Indigo Blues (5 page)

The whole thing was Cat's idea, and at first I brushed
it off because some of Cat's ideas are pretty nuts. After all,
she was the one who suggested that last summer we buy
one of those metal detectors and comb the beach for lost
treasure to raise money to go to Six Flags. But after she left
my house tonight, I really gave it some thought. I figure
that at this point, I have nothing to lose.

This is what I know:

1. Tripp is so hot that his face should be plastered on
the walls of teenagers' bedrooms across America.

2. He also has a younger brother, so he can share my
pain.

3. His parents own Delilah's, the yummiest gourmet
restaurant in town.

4. And most importantly, he said he likes my hair.

I finish the clasp on Cat's necklace just before midnight. I'm going to be so tired at school tomorrow, but I
want to give it to her in the morning. I stand in front of
the full-length mirror with it on. Hopefully she likes how
it turned out. I wonder what Tripp's favorite colors are. I
could make a necklace to wear for our impending date.
Maybe football colors. Nah, mustard yellow and maroon
will only make my skin look jaundiced. Trust me. I once
wore a yellow dress to a holiday party and all night people
kept asking me if I was sick.

Tripp wears a lot of red, my favorite color. Coincidence? I think not. Maybe I'll wear red crystals that'll draw
attention to my beating heart and make him instantly fall
in love with me. Okay, now I sound all psycho, like Adam.
I quickly take off Cat's necklace and slip it into my backpack. I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. A
second later, my phone beeps. I just received a text, but I
don't even check who it is. I don't want to know.

I hustle downstairs and head straight to the kitchen. I
have exactly three minutes to get out the door if I want to
make it to school on time. My family's seated at the table
munching away. At my seat are a blueberry muffin and a
glass of orange juice. The whole kitchen smells like baked
blueberries.

Still standing, I gulp down some juice and pull a piece
of the muffin top off. "Thanks, Mom, you're the best."

"Just want to make sure you eat something nutritional,"
she says.

"Are you okay?" Eli asks me.

Dad glances up from the paper. Mom stops mid-chew.

"Yeah, why?"

Eli blurts out, "You're wearing two different sneakers."

I look down. One's gray, one's light blue. One Nike.
One Adidas. "Whoops. Didn't notice that."

Eli pulls out his notepad and jots something down.

I shake my head, but don't have time to deal with him.
Instead, I grab the muffin and run upstairs to change. Eli
yells after me, "Hurry up, I don't want to be late!" Ever since
he started high school, it's like I have a personal alarm clock
up my ass.

I quickly switch my shoes. That would've been really
embarrassing. It's not like I could play it off as a fashion
statement-I think that the whole mismatched sneaker
thing went out in the '90s along with acid-washed jeans. Once I found a pair of those pants in the back of Mom's
closet and nearly puked.

Eli's waiting for me at the front door with his backpack
slung over his shoulder. I stop short and yell good-bye to
Mom and Dad.

"Drive safe," Mom says.

I roll my eyes as usual, but thankfully she doesn't see.

Eli stares down at my feet. "Okay, they're the same
now.

"Thanks. What would I do without you?" We head to
my car. Hmmm, let me ponder that thought. Without Eli,
I could keep all my personal information to myself. But I
wouldn't have a fashion-faux-pas checker, or someone to
watch TV with and just be plain old goofy with. So I guess
for now he's a keeper.

We're about to get in the car when a Channel 33 truck
pulls up in front of our house. A man in a blue sweater
vest, who I don't recognize, steps out.

"Get in the car, quick." I motion to Eli.

"Don't worry, I'll handle this." He steps back.

"Just get rid of them," I say through clenched teeth.

That is really a new low, showing up at my house. Haven't
people ever heard of calling? I get in the car and start it up,
but roll down the window enough to listen to Eli tell them
off.

"My sister's not ready to talk."

"I understand, but we just have a few questions."
Sweater Vest taps his microphone against the side of his leg.
I don't see a cameraman, but I'm sure there's one in the van.

Eli shakes his head. "Not a good day. We're going to be
late for school."

"We could come back in the afternoon."

I honk my horn. I'm not wasting any more gas on this
nonsense.

Eli takes control of the conversation. "Give me your
card and we'll call you."

The guy thanks Eli and walks back to his truck. Eli
hops in the car and reads the card. "Ari Fish. Funny name."

"Give it to me," I say. He hands the card over and I toss
it out the window. "Sorry, Fish man, not going to happen."

"Yeah, why would you want to give your first interview
to a lame station like that?" Eli laughs.

No need to explain to Eli that there will be NO interview. Period.

Due to my ban on the radio and the fact that I left my
iPod at home, we ride to school in silence. Well, silence for
the first minute, followed by Eli babble for the next five.

