When Violet and I were fourteen years old and starting our second semester at Silver Line Big Picture High School, I convinced her to join a support group for pet obesity prevention. Silver Line accepts twenty students into each grade, for a total student body of only eighty. Needless to say, getting in is competitive. Big Picture high schools focus on learning through internships. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, students go to internships in their field of interest. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays we attend one class a day called an advisory. It sounds simple, but inside and outside of the classroom, the curriculum is a lot of work. Especially since the internships can end up feeling more like full-time jobs on top of the laundry list of school obligations. And being a member of at least one off-campus group was one requirement I was desperately trying to find a way out of.
“Violet? You down for this?” I shut my laptop computer and stuffed it inside my desk drawer. “Preventing pet obesity is an important issue in this country.”
“We don’t have pets.” Violet lay across my bed, her feet dangling over the side, staring up at the ceiling, kicking the metal frame to the rhythm of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.”
“I know. But if we ever do get one, we don’t want it to get fat.”
She laughed and rolled over onto her stomach. “You just wanna annoy Mr. Guyere.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You Googled ‘dumb groups you can join.’”
I grinned. “I really do care about pet obesity, though.”
“You do not.” She howled with laughter.
Mr. Guyere was our guidance counselor and the man responsible for making sure all students satisfactorily met Silver Line requirements. He micromanaged and dictated so much of my school experience that I truly was looking forward to seeing the look on his face when I told him about my new after-school commitment. And what a look it was:
“Pet obesity prevention?” Mr. Guyere lowered his head and glared at me over the rims of his glasses. “Miss Phillips, need I remind you that organized off-campus groups must fit into the category of academic, charity or hobby.” He scanned his file folder, flipping through loose-leaf sheets of paper. “To review, Violet is a member of UNICEF, National Honor Society, National Beta Club, Future Business Leaders of America, Phi Beta Lambda...” He slid off his glasses and set them on his desk. “The list goes on, quite honestly. But you—” he held up one sheet of paper “—are a member of the Seattle division of Pet Obesity Prevention?”
“Yes, sir.” I folded my hands in my lap. “That’s correct.”
Violet covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Precisely how does preventing pet obesity fit into one of our recommended categories?”
“It’s a hobby, Mr. Gruyère.”
He frowned. “It’s Gu-yere.”
“Oh. Right. Gruyère is cheese. Sorry about that.” I slid the signed forms across his desk. “Anyway, a hobby is defined as an activity done regularly in one’s leisure time for pleasure. Watching people discover ways to correct their pet’s oversizeness? I find that pleasing. That’s the very definition of a hobby, sir. Dictionary.com it, and you’ll see.”
He glowered and angrily stamped a sheet that said I’d met my club requirements for the semester.
Only my original plan of signing in to meetings and then sneaking across the street to stuff myself silly at Ezell’s Famous Fried Chicken got dramatically foiled. Because the veterinarian who headed the Seattle division of Pet Obesity Prevention had a seventeen-year-old son named Troy Richmond, and Troy didn’t have an obese pet, but boy oh boy did he fall hard for Violet. So I was stuck sitting through each and every meeting. What dumb luck.
“Is that what you’re eating for breakfast?”
It’s still dark outside as I stand, slumped over the Formica kitchen counter, tearing open a new box of strawberry frosted toaster pastries. I clumsily peel off the foil wrapping, slide both of the pastries into the toaster and rest my aching head in my hand.
“Why? Is it bad for me or something?” I grumble.
“It does have TBHQ in it. Which is made from butane. Which isn’t so bad. If you’re a diesel engine.” The voice laughs.
I place a hand over my chest and rub it the way Violet did yesterday. Maybe this will be my new nervous tic. Alfred has a few dozen. I’ve earned the right to have a nervous tic.
“Indigo?”
I turn, surprised to see Violet standing at the entrance to the kitchen sans wheelchair. She’s dressed in leggings, with an olive-green shirt hanging off one shoulder and calf-high leather Frye boots, and her oxygen tank is strapped to her back like a backpack in a pretty purple canvas cover. Only Violet could make an oxygen tank look like the newest, most coveted accessory. Her hair hangs in soft waves, like she woke up an hour ago to style it, which... I’m pretty sure she did. I woke up an hour ago too, and certainly didn’t bother fancying up my hair. Though Mom will be thrilled to know I managed the high ponytail she was pushing on me yesterday. The pastries pop up from the toaster with a loud snap. I grab one and present it to Violet.
