Indigo Blues (3 page)

"`Indigo Blues'? Really?"

"No, `Jingle Bells.' What's up with you, dude?"

I stop typing. I was about to shoot her an email. "I'm
just ... shocked. This is great news."

"Like hell it is! Toasted Almond Records took a gamble
with us and it totally paid offl"

I tap my fingers on the pile of CDs stacked on my desk.
Our single is on top. The CD cover is red. Her favorite color.
I wonder if she even noticed. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Okay, I've got to make, like, a hundred more calls.
See you at the studio at five." Zach hangs up before I have
to say anything else.

I stare at my computer screen. At the half finished sentence blinking at me.

Why haven't you emailed, it's been ...

Twenty-two days. She said she was going to email me
after the first week of classes. Her idea, not mine. I usually just text or pick up the phone-so much easier. Now
the question seems lame. But I don't see how she can really
be mad at me. It was all her fault. She has this way about
her. She's like a record promoter-it begins with a phone
call, then it's three-course meals with monster desserts, and
finally, when you've purchased all they have to offer, they're
off to screw the next victim!

I have this sick feeling she's going out with some other
dude. Probably some dumb jock that lured her in with his
bulging muscles and the promise of a ride in his convertible. But I've got way more to offer than that. I'm twenty,
I've got my own pad, and damn, I'm lead vocals on a hit
song! It's like Zach said: top of the charts, baby!

I cancel out of my email and refresh the inbox. Nothing. Not even a congratulations on your hit song. Why hasn't
she written? Maybe the news hasn't gotten around yet. But
someone in her pathetic little town has to know. We grew
up in neighboring burbs, and my town is pretty much as
lame as her town, but at least we have an old movie theater
and a skating rink in Abel. The biggest hangout in Caulder
is Grand Mini Mart.

I swivel out of my chair and pace around my storage
closet of a studio apartment. Not that I'm complaining.
The guys have been dying for me to pitch in with the rent on the one-bedroom apartment that they all share. But as
much as I like them, I still need my space. And finding
a place like this was not easy. So what if my savings are
slowly being sucked up. Sanity first, at least for now.

This is all so surreal. It feels like yesterday we were performing in local Boston pubs, and now we're plastered all
over the airwaves. I pull up my blinds and look out my
apartment window. Everything in Brooklyn is so huge. So
distant.

My phone goes off. It's "The Electric Slide." Zach
fucked up my ringtones on Saturday when we all got sloshed
after our show at Bar Stall. Now I have no idea who's calling
when the phone rings. Since Indigo hasn't called me yet, I
don't even know what song he assigned to her.

Eli's name comes up on the screen. Eli Jackson? Why's
he calling me? "Hello."

"Hey, Adam?"

Yup.

He hesitates. "Oh, I thought you might have changed
your number."

Then how would your sister call me? "What's up?"

"I just wanted to congratulate you on `Indigo Blues'
hitting number one. That's so cool!"

"Thanks." I don't really know what else to say. I watch
as a cab pulls to the curb three floors below and a lady in a
bright pink coat and a platinum-blond beehive steps out.
That's the thing about New York. Anything goes.

There's an awkward pause.

I can hear Eli breathing. I thought he hated me. Guilt by association. Not that he's done anything for me to think
that. He's called me once or twice before, but that was
when I first moved to New York.

"Guess I'm still shocked," I finally add. "Zach called
me a little while ago."

"I'm sure by this afternoon everyone around here will
know."

Even Indigo? I wonder if she heard. If she's home. If
she's wearing her tight black jeans and the vintage Rolling
Stones T-shirt that I bought for her. "Does everyone in your
family know?"

"Indigo and Mom. And my grandmother."

"Oh." My heart races. I slink back down in the chair,
staring at her photo taped up on the wall next to my computer. She has a huge smile. It was taken in March at a welcome home bash for Blank Stare. I didn't know whether
she was going to show up for the party at Tommy's parents'
house. But she did. And it was awesome to see her. To hold
her.

"She's not home right now."

"Oh," I say again. Is she with another guy?

"I don't know where she is," Eli says, like he's reading
my mind.

"Wait. Aren't you supposed to be in school? It's Thursday."

"Teacher workday."

"Sure." Maybe Indigo's at work. The candy store must
be busy today if everyone has the day off. But I don't want
to seem rude, or crazy. "So, anyway, how are you?"

"Good. I'm taking this really cool film class. You're supposed to be at least a sophomore to get in, but Dr. Kemp
saw some of my shorts and let me sign up!"

"Great. You're getting an early start. You'd probably
like NYU. Hey, if you're ever in town, give me a buzz. I'll
show you around." I watch as bubbles burst one by one on
my computer screensaver. I tap the mouse and refresh my
inbox again. Still nothing.

"Really? That'd be awesome! Maybe I can come over
winter break."

"Totally. Listen, I gotta run. Got some calls to make."

"Sure, bro. Nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you too."

