Indigo Summer. Monica McKayhan
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“You a freshman, huh?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Quincy,” he said, “you want me to walk you to your class or what?”
If I could’ve stopped my heart from beating so fast, I would’ve answered his question. But when I opened my mouth to say something, nothing leapt out.
He just started walking beside me, as the bell shook the walls in the hallway.
“Is that the tardy bell?” I asked, not wanting to be late on my first day.
“Naw, it was just the warning bell,” he explained. “It means you got three minutes to get to class. But they give you extra time to find your classes on the first day of school.”
“Oh.”
“What’s your name?”
“Indigo,” I managed to say. “Indigo Summer.”
“That’s a different name,” he said. At least he didn’t say it was stupid. “Were you named after somebody?”
“No.”
“That’s a weird name.” His smile seemed to give light to the entire school. “But it’s cute, though.”
“Thank you,” I said, hoping that was the proper response, and that I didn’t sound too stupid.
“You going to homecoming?”
Everyone seemed to be asking that question.
“When is it?” I asked. There were so many activities going on the first few weeks of school, I was just overwhelmed by all of it.
“The game is Friday night. I’ll be starting. Linebacker.” He smiled, obviously proud of his position on the football team. “The dance is on Saturday.”
We stopped in front of my classroom. He handed my schedule back to me.
“Here we are. This is 17A,” he said. “You wanna go with me on Saturday night or what?”
“Well, I…I hadn’t…um…” I wasn’t prepared for a question like that. “Okay.”
“Cool,” he said. “I’ll meet you here after class and you can give me your phone number. You do have a phone, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. I’ll see you later then.”
I watched as Quincy trotted down the hallway, his jeans sagging just a little in the back, bold black letters on the back of his orange jersey, RAWLINS…84.
He vanished, but the smell of his Michael Jordan cologne lingered.
The sign on the wall outside the gym read: DANCE TEAM TRYOUTS TODAY, 4:00 PM.
So many girls on the bleachers, chattering about which classes were hard, and which ones you could get an easy A in, which boys were cute, and which ones looked like toads, and which teachers got on their ever-lovin’ nerves. At my old middle school, I knew just about everybody, but at this new school, as I looked around the huge gymnasium, I realized I was just another face in the crowd, and I didn’t know anyone. And my confidence about making the dance team was now shaken after seeing some of these girls, with much rounder hips, and much better moves, shake what their mamas gave them. Some of them were really good, making my routine, the one that Jade and I had worked on for months, seem just ordinary.
I took a seat on the bleachers, as a woman blew a whistle to get our attention. The chatter ceased.
“Ladies, let’s get started,” she said. “I’m Miss Martin, and I’m over the dance team here at George Washington Carver. Keisha here will be assisting me today with the music. If you’re trying out, you should have your own CD or tape with your music on it. Make sure that it’s the edited version of whatever song it is. This is the first round. Fifteen of you will be lucky enough to come back tomorrow for round two.”
“How will we know who made it to round two?” A dark, round girl at the other end of the bleachers asked.
“Tomorrow morning, a list of those who made the cut will be posted outside the cafeteria,” she said. “Good luck to you all. Now, let’s get started. First on my list are Tameka Brown and Michelle Smith.”
Tameka and Michelle both stepped down from the bleachers, Tameka handed Keisha a CD, told her which track to play, and stood in the middle of the shiny floor waiting for the music to begin.
My heart pounded as Nelly’s “Shake Ya Tail-feather” echoed through the gym, and their bodies began to gyrate to the sound of it. Wearing matching black T-shirts and black shorts, their moves were calculated as they bounced to a rhythm similar to each other’s. Nothing original, just a mixture of the Harlem Shake, the Tick and another dance that I didn’t recognize. I sat there with my chin resting in my hands, my insides in turmoil for the entire four minutes and nine seconds that their song lasted, awaiting my turn. When it was over, they took their seats on the bleachers.
Miss Martin wrote some notes on the pages attached to her clipboard.
“Indigo Summer.” She said my name in her own southern version of it. I hadn’t expected my turn to come so soon. “You’re up next.”
As I leaped from the bleachers, my pink, black and white FILAs hitting the shiny wooden hardwood floor, I handed Keisha Thomas my CD to put in.
“Track three,” I told her, as music from Usher’s new CD took me to a world of my own. A place where Jade was, with laughter and the hard work that we’d put into our routine, spending hours studying Usher’s video, and trying to emulate his moves. And we had them down to an art. Usher, our artist of choice. Well, Jade’s artist of choice. She thought he was the most beautiful person who ever walked the face of the earth, with his smooth chocolate skin and kissable-looking lips, as she put it. She had every CD he ever made and dreamed of bumping into him at Publix grocery store or Wal-Mart someday.
“You know he lives in Atlanta, right?” She reminded me of that fact every chance she got.
“I doubt that you’ll see him at Publix or Wal-Mart, Jade.”
“He gotta buy groceries, girl.”
“I’m sure he has someone who shops for him,” I said. “And I doubt if he shops at Wal-Mart anyway.”
“Well if I ever see him, I’m rushing him. Just want you to know that.”
“And I’ll act like I don’t know you.”
“I hope I don’t say anything stupid.”
“You will,” I assured her.
Then her eyes would get all glossy, like she was fantasizing about him or something.
“Yep, I probably will.”
We’d spent hours working on our routine, a routine made for two people, but here I was forced to perform it alone.
“You can do it,” Jade had told me on the phone the night before. “You don’t need me there. You know the moves better than me.”
I prayed she was right as the music resonated through my body, and I mimicked Usher’s moves that we’d practiced for months. I was a little stiff at first, but as the music came to life inside of me, I loosened up a little. I pretended I was on Jade’s front porch again, in control, the bass from the music shaking the wooden boards. And the girls who stared at me from the bleachers were faceless and nameless fans, wishing they were me. Wishing they could move like me. I was lost in the rhythm.
As Usher sang, “I’m so caught up…” my legs took on a life of their own. Thought about the video that we’d played over and over again. I took a bow as the last few lyrics resonated through the gym.
“Thank you, Miss Summer.” Miss Martin’s