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Prologue
The cages opened. The crowds cheered.
The newly resurrected, state of the art, Circus Maximus coliseum exploded in
deafening cheers. The crowd was hungry for innocent young blood. They didn’t
know if either one would make it out alive. They just hoped that the training
they received had been enough to help them see another day—and maybe, just
maybe, escape.
Since they had been kidnapped, the twins
Marius and Marina had been training and learning the skills of a warrior. They
saw each other the moment the cages opened. They didn’t have to talk or even
make the faintest of facial expressions—they knew. They were bruised, sore, and
though they hid it well, terrified. While they had been waiting to be called
up, the disturbing realization that the gamers were pairing friends, couples, and
now siblings against each other, dawned on them.
All through training, the gamers had
been watching them through those little cameras; now they knew how to inflict
the most pain on them. In a few seconds the announcer would say their names,
and they would have to fight each other to the death.
“Aw…” the commentator said as if he
were truly disappointed. “I guess this love story ended in a tragedy,” he added
with mock sympathy, as he finished his comments about the last couple. The
crowd went wild; some hissed, and some cackled.
“And now! Twins! Marius and Marina!
They have both proven to be among the toughest trainees. Marius has quickly
become an expert in sword fighting, while Marina has embraced the bow. What
weapons will they choose? Who will live to fight another day?” The crowd
roared. It sounded like the angry sea to the twins’ ears, as they stepped
forward into the center of the Circus Maximus arena. Weapons were strewn
everywhere, theirs for the taking. Blood pooled on the ground in places, where
former gladiators had been injured or killed.
“I will not kill you,” Marina yelled to
her brother, who stood about a hundred feet away, still standing on his
platform. “I’d rather die. So, just kill me.” Acoustics were incredible in this
place, so their voices carried well in spite of the distance and the noise from
the stands.
Marius shook his head, “Are you crazy?
And risk Mother’s wrath?” he jested. This was so typical of Marius, laughing at
inopportune times.
“What now?” Mariana asked as she looked
around the half chanting, half booing arena.
“Let me remind you that if you refuse
to fight, we will unleash The Beast!” the commentator said over the speakers.
As if on cue, the crowd started
chanting, “Beast! Beast! Beast!”
The twins stood still, unmoving, refusing
to take up weapons against each other.
“I warned you,” the commentator said in
a singsong tone. Suddenly, at the far end of the arena, one of the cages rose
from the ground. Neither Marius nor Marina had seen the Beast before. They had heard
rumors about it while in training, and they were right. It was grotesque.
As the creature emerged from the pit,
the twins stared in frozen amazement. It was as big as an elephant, but that’s
where the similarities ended. It had a bull’s head with long horns, teeth as
long as a saber tooth tiger, claws like an eagle, and a spiked tail like a
dinosaur.
“Run!” Marius shouted.
“No!” called Marina. “Get some weapons!
Then run!”
“Good idea, sis! You were always the
smart one!”
Each of them went for their weapon of
choice and started running toward each other. The Beast charged. It was faster.
“Split!” Marina ordered.
“Did I forget to mention that Marina
here is a strategic genius?” the commentator declared. “She was one of the top
strategic leaders during training, winning four simulations out of the five
they had to complete. Marius here won four as well, but more through sheer luck
than sound strategy,” the commentator added. The crowd laughed and cheered as the
twins ran for their lives. “If they survive, we will air the details of their
training next week. So stay tuned!”
Marina had an idea. She had stolen some
of the poison she saw on display yesterday during the tour of the facilities.
Most of the gladiators had been walking through the gory museum mindlessly,
only thinking of what was to come in just a few hours. Not Marina; she had been
paying attention. When no one was looking, she snatched one of the vials of
poison and hid it in her bra. At the time, she didn’t know if she was going to
use it to kill or if she was going to take it herself. Now she knew.
“Marius!” she yelled, across the arena.
It took a few tries for her brother to hear her over the crowd’s clamor.
“Come!” she gestured. As he started to run across the six hundred feet long arena,
the Beast headed straight for him. Meanwhile, Marina was hunched over, dipping
the tips of her arrows into the vial, careful not to spill any of the precious
poison.
“Marina! This thing is hungry!”
Without wasting any more time, she
corked the vial, stuffed it back into her bra, and let an arrow fly, hitting
The Beast square between the eyes, buying her brother a few seconds.
“What took you so long? I was about to
become lunch!” Marius shouted.
“Hurry,” Marina said, taking the vial
back out and removing the cork again. “Hold out your sword.” Marius obeyed
without question, and Marina poured the rest of the poison over the blade.
“Let’s hope this is as powerful as they said it was.”
Marius kissed his sister on the cheek
and ran out to meet the Beast head on. Marius struck the Beast with blow after
powerful blow, barely missing its snapping jaws, grasping claws, or swinging
tail. Marina let all the arrows fly, careful to avoid her brother.
