The Fortunes of Indigo Skye (22 page)

"So I'm going to give your mom the name of a
financial adviser I know over there. He's a great guy, you can trust him, even
if he's ... boring, okay? So don't give him trouble for being boring, Indigo. We
need boring people in the world too, or else no one would be there to do our
taxes."

"Okay," I say, because I don't know shit about
financial advisers or accountants or banking. Mom set up a savings account for
me years ago, and before last year when I started working at Carrera's, I had
all of about twenty-six bucks in there. I've got maybe five hundred now, enough
to pay for maybe a few college textbooks if I change my mind about going, not
enough for college itself. Certainly not enough to interest a boring
accountant.

We sit on a rocky beach and Dad puts on his
flippers, sliding his thumb under his heel with a thwap of rubber against skin.
The mask is stuck on his forehead, so he looks like he's some kind of a large
insect. "And I don't have any great advice for you, In. I wish I did. I want to
say ... stay true to yourself, but I know you'll laugh."

"Only because you look like a fly," I say. "I'm
not worrying

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about staying true to myself. I know myself
pretty well."

"Money changes things, In."

"What's all the ooh-ahh about money and change?
It's like it's some voodoo curse. I plan on being me with more
money."

"Okay, In."

"I don't see why that's not
possible."

"I never had a lot of it, okay? But even when I
had maybe more than average? It makes you see things differently. Like yourself.
What you expect from other people." He's tucking his keys and our sun lotion and
shoes under three layers of towels, protection against marauding
thieves.

"I will stand true against the forces of
e-vil," I say in a superhero voice.

"I don't know how to explain it," he says. He's
still tucking and hiding. "Not to say there's some kind of glory to being poor,
because there isn't. There's nothing glorious about fear." Dad stands, brushes
the sand off the butt of his swimsuit. "Just that for some reason, money can
make you expect certain things, owed certain things. And some people think
they're owed them just by virtue of having, not by virtue of earning. I guess
that's the easiest way to put it. Are you ever going to put your flippers
on?"

"Flippers are the most ridiculous thing one
could put on their body," I say.

"Rainbow wig," Dad suggests.

"Bowling shoes," I say. I snap the flippers on,
and Dad holds out his hand to help me stand. We flap, flap down to the water's
edge, balancing with arms out like tightrope walkers, as everyone around does a
version of the same act.

Dad gets there before I do. His feet are in the
water, and he turns to wait for me. It's just another blue-sky day in Hawaii,
and

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the black lava cove we're in bends around us.
"Here's my great advice," he says. He reaches out his hand, and I take it,
hobbling the last few steps. "When it seems like too much, remember,
this
is the real world. Nature. Under here, no one cares about money, or about what
race you are, or what car you drive. It's just another day of everyone swimming
different directions, looking for food, staying well, being
beautiful."

"One, two, three," I say, and we dive. It's the
only way to do it, because no matter how warm the water is, diving in is always
oh-shit cold.

At first, it's just murky green, small bits of
floating algae, Dad's legs, the color of someone else's swimsuit going past. I
keep focused on Dad
(don't panic, don't panic),
push my fins against the
push back of the water. I follow, and then suddenly, right there below us, is a
school offish, bright yellow, and a few orange striped ones (clown fish, I
think), and I remember all this, the unreal National Geographic thrill, the
am-I-really-here astonishment, the creepy unease that a fish might swim against
your bare legs, mixed with complete, goose-bumpy wonder. Dad's hair is
serpent-wild, and he's gesturing to the fish below as if I could miss them. I
nod, not that he can see me. I hear my own Darth Vader breathing, try to forget
that I do, and then, with a few pushes of my legs, there's another color--blue
like you've never seen blue, narrow fish with the vibrancy and shine of a
first-place ribbon. And then a sad, scary guy, a spiky ugly brown puffer fish,
headed right my way. I thrash around in sudden panic, flail my legs around, pop
my head from the water. It seems so deep, but it's really shallow where we are.
I can stand. The beach is right there--not a thousand worlds away like it seemed
it would be. There's our rolled-up towels, that kid throwing rocks while his mom
lies back

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on her towel with one eye peeking halfway
open.

Dad stands beside me. I raise my mask. "That
was amazing!"

He takes the rubber piece from his mouth.
"Isn't it? It is amazing, each and every time."

"That puffer fish was coming right at
me."

"He's more afraid of you than--"

"Don't even try that line on me. Let's go under
again," I say.

We duck down again, and I follow Dad where he
leads. It is up and down again, up and down, through my moments of panicky
standing. We go one more time down, and Dad is pointing to sea anemones hiding
in the rocks, when I see something round and large, heading past with purpose,
wide feet paddling peacefully. I cannot believe my eyes; no, I cannot, because
it is a sea turtle. A real, alive sea turtle swimming past in his own ocean
home. I want to shout, do my flailing routine, but Dad takes my hand and for a
moment we swim behind the turtle, giving him polite distance, paddle in his
bubbly wake. And then he makes a right turn and he is gone, faster than us, the
speed he's learned from being ancient.

I paddle back quickly to where I can stand,
fling off my mask. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

Dad's mask is on his forehead. His eyes are
bright. "The real world, In," he says.

Jennifer stands with Dad at the airport, by his
side. She hugs me good-bye, and I know I'll be taking her perfume home with me
as a parting gift. Dad hugs me too. He holds my arms, looks at me hard. This is
the first time I've been with him by myself, without Severin or Bex. It wasn't
us kids and Dad this time, just me and him, two people. His eyes are wet. I
think he might cry. I kiss his cheek.

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"I love you," I say. It's true, I
realize.

