FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Critical Thinking
The Rules
“Our Father who art in Heaven…”
Oh, God.
“Hallowed be thy name…”
Seven am. Really, Angelo?
“Thy kingdom come…” His voice was louder than necessary, as if he was attempting to wake his sister as well as pray; killing two birds with one stone.
Indigo turned over in her bed and pulled the covers up over her face.
“Thy will be done…”
She made a slightly frustrated noise, before pushing the emotion away.
“On Earth as it is in Heaven…”
“Angelo, shut up. Go back to sleep,” Indigo ordered, facing deliberately away from him.
Angelo barely paused. “Give us this day our daily bread…”
“Shut. Up.”
“And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen. Now shut up.” Indigo said this all as quickly and loudly as she could muster at that hour, and was repaid with her brother’s laughter. “Oh, God,” Indigo muttered, encasing handfuls of covers and forcing them over her ears. “You’re a morning person.”
Angelo rolled his eyes. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been to school in my life. What do you expect? Of course I’m excited. No more dull home-schooling from—” His voice suddenly broke off, horrified, as he realised what he was about to say. No more dull home-schooling from dad.
Indigo sat up abruptly, meeting her brother’s eyes. “You alright?”
“Fine,” Angelo replied, somewhat absentmindedly, before rising to stand instead of kneeling by his bed. His eyes held a slightly vacant look to them that wasn’t really quite sad, or quite anything other than deep, dark red.
Indigo cleared her throat. “Get ready for school. I’ll drive you.”
Red eyes focused on her for a moment before Angelo nodded, smiling sadly, and moved to the door. It was strange, Indigo noted, that she was so much more comfortable with his red eyes than the fake pale blue.
Maryellen awoke again with their noise, and Indigo found herself wondering why she didn’t rise this early for her own work – what did Maryellen do, anyway? Was she retired?
“I’m a writer,” Maryellen voiced when Indigo asked, slightly surprised at her great niece’s interest. “I have a few published books. Not really popular, but published. That’s what the bookcase in the main room is for.”
Indigo soon found herself at said bookshelf, tracing her fingers over several titles. She read several of them out loud, only half paying attention, before she came to an off-white hardback. “Susara,” she read, and then paused. “… Susara.”
She pulled the book off of the shelf – it was the thickest book, and somewhat heavier than she had expected – and observed the cover.
“Susara,” she repeated again, running the pads of her fingers over the copy of a charcoal drawing on the front.
It was a drawing, she recognised, of her mother. In such a rough portrayal it was hard to tell, but from the distinctly straight line of the woman’s nose, and the only parts of colour – a few chalk-drawn red lines in her hair and a single blue ring of each iris – it was clear.
Indigo swallowed dryly, trying to work some moisture into the back of her throat, as she turned the cover over to the chapter index.
Glancing behind her quickly, she found the page number of the last chapter and leafed through the paper until she came to it.
‘Indigo was a welcomed mistake.’ Indigo swallowed thickly again, and tried to wrench the unusual emotion away. She closed the book after only that one line, unable to read on. Instead, she looked back at the cover picture, gritting her teeth slightly.
Maybe this had been why her mother refused to speak to or of Maryellen.
“Indie,” Angelo said as he entered the main room, slinging a nearly empty backpack over one shoulder. He faltered upon seeing her. “Indie, are you alright?”
“Fine,” Indigo replied, slipping the off-white book back into its place.
Angelo didn’t question any further, knowing that he’d probably never get a proper answer anyway, and headed for the door.
Indigo considered calling a goodbye to Maryellen, but one more glance at the hardback book changed her mind.
“Did you know that she’s a writer?” Indigo asked her brother as they climbed into her car.
Angelo looked thoughtful. “Don’t think she mentioned it. What does she write?”
Indigo spared her brother a glance as she started the car. He was too young to remember her properly, she thought, being only ten when she had died. She wouldn’t have told him much; they were hardly close, anyway.
No, the less Angelo knew about their mother and grandparents, the better. “No idea. Nervous?”
Angelo snorted, but the way that he flattened down his pale hair was a definite telltale sign. “Not at all. You know where you’re going, right?”
“Unless Maryellen’s ability to give directions is as bad as her cooking, sure.”
“Indigo,” Angelo asked, wide blue eyes staring at her. “Did you… just make a joke?”
“Alert the authorities,” Indigo replied dryly, before sparing him a quick glance. “I do have a sense of humour, you know.”
Angelo looked suspicious. “Sure, but only when you’re hiding something.”