“Would you like a smoking hot pastry?” I blurt awkwardly.
“I’m not hungry.” She steps forward to flip on the kitchen light. A warm, luminescent glow floods the room. “Who were you talking to?”
“Oh.” I transfer the food to a paper plate. “Just myself.”
“It’s okay if you were talking to...God.”
“You don’t think it’s weird?”
“You kidding? I wish...God would talk to me.”
“The Voice.”
“Huh?”
“He says it’s okay if I call him Voice. You can call him that, too.” She slides into the bench at our kitchen table and it suddenly occurs to me... “You’re walking?”
“I feel so good today. Michelle...gave me three shots of Nathaxopril.”
“Nathaxopril?” I move to the table and plop into the seat across from her. “Isn’t that the stuff that made you even sicker?”
“It helps me breathe. Yesterday was...bad.” She clears her throat. “Worst day, honestly. Today, I feel normal. Almost, I mean.”
“But it’s the reason your kidneys are failing.”
“It...has some side effects. To say the least.” She tenses. “I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind. I want to enjoy feeling good.” She pulls at the yellow plastic tablecloth Mom bought to hide the scorch marks from when Brandon and Nam were trying some sort of DIY YouTube science experiment. An experiment that ended up with the Seattle Fire Department sending arson investigators to the house to interview Mom and Dad.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” I stare down at my nonmatching socks, one blue, the other black with green stripes. A tense moment passes between us. Now there are secrets, something that never used to be. I never had to think about saying the right thing when it came to my twin sister. I knew the ins and outs of how she felt, understood her moods and behaviors. These past few months she seems to hold back from me. She keeps her distance. Has strange walls up. Did I do something wrong? Have I offended her in some way? I take a bite of my butane-infused breakfast treat. It somehow manages to be hot, chewy, crumbly, delicious and disgusting all at the same time. Violet places a folder on the table and pulls it open.
“I mapped out a course for us.” She spreads out sheets of paper.
“You did what?”
“Seattle to Coyote Buttes? It’s a nineteen-hour drive. I broke it up into two days. I included best-reviewed rest stops and restaurants...” She pauses. Rubs her chest. I rub mine as well. “I thought we could stay at an Airbnb in Hodell. A lodge near the trail for the second. I booked everything already. The flights out the next morning are—”
“Flights?” I interrupt.
She rubs her chest again. I rub mine, too. “Sorry. I meant when we drive out, it should be early to avoid traffic. Does this all sound good, Indigo?”
A twinge of guilt rises up my throat like the heartburn I get after eating cheesy crust pizza. Violet mapped out a course for us. Booked hotels? Yelped rest stops? And what did I do last night? Watched Key & Peele comedy skits on my iPhone until I fell asleep.
“It wasn’t a ton of work or anything,” Violet says as if reading my mind. “I used Kayak. And the Airbnb is a little remote. But everything is cheap. Mom and Dad will appreciate that.”
“They do appreciate cheap things.”
Mom and Dad are retired. Both worked as Seattle City bus drivers for over thirty years. Retirement has made them...frugal. Putting it mildly. Mom prints online coupons like those extreme couponers on TLC. We currently have a garage stocked to the brim with paper towels, toothpaste, bars of soap, and tiny bottles of Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner. If a zombie apocalypse struck, we’d be the cleanest family in the new Seattle dystopia. And Dad seems to be on a mission to stick it to Skyway Water and Sewer. He spent six months building a water-recycling shower in the upstairs bathroom. A shower that cuts off after three minutes and shuts down for ten minutes after each shower. More than once, I’ve had to finish washing up in the sink so I wouldn’t be late for my internship. Still, it lowered our water bill. So the Phillips family might be dirty, but at least we can be proud of our water footprint.
Violet fiddles with her cell phone, heaves a sigh. We’re not as connected as we once were, but I know something’s off with her.
“What’s wrong, Vee?” As soon as the question escapes my lips, I shake my head. “I mean...that was a dumb question.” Of course something seems off with her. She’s dying. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“It’s okay.” She sets her phone on the table. “Why do you think he doesn’t call?”
“You mean Troy?” Of course she means Troy.
She drums her nails on the table and I notice they’re painted green to match her olive-colored shirt. It’s the color of the day but I don’t bring it up. Color of the day is a phrase Violet and I came up with when we have one of those twin accidents where we dress alike. I’m wearing a green T-shirt and leggings, too. Painting my nails would’ve been a nice touch. Certainly looks good on Violet.
