A Different Blue

Chapter Nine





My truck was alone in the sea of striped black top. The lights in the parking lot made little pools of orange on the ground, and I walked to my truck, grateful that the night was almost over. My feet hurt. The high-heeled boots that made my legs look so long pinched my toes and had me hobbling the last few steps. I dug my keys out of my purse and unlocked the door. It screeched loudly as I swung it open, making me jump a little, although I'd heard it squeak a thousand times before. I slid inside the cab, pulled the door shut, and shoved the keys into the ignition.

Click, click, click, click.

“Oh no! Not now, please not now!” I wailed. I tried again. Just the series of fast little clicks. The lights wouldn't even turn on. The battery was dead. I said a very unladylike word and beat on the steering wheel, making the horn bleep for mercy. I considered sleeping in the front seat. Home was miles away, and I was wearing impossibly high, ridiculous shoes. It would take me hours to walk home. Cheryl was at work, so she couldn't come get me. But if I stayed put I would be faced with the same dilemma in the morning, and I could be stuck walking home with raccoon makeup and bedhead in broad daylight.

Mason would come and get me. He would probably answer on the first ring. I shoved the thought from my head. I wasn't calling Mason Bates ever again. That left me with only one option. I climbed out of my truck and began walking, my anger fueling my steps. I cut across the parking lot and rounded the school in the direction of home – opposite the direction I had come. A car I hadn't noticed when I'd arrived was parked in the teacher's lot, closer to the school and the entrance doors. It was the silver Subaru I had seen Mr. Wilson driving around town. If it was his, and he was in the school, he would give me a ride – or even better, jump start my truck. I had cables. Maybe he had left his keys in it, and I could just quickly “borrow” his car, drive it over to my truck, give it a jump, and bring his car back without him ever knowing it.

I tested the driver's side door hopefully. No luck. I tested all the doors, just to be sure. I could pound on the door to the school, the one closest to where he was parked. But his room was up the stairs and down the hall on the second floor. The likelihood of him hearing me knocking was pretty slim. But I knew a way into the school. My dremel had broken last summer and for about a month I hadn't had the money to replace it. But the wood-shop room in the school had a nice one that I'd made good use of many times. I'd taken a metal file to the lock on the shop exit door, filing it down just enough that any key would open the door. If no one had discovered it in the seven months since then, I would be able to get in. I might get in trouble, but I could just say the door was unlocked. I doubted Wilson would tattle anyway.

My streak of bad luck took a small vacation because my car keys easily turned the lock on the shop room door. I was in. I crept through the familiar passageways. The smell of the school – disinfectant, school lunch, and cheap cologne – was oddly comforting. I wondered how I would approach Wilson without scaring the crap out of him. As I neared the stairs leading to the second floor I heard something that made me stop abruptly. I listened, and my heart thudded like a drum, making it hard to determine what the sound was. I held my breath and strained to hear. Violins? Weird. Hitchcock's Psycho flashed through my mind. “REE! REE! REE! REE!” I shivered. Violins were creepy.

The sound had me sneaking up the stairs, following the thready notes. When I reached the second floor, the hallway was dark and the light from Wilson's classroom beckoned me forward. It was the only light on in the whole school, creating a spotlight on the man within. Wilson was outlined by the frame of his door, a bright rectangle at the end of the shadowy corridor. I walked toward him, keeping close to the wall in case he looked up. But the light that illuminated him would also blind him. I doubted he would see me even if he looked directly at me.

He was wrapped around an instrument. I didn't know the name of it. It was a lot bigger than a violin – so big it sat on the floor and he was seated behind it . And the music he was making wasn't frightening. It was achingly lovely. It was piercing, yet sweet. Powerful, yet simple. His eyes were closed and his head was bent, as if he prayed as he played. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his body moved with his bow, like a weary swordsman. I thought of Manny then. How Manny had remarked on Wilson's forearms, and I watched the play of muscle under his smooth skin, pulling and pushing, coaxing the mellow music from the moody strings.

I wanted to reveal my presence, to startle him. I wanted to laugh, to mock him, to say something cutting and sarcastic like I usually did. I wanted to hate him because he was beautiful in a way I would never be.

