Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content Read Free Page B

just keep moving along by myself. Like I am in some kind of bubble, alone and apart and separate from everyone else.
    No one says a single word to me as I walk down the hall. In fact, I don’t think anyone has said much of anything to me these last few days. Now that I think about it, I’m sure the only reason anyone ever spoke to me before was because of Jordan. I feel like I am nothing without her. And I wonder how I will survive three years of this kind of nothingness in high school. I have never felt so alone or utterly hopeless in my life.
    I head straight to our apartment complex just a few blocks from school. It’s not exactly a lovely abode, with its boring off-whitestucco exterior and “modern” architectural touches, but at least it’s a retreat of sorts. I walk upstairs and enter our sterile-looking living room—my mom’s into “contemporary” furnishings, which basically means cold and uncomfortable. The couch is an asymmetrical design of pewter-colored leather and looks about as inviting as a rock. This is flanked by a couple of metal-and-leather chairs in a garish shade of red, which I assume is meant to complement the piece of modern art that dominates this rather small room. Now I must say this artwork is one of the few items in our home that doesn’t set my teeth on edge. It’s loud and colorful, but at least there’s a warmth to it, or so I like to imagine. And it was created by my dad. I suppose that might have something to do with why I like it. I go over and turn on the little chrome spotlight, which really makes the colors pop. My mom doesn’t like to leave any lights on in the apartment since she’s an electricity conservation freak. But sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and come in here and turn on that little light and just look at the painting. It’s an abstract that I don’t really understand, but somehow it usually comforts me.
    But not today. I flick off the spotlight and, like a whipped puppy, I slink off to my room. I close the door and wish it had a deadbolt. Not that Bree or my mom will want to come in here. But I just do not want to be disturbed—not by anyone.
Like anyone wants to disturb me.
    I flop onto my bed and cry all over again. I wonder how long I can keep this up. It’s not as if someone has died, for pity’s sake. Why am I crying like a big baby over losing a stupid friend? I know I should be more mature than this. I yell at myself and say, “Just grow up!” and, “Get over it, you moron!” But my verbal abuse doesn’t work. Even though I know it’s totally stupid to care this much, to be hurt this badly, I simply don’t know how to stop the pain.
    I sit up and take a deep breath, telling myself that I can’t go on like this. And for a moment, I honestly consider praying to God for help. Not that God and I really have much going on these days. Come to think of it, praying was what got me into this mess. And the truth is, I’ve only been to church a few dozen times in my entire life, and that’s always been with Jordan’s family.
Jordan’s family!
Oh, the mere thought of Jordan’s family—my second family—pushes me right over the edge again. And I begin to cry even harder than before.
    It’s like I can picture them all standing right there at the foot of my bed, and each one is waving to me. First I see Jordan’s cool and laid-back parents. I think they actually used to be hippies back in the seventies, although they swear they never did drugs. They’ve always let me call them Tom and Cindy, and they’ve always welcomed me into their big, old, rambling home as if it were my own. Tom is usually dressed in shabby sweaters and wrinkled slacks, and he manages the oldies radio station in town. When Cindy isn’t working part-time as a counselor, she’s wearing overalls and painting cool pictures or digging in her huge garden. I can even see Jordan’s older sister, Abbie, looking stylish as ever in the latest fad, and I remember the way