1. Nick #3
The walls are moss green. There’s a bed with slate gray sheets and shelves full of trophies and medals. And plants. Plants everywhere. What little space is left on his walls is covered in posters and photos.
Indy goes and pushes the window up. He sends me yet another smile over his shoulder then climbs out.
With no idea what he wants to show me, I follow him.
We end up sitting on the gently slanting roof just outside his window.
There are no other houses nearby, so it’s dark.
Millions of stars light up the sky above us, and I can hear the faint sound of waves gently lapping the shore.
It’s the kind of idyllic moment you don’t get in my hometown.
For a while, we both sit silently. My thoughts stop racing. It’s almost peaceful. I almost forget that I’m angry all the time.
Almost.
Indy leans farther back. Inches a bit lower.
Is it restlessness? Is he going to start talking now? Is he going to ruin the moment?
But he doesn’t. He just lowers himself onto his back and aims his gaze at the sky.
Every now and then I sneak a glance his way.
Every now and then he sneaks a glance in mine.
I don’t think he knows what to make of me any more than I know what to make of him. All I know is that I’m itching to go but somehow also compelled to stay.
“Where in Pennsylvania?” he asks.
I snap my head toward him.
“Where do you live?” he says.
I debate not answering, but open my mouth anyway.
“Bois Run.”
“Cheesesteaks,” he says, making me blink again.
I stare.
He scrunches his nose. “It was the only thing I could think of to say. Then again, that’s Philadelphia, right? Or are the cheesesteaks a state thing? Not that I think they’re strictly exclusive. You know what? Never mind.”
“Okay,” I say dubiously.
“Are they any good? I’ve never had one.”
“They’re… fine?”
“Not the most enthusiastic recommendation.”
“It’s a sandwich. Not exactly worth a parade.”
There’s more silence, but it’s not necessarily uncomfortable. I’d prefer to stay in that lane, but Indy makes another go at drawing me into conversation.
“It’s a nice evening.”
“Yup.”
We’re side by side. Close enough that if I moved my arm a few inches we’d be touching. I sneak another glance his way.
“What’s Bois Run like?” he asks.
“Small.”
“Nice?”
Depends on what you enjoy in a town, I suppose.
We have a cellulose manufacturing facility that employs half the town and on occasion makes everything smell like rotten eggs.
The whole town’s got that depressing air of poverty hanging over it.
No kayaking or fancy colonial houses with rose bushes for us.
I’d give anything to be back home right now.
“Boring,” I say.
“What’s boring?” India leans her forearms on the windowsill right behind me and grins when I startle at her voice by my ear.
“Nick’s hometown,” Indy says.
“Can’t be worse than this,” India says as she climbs out the window and sits down next to Indy. She hands us each a can of soda. “‘Town’ implies there are at least some people around. Here it’s just us four.”
“Annapolis is twenty miles away,” Indy says.
“Might as well be on the moon for a person without a car,” India says in a forlorn voice.
“Less than a year to go.” Indy yawns. “I know it’s a hardship, but you just hang in there and before you know it you’ll be terrorizing all those unfortunate souls who have the bad luck of sharing the road with you.”
India’s mouth drops open. “It was only that one car!”
She flicks his forehead, and Indy laughs before he looks at me.
“One car in the whole large-ass parking lot, and she went straight for it.”
“It was the brakes. They weren’t working properly!” India exclaims.
“Along with the steering wheel?”
“I’ll have you know—”
“What’s with the names?” I ask.
They both turn to look at me.
“India and Indigo,” I say. They keep looking. “Nobody figured it might get confusing?”
They glance at each other and then grin at me.
“Well,” India says. “According to Mom she was high from relief that the pain was over.”
“And Dad was just regular high,” Indy adds. “So I guess it sounded like a good idea at the time.”
They both snicker and grin at each other.
“Even after they were both sober?” I ask.
“Dad’s big on signs and premonitions and all sorts of crazy bullshit, so he thought changing them would be bad juju,” India says.
“I’ve always thought I would make a good Dean,” Indy says thoughtfully.
“Really?” India squints. “I can’t see it.”
“Because you’re used to my name. It’s a bit of a flaw in the system if you really think about it.”
“What is?” I ask.
He turns his head and looks at me. “For all intents and purposes, your name is one of the main things people associate with you. But you usually don’t pick one for yourself.
Somebody else does it for you, and there’s rarely solid reasoning for picking a name.
I mean, it’s not like your parents know you when you’re born.
So you just have to hope your parents will have decent taste in names, or you’ll have to walk around as a Brecklyn or something stupid like that. ”
“So the better plan would be to wait until you’re old enough to name yourself?” India asks. “Because I’m going to venture a guess that there’d be a lot of kids naming themselves after the Muppets.”
Indy grins at her. “I’m not saying there’s a better way, I’m just thinking out loud.”
“You and your weirdo brain,” India says. There’s audible affection in her tone.
Indy shrugs.
“Like the time you were all obsessed about whether or not it’s possible for a bird to be afraid of heights,” India muses.
Indy holds up one finger. “To be fair, I was nine.” He pauses for a second. “To also be fair, I’m still trying to figure that one out.”
“Dude, they fly.”
“The ones that would be afraid of heights clearly wouldn’t, so they might be real, and maybe you just don’t know because you don’t see them.”
I absently roll the can of soda between my hands while I listen to them. I wonder what it feels like to have a sibling. Not just a sibling. A twin. Somebody who knows you better than anybody else. Somebody who can read you like a book and knows all the lyrics of your soundtrack by heart.
“How old are you?” India asks. “Do you have your license? Do you have a car? I’ll be so jealous if you can drive. I’ll, like, push you off this roof.”
“I’m fifteen,” I say.
“Ah, well. Welcome to our boat, I guess. When’s your birthday?”
“September.”
“Us, too,” India says. “Thirteenth.”
“Twelfth,” I say for some reason I can’t even explain to myself I find myself drawn into this conversation, and I start to feel less on edge.
Somewhere below, a door opens, and then there are footsteps.
“Here,” Liz’s voice says. “Take a seat. Do you want a sweater? I’ll get you a sweater.”
“Liz, it’s fine.”
I snap my head up at Mom’s voice.
“Shh,” India whispers.
“Wh—” I start to say.
Indy’s palm covers my mouth.