But I didn't move. And I didn't speak. I just listened. For how long, I don't know. And as I continued to listen, my heart began to ache with a feeling I had no name for. My heart felt swollen in my chest. I lifted my hand to my chest as if I could make it stop.

But with each note Wilson played, the feeling grew. It wasn't grief and it wasn't pain. It wasn't despair or even remorse. It felt more like . . . gratitude. It felt like love. I immediately rejected the words that had sprung to my mind. Gratitude for what?! For a life that had never been kind? For happiness I had rarely known? For pleasure that had been fleeting and left a desperate aftertaste of guilt and loathing?

I closed my eyes, trying to resist the sensation, but my heart was hungry for it, insatiable. The feeling spread down my arms and legs, warm and liquid, healing. And the guilt and the loathing slipped away, pushed out by the overwhelming gratitude that I was alive, that I could feel, that I could hear the music. I was filled with an indescribable sweetness unlike anything I had ever felt before.

I slid down against the wall until I was sitting on the cool linoleum floor. I leaned my heavy head against my knees, letting the strings Wilson played untie the knots in my soul and release me, even for a moment, from the burdens I dragged along like clanking cans and filthy chains.

What if there was a way to let them go forever? What if I could be different? What if life could be different? What if I could be somebody? I had little hope. But there was something in the music that whispered of possibility and breathed life into a very private dream. Wilson played on, unaware of the spark that had been lit inside of me.

The melody suddenly shifted, and the song Wilson played was one that stirred a memory. I didn't know the words. But it was something about grace. And then the words came to my mind, like they'd been whispered in my ear. 'Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me . . . '

I didn't know what grace was, but maybe it sounded like the music. Maybe that was what I was feeling. How sweet the sound. And it was sweet, impossibly so. How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. Was a wretch the same thing as a bitch? Or a slut? My life was not a testament to being saved from anything. It was not a testament to love – not anybody's love.

My head firmly rejected the idea. Grace wouldn't save me. But in the tiny, neglected corner of my heart, freshly awakened by the music, I suddenly believed it might. I believed it could.

“God?” I whispered, saying the name I'd never spoken except in profanity, not even once. But I'd sung his name once, long ago. The name felt sweet on my tongue, and I tasted it again. “God?”

I waited. The music prodded me forward.

“God? I'm ugly inside. And it's not my fault. You know it's not. I'll take responsibility for some of it, but you've gotta own up to your part, too. Nobody saved me. Nobody gave a shit. Nobody came to my rescue.” I gulped, feeling the sorrow in my throat, making it hurt to swallow, but it was pain I'd been swallowing for a long time, and I forced it down. “So I'm asking you now. Can you take it away? Can you take away the ugliness?”

Something broke inside of me, and I groaned, unable to bite it back. Hot wet shame flooded out of me in waves of crushing grief. I tried to speak, but the torrent was almost too much. And so I gasped the final plea.

“God? If you love me . . . take it away. Please. I'm asking you to take it away. I don't want to feel this way anymore.” I wrapped my head in my arms, and let the torrent consume me. I had never let myself cry like this. I had feared that if I opened the floodgates I would drown. But as the waves crashed over me, I was not consumed, I was swept up, washed, my soul blanketed with blessed relief. Hope rose within me like a buoy. And with the hope, came peace. And the peace calmed the waters and quieted the storm, until I sat, spent, bled out, done.

Light bloomed overhead, illuminating the passageway where I huddled. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my purse and turning my back to the man walking toward me.

“Blue?” Wilson's voice was hesitant, almost disbelieving. At least he didn't call me Miss Echohawk anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

I kept my back to him as I tried to remove the evidence that I had come undone. I scrubbed frantically at my face, hoping I didn't look as wrecked as I felt. I kept my face averted as he approached.

“The battery in my truck is dead. I'm parked out in the parking lot. I saw your car here and wondered if you would be able to help me,” I said softly, still not making eye-contact. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” I said. And I was. Miraculously, I was.

A small white square of fabric appeared under my nose.

“A handkerchief! What are you, eighty-five?”

“Humph! I'm twenty-two, as you well know. I just happened to be raised by a very proper, slightly old-fashioned, Englishwoman who taught me to carry a handkerchief. I'll bet you're glad she did.”

I was. But I didn't admit it. The cloth felt satiny against my swollen eyes and tear-stung cheeks. It smelled heavenly . . . like pine and lavender and soap, and, suddenly, using his handkerchief felt incredibly intimate. I searched for something to say. “Is this the same woman who named you Darcy?”

