Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content by Melody Carlson Page B
Authors: Melody Carlson
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out of my way and growl as I turn on the water. Why is life so unfair?
I realize I’ll have to hurry if I don’t want to be late. And despite my foul mood I don’t really want to be late. I’m not particularly fond of that kind of attention. And so I quickly dress, snatch up my backpack, and dash to school with still-wet hair. Why should I care?
Naturally, I see Jordan (or rather she sees me) in the hallway. Of course, she looks perfect with every hair in place, and wearing what looks like a new outfit. Probably a little something she picked up with her new friends at the mall the other day.
“Are you okay, Kara?” She frowns slightly as she peers at me and I wonder why she can’t manage to come up with something new to ask me. But I feel too much like a sideshow freak to mention this, and besides, I can see some of her friends now eyeing me curiously too, including Ashley Crow. She seemed so nice when I bought conditioner from her on Saturday, but now she looks at me like maybe I have head lice. Jordan shakes her head. “You don’t look too—”
“I’m fine!”
I snap at her. “Just late is all.” Then I rush off toward the English department as if I have an appointment with the president. As I speed down the breezeway, I refuse to allow Jordan’s fake interest in my welfare, or more likely my sorry appearance, to slow me down. I cannot afford her brand of pity or concern right now. It’s just too freaking bad if I don’t look cool enough to be seen with her and her new shallow friends. It’s not like they want me around them anyway. What do I care?
I repeat those four words through my mind as I walk.
What do I care? What do I care? What do I care?
It reminds me of an old picture book that I used to like as a kid. It’s about this little blueengine, but somehow I think I have the words all wrong.
What do I care? What do I care? Choo-choo—get outta my way!
I make it to English just as the tardy bell rings, but it doesn’t look like Mr. Parker bothered to mark me late. I slip into a sideline seat and wish I were someone else. I don’t even look up when Jordan and Shawna walk in, even later than I was, but I do wonder if Mr. Parker has noticed. I keep my eyes downward, pretending to focus on our reading assignment although the words look blurry and fuzzy. I vaguely wonder if I might need glasses.
Then, like zombie-girl, I trudge through my morning classes. I cannot imagine going through day after day like this for
three whole years!
Finally, I’m in art class, and I almost feel like I can breathe again. I am able to forget other things as I find myself getting pulled into my pencil sketch. I just hope that I can finish it before lunchtime.
My subject for this sketch is from a photo I found in Ms. Clark’s “inspiration” box. It’s an old beater pickup that’s partially covered with old vines. I’m sure it doesn’t even run, but something about it intrigues me and I feel a growing connection to this abandoned and neglected truck. I’m working really hard to get the shadows around the fender just right. But I’m still not done when I hear the lunch buzzer.
“That’s pretty good,” says a girl’s voice.
I look up to see Felicia Wong silhouetted by the sunlight coming through the window behind her. I squint to see her, curious as to whether she’s serious. She steps to the side a bit so that I can see her face better, and I think she seems sincere. I’ve known Felicia since around fifth grade. And it’s not that I expect her to be especially rude, but I used to think she was a little stuck-up or full of herself. Maybe it’s because she’s supposed to be so smart. Everyone says she has a genius IQ.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Do you like art?” she asks now.
“I guess so.”
“You know, some of us stay here and keep working during lunchtime,” Felicia continues. “Ms. Clark doesn’t mind as long as we clean up after ourselves.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Oh, okay.” She
I realize I’ll have to hurry if I don’t want to be late. And despite my foul mood I don’t really want to be late. I’m not particularly fond of that kind of attention. And so I quickly dress, snatch up my backpack, and dash to school with still-wet hair. Why should I care?
Naturally, I see Jordan (or rather she sees me) in the hallway. Of course, she looks perfect with every hair in place, and wearing what looks like a new outfit. Probably a little something she picked up with her new friends at the mall the other day.
“Are you okay, Kara?” She frowns slightly as she peers at me and I wonder why she can’t manage to come up with something new to ask me. But I feel too much like a sideshow freak to mention this, and besides, I can see some of her friends now eyeing me curiously too, including Ashley Crow. She seemed so nice when I bought conditioner from her on Saturday, but now she looks at me like maybe I have head lice. Jordan shakes her head. “You don’t look too—”
“I’m fine!”
I snap at her. “Just late is all.” Then I rush off toward the English department as if I have an appointment with the president. As I speed down the breezeway, I refuse to allow Jordan’s fake interest in my welfare, or more likely my sorry appearance, to slow me down. I cannot afford her brand of pity or concern right now. It’s just too freaking bad if I don’t look cool enough to be seen with her and her new shallow friends. It’s not like they want me around them anyway. What do I care?
I repeat those four words through my mind as I walk.
What do I care? What do I care? What do I care?
It reminds me of an old picture book that I used to like as a kid. It’s about this little blueengine, but somehow I think I have the words all wrong.
What do I care? What do I care? Choo-choo—get outta my way!
I make it to English just as the tardy bell rings, but it doesn’t look like Mr. Parker bothered to mark me late. I slip into a sideline seat and wish I were someone else. I don’t even look up when Jordan and Shawna walk in, even later than I was, but I do wonder if Mr. Parker has noticed. I keep my eyes downward, pretending to focus on our reading assignment although the words look blurry and fuzzy. I vaguely wonder if I might need glasses.
Then, like zombie-girl, I trudge through my morning classes. I cannot imagine going through day after day like this for
three whole years!
Finally, I’m in art class, and I almost feel like I can breathe again. I am able to forget other things as I find myself getting pulled into my pencil sketch. I just hope that I can finish it before lunchtime.
My subject for this sketch is from a photo I found in Ms. Clark’s “inspiration” box. It’s an old beater pickup that’s partially covered with old vines. I’m sure it doesn’t even run, but something about it intrigues me and I feel a growing connection to this abandoned and neglected truck. I’m working really hard to get the shadows around the fender just right. But I’m still not done when I hear the lunch buzzer.
“That’s pretty good,” says a girl’s voice.
I look up to see Felicia Wong silhouetted by the sunlight coming through the window behind her. I squint to see her, curious as to whether she’s serious. She steps to the side a bit so that I can see her face better, and I think she seems sincere. I’ve known Felicia since around fifth grade. And it’s not that I expect her to be especially rude, but I used to think she was a little stuck-up or full of herself. Maybe it’s because she’s supposed to be so smart. Everyone says she has a genius IQ.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Do you like art?” she asks now.
“I guess so.”
“You know, some of us stay here and keep working during lunchtime,” Felicia continues. “Ms. Clark doesn’t mind as long as we clean up after ourselves.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Oh, okay.” She
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