The Fortunes of Indigo Skye by Deb Caletti Read Free Book Online

the former.
When we met, I was in my crunchy phase--natural, no makeup, braids, sandals,
flowy gauze skirts. I'd started the guitar the year before, still couldn't play
worth crap, but I wanted to be Joan Baez, who was even before Mom's time, in the
days of folk music, peace, love, groovy, and love your brother. I had enough
gauze for a harem by the time this got old, but I thought it was great then.
Trevor started talking to me when I passed. Actually, he said, "Hey, gorgeous,"
which shows what a sucker for a compliment I was (am).
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    I liked the way his eyes danced. It was like he
had an internal joy flame always lit. Other people's eyes are flat as ash, but
Trevor Williams has flames. Anyway, we've been together ever since, so when he
says, You know what that means, I know what that means.
    "Three hundred thousand miles," I say. Trevor
likes stuff like that. He'll call you into the kitchen to watch the microwave
clock change from 1:10 to 1:11, or to 1:23, or better yet, 12:34. He'd phone me
up on my birthdays, the exact minute I was born, 4:17 a.m., setting his alarm
clock for four fifteen, to make sure he had time to become conscious and
dial.
    "This is an occasion," he says. "We should
celebrate." This is another thing Trevor likes. He'll celebrate anything--the
vernal equinox, Secretary's Day, not having to get X-rays at the
dentist.
    "What do you have in mind?" I say. I lick the
inside of his ear, which usually drives him crazy, but he isn't even thinking
that direction.
    "Let's drive up to the falls. Let Bob turn
three hundred thousand in a special place." Bob is the Mustang's name. Bob
Weaver, like bob and weave, because of the time he needed a new axle, and the
car curved and swerved all over the road.
    "Great." I buckle up. People who drive without
seat belts are asking for trouble, and I didn't want to end up as one of those
sad yearbook pictures of the kid who died. On the freeway, the air whooshes at
us, smelling good enough to eat, sweet and warm as ripe blackberries, and my
hair whips around my face and catches in my mouth. Trevor turns some music on,
that heavy metal crap that's his favorite, all electric guitar and not acoustic,
but it's his celebration so I don't complain.
    "I feel like we're lacking something here," I
shout.
    40
    "Wha'dya say?" Trevor shouts. We head down
I-90, toward the Snoqualmie Falls exit.
    I turn the music down. "It's a monumental day
for Bob. Let's spice things up."
    "Hats?" Trevor suggests. See, before I insisted
he get straight, he would've said, A toke? Or, Tequila? I didn't
want some guy who was all smeary and glazey who wasn't present. Hey, I
could've conversed with my lava lamp if I wanted that. I wanted what was real.
    "Nah," I say. "I'll know it when I see
it."
    Trevor shrugs. We keep driving. We pass a
storage rental facility, a couple of coffee stands, a museum set in a train car,
a place where they sell garden statues. A place where they sell garden
statues!
    "Trevor. Turn around. Look." Trevor flips a U
right there. Arcs into the gravel of the lot, tires crunching. He knows I love
walking up and down the outdoor aisles of those places, checking out five-foot
cement ladies holding cement urns spilling cement water, plaster frogs,
birdbaths, and tiki heads big enough to scare God. "Let's find someone to ride
in the backseat."
    "Cool." He shrugs again.
    We meander along the paths, to the sound of
trickling fountain water and the kershun-kershunk of gravel under our
feet. "A gnome?" I suggest, mostly because he's small and affordable and I like
his red hat.
    "Nah. Gnomes go on trips all the time. You know
those gnomes that get abducted from some old lady's garden and then she starts
getting postcards with his picture from the Eiffel Tower? Shit like
that."
    "Yeah, you're right." We crunch along a bit
more, X-ing out huge mermaids and enormous lions for obvious reasons. Trevor's
strong, but hey.
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    We're in the Buddha