I pull into reserved spot 143 just before the bell rings.
I used to think my parking spot was the coolest ever. I
requested this space at the end of sophomore year, even
before I had my license. Since 143 is the text code for
love, I thought it'd be so cool if I parked my car in the love
spot every day. I couldn't believe it when the school actually granted my request. They asked me to keep it on the
down-low because they've never had a request before and
didn't want to make a habit out of it. But when Shannon
Murphy graduated, I got her spot. My biggest mistake was
telling Adam about it. Now spot 143 is famous, too: the girl that drives into spot 143 every day, so eagerly. It wouldn't
be bad if that sentence stood alone, but it's followed by,
She screeches on her brakes, but it's too late, she's already run
over my heart. I cringe just thinking about that line.

I slam my car door shut, say good-bye to Eli, and sprint
to class. One thing Adam's not going to do is make me late
for first-period English.

"I've got the Indigo Blues," Jason Brine whispers as I
slide into the seat next to him.

I roll my eyes.

"Now to repair my soul, I've written this song about how
you just let me go."

"Shut up. I mean it."

I think he gets the picture, because he gets up to
sharpen his pencil.

Luckily, we have an essay test and for the next fifty minutes the class is consumed with picking apart Romeo and
Juliet. Why does everything have to be about love?

I just have to get through the next couple of days, until
another song hits number one and everyone can focus on
it instead. Hopefully it'll be something catchy that can be
hummed throughout the hallways to drown out "Indigo
Blues."

At lunch I pick the shortest line. Unfortunately, I don't
have any classes with Tripp this year so I have to wait until
now to see him. He usually sits with his football buddies
and whoever any of them are dating at the time. Tripp's
been single since June, when Abby Ryan dumped him. She used the classic "I'm going off to college" speech and "I
need to spread my wings."

An unconfirmed rumor has it that Tripp was devastated
for, like, a week until he went on a Caribbean cruise with
his family and supposedly screwed some Greek beautypageant winner. That's about as much information as I
need to know. I'm not into digging up peoples' pasts. I'm
all about moving on-something Adam apparently has no
idea how to do.

I pay for my turkey sandwich and sit down next to
Lindsay Parks, a girl I've known since fourth-grade Girl
Scouts. Ever since freshman year, we've sat at the same lunch
table. Her mom was the troop leader and Lindsay had the
most badges. Over the years she moved on from accumulating badges to accumulating gymnastics trophies. The
whole bookshelf in her bedroom is filled with her accomplishments. Whenever my mom used to pick me up from
her house, Eli would charge up to Lindsay's room to count
her trophies. "There were thirty-seven, now there are thirtynine!" Eli never lost count. I haven't been to her house since
last spring. I wonder if she's up past forty by now.

"How does it feel?" Lindsay asks.

"How does what feel?" I scrunch my nose before I can
stop myself.

"Yeah?" Cat slumps down in the seat across from her,
looking as perturbed as I am.

Lindsay dips a carrot stick into a tiny Tupperware of
dressing and shakes it off. "Ripping someone's heart out."

My mouth drops. Why did she have to put it like that?
I stare at Cat with my I can't believe it face.

"That's harsh," Cat says.

"That's what DJ Ripper said on 97.3 last night." Lindsay pulls another carrot out of her Ziploc.

Remind me to boycott that radio station forever.

"It's not what it seems." I unwrap my sandwich, but
don't continue to defend myself. Lindsay knows me, and
she should know I'd never hurt someone intentionally.

"So, did you study for Herman's killer exam?" Cat
changes the subject.

Lindsay and Cat go back and forth about the test while
more people join us at the table. No one else heard Lindsay's comment, but I can't get the image out of my head.
Me ripping Adam's heart out. How dare he make people
think I'm a villain when I was nothing but nice to him?

Cat breaks off her conversation with Anne Morris and
turns to me. "Now's your chance. He's heading to the trash
can.

Tripp's wearing a short-sleeved navy blue Polo shirt
and jeans. His sandy blond hair slightly covers his left eye.
He balances his tray with one hand, pushes the hair out of
his eye, and smiles. That's one thing I like about him-he's
always smiling.

I get up and leave the lunch table. Forget playing coyI'm just going to ask him out today. I hope he doesn't believe
everything about the song. That I rip guys' hearts out.

I dump my garbage in the trash and step toward him.
Wait, he's talking to himself. I take a step back. Okay, he's not talking, he's humming. My stomach drops. Oh, my
God. He's humming "Indigo Blues." Ugh, I can't take this!
I rush right past him and out the cafeteria's back door,
which leads to the parking lot. I just need to get away.

never know what to wear to interviews. It's hard to keep
track of what I've worn before. I don't want people to think,
oh, that poor loser always sports the same crap. I doubt the
other guys are tossing in their beds worrying about what outfit would look best on national TV this morning.