Free A Different Blue by Amy Harmon

and I realized I had his attention now, whether I wanted it or not.
    “Jimmy said this explains why people fight. They don't have sufficient space, or maybe someone else fell on a better plot of ground, and we all want the land or possessions someone else got – simply by the luck of the draw. So we fight. You and Pamela are the same kind of people. You're from the same bunch,” I finished, defiant.
    “What's that supposed to mean, Blue?” Wilson wasn't defiant. He looked upset, hurt even.
    I shrugged tiredly, my anger fizzling like a leaky balloon. Wilson was a smart man. It wasn't exactly hard to decipher my meaning.
    “But if we're all carved by the same wise wolf,” Wilson persisted, using the story to make his point, “why does it matter where we were scattered?”
    “Because so many people suffer while others seem to have it so easy. And it doesn't make much more sense to me than that Indian legend.”
    “So you're angry because of where you were scattered. And you're angry with me – and Pamela as well – because we grew up across the pond in a life of leisure and privilege.”
    The way he summed it up made me sound prejudiced. But I kind of was, so maybe that was fair. I shrugged and sighed, and Wilson clasped his hands in front of him, his eyes earnest.
    “None of us can help where we were scattered, Blue. But none of us has to remain where we were scattered. Why don't you focus on where you're going and less on where you come from? Why don't you focus more on what makes you brilliant and less on what makes you angry? You are missing a key element to the story. Maybe the moral of the legend is that we are all carved, created, and formed by a master hand. Maybe we are all works of art.”
    I groaned. “Next you're going to tell me to just be myself and everyone will love me, right?”
    “Love might be too strong a word,” Wilson retorted, dead pan. I snickered.
    “I'm serious!” I argued, smiling in spite of myself. “All that stuff people say about just being yourself is complete–”
    “Rubbish?”
    “Yeah. Being yourself only works if you don't suck. If you do suck, definitely don't be yourself.”
    It was Wilson's turn to groan, but I could tell he had forgiven me, and my heart softened the smallest degree.
    “What was that 'Nobody' poem you quoted the other day? I think that is probably more accurate.”
    “Dickinson's poem?” Wilson looked absolutely tickled that I'd remembered. And then he recited it, his eyebrows raised as if he was certain I couldn't be referring to Dickinson.
     
    “I'm nobody! Who are you?
    Are you nobody, too?
    Then there's a pair of us
    Don't tell—they'd banish us, you know.”
     
    I nodded. “Yep. That's the one. I think old Dick and I would have been good friends, because I'm definitely a nobody too.”
    “Old Dick is actually Emily Dickinson.” Wilson's lips twitched. I knew darn well who wrote the poem, but I found I liked making him laugh.
    “The beauty of that poem is that everybody can relate, because we all feel like nobody. We all feel like we are on the outside, looking in. We all feel scattered. But I think it's that self-awareness that actually makes us somebody. And you are definitely somebody, Blue. You may not be a work of art, but you are definitely a piece of work.”
     

Chapter Six

     
    November blew in, and the sunlight changed and mellowed. The desert heat became muted and soft, and though Vegas and Boulder City had more palm trees than changing leaves, the fall was a beautiful respite. Mason started coming around more often, and as long as I was on the back of his bike, riding through the desert, being with him was something I enjoyed. It was when the ride was over, when our passion was spent, when we were breathing hard, lust sated, that I had nothing to say. I was always eager to leave or ready for him to go. I never pretended to love him or want anything from him, and he seemed satisfied with what I was willing to give.
    I guess