Indigo had to give him that point, really; it wasn’t completely unfounded.
St. Demetrius’ Juniour School was quite run-down, both siblings noted upon pulling into the car park. Not that anything in this particular city was a very nice sight. Maryellen’s apartment had quickly become the nicest thing they could appreciate, even strewn with clothing and other such oddities.
The strangest thing, though, was that upon entering the school they had to pass through metal detectors.
“What the…” And with another glance back at her brother, Indigo approached one of the guards next to the metal detector. “Is this usual?”
He cleared his throat. “It’s to make sure nobody brings in weaponry, ma’am.”
Indigo blinked, staring at the metal detectors, then past them into the main hallway of the school. “Well, that’s just brilliant. I’m sending you to school in Ghetto Hell.”
“Funsies,” Angelo piped in lightly, having no particular preference on whether or not she would allow him to enter.
After a slight pause, Indigo scowled and passed through the metal detectors, waiting for her brother. When he walked through, a buzzer sounded.
The guards looked at him blankly.
“Navel ring,” he explained.
Indigo raised one eyebrow. “You don’t have a navel ring.”
The guard had already figured out that it was the silver loops linked across his belt.
“Spoilsport.” Indigo made to roll her eyes at him but turned around too soon; Angelo made to smile at the guard but ended with something like a pained grimace.
For the first moments of a first day, it wasn’t too unsuccessful. Really.
Indigo’s navigational skills found them the office long before they would have under Angelo’s lead. He had an abject lack of direction, just like she had an abject lack of humility (but humility was so beneath her).
“We’re here to see the principle,” Indigo insisted to the lady at the office, while Angelo’s hands skittered nervously across the small white surface in front of the office window. The woman was small and black, with dreadlocks falling down to her elbows, and lips that were rather too large for her face.
“Just a moment.” Her voice was so small for those lips, Angelo thought absently, wondering to himself if Angelina Jolie was secretly black.
And needless to say, didn’t pay the idea much notice.
The principle, Garcia (according to the door), was a woman. This surprised Angelo more than it should have, considering the day and age in which he lived. She was tall and some mixture of Hispanic and European that left her with high cheekbones, thick hair and a long, straight nose.
She was pretty, in a strange way. “Angelo Prescott?” she asked as they stepped into her office, wide eyes warm and welcome. “And his sister, right?”
Indigo shook her hand. “Indigo Prescott,” she introduced herself stiffly, before sitting.
“Yeah, I remember.” Angelo shrinks away in distaste at the idea of a professional person such as herself using a word like “yeah”. “This is going to be hard for us, Angelo.” And she had already acquainted to his given name. “We need to figure out what groups to put you in for what classes.”
“He’s terrible at History,” Indigo supplied for him. Angelo wondered when she got the time to note that detail in her mind. “Good at English and Math. Average in the sciences, I think.”
“And your elective subject?” Mrs. Garcia asked as if it were a question directed to him, but looked instead to his sister.
Indigo opened her mouth, presumably to answer, but was interrupted by the loud crash of the door almost being broken off it’s hinges.
“One of your students, and I-don’t-care-that-he’s-my-son, he’s-your-responsibility-while-he’s-in-this-God-forsaken-excuse-of-a-school, so there, is being so Goddamn unreasona—oh,” she blinked several times. “Hello. Didn’t realise you were in a meeting now, Esmeralda.”
Angelo’s eyes widened comically. The woman standing in the doorway, now attempting to regain some composure, was the darkest shade of dark; with hair so short that it was nothing but thin black fuzz, and every patch of skin visible (including her face) was covered in henna patterns.
Looking back, he would consider that the first moment that he ever fell just a little bit in love.
She wasn’t his type, really. She was old – well, at least thirty or so – and a nigger. But. Well— how to explain? She was almost completely black, skin the colour of burnt chocolate, with a smooth, sharp angle of her jaw and eyes so dark that they were bright.
“Later, miss Omorenoniwara.” A playful glare.
“Nonsense!” The strange woman moved further into the room, and perched herself on the edge of the desk nearest Angelo. “You’re our new student, right?”
“Right,” Angelo asked, looking up at her, heart rate beginning to speed up.
It was completely obscene. She was a teacher, but none-the-less, miss Omorenoniwara was definitely, definitely flirting with him. It was all in those bright black eyes. Or maybe Angelo was just that enamoured.