"I love you," he says. And that is true too, I
know.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says.

They stand there together when I leave, and
when I look back over my shoulder to wave, they are still standing there.
Jennifer is fishing for something in her purse, already moving beyond my visit,
back to her own life, but Dad just stands there watching me, one hand tucked
under his arm, the other cupping the side of his face. He sees me turn, puts his
fingers to his lips, sends a kiss my way.

My eyes are hot with tears. That's my dad
there. See? I am leaving him to go back to his life, of pineapple juice and
Jennifer's paintbrushes and Neal and surfboards and windsurfers and Wade the
bartender and the devoted Keiko. This time, I am leaving him behind. And I make
a little vow then, to myself. To not let the backs and forths of forgiveness
interrupt the steadiness of love. Dogs go on doing their job and we don't stop
to notice, but sometimes, so do people. Maybe I didn't notice it before, but Dad
was there, he was, his eyes never leaving my door. It was time, I guess, to let
him in.

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10

If I had a quarter for every time I heard the
word "money" in the next few weeks at home, I'd be a millionaire if I weren't
already a millionaire. Melanie was averaging four calls a day to either ask how
I was going to spend it or recommending ways to, and Severin and Bex kept
looking at me with the wide eyes of those starving African kids in the ads. Jane
was acting weird, as if me and the me who had money were two separate
people--she seemed irritated, as if I'd gone off and done something she
disapproved of, and even pulled me aside to ask if she needed to find a
replacement since I was probably leaving. Trina invited me to go shopping, and
Funny suggested she write up a story about me for the paper. Not only did I tell
her no, I vowed everyone else to silence, didn't breathe a word of it at school
(not even to Liz or Ali or Evan). Still, KMTT, a local radio station, phoned and
asked to speak to the waitress who got a really big tip, and KING 5 News knocked
on the door. Severin told both that someone was playing a joke, but Severin's a
crappy liar.

And Trevor--a few days after I get back home,
he tells me he has a surprise for me. Surprise--you think flowers. Balloons. A
life-size cutout of Hunter Eden he might have gotten at Tower Records. No way am
I expecting what I do see when he pulls into our driveway. I hear him honking,
and I run outside barefoot ready to be happily grateful. I stop on the
walkway.

"Wow," I say.

There is an odd weight in my chest suddenly at
the sight--

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Bob Weaver, gleaming in brand-new orange-red
metallic glory, and Trevor, leaning out the window, his smile as bright as the
glints of sun on the Mustang's freshly painted hood.

"Doesn't he look like a fucking king? Some king
of cars?"

"Wow," I say again. "You had him
painted."

"I didn't think you'd mind. It would have taken
me, what, five, six more months to save up the rest of the money? But now, why
not just get it done? I couldn't wait to see your face."

Trevor springs from the car. The car door is
still flung open, and he takes my face in his hands and kisses me
hard.

He pulls back. "Baby, what's wrong?"

I wipe my wet mouth with the back of my hand.
It is hard to say the words, because he looks so happy. They feel heavy, like I
am pulling something hard but necessary. "Don't you think you should have
asked}"

"You're kidding, right?" he says. He shakes his
head, as if he didn't hear right.

"I think you should have asked," I say. My
voice sounds thin, even to me. It stretches far and long, across some great
expanse of distance that seems suddenly possible between us, some vast space
I've never seen before.

"God, In," he says. "This is what,
crumbs}
A
drop in the bucket? I thought you'd be
happy.
This doesn't even
sound like you. We share everything."

Twisty tree roots of guilt wind up my insides.
I shake my own head, to exile those thoughts. He is right. Crumbs. And yet, the
small voice inside says, "everything" isn't the same everything it was before.
"I'm sorry," I say. And I
am
sorry. "It's beautiful. I'd want you to have
it done. Of course I do."

He pulls me close again. Kisses my hair. I
close my eyes,

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against the sight of new differences. "It's for
us, In. Let's put the top down. I want you to see it with the top down
too."

And let's not forget Mom. Mom, who is on her
third talk with me. Now she calls me to the kitchen. She's got her yellow legal
pad and pen and sits at the table with me across from her, same as the other two
times. A yellow legal pad and a pen means a PLAN. She even has
PLAN
written across the top of the paper, same as she did during the last two talks
that went nowhere.

"Indigo, we've got to make some decisions
here," she says.

"I want to buy a house," I say. "For
you."

"No, Indigo. I told you. No."

"No," Chico says. "No, no, no."

We might as well play a tape recorder. It's the
same conversation we've had twice before. "Why are you being like this, Mom? I
want to help. I want to make things easier for you."

"Pride, okay? Just let me have it."
College,
she writes. "We need to talk about college."

"As I said before. Of course we'll use the
money for Severin's college. And Bex."

"And you."

"Mom."

She slaps the pen down on the paper. "Cars," I
say. "For everyone. You, me, Severin--"

"Too much. Too much at once," she says. "I
don't want this to change us all suddenly."

"Then I'll buy my own."

"Fine," she says. But her voice has edges. She
doesn't write down the word "car." Instead she doodles a dark spiral on the
page, circle within a circle within a circle.

We are at some sort of standstill, and the
argument is so new

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and strange, we might as well be attempting to
argue in a foreign language. "Look," I say. "I've had the money all of, what, a
few weeks now? It's sitting nice and cozy in the bank. We don't have to make any
decisions about it right this minute, do we? Can't I have a little time to get
used to this?"

Mom sighs. She tilts her head back, looks up at
the ceiling and shakes her head. "Money, money, money," she says. And right
there, three more quarters earned.