of a highly infectious disease and being trapped in one
of those clear bubbles. I don't know how I let Cat talk me
into this interview. I'm such a sucker for punishment. Still,
I should feel lucky. Krista has managed to pretty much lay
off me all week, with only a few mindless taunts here and
there and her dry cleaning bill that I refuse to pay.

Thankfully, Cat and I spent hours at the mall on Sat urday picking out my "perfect" interview outfit. I wanted
it to seem completely unplanned, if that makes any sense.
So we finally settled on a pair of Gap jeans and red scoopneck shirt plucked from the Bebe sales rack. I can't believe
I spent my hard-earned money on an outfit just to talk to
Krista, but at least I'll look good no matter what.

For once I'm at school early. I walk down the empty
hall toward the TV studio. As I approach the room, goose
bumps pop up all over my arms. I keep on repeating to
myself, I have nothing to be scared of. Nothing to hide. Cat
offered to come with me, but I need to do this myself.
Show Krista I don't need any backup to face her head-on.

The studio is locked, but I can hear voices inside, so I
knock.

Alan Porter, the freckled techie guy, opens the door.
"Didn't know if you would show." He laughs, exposing a
mouth full of braces.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I follow him
inside.

"Krista's in the makeup room, so just have a seat." How
fitting-she gets a makeup room and I'll show up on the
screen white as a ghost.

I sit down on the "hot seat," which is really just a
wooden bar stool in front of a white backdrop. I look over
toward the control room and see Mr. Edmonds fiddling
with some equipment. Surely he'd stop Krista if she started
to choke me.

Jenna Hausman, the weather girl, and Key Pandra,
school announcements, enter the studio. I already know the drill. First Key, then Jenna, and after that the special
feature. Lucky me-I fall into that category.

"Good luck!" Key winks at me. Her bright yellow shirt
is blinding enough that I'm tempted to slide on a pair of
sunglasses.

I part my parched lips. "Thanks." I reach down and
take a swig from my water bottle. If Krista doesn't hurry
up I might totally dry out.

I watch as everyone else takes their places. Krista finally
saunters out of the makeup room and over to me. Of
course, she's wearing a super cute black skirt and pink top.
I saw it on the mannequin at Bebe, but it was a new arrival,
nowhere near ready to be placed on the sales rack.

"Good, you're here," she says.

No hello, thanks for coming. Figures. "Yup."

"Okay, you know how it works. I ask the questions,
you answer.

Yes, master. "I'll try my best."

"Humff." She glances at her note cards. "I expect this
interview to run seamlessly. It's in the best interest of both
of us."

I agree but don't answer, because I don't need her head
to get anymore swollen than it already is.

Mr. Edmonds emerges from the control room. "Everyone ready? We're live in four minutes."

Alan gives him the thumbs-up.

Mr. Edmonds walks over to me. "Thanks for coming,
Indigo. Any questions?"

Yeah, can I back out now without penalty? "No thanks.
I'm cool."

"Great." He pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sure Krista
will take good care of you."

Is that some kind of sick joke, or is this man really that
delusional?