“I usually teach both Art classes,” she informed him, smiling warmly, accent tinted with the slight roughness of what must have been African. “Art 1 and Art 2. But eighth grade—that is yours, right?” She looked at him closely, as if wondering if he could possibly be above twelve. He nodded. “No one actually wanted to take Art 1. Not because it’s unpopular, but because everyone had already done the foundation—” good God could this woman talk fast, and in that accent it was almost incoherent—“So I trust you’ll be joining us in Art 2 as your elective?”
She flashed him that brilliant smile again. Indigo scoffed. “He’s never—”
“Sure.” He sent Indigo an “I’ll handle it” look, then turned another smile on the strangely beautiful Negro. “I’d love to.”
“Thank you, miss Omorenoniwara. I’ll handle it from here.”
“How do you like Kerrigan?” Miss Omorenoniwara blatantly ignored Mrs. Garcia, looking directly at Angelo.
“It’s an—interesting city,” Angelo admitted, stumbling slightly as he avoided looking into her eyes. She smiled at him, then at Indigo.
“They say,” she started, “that Kerrigan is the city that nobody really leaves.”
“Enough,” Mrs. Garcia started, finally sounding frustrated. “I will not have you scaring the child already. You have a class to teach.” Miss Omorenoniwara laughed, a clear, loud ringing, then slipped off of the desk and left in the same fashion of which she arrived.
Zulu rolled his eyes and pulled his arm away, crossing them both over his chest. “You want me to play teacher with you again?”
Adena pouted, and Zulu was reminded once again of how very childish both of his parents were. “Baby…”
“’M not a baby, ma,” Zulu hissed, frowning. “Name it.”
“See the chil’ in the corner?” His mother turned slightly to point. “Albino thing. He didn’t take Art 1, so he’s probably going to need help, and, well.” If she thought that the puppy-dog-eyes worked on her son, she was wrong. “I have to help the rest of the class. You can work on your project at home.”
Zulu rolled his eyes. “Right, got it. Make sure the kid don’t completely mess everything up. Anything else, your Highness?”
If Adena noticed his sarcasm, she paid it no heed. “It’s miss Omorenoniwara while we’re in class, baby.”
The boy in the corner of the room – whose name his mother had so conveniently forgotten to mention – never looked up as he approached. He was small, Zulu realized, coming to stand behind him. Barely looked eleven, let alone thirteen or fourteen. Small, pale hands were holding a pencil and drawing in light lines, one atop the other, until they became harder.
“Any reason you’re drawing the bookshelf?” Zulu asked, leaning over the boy’s shoulder.
He tensed and withdrew the pencil. “Any reason you’re looking at my work?”
“Call me the class-room assistant,” Zulu replied, not missing a beat. “Now, tell me why you’re drawing the bookshelf.”
Pale blue eyes glanced up, and then back down. “Miss Om—Miss Omi—Omo—Oman—Omiran—”
“Omorenoniwara,” Zulu supplied his last name. “You’ll get it eventually. I’m Zulu.”
The boy just shook his head. “You all have stupid names.”
Zulu raised one eyebrow. “We’re from Africa.” A pause. “Well, okay, she’s from Africa. I was born here.”
“Angelo Prescott,” the boy introduced himself, looking up in order to shake Zulu’s hand. “You’re…” He stared at Zulu’s face for a moment, and then turned sharply to look at the teacher.
“Yes, I’m her son, and yes, I look just like her. Now. Why’re you drawing the bookshelf?”
Angelo frowned. It didn’t suit him. “She said to draw something, to show her my… abilities.”
Okay. So. A realist. “Prescott, I don’t think she meant the bookshelf.”
“And what would you suggest?” That pretentious English accent was so fake, Zulu was getting irritated already, and the little albino was giving him an ice-blue stare.
“Anything with a little feeling to it.” The boy continued to look blank. Ice blank. “A person?” he suggested.
Angelo didn’t seem too impressed, but turned the page in the brand new art sketchbook and started drawing again. The lines his pencil created curved into what appeared to be a shoulder, then, with many light flicks of grey, became a neck and jaw-line.
Upon noticing the angle at which the arm was placed, and how the head was bent forward, Zulu glanced up and smiled. “My mother?”
The boy’s white little features flushed pink, darkening into almost red around the cheekbones. “She’s very pretty for a… for what she is.”
“A teacher?” Zulu supplied, smiling at the compliment he had accidentally given – after just having pointed out how similar he and his mother looked.
Angelo let out a breath that vaguely parodied a laugh. “A nigger.”
