Indigo Blues

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Indigo Blues

Flux Pulishers

Chapter One

    Indigo, how could you let me go ...
    You drew me in like a figure in a coloring book
    colored me blue, then ripped out the paper
    and tossed it away
    All I want you to do is pull me out and smooth
    out my page
    Put me back in the book.

    Don't you remember how we used to be?
    Lazing on the grass, gazing at the stars
    Thinking we could see all the way to Mars
    Don't those nights mean anything to you?

    Indigo, how could you let me go ...
    I long to be next to you
    to breathe in your sweet scent
    and laugh a hundred laughs with you ...
    Now that the laughs have faded away and you've
    left me all alone
    the page has turned gray.

    I'm left standing here all blue
    Oh, yes, I've got the Indigo Blues ...
    Now to repair my soul, I've written this song
    about how you just let me go
    Indigo Blues, when she sees me up on the big
    stage, her eyes are gonna glaze and she'll wish she
    had me then ...

    Yes, I'm talking to you, the girl that drives into
    spot 143 every day, so eagerly
    She screeches on her brakes, but it's too late, she's
    already run over my heart
    Oh, Indigo, I've got news for you ...
    Even though you tossed me away, I'm here to stay
    Oh, Indigo, how could you let me go ...

Written by: Adam Spade Performed by: Blank Stare

INDIGO

When I found out that "Indigo Blues" hit number one on the Billboard charts this morning, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Then the toilet lid smacked down on my nose. Now, at the insistence of my mom, I'm zoning with an ice pack on my face.

Eli, my fourteen-year-old brother, was the one that broke the news. He woke me up after reading Chart Watch on the web. Then he parked himself on the couch and claimed the remote. I didn't argue. I'm just glad to be watching The Making of Godzilla, instead of wasting any brain cells trying to figure out how one song rose to the top and is well on its way to ruining my life.

Not even twenty minutes has passed since I received the news, and the phone rings. All will be fine if everyone follows my orders not to answer. Mom's in the shower, Dad's at work, and Eli's glued to the TV. One ring ... two rings ... three rings, and out of nowhere Eli leaps from his docking station and tears the phone from its cradle.

"Don't even think about it!" I scream.

Too late.

"Jackson residence," Eli says, in his plaid boxers and a white undershirt. "Yes, Indigo's here."

I run my hand across my throat in a slicing motion and grit my teeth.

"But she's ... in the bathroom."

I shake my head, so he adds, "She's going to be in there for a long time."

Ugh. I give up and slide down into the couch cushions. Maybe he'll bore the caller to death with his incessant babble and they'll just hang up.

"Yes, she's aware of that. Her favorite color? I dunno. Purple. Food? Pickles and peanut butter." He grins.

I jump up and snatch the phone out of his hand. "Conversation's over." I hit the off button before Eli even has a chance to react. "I told you not to talk to anyone. What part of that don't you understand?"

His mouth hangs open and some of his overgrown hair falls into his eye. "Even Grandma?"

"Huh? Then what were all those questions for?"

"She's coming over on Sunday and wanted to know what would cheer you up."

"Oh, sorry." I open a drawer stuffed with dish towels and shove the phone inside. "But if you're going to spout off facts about me, then you should know red is my favorite color."

He swipes his notepad off the coffee table and jots it down.

You can't win with Eli. He's been taking notes ever since he thought he was a descendant of Sherlock Holmes in the fourth grade. Now, with "Indigo Blues" released, he's been writing down things about me. I told him if he writes a tell-all book, I'll sue.

I need to get out of this house and clear my head. I look down at my clothes—jeans and a tee. No time to run upstairs and get a jacket. Hopefully the sun is shining today.

"Tell Mom I'll be back later." I grab my car keys.

He's still writing in his notepad. "Where are you going?"

"MYOB."

He scribbles it down and laughs. "Menstruation? You?"

The phone makes a muffled ringing sound from its hiding place.

"Bite me." I slam the front door behind me.

It's insta-smile when I see Darnell, my ticket to freedom, waiting for me in our driveway. I climb inside. My red Toyota Corolla received its name in honor of the old security guard that used to work at our school. He was always snapping his Big Red gum, and when I first got the car, he said, "Nice Toy Oat." He had a habit of dropping the ends of words. I couldn't tell you where he was from, but definitely not Massachusetts, because we drop the middle of our words here. So technically, it should be "Toe-ota."