“Not one call?” she murmurs in disbelief. “Not even a message? No one could be that cruel. Could they?”
“He’s a good guy, Violet.” I bite the dead skin around my thumbnail. I do this when I’m lying. Violet knows this. But since she’s not paying me much attention these days, she doesn’t seem to notice. “Everyone deals with grief in their own way. Disconnecting is his way of dealing with it.” I close my eyes and imagine Troy strapped to a train track with a local Amtrak approaching at a high speed. The thought makes me smile. But when I open my eyes, I see Violet’s are red and her bottom lip is quivering. “Violet?”
A tear slides down her cheek. She wipes it away in her delicate manner.
“Please don’t cry, sis.”
“It’s pathetic, right? Thinking about a boy at a time like this? I really miss him.”
Here Violet is near death, and the main thing on her mind is stupid ass Troy Richmond. I’d shove him off a cliff if it wasn’t morally irresponsible.
I remember knocking on the door of his posh Lincoln Tower condo in downtown Bellevue. A condo gifted from his dad when Troy graduated from Seattle U. He pulled open the door and stared at me with a horrified look on his face. Troy was classically handsome: dark brown skin, tall and lean, deep dimples, hazel eyes. The dream boy for sure. But dreams can take a drastic turn. Dreams can go bad. Fast.
“It’s Indigo.”
He shrugged, like duh, I know that, but I could tell for a second he thought I was Violet. Sure, I have the mole under my left eye, and she her right. And yeah, her nails are always done, her hair typically straightened to perfection—but it’s still hard for people to tell us apart. Plus, I was wearing my North Face bomber jacket that covered up a T-shirt that had EVERYONE POOPS in bold letters across the front. Would’ve been a dead giveaway to my identity.
“What do you want?” Troy asked. He was wearing True Religion jeans and a light brown button-up shirt that matched his light eyes.
“Oh, you’re here.” I looked over his shoulder. You could see the Seattle skyline from his floor-to-ceiling windows, Mount Rainier, the waterfront. It was a stunning view. He didn’t deserve it. “I thought you died.”
He frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“Did you lose all your dad’s money and your cell phone got cut off?”
“What?”
“Are all your fingers broken?”
“Indigo—”
“You in the early stages of dementia?”
“Indigo. Why are you here?”
“If you’re not dead, your fingers aren’t broken, you still have your dad’s money to pay your phone bill and buy five-hundred-dollar True Religion jeans and you’re not displaying warning signs of early dementia, why haven’t you called my sister?”
He moved to shut the door. I stuck out my foot so he couldn’t.
“How’d you even get up here? We have security. You have to be on the list.”
“The security guard thought I was Violet. We’re identical twins, dumbass.”
“Look. We broke up. I don’t have an obligation to her.”
“Funny. I don’t have an obligation to do the Hokey Pokey. But I do it anyway. Because my seven-year-old nephew thinks it’s fun.”
“This isn’t the Hokey Pokey, sweetheart. I’m not cut out for bedpans and bedside vomiting, okay. I pray she’s well. I really do. I want only the best for Violet. She’s a good person.”
“I know.”
“And I’m—”
“An imbecilic addlepated mongrel?”
“A what?”
“Half-wit. Lame brain. Loser. Dope. Dolt. All synonyms for moron. Thesaurus much, Troy?”
He was standing so straight and poised. Damn him and his perfect posture.
“I’m consciously choosing to move on with my life. Trying to absorb all the happiness I can. I want to be happy. One day, I’ll be on my own deathbed. And I can look back on my life and say I had a good one.” His cell chimed in his pocket. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. “Look, you gotta go.”
“So you’re seriously not even gonna call her? Just to say you care? Doing that will mean everything to her. Please, Troy.” I was pathetically begging to one of Seattle’s biggest piles. I didn’t care. I only wanted to see the look of pure joy on Violet’s face when Troy Richmond’s name scrolled across the screen on her cell. “Please call her. She needs to hear your voice. I have no idea why, but she loves you.”
“Troy?”
I turned. There was a female standing behind me in the hallway. “Who the hell are you?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.” She was drop-dead gorgeous. Long black hair that hung to her waist. Curves that stood out even though she was dressed in a fancy Burberry coat and matching rain boots. I mean, Violet and I...we’re cute, for sure, but standing next to her, I looked like a homeless waif.