What am I thinking? I can't call her the second I get off
the phone with her brother. I've got to at least wait until
I've supposedly run through all my important calls. I scroll
down my Contact List until I hit her name. Indigo. The
girl that stole my heart. The girl that made me famous. The
girl that I love to hate and hate to love. I've got to call her.
Now.

at comes over right after she gets off work at The
Crap, our affectionate name for The Gap, where she
is well on her way to becoming a professional shirt folder.
Seriously, one day, for fun, the girl redid my entire closet.
Now that's a true friend! Cat's on a mission to cheer me
up: I've logged in eight media calls, three long-lost relatives,
and two town busybodies, all calling about "Indigo Blues."
And these are the ones I know about, since I told my family NOT to call me when the phone rings. So, like the best
friend that she is, Cat brings over a pint of our favorite Ben
& Jerry's Chunky Monkey. And that's totally what I'm
going to turn into if this pity party continues much longer. We're sitting on my carpet, scraping the bottom of the

container before we're even done watching one episode of
The Office on DVD.

I promised Cat I would make her a necklace for her date
with Greg on Saturday night, so I dump a packet of beads
onto the sorting tray in front of me. Cat looks good in dark
colors. I pick a choker with red glass beads and silver spacers
for her.

My cell phone vibrates on the nightstand, but I don't
even have to look at the screen. "This is the fourth time
he's called me today. Doesn't he get the message that I don't
want to talk?" I sigh.

"Just answer, or he'll keep on trying until you pick up,"
Cat says, sticking her hand in my tray of beads.

"But I'm pissed at him."

"So tell him."

"I guess you're right. It's either that or change my number."

I answer the phone but don't say anything.

"Indigo? Can you hear me?" Adam shouts. I would
know his "panicked" voice anywhere, deep and squeaky. It's
like the Rock swallowed a rubber duckie-much different
than his smooth singing voice.

"Yeah, I'm here," I mumble.

"I can hardly hear you. Can you hear me?"

That's an understatement. "Uh-huh."

Cat elbows me in the stomach. I wince. "Say something
about the song," she says.

"Who's that?" Adam asks, all paranoid. If I had to bet,
I'm sure he's already pacing the room wherever he is in New York City. I thought when the band exploded and
hit the airwaves, I'd never hear from him again. Boy, was I
wrong.

I ignore his question. "Why did you write that song?"

He clears his throat. "That's how I feel."

I count out the red beads. "But why did you have to
use my real name?"

"Be ... because ... because...," he stutters, "you made
me feel that way."

Cat tugs at my sleeve. "What's the jerk saying?"

I pull away from her. "But it's not true! I didn't do any
of that stuff to you."

"You can't control how I feel!" Adam shouts.

"I'm not trying to control you. But none of that crap is
accurate." I grab the pliers off my jewelry tray and pick at
the seam of my Cool Joe jeans.

"What are you trying to say?" His voice is all deep, no
squeak.

I don't answer. I need time to think. I'm short a red
bead. This throws off the pattern for Cat's necklace.

Without warning, Adam hangs up.

"He hung up on me." I'm still staring at my phone. I
start to dial his number.

Cat reaches over, grabs my cell, and hits end.

"What are you doing? Don't call that freak back."

"But he hung up on me." I loosen my grip on the pliers. Ugh, I made a nick in my new jeans.

"Yes, you said that. And you gave him a chance."

"But..." I bite my lip. "I want to know why he said all
that junk about me."

"He's not worth your time if he doesn't even want to hear
you out." Cat pulls the pliers from my hand. "He blasted
your name all over the airwaves. Don't forget that."

"True, but he said those were his feelings." I use imaginary quotes with my fingers.

Cat's light brown eyes bug out. Her red hair is tucked
behind her ears. She's on fire. "He's one screwed-up dude."

"But nobody else sees it that way. Everyone just feels bad
for poor Adam. I mean, we only went out for three months.
He makes it seem like we'd been dating since birth."

Cat laughs. "That's all? I thought it was longer."

"Well, he asked me out about a month after we met at
his show, but remember how it took me over six months to
say yes?"

"Yeah, and he gave you that cheesy flea market ring."

"Right." I look toward the bottom desk drawer where
the ring still sits, but I don't pull it out.

"But seriously, Adam is so whack." Cat gets up from the
floor and sits down at my desk. "So there's got to be some
dirt on him on the web." She types "Adam Spade" into the
Google search bar.

"Okay, there's a dishwasher in lower Manhattan who
blogs. And a gardener in Ohio who just opened up landscaping services. Ooo, here's a newspaper interview with
the band. Damn, you have to register to actually read it."

"Cat, exactly what are you looking for?"

"Maybe there's another girl out there that..."

"That he wrote a song about? Kathy Blues, you make
me snooze, la, la, Ia." I sashay across my room.

Cat's still at the computer. "Or Jackie Blues, you lose...
slut..."

I crack up. "I have one. Cat Blues, I've got news, you
have to pay your dues, slut..."

She pulls a tampon from the box on my desk and
chucks it at me.

"Ouch." I rub my forehead dramatically. "I'm going
to write my own song about you. Catherine Owens threw a
deadly object at my head and left me for dead." I drop to the
floor.

Cat cracks up too and throws another one at me. "Then
I went back for one more, just to make sure she was really a
goner!"

Now we both can't stop laughing. This is so funny and
so sad and so stupid all at the same time.

I hear a big sigh over by my door and look up. It's Eli,
dressed in khakis and a button-down Polo shirt.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"Got a date?" Cat tries to compose herself.

"I have an interview to film a recycling video," my
brother says, barely moving a facial muscle. "And if you
want to be taken seriously, then you have to dress like a
professional."