Slowly, the snarling Beast started to
slump. First, the front legs gave out, then the back. With a running start,
Marius flipped himself acrobatically onto the Beast’s back, intending to finish
it off. But, with a burst of energy the Beast stood up! Marius held on by the
skin of its neck. Like a bull rider, Marius rode the beast, which looked more
like a giant porcupine thanks to Marina’s poisoned arrows.
The commentator described each scene
with enthusiasm. The crowd’s noise had risen to a new height. “No one has
ridden the Beast before!” the commentator exclaimed, excitedly. “We are
watching Circus history here, people!”
Suddenly, the angry Beast collapsed
again, flinging Marius forward. But, as he flew in mid-air, Marius swung his
sword around and slashed the Beast’s neck. The grotesque head detached from the
body, and rolled, while Marius’ body slammed onto the ground—hard. Marina
screamed and ran to her brother’s side.
“Marius? Marius! Are you okay?” she
yelled. No answer. “Marius, please! Please don’t die! You’re all I have now!
You’re all I have.”
“What about Mom?” he said, opening one
eye.
Marina punched him in the arm and
hugged him tightly. “Besides Mom, you’re all I have.”
“And… cut!” called the director. “We really need to fix that
last line. I don’t like it. It’s anticlimactic. What do you think, Bob?”
“I’ll work on it,” said Bob morosely, pinching the bridge of
his nose between his thumb and index fingers.
“Their mother is being threatened somehow, right?” the
director asked no one in particular. Several heads in the studio bobbed up and
down tiredly. “Okay then, maybe Marina should be saying something like, like…
‘Unless mother still lives, you’re all I have’ or something like that,” he suggested
with an exhausted shake of his head, flinging his arms upward as if he didn’t
much care.
“If we change that line, we’ll have to film the whole scene
again,” Bob said quietly, jaws clenched.
“No-no, not the whole scene.” Tiredly, the director rubbed
his face with his hand. “Let’s take a break. We’ll resume in two hours. Good
work, Indigo. Good work, Beryl. You two are golden!” He nodded toward the two
protagonists, who were slumped on the green screen set, waiting for their next
set of instructions.
Once dismissed, Beryl jumped nimbly to his feet and offered
Indigo a hand. “Well, sis? How do you like working with your big brother?” he
asked.
Indigo snorted derisively and accepted a towel and water
from a set girl. “It’s a dream come true!” she said sarcastically, as she
shoved him aside. However, inwardly, she was thrilled.
Chapter 1
Enter Tea leaf divining Shrink. Exeunt Secrets and Half Truths
Indigo
Carefully held by a delicate white metal mount, and printed
in impeccable calligraphy so as to add to its importance, is the quote by Eleanor
Roosevelt, “A woman is like a teabag—you don’t know how strong she is until she
gets in hot water.”
The framed quotation rests amid several dainty tea
sets, and once a week, when I come for my session with my shrink, Dr.
Pemberton, I have the privilege of choosing the tea set from which we will
drink our tea. Dr. Pemberton seems to think that all problems can be solved
over a good cup of tea, and I don’t necessarily disagree. I’ve been coming to
see her since I was seven years old—ten years now.
Dr. Pemberton switches quotes every once in a while. I’ve
always found them interesting and entertaining. However, there’s something
about this last quote that will not leave me. I realize that it’s a simple
quote, nothing extraordinarily hard to understand about it, but I feel like
there is something hidden in it for me. Maybe hidden isn’t the right word, but
rather, a challenge. More than anything I’d like to be strong tea, proven, tested, and ultimately—triumphant. Over what
great adversary? I don’t yet know. Myself maybe. Regardless, I have a feeling
that this quote will change my life somehow.
“Which one will it be?” Dr. Pemberton asks, in her crisp
British accent.
“Um…” I ponder, as I pull my attention away from the quote
and back to my original task. I let my French manicured hand trace the
teacup-laden shelf. Delicate willow patterned cups are displayed along with an
assortment of intricately painted flowers and friendly garden bug designs. All
of the patterns assail my senses at once, making me feel slightly overwhelmed
by the amount of choices.
Dr. Pemberton’s whole office is, in fact, a bit overwhelming
for me. It is centered in the heart of my hometown, Beverly Hills, on the fifth
story of a modern, minimalist, almost sterile building. However, once you step
inside her office, all the clean, sharp angles and straight lines disappear.
Instead, you find yourself inside a room that looks like something out of a
Jane Austen movie set. It is a proper British parlor with an overabundance of
French Rococo style tapestries, furniture, and figurines. Fresh pastel peony
blooms overflow in porcelain and golden inlaid vases. Dappled light from a lace
curtain filters through the east facing windows, giving the office a warm,
inviting glow. The whole setup, complete with the soft classical music, seems to
say: come sit, drink some tea and chat with Aunt Blanche.