“I’m Indigo. Your turn.”
“I’m Corina,” she said with a dramatically rolled r as she moved around me, entered the apartment and kissed Troy right on the mouth.
My jaw dropped. “You’re Troy’s girlfriend?” I asked breathlessly.
She raised a concerned eyebrow. “Obviously.”
“How long?” My heart was racing.
She laughed. “I’m sorry?”
“I wanna know how long you and Troy have been together.”
She turned to Troy. “What is going on?”
Troy said nothing. Only stared at me. His eyes begged me to leave. Say nothing. Go. Adios. Sayonara. Arrivederci, sister. You don’t have to go home but get the hell out of my hallway.
“I’m...with the Department of Health and Homeland Security,” I started slowly. “Letting you know the inspectors will be here later today to check the pipes. Troy’s are full of shit. The smell is permeating through all the units and making the residents puke.”
Corina grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”
“You said it, girl.” And with that, I turned and walked away.
“Violet,” I start. “I got to know Troy during the time you two were together. He’s probably so heartbroken.” I chew more of the dead skin around my thumbnail. “He doesn’t know what to say.” I down my entire glass of milk. “What to do.” I stuff half a pastry in my mouth and mumble, “Or how to even feel.” I swallow. “I know he loves you, though. I know this is killing him.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Indigo.”
Violet and I are more distant than I thought if she believed that load of crap. I choke on a pastry crumble.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod and clear my throat. “Crumb went down the wrong pipe. My bad.”
She rubs her chest again. I resist the urge to ask her if she’s okay. But then she starts to cough. And it’s not your average cough. It’s more like a series of coughs that won’t stop. She covers her mouth with both hands. I can resist no more.
“Violet, are you okay?”
“It’s fine.” When she moves her hands, they’re covered in splatters of crimson red blood.
“God,” I breathe.
“Don’t worry.” She rubs her hands on her pants, smearing blood and dirtying her leggings. “Side effect.”
I move to the sink, wet a paper towel and pump soap onto it. I rush back to the table.
“It’s not a big deal, Indigo.”
I wash off the blood with the soapy paper towel. Her hands are shaking, so I squeeze them in mine. “You’re so cold, Violet. Maybe you’re not getting enough oxygen. You need your wheelchair.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“Indigo.” She pulls her hands away, adjusts her cannula and stands. “I’m fine, okay.” She hands me a sheet of paper. It’s a spreadsheet with my name on the top, a breakdown of our trip with scheduled stops, hotel name and Airbnb info... She even included the Yelp star rating next to every restaurant we’re planning to eat at. It looks like something a CEO would hand out to his staff.
“I’m going to see if I can relax a bit before Pastor Jedidiah gets here with the bus. I’m so tired.”
“I can sit with you. We could talk. Don’t you have questions? About the voice and stuff? It’s like we never...get to talk anymore.”
“On the trip, we’ll have lots of time.”
“But are you mad at me or something?”
“Why...would you ask me that?”
“I dunno, Vee. We haven’t really talked for weeks. Sometimes I think you’re mad at me.”
“Not mad...” She pauses, seemingly gathering her thoughts. “I mean, I already feel different. I do. And not just because of the shots of Nathaxopril. I can’t wait to see how things turn out. I do think I can live, Indigo. I’m excited to live. I really am.” She squeezes my shoulder and slowly exits the kitchen.
True to his word, Jedidiah pulls in front of our house with a paratransit bus. Alfred and I peek out the living room window, watching him park in the driveway.
“Sweet baby Jesus Christ in the manger, on Christmas morning layin’ in a pile of cold hay,” Alfred whispers.
Every square inch of the bus, aside from the front and rear windows, is painted. Rainbow colors are swirled around...eyes. Like...there are hundreds of tiny eyeballs painted onto the bus.
“It’s satanic!” Alfred hisses. “Ain’t no way I’m getting in that thing, Indi. Somebody from school could see me. They’d think I was in a cult or something.”
“Nobody can see inside,” I point out. “The windows are all covered with eyeballs.”
“Why, though?” Alfred flips a different Seahawks cap backward since he gave his favorite to Violet. This one is lime green too, but I swear it’s almost glowing. I seriously can’t understand why the Seahawks colors are fluorescent lime green and blue. That doesn’t even go together.
“Maybe it means something.” I try to comfort Alfred. “He’s always talking about interdimensional travel and ascended masters. Maybe the eyeballs represent, like...heaven.”