The smile dropped off of Zulu’s face. “Excuse me?”
He looked up from his stool into Zulu’s glare, momentarily puzzled, then seemed to realise his mistake and winced in an apologetic manner. “I didn’t mean that niggers can’t be pretty, I just meant that I’ve never really met any before so I didn’t… know what to expect.”
“Say nigger again,” Zulu warned darkly, straightening his back and clenching both hands into fists.
Angelo pursed his lips into a small “o”, looking thoughtful, then said in a very careful voice, “Nigger?”
It took all of Zulu’s self-restraint not to punch the boy in the jaw. He knew better, he was twice the boy’s size, he knew better, and his mother was at the other end of the class; she could deal with it.
Instead, he hooked his ankle around Angelo’s stool-leg and pulled sharply.
As Angelo tumbled in a tiny, pale blur, yelping, and Zulu’s mother shouted at him for poor behaviour for the fourth Goddamn time that day, Zulu thought, so worth it.
Angelo decided that this was not the best start to his first day.
“That was for pulling me off my seat in Art.” Zulu glared and lent forward, rubbing lightly at his shin. Angelo glanced around upon hearing the Librarian make hushing noises, and lowered his voice. “Now, what did I do that offended you?”
Un-be-fucking-lievable, Zulu thought, sitting back up. “You called… my mother… a nigger,” he said slowly, wondering if he was speaking to a retard.
“But she is.” The albino looked genuinely confused, ridiculously pale eyebrows drawn together. He leaned with one hand against the table, directly next to Zulu’s book. “Is—What’s wrong with calling her a nigger?”
To Zulu’s distaste, Angelo sat down next to him, in the seat that his best friend had vacated in search of a particular book.
“Do you know what nigger means, Prescott?” The Librarian hushed them again, this time looking more annoyed.
Angelo shrugged. “Means a black person.”
Zulu stared. “It’s an insult,” he said, as calmly as he could keep his voice.
“So? You are niggers. I don’t see—”
Having had enough of the nonsensical arguments of what was definitely either a retard or a madman, Zulu closed his book and stood to leave.
Not before hooking his ankle around the chair-leg and pulling.
Really. He should have been expecting it.
She was used to her house, large, with white walls and the spiral staircase. She cursed the apartment itself for making her remember the house, and how it had felt colder and emptier when her mother had left, and her only parent was the father that was only interested in his son.
Failing that, Indigo considered, she had another Father occasionally around the house after mother’s death; Father Prewitt, the local priest who became her tutor in her teenaged years.
Thinking about him still sent a shudder up her spine.
“Maryellen?” she called. She had been gone now for almost an hour, after taking a long walk around Kerrigan and memorising the roads.
A thump sounded from one of the rooms that Indigo had yet to go into, then a series of long and strangely descriptive curse-words. “In here, Indigo,” Maryellen finished, still sounding annoyed.
Indigo pushed the door open and glanced around the pale yellow room, which appeared to be some kind of study. Maryellen was bent at the waist, still sitting on a yellow computer chair as she picked up a pile of papers from the floor. “What are you…?”
Maryellen looked up and smiled, some grey hair having escaped from the elastic band in smoke-like wisps around her face. “I was going over some family records,” she explained, straightening up again. “Wanted to add Angelo to the family tree and got… side-tracked.” She beckoned her over. “Come have a look at these.”
She turned the stack of papers over. “This is Alaric, your… let’s see… great great grandfather.” She flipped a few pages over at the top before pulling out a black-and-white photograph. “And your great great grandmother, Giselle.”
The first thing that Indigo noticed was that they both looked rather troubled. They appeared to be at some kind of celebration, dancing, one of her hands on his shoulder and the other on his chest. He held her close, slightly protectively, his brow gently furrowed and her lipstick-darkened mouth down-turned.
Alaric looked strong, Indigo noted, leaning further toward the old photograph. He had a plain, pale face, a firm jaw, and deep-set eyes. She was much frailer, and too thin, hair pinned up exquisitely – she wondered if her hair was possibly red – and—and—oh. Well. That was interesting.
“They’re Nazis.” Indigo sounded more astounded than disgusted.
Maryellen smiled wistfully. “I remember him from when I was a little girl. I adored him. Edgar’s grandfather, he was.” Upon the curious look, she explained. “Edgar was your grandfather; I babysat him when he was a baby and I was ten years old. We were close until he married my sister, Cassie. After that, things got… complicated.” A wistful smile. “I’m so glad your mother made you two keep the name Prescott. Alaric and Giselle chose that name when they went into hiding after the War.”
