Free Through Indigo's Eyes by Tara Taylor

feelings for him were growing, and the mystery darkening him increased my obsession. I wanted to know everything about him. We were close to forging something, but not close enough. I wanted him to touch my hair again, and I wanted him to kiss me. How was I going to let him know that I liked him? Perhaps I could take the easy way out. Get Lacey to give him a note for me. What did I have to lose?
    The wind whipped my hair around my face. I was in my last year of high school. Who cared about my reputation? I pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth, wondering about Burke’s question about the future. What was I going to do next year? Some of my friends were planning on traveling, some were going to get jobs and work full-time so they could move out on their own, and a few others were planning to go on to college and university. But I had no plans, no idea what should come next. My grades weren’t great, and I had no real skills.
    Was I indifferent? Like the theme in The Handmaid’s Tale ? The math and science teachers often said I was indifferent to my education. I think I might have been labeled indifferent since I’d started school. How sad was that?
    School wasn’t my thing. That I knew. I’d almost failed grade four. What normal kid does that? Because I didn’t speak, they thought I was a slow learner. I sat in the middle of the third row, daydreaming about living in some faraway fantasy land that wasn’t earth.
    â€œIndigo, you need to do your work.” The teacher would come down the aisle and stop right in front of my desk. “You haven’t even started. When were you going to get busy on this?”
    I didn’t answer. I looked down at the paper and all the numbers. What if I answered and somehow the kids found out I was different and that I saw dead people in my room, saw things before they even happened? They would laugh at me. Or run away from me. Look what had happened with my hamster, Teresa. Anna was traumatized, and she never came over again. Halfway through grade four, my parents were called in to see the teacher. Later that night, I heard them talking in the kitchen: the teacher wanted to fail me because I didn’t talk.
    Back then Lacey was the only constant in my life. She knew about my visions and stuck with me.
    My steps slowed. Lacey. Lacey.
    I’m so sorry, Lacey.
    Snapshots of Lacey and me riding bikes, braiding our hair, and playing outside until the streetlights came on flashed through my head until I rounded the corner to my house. I knew we were drifting apart and had different interests, but we’d always been friends. I trusted her, and she trusted me to tell the truth.
    Once I was home, I headed straight to my room and closed the door. Without taking off my jean jacket, I lay down on my bed. My room had always given me some sort of peace. Even when I was little, it was as if my bed had been my protector, a safe place to go to escape the craziness of my world. Of course, this was all so ironic. I hated feeling caged, yet I liked my room, which was a box with walls. Go figure.
    You’re so weird, Indie.
    For a while, I lay quiet on my bed, thinking about way too many things.
    What was I going to say to Lacey?
    What was on John’s mind when he left like that? Should I write him a note?
    What was I going to say to Lacey?
    Why was I crazy?
    What was I going to say to Lacey?
    I slowly sat up. Maybe playing the guitar would help. I pulled it out from under my bed and started to strum and sing random words that I tried to piece together to make a song that we could use with our band. It would be fun to get that going again. I strummed and sang:
    Problem after problem,
Hurt after tears.
It’s never going to go away,
That’s what I fear.
    I stopped singing. Today my words made no sense, and I didn’t want to think about fear. I put the guitar away. I wasn’t good anyway. And I was dog tired.
    I stayed in my room, under my covers,