“Or hell.” Alfred scratches his elbows. “Thing’s giving me the creeps. Looks like eyeball pox. I gotta talk to Dad. This ain’t gonna work, man. Maybe we can follow behind you guys in the car.”
“Alfred.” I call after him but he’s already rushing up the stairs two at a time.
When I look back out the window, Drew has pulled up and parked on the side of the street. The back door slides open and the boys jump out onto the pavement, their matching backpacks strapped to their backs. They stare at the van in a mixture of awe and terror. Drew steps out of the van next. His jaw pretty much drops. Watching the three of them gawk at Jedidiah’s psychedelic paratransit experiment makes me laugh a little. My Canon Rebel T6 is hanging around my neck with a strap. I grab it and take a few snapshots of their horrified expressions.
Click-click.
“Good morning, Indigo.”
I twist to see Michelle looking bright and refreshed, dragging a giant suitcase behind her, holding a large bottle of water.
“Hi,” I mumble and turn back to the window, letting my camera dangle around my neck once again. She looks over my shoulder.
“That’s the bus?” She laughs. “Has Alfred seen that yet?”
“He called it eyeball pox, started scratching his elbows and ran off to find Dad.”
She laughs. Hard. “Oh, this is gonna be real interesting. Did you sleep well, Indigo? How’s your head?”
I give Michelle a perturbed eyebrow raise. “Um... I didn’t sleep well. My head hurts. Not as bad as yesterday, but it still hurts.”
“That’s a good sign. If it hurt worse, I’d be worried.” She reaches into the pocket of her dark blue jeans and hands me a baggie with two white pills inside. “If anybody asks, I didn’t give you these.”
“What are they?”
“Pain medicine.”
I stare at the bag of pills.
She laughs. “Girl, I’m not poisoning you, if that’s what you think. Dr. Dolittle prescribed you something similar but we haven’t had a chance to fill your prescriptions. This isn’t something you want to get in the habit of taking, but it’s fine for a day or two.”
I’m still not convinced these pills won’t kill me. It must be written all over my face because she says, “Look, Indigo. You want your headache gone. Take ’em. Or don’t, and have a headache all day. But that bus looks kinda old, so I doubt the shocks are new and improved. Might be a bumpy ride.”
I take the pills from her.
“And here’s some water.” She hands me the bottle of water.
I throw caution to the Seattle winds and hope to God they’re not laced with arsenic. I down the pair with a gulp of the water.
“I’d drink it all. It’ll help ’em go down easier.”
I down the whole bottle.
She takes the plastic bag from me and stuffs it back into her pocket. “How’s everything else? You feel light-headed, dizzy? Any brain fog?”
I set the empty water bottle in the windowsill. “No. I feel okay, other than the headache, I mean.” And the voice in my head.
“How was taking a bath with the cast?”
“Easier than I thought. I just rested it on the side.”
“Big improvement on your hair.”
I motion to the fact that I’m not wearing my sling. “Two hands are better than one.”
“Careful with your shoulder.” She nods. “Let me go find Alfred so he can help us load Violet’s medical supplies up on the bus.” She laughs again. “Eyeball pox.”
I watch her disappear up the stairs.
“See?”
I look up at the ceiling. “See what?”
“She was being nice. Told you she doesn’t hate you.”
I shake my head. “She wasn’t being nice. She was doing her job.”
“What job?”
“She’s a nurse. Duh.”
“Yeah. But is she your nurse?”
“Trust me. Nurses take a Hippocratic oath to uphold the sick even if they’d rather see them dead.”
“That is not in the Hippocratic oath.”
“Well, it’s something like that.” I pull on my North Face coat, move to the door and head outside.
It’s cold, cloudy, dismal: Seattle at its finest. My shoulder throbs. My head pounds. What a day for a road trip. Jedidiah and Drew are loading luggage up onto the bus. Jedidiah is wearing a heavy coat, gloves, a wool hat...and open-toed sandals? Unbelievable. He pushes his palms together and bows when he sees me. I move to stand beside Nam and Brandon.
“Namaste, Indigo.”
“Namaste to you too, Pastor,” I reply even though I don’t know what the hell namaste means.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” He pounds on the side of the bus. “I got her nice and warm for you.”
“Morning, Indigo.” Drew smiles as he advances down the stairs of the bus to stand beside the boys. “How are you?”