“You knew all of this, and you still liked him?” Maryellen’s smile stayed put, but her eyes were definitely sad.
“He killed himself before I fully understood. He used to tell me stories, but I was too young to comprehend evil. And Alaric… he was incredibly scarred from everything he did in the war. He never really forgave himself.” Maryellen looked close to tears, even after the years that had passed since she was a little girl.
Indigo hated displays of emotion. They were unnecessary and cruel to whoever had to witness them. But rather than having a scathing remark on her tongue, Indigo simply requested, “Tell me more.”
She had never felt such a connection to someone in her life as Giselle Hertz. Ironic, she considered, that her first connection to a person would be one who died years before her birth.
“Ind,” Angelo greeted, shifting the bag on his back. He looked in pain. “No car?”
“I walked,” Indigo said in a voice that sounded softer than her own, as she slowly closed the hard-back book. “I’ve been… reading. Look at this, Angie.” She had turned the book at an angle to show him the cover, where an old brown-and-white photograph of a couple was shown. Angelo looked at it with raised eyebrows, then to the title Alaric and Giselle.
“Nazis?” he asked, noting the badge pinned on the man that showed the swastika.
Indigo nodded. “Our great great grandparents.”
“We’re Nazis.” Angelo’s voice was full of wonder. “We’re Nazis and we’re Jews.”
“The Nazi part I can definitely see,” a voice sounded from behind him. Indigo didn’t fail to notice her brother’s face go from astounded wonder to irritation in a single movement.
The boy behind Angelo crossed him arms, looking vaguely amused. “Must you bother us? We’re having a certain kind of interaction – it’s called an intellectual conversation, not sure if you’ve ever heard of it—”
“Quit it with the rich-boy talk, a’ight?” the boy sneered. The girl behind him sighed, and she and Indigo shared an exasperated glance.
Angelo’s eyes flashed, even though he didn’t bother turning around. “Only if you quit it with the nigger talk.”
The other boy went to take a step closer to Angelo, but was cut short by his friend’s laughter. “Rissa!”
“Oh, come on, Zulu,” Rissa replied. “It was funny.” With that, she looked between the two boys, rolled her eyes, and left the scene.
Indigo felt herself wishing she could do the same; though returning to Maryellen’s without him may not seem completely responsible.
Zulu, apparently irritated by this point, moved his glare to Indigo. “What’re you looking at?”
Indigo raised an eyebrow. “Well,” she started, “there’s this strange boy that may or may not be attempting to intimidate my little brother.”
They may not have looked much like siblings – not at all, really, and the fact that he was albino certainly didn’t help the fact – but the connection was made quickly in Zulu’s eyes. After a touch of evaluation (at which Indigo was weighed and measured as beatable), the boy lifted his chin. “Yeah? And what’re you going to do?”
To be fair, Angelo seemed to become anxious; he was biting down on his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t— She fights like an angry bear.”
“I have to,” Indigo snarled, “because you don’t know how to ball a fist properly.” Angelo frowned at her, then lifted a gentle fist and stared at it. Indigo rolled her eyes; his thumb was under his fingers. “Here.” She rearranged his fist until his thumb was in the correct place. “You’d break your thumb that way.”
Angelo nodded and turned his fist, examining it, before meeting Zulu’s eyes again. “You’re still here?” he asked, then looked to Indigo. “I know that niggers always stay where they’re not wanted, but really…”
It wasn’t Angelo’s words, but rather the darkening of Zulu’s face that told her what was going to happen. In a flash she spun him and held one wrist tightly around his back.
Zulu scrambled at her other hand, tight on his throat, but she didn’t let up.
“Angelo, that was uncalled for.” If he could speak, Indigo supposed the Negro would be asked why he was the one currently restrained. “Relax. If he hits you, he’ll hurt himself more.”
“Just a word,” Angelo muttered, picking up Indigo’s discarded book. “And he started it.”
“Grow up.” Reluctantly, she unhanded Zulu, watching for sudden movement. “You know not to use that word.”
“Dad used it all the time!” Angelo argued.
The last word that Zulu was in earshot for was Indigo’s rather soft, “Exactly.”
Problem families, problem families.
Instead she had shown him Maryellen’s bookshelf, and disappeared to their bedroom to consider school.
Home-schooling was a difficulty, she had realised soon after becoming an official student, and it was a difficulty because of this; she didn’t understand people. Sure, she understood how to control someone physically through means of violence, or even shut them up with the patented Susara glare (she was good for something), but friends? Friends were beyond her recognition.