I have no idea where I'm headed, so I let Darnell take charge. I pass Clifford Middle School, Stop & Shop, and Grossman's Hardware before I join the crawl onto Route 9. I've never seen it this backed up at ten on a Thursday morning. There must be an accident. Thank God for teacher workdays, although the way my day is going, I might have been better off in school.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My nose is red. I'm not sure if it's from the toilet lid or the ice pack. Either way, it's not pretty. I open the window, hoping a little sun will sneak in and tan my nose. I wish it was this nice all year round.

Instinctively I turn the radio on, but quickly switch it off. If "Indigo Blues" plays on any of the top-forty stations, I'll self-combust. I still can't believe Adam had the balls to write that song about me. Most of it's not even true. And why the hell did he have to go and put MY name in the title? Surely any name would have done. Brittany Blues, Megan Blues, shit, I don't care as long as he didn't use Indigo. I know for a fact I'm the only Indigo in Caulder. Probably the only Indigo in the whole of Massachusetts, too. Why didn't my parents just name me Ashley?

My cell vibrates in my pocket. I try to pull it out, but my jeans are snug. I normally don't buy clothes this tight, but Cat insisted I buy this pair of dark blue Cool Joes. Her exact words were, "They look slut hot." Yes, my best friend has a way with words. She tries to use the word "slut" in as many ways as possible. Slut hot. Slut nasty. Slut depressing. Slut, I just let the call go to voicemail as I continue to putter along the highway.

Finally the congestion breaks and I'm able to go the speed limit. I still have no idea where I'm headed, but I have a half a tank of gas, so no worries. My hair's whipping around like crazy. I grab an elastic tie from the drink holder and pull it up at the red light. I really need a hair cut. But everyone likes my hair long, including the cute football player, Tripp, that I've had my eye on since the first day of school. Or at least that's what he supposedly told Cat's next-door neighbor, James. People say that when I flat-iron it, I look like Snow White, all dark hair and blue eyes. Today I feel more like Cruella De Vil. All I need is a streak of white.

I hook up my iPod and blast the tunes. I scroll down until I hit an old hip-hop song—something that would never be mistaken for Blank Stare, Adam's band, the root of all evil. No offense to the other guys in the band, but they all gave birth to "Indigo Blues." Zach, or Tommy, or even Conjunction Jack could've stopped Adam from recording the song that screwed up my life. I just have to keep on reminding myself that I'm a senior and in eight months, I'll be out of here. California, here I come!

And no, my parents didn't name me Indigo because they were obsessed with the color that sits between blue and violet on the color spectrum. My mom was a big fan of the indie '90s band Indigo Girls. They're pretty cool, free-spirited and very lyrical. Still, most kids don't know who they are when they ask about the meaning of my name. Eli was named after my grandfather, Dad's father, who died six months before Eli was born. They even look alike—thick dark brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and huge smiles.

Now I feel kind of bad yelling at Eli. I mean, no matter how irritating he is sometimes, he's still my brother. I wiggle my cell loose from my pocket and dial home.

Eli answers. "Jackson residence."

"I thought I told you not to answer the phone."

"But it's you, Indigo."

"Just messing with you." I pass Cat's mom in her new silver Volvo at the Route 16 intersection. I hope she doesn't see me; she works in sales at KISS FM. She knows what's up.

"Great."

"But you can't be too careful. Remember, Caller ID is your friend." Ever since "Indigo Blues" debuted seven weeks ago, random people have been calling me. It started with a reporter, Candi Campbell, from our local news magazine, and now just about everybody and their mother has something to say.

"I'm not the one afraid of the phone."

I eye Starbucks, coming up. Maybe I should stop there. "You have an answer for everything."

"MYOB," he says. I know he's smiling on the other end of this phone.

"That only stands for my-young-original-brother."

"Funny." Eli's not laughing.

"So did anyone else call?"

"MYOB." He hangs up.

I'm staring at the screen, and glance up just in time to see the car in front of me slow down. Whoa, red light. Forgot about that. Darnell crowds up to its bumper.

I screech to a stop, killing my brakes, but I save my ass.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Indigo Blues by Danielle Joseph Copyright © 2010 by Danielle Joseph. Excerpted by permission of Flux Pulishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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