The Fortunes of Indigo Skye Read Online Free PDF Page A

of marble (called
"families"), and all the families have their own "faults," which give them their
characteristics, just like our neighbors at home--Mrs. Denholm next door, who
always snooped at us through the Venetian blinds, waiting for us "teens" to
commit some sort of crime; the Elberts, who let their dog bark all night; and
the Navinskys, whose television was always on, and whose kids even have those
miniature TVs for brief trips away from the real thing. If you saw Travertino
Navona, though, you wouldn't think about it having faults. It's a creamy brown,
like caramel and marshmallow fluff in a swirl.
    "People are hungry here," Trina
says.
    "I've got to go home sometime," Jane says.
"Just to get my mail, if nothing else." She's brought Jack, her black Lab, who
gets lonely and eats things if he's left alone. He ate the golf bag that
belonged to Jane's ex-husband, which she didn't mind, and the leg off of Jane's
dead grandmother's rocking chair, which she did mind. Leroy said this was better
than if he'd chewed the leg off the dead grandmother, but Jane didn't think that
was so funny.
    Jack follows us in (actually, he shoves his way
past us), then flops behind the register and sighs through his nose
as
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    if the whole experience has been a terrible
ordeal.
    "Dear God, bring me coffee before I kill
someone," Trina says.
    Jane sets her bag down, disappears to talk to
Luigi. I get the coffee started; leave a message for Trevor to pick me up after
work. "Did you have a bad night?" I ask. Now that I really look at her, I see
that the underneath part of Trina's eyes have their own coffee cup rings of no
sleep.
    "Bad."
    "What happened?"
    "Ten signs you're being dumped. Number one.
Your lover leaves the country and doesn't tell you."
    "No way," I say.
    "Way. I waited at home for him for two nights.
Almost called the police, but finally called Myrna instead."
    "Myrna?"
    "Roger's wife. He went to Brazil, she tells me.
'I'm sorry,' she says, 'I tried to warn you, didn't I? Once an asshole, always
an asshole.'"
    "Oh, man," I say. I snitch the coffeepot out of
the base, interrupt the drizzle for Trina's immediate caffeine relief. I set a
full cup in front of her, and she sighs. Sometimes, coffee is deliverance
enough.
    "Rio," Trina says. The word is an
ending.
    "Why Rio?"
    "He's got another house there. Topless
sunbathers, thong bikinis." Trina rubs her forehead. "What am I gonna
do?"
    "Who needs him, I say."
    "I thought we had a great time in Palm Springs.
The sex alone--"
    25
    "Whoa. I'm barely eighteen, here, remember?
Jesus. I don't want the details."
    "Your loss," she says miserably.
    "I get enough details at school, thanks. Do you
know there's such a thing as sex addiction? I saw it in some magazine. I'm
thinking the guys at my school need a support group for sex addiction. Wait,
forget the support group. Just make it sixth period."
    "What kind of pie is there?" Trina asks. She
sounds like she's standing at the edge of a high building. She has suicide in
her voice. I know what will lure her from the edge, though.
    "Chocolate cream. Apple with crumble
top--"
    "Stop at chocolate."
    Which I also already knew. People like to have
something to turn down, though. They want to be able to say no to some things,
because it makes their yes more meaningful. Even if that's just scrambled
instead of poached or fried, wheat and not sourdough or rye. And "no"--it's also
a handy, accessible mini-capsule of power. Maybe you can't destroy your asshole
boyfriend, but you can at least reject apple crumble pie.
    I open the refrigerated cupboard, remove
Harold's chocolate cream, cut a wide triangle of comfort. By the time I have it
on the plate, Joe Awful Coffee is ambling in, and so are two women who hang
around by the door, even if it's obvious that Carrera's is a seat-yourself
place. I grab two plastic-covered menus and lead them anyway to Grigio Fumo,
since Leroy Richie likes Verde Classico, and