Wilson's laugh was a brief bark. “The very same.”

“Can I keep this? I'll wash it and give it back. I'll even iron it, like your mom does.” The devil in me had to have her say.

“Ah, Blue. There you are. I thought for a moment you'd been body snatched by an actual human girl – one who doesn't take great pleasure in taunting her history teacher.” He smiled down at me, and I looked away self-consciously. “Let me get my things. I'm done here.”

“What? You're going to knock off this early? School only ended eight hours ago,” I teased, trying again for normalcy. He didn't respond, but was back moments later, his instrument in a case slung across his back. He flipped the light switch at the end of the hallway and we descended the stairs in silence.

“How did you get in?” he asked and then immediately shook his head and waved the question away. “Never mind. I really don't want to know. However, if on Monday I find that the walls have been spray painted, I'll know who to point the finger at.”

“Paint is not my medium,” I sniffed, offended.

“Oh really? What exactly is your medium?” He locked the door behind us as we stepped out into the night.

“Wood,” I clipped, wondering why I was telling him. Let him think I was a graffitti artist. Who the hell cared. “You do,” a little voice taunted mildly. And I did.

“And what exactly do you do with wood?”

“I carve it.”

“People, bears, totem poles, what?”

“Totem poles?!” I was incredulous. “Is that supposed to be some kind of slam to my ethnicity?”

“Your ethnicity? I thought you told me you weren't Native American.”

“I don't know what the hell I am, but that still sounded like a slam, Sherlock!”

“Why don't you know what you are, Blue? Haven't you ever tried to find out? Maybe that would make you less hostile!” Wilson seemed frustrated. He stomped ahead of me, almost talking to himself. “Absolutely impossible! Having a conversation with you is like trying to converse with a snake! You are vulnerable and tearful one moment and hissing and striking the next. I frankly don't know how to reach you, or even if I want to! I only said totem poles because they are usually carved from wood, all right?” He turned and glared at me.

“Cranky when you stay up past your bedtime, aren't you?” I mumbled.

“See?” he griped, throwing his hands up. “There you go again.” He stopped at his car, his hands on his hips. “I know you are incredibly bright, because when you are not being a smartarse your comments in class are very insightful, and when you ARE being a smartarse you are witty and clever and you make me laugh even when I want to slap you. I know you are either an adrenaline junky or you have more courage than anyone I've ever met, and you know how to unload a weapon. I know you were raised by a man with the name Echohawk. I know you don't know when your real birthday is. I know you have no plans to go to university when you graduate. I know you enjoy being the class clown and making me the butt of your jokes.”

He counted on his fingers. “That's eight things. Oh, and you carve something out of wood. Most likely NOT totem poles, since that seemed to get a reaction out of you. So nine or maybe ten if we count being a smartarse.” He put his hands back on his hips. “I would really like to know more. I don't want to know about the little blackbird who was pushed from the nest. I would like to know something about Blue.” He poked me in the center of my chest, hard, as he said 'Blue.'

“It's a parable,” I whined, rubbing the spot he'd jabbed with his long finger. “My father – Jimmy – used to say I was like a little blackbird, far from home.”

“Eleven things. See? Not so difficult.”

“You're kind of cute when your angry.” I meant to ruffle him, but it came out sounding flirtatious, like something Sparkles, aka Chrissy, would say. I felt stupid and darted a look at him. Luckily, he just rolled his eyes. Funny how you can tell someone is rolling his eyes, even when it's dark and you can barely see them.

Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve things: I can be wise.

“Bollocks!” He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either side. “Blast!”

“You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson,” I chided, trying not to laugh. “Isn't saying blast like saying the F word in England?”

“What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn.”

“And bollocks? That sounds downright profane.” It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying myself. “Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve.”

“My keys are in the ignition,” Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at me soberly. “We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . . breaking and entering, perhaps?”

“I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on me,” I retorted flatly. “We could shove your big violin through your car window, though.”

“Always a smartarse,” Wilson turned and began walking toward the road.

“I live about four miles away in that direction,” I offered, hobbling along after him.

“Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you snipe at me,” Wilson grumbled.

I burst out laughing. He really was cranky.