“Better,” I say.
“What do all the eyes mean?” Nam yanks at the hanging tassels on his hat.
“The all-seeing eye.” Jedidiah rolls back on his heels. “Also known as the third eye or the sixth chakra. You see with your eyes but you see with your eye.” He points to his forehead and closes his eyes. “The eyes on the bus represent my spiritual vision and the vision you can all attain if you work hard enough.”
Nam looks up at Drew. “I wanna see with my third eye.”
“Yeah, Dad.” Brandon yanks on Drew’s coat. “I want three eyes.”
“Focus on the two eyes you’ve got and get on the bus.” Drew pushes Nam and Brandon up the stairs and climbs up after them, dragging the last suitcase behind him.
As I approach the doors of the bus, Pastor Jedidiah places both hands on my shoulders.
“How are you today, Indigo? How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, Pastor.”
“Please. Call me Jed.”
“Uh...okay.” There is no way I’m calling this man Jed.
“I am honored to guide the Phillips family on this pilgrimage.” He reaches into his coat pocket and extracts a bottle of Trader Joe’s extra-virgin olive oil. “This oil has been blessed by the spiritual masters in our Himalayan division at New Faith International Church of Love and Light, Nepal.” He turns the bottle, allowing a few drops of oil to drip onto his finger. “I bless thee and thou.” He pushes his grease-soaked finger onto my forehead.
“Um.”
“Thou and thee.”
“Thank—” the oil drips down my forehead “—you.” I move past him and up the stairs into the bus. Once I’m sure he can’t see me, I wipe the oil off with the back of my hand. With my luck, I’ll have sprouted a giant pimple right on top of my third eye. Trader Joe’s olive oil is not meant for your face. I don’t care how many Himalayans blessed it.
I scope out the inside of the bus. It’s actually quite nice. Small. About sixteen seats total just like Pastor explained yesterday. The aisle is wide to accommodate a wheelchair moving up and down. In the back is a large empty space. The motorized all-terrain wheelchair is strapped to one side, sporting some seriously high-tech 4x4 wheels. And there’s room on the other side for another wheelchair.
I sink into one of the polyester upholstered seats and lean my head back. I blink. On the ceiling, one giant painted eyeball surrounded by glittery gold lettering that says, “See it, Grab it, Love it.”
“Cool slogan, right? You like it?”
“It sounds pornographic,” I whisper.
Nam stands over me. “How come your forehead looks all greasy, Aunt Indigo? Did you forget to wash your face?”
“I’ve been blessed by thou and thee,” I reply. “Not to be confused with those idiots thee and thou.”
“Who are thee and thou?” He sits beside me.
“Hey!” Brandon whines. “I was gonna sit by Auntie.”
I stand. “You guys should both sit here. Together. Away from me.”
“Why?” Brandon pushes his glasses up onto his nose. “So you can talk to all the voices in your head?”
“No. Because Rosa Parks and a bunch of other people fought hard so you could sit in the front of the bus.” I move to the back before they can object, scoot into a pair of seats and stretch out my legs, a clear symbol for nobody to sit by me. I stare out the window. At least I try to stare through the spaces between all the third eyeballs. Violet is being wheeled out of the house by Dad. Mom and Michelle follow close behind. Alfred trails even farther behind, lugging a bunch of Violet’s medical supplies, staring at the ground, shaking his head back and forth and muttering to himself, one hand over his eyes like it’s a bright sunny day and he’s trying hard to block out the sun. I feel like I should climb down to help or, I dunno...stare at them so it looks like I’m involved and assisting Violet, but I’m sure I’d just be in the way.
“How you hanging in there, champ?”
“I’m...” I look over the edge of the seat at Brandon and Nam; they’re completely engrossed in their iPads and Drew is talking on his cell. I look up at the ceiling. Thankfully, it’s a portion not filled with eye. “I’m nervous,” I whisper. “A lot is riding on this. I’m guiding everyone to Arizona. In some weird and crazy way, I’m in charge. I’m leading.”
“No. I’m guiding everyone to Arizona. I’m in charge. I’m leading.”
“Yeah, but it’s on me if this is a disaster. Not you.”
“Road trips are never disasters.”
“Be for real. Road trips are notoriously terrible.”
“Only in the movies. Not in real life.”
“If you say so.”
“Plus, you got the Jedi Master on the wheel. He’s a good driver. Best in the whole state.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, man. Plus, Violet planned every detail. What could possibly go wrong?”