Instead she had spent most of the school day studying. The fact that most students barely paid attention to lessons was new to her; she’d always listened to her mother, and even to Father Prewitt when it suited her. But the students here? There seemed to be something more interesting going on inside their minds – and Indigo didn’t have the faintest clue what it was. It was like that fatal piece of information that she was missing.
The only person other than a teacher that had spoken to her by lunchtime was the Indian girl with the long hair that sat next to her in Chemistry. Even then, all she had gotten was a quick flash of a smile and a, “Chaitra. New girl?” before she had flipped all of that glossy black hair and resumed a glaring contest with the only other white girl in the class.
That was the other thing that bothered Indigo; she wasn’t, wasn’t a racist, but there were so many damn Negroes that even the Indian girl had been a refreshing break.
The Indian girl, however, was only considered a ‘break’ for that period of time in which she introduced herself. After that class, when lunchtime came around, she was rather more of a pest.
“You shouldn’t smoke, you know. It’s bad for your health.” Her voice betrayed her appearance. Chaitra was dark, with large, exotic brown eyes and hair down to her waist; even her clothing was of a different culture, with draping cloth that would have hidden her shape if it weren’t for the fact that it was an almost-clear colour somewhere between green and blue, and her stomach was just visible.
Her voice, however, was purely American, through-and-through.
Having always gone with her father’s English accent (it was classier, and neither of her parents wanted to consider their obviously American children American), and having the only American accent close being Father Prewitt since her father had died, she had naturally assumed Chaitra to have another accent.
She looked up at the girl for several moments, then removed the cigarette from between her lips. “Yes,” she replied dully, in a tone resembling ‘duh’, before taking another gentle pull.
“No, really, I’m serious,” the Indian girl continued, apparently unaware that Indigo wasn’t interested. She leant her hand on the tree that Indigo was hiding behind, making it obvious to anyone on the rest of the field that someone was there. If I get caught smoking on my first day because of her, I’m going to remove her eyes. “Y’know, the estimated money spent treating smoking-related diseases is two hundred billion dollars worldwide every year?”
Indigo stopped halfway through another pull to look up at the other girl, eyebrows raised. “‘She uses statistics the way that a drunk man uses a lamppost; for support rather than illumination’,” Indigo misquoted, then looked away and, considering she’d probably ended the discussion, resumed smoking.
Chaitra, however, brightened at her words. “Andrew Lang,” she said, sounding slightly smug. Indigo whipped her head around and stared for a moment.
Okay… that was weird, she thought, regaining composure. Weren’t all kids from the ghetto meant to be idiots? Nobody had paid any classes much attention thus far, after all. “Yes,” she said again, frowning.
“One best friend’s a doctor and my old best friend was obsessed with fairytales,” Chaitra explained, and finally seemed to think that the conversation had gone far enough to make herself comfortable and sit down. How she did that in the strange layers of clothing was beyond Indigo’s knowledge. “That’s her to your left. Don’t… stare. Oh, Hell.”
Indigo had turned her head as soon as she was told not to, and now two white girls standing against another tree and talking had fallen to silence, heads turned in mutual looks of distaste (really, they must have practiced that). Indigo, from her peripheral vision, saw Chaitra lift one hand in an awkward gesture of greeting.
The girl that Indigo didn’t recognise went to wave back, but stopped with a sharp look from the other. “That’s the girl you were glaring at in Chemistry,” she pointed out, trying not to move too much in case they realised she and Chaitra were discussing them.
Chaitra snorted. “Not her. The other one.” The slightly shorter girl sent a small smile at Chaitra before turning back to her friend. “Alice. We were best friends through Junior High.”
Indigo stared at the girls, then tilted her head. “What happened?”
“Enuma,” Chaitra replied. “The other girl. It was only a matter of time, really.” Chaitra’s smile was slightly saddened, now.
Indigo raised an eyebrow as she said, “Why’s that?”
“She’s white.” This seemed an adequate response to Chaitra, but Indigo felt faintly startled by the remark of race. She’d known her father hadn’t liked coloured people, and Angelo was certainly having… issues with it, but was it the same the other way around?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, frowning, stubbing her cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe.
Chaitra caught her eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. But their type…” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “‘They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge.’”
Indigo actually smiled, just faintly. “Thomas Brackett Reed.”
Chaitra was the first friend that Indigo ever made.