“We could get a flat tire and drive off a cliff, we could break into a closed theme park and hold the security guard at gunpoint, or someone could die and we could stuff them in the trunk while I do a stripper dance to win the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.”
Brandon and Nam are now peeking over their seats, staring at me.
“I told you Aunt Indigo was crazy,” Brandon whispers.
“Stop lookin’ at me!” I snap. They quickly dip below their chairs and turn around, mumbling about what a wacko I am, I’m sure.
Mom and Michelle are the next up the stairs with enough luggage to move to Arizona. Both have Trader Joe’s brand blessed olive oil dripping down their foreheads. Both look none too happy about it either. Mom’s hair is pulled up into her signature, impeccably neat, silver bun on top of her head. When she sees me in the back she nods. I nod back. I feel like instead of mother and daughter, she’s Alexander Hamilton and I’m Aaron Burr and we’re about to have a death duel. Or an epic rap battle.
When Alfred climbs up the stairs behind them, he stuffs a bunch of Violet’s supplies under a pair of empty seats, moves all the way to the back, tosses his bag onto the floor and slumps into the seat across the aisle from me.
“I thought you and Dad were gonna ride behind the bus,” I call over to him.
“Dad said no.” He covers his head with his hoodie and puts his head in his lap. “Wake me up when we get to Arizona.”
I turn my attention back to the front. Violet is being carried up the stairs by Dad. He gently sets her on one of the seats near the front. Then wipes the oil dripping down his face.
We all wait while Jedidiah has Violet’s wheelchair lifted with the fancy wheelchair lift. He secures it in place and moves to stand beside Dad. Next to Dad, Pastor looks about two feet tall.
“Can I pray now and we declare Divine order over our travels?” Jedidiah asks.
“I want to say a few things first.” Dad unbuttons his tan wool coat. “I’d like everybody’s attention, please.”
Everyone turns their attention to Dad. Brandon and Nam slide their oversize headphones off their heads.
“This is a sensitive situation here,” Dad starts. “I got my entire family on this bus. All the people I love the most. So we’re respectful of each other’s space. We give Pastor Jedidiah the peace he needs to drive us all safely. Everybody stays seated when the bus is moving. We’re courteous always. And I don’t need to remind you all that we got Violet with us, who isn’t exactly feeling well. Let’s try to remember that when we make our planned stops. She gets off first. We are conscious of her and her needs. Am I clear?”
Everyone nods.
Jedidiah points to me. “Indigo. Would you like to say something before we declare Divine order over our travels?”
“Me?”
“Good idea. You should definitely say something. Yeah. This’ll be good.”
“What should I say?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth.
“Um...you asking us?” Mom asks in disbelief.
Nam and Brandon exchange knowing looks and shake their heads.
“Just repeat after me. And make sure your voice is booming. People always trust a booming voice.”
I stand.
“Good morning, family.”
“Good morning, family!” I shout.
“Why are you screaming?” Brandon covers his ears.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I was trying to be booming.”
“Say what?” Michelle asks.
“Just keep going. Repeat after me: I am glad you’re trusting me as we embark on a holy mission ordained by Almighty God herself.”
“I’m not saying that,” I whisper.
“Just say it!”
“Uh...” Everyone gawks at me. “I’m glad you’re trusting me!” Now Nam covers his ears, too. I lower my voice a bit. “As we embark on a holy mission ordained by Almighty God...”
“Herself.”
“Herself.”
“God’s not a girl!” Brandon shrieks.
“Tell him I am neither boy nor girl.”
I clear my throat. “No! It doesn’t matter. Just...let’s continue. What else should I say?”
“Indigo?” Dad rubs the bald portion of his head. “You sure you all right now?”
“No. I mean...yes.” Voice, I’m tanking here.
“And justice for all. Amen.”
I groan. “That’s it. Thanks for trusting me. That’s all I want to say.”
I slump back down into my seat.
It’s quiet for a few seconds.
“Wow.” Jedidiah finally speaks. “Thanks for sharing those beautiful thoughts and insights, Indigo. And now we declare Divine order over our trip by all repeating after me.” He pushes his palms together over his heart. “I declare Divine order over our trip.”
Everyone repeats it.
“Excellent.” Jedidiah sits in the driver’s seat and the loud beep-beep of the bus sounds more like the pop of a starter pistol at the beginning of a race. He pulls off down the street and we are officially on our way.