But Dr. Blanche Pemberton is no one’s aunt, and she is
rather cutting and acerbic. I guess that’s why she relies on her old lady decor
to make people feel more comfortable. Or maybe there’s some research out there
that says that an overabundance of pink helps people open up and start talking.
I happen to know all these design details; over the years she’s told me all
about them. I guess that was her way of breaking the ice with me, as I sat
stiff and tight-lipped on one of her settees for almost a whole year.
To me, Dr. Pemberton looks a bit like a bored Basset Hound.
Her big, round, brown eyes look thoughtfully at me, while her carefully curled
under bob makes her look like she’s got long, floppy ears. Her bangs are also
curled under, somewhat reducing her long, thin face.
Ruby, my manager, chose Dr. Pemberton because she came
highly recommended as someone who disdained Hollywood stars like myself—or
rather she held no regard for us. She is, after all, one of those stuffy
English women who find acting to be rubbish. One time, when I asked her why she
left dear old England for the sunny shores of L.A., she responded in the most
obscure way possible, saying, “California weather suits me.”
Because of these firm convictions about Hollywood stars, Dr.
Pemberton has become rather popular among us, and half the people I know come
to her. Her clientele has grown exponentially thanks to her tart disposition,
snarky remarks, and the sad reality that there is no shortage of issues among
us Hollywood stars.
“I choose… this one!” I say and turn on my precariously thin
heels, displaying the plainest teacup of all. It’s the teal colored set, with
no frilly flowers on it. It’s rimmed with gold and has teal vertical lines. Simple,
yet elegant; like me—sort of. I guess there’s nothing simple about my elegance.
Dr. Pemberton studies my choice as if there’s meaning in it.
I wonder if she’ll later look at the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup, and
try to divine something from them.
“You often choose this one,” Dr. Pemberton muses as she
places the tray by her kitchenette, pinches some tealeaves, and places them
into a strainer. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” I respond, with an inflection of question in my
voice.
“Why? I always thought it so plain.”
I shrug. “I feel like going back to the basics, I guess.”
“Hmm… why is that?” She asks, turning shrink mode on full
blast.
“Not sure,” I say evasively, resisting this session already.
I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m on the verge of something. Like something
major is about to go down and I’m already dreading it. It’s hard to explain
because I hardly understand it myself. It could have something to do with the
Roosevelt quote. Or maybe it has something to do with Beryl. Ever since we
finished filming the Circus Maximus MMCXI
movie, things have been different between us. He’s been dating a girl from the
cast—a newbie who no doubt wants to make a name for herself at my brother’s
expense. It was so nice to finally get to hang out with him for longer than a
few weeks, but now Nina has taken over his life. Blah!
“How are you sleeping?” Dr. Pemberton asks, changing the
direction of the conversation since she can tell I’m not going to elaborate on
this particular line of questioning. She pours hot water into the pot and
switches off her electric kettle that purposely looks old-fashioned. “Any
nightmares?”
Insomnia is one of my biggest issues, along with RAD.
Reactive Attachment Disorder can manifest itself in different ways, but with me,
it is trust issues. Big time trust issues that stem from not forming a proper
bond with my mother, who, when I was three months old, forsook me for a movie
role. She played the part of a young mother who was haunted by the ghosts of
the house she moved into. It was an epic Josephine Frost movie, another feather
in her cap. My reality, though, was abandonment. She didn’t even take me to the
set with her—she hired some nanny and left me home so she could focus on her
movie—then I didn’t see her again for a year. By then she was a total stranger
to me.
I’m over it, but Pemberton doesn’t agree. She says that I
have a hard time forming bonds with people, and that’s dangerous. Menace to
society dangerous, I suppose. I don’t know what harm I could possibly cause
society since all I do is read the scripts that are placed before me, and then
perform in the movies. Acting is all I know, and all I’ve been trained to do;
I’m simply a puppet. Still, sometimes I do feel like there’s a ticking time
bomb inside of me that might go off at any time. When that day comes, no doubt
the media will be there to record it all for posterity. Awesome.
While RAD started in infancy, my insomnia started when I was
six years old. Apparently, I suffer form some form of Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder, like what soldiers suffer from. Only I’ve never been to war, just
been in movies about wars, with killer special effects. My insomnia is caused
by bad dreams. The fear of having a bad dream, gives me anxiety, and this
anxiety gives me insomnia! Dr. Pemberton established that the nightmares
started one year after I starred in my first movie with my dad. It was an alien
invasion movie, and we had to run from ten-foot-tall, bug-like, robotic aliens
who chased us amid bomb explosions and laser shots. It was filmed in an outdoor
replica of New York, and though the buildings were nothing but a two-foot
facade, to my then five-year-old brain, it was all too real. The movie was
hailed as a blockbuster. I won my first round of praises from the Academy, and
my father won the actual award. It was the first of many proud Belfrois moments
that have stolen pieces of my sanity.
From then on, everyone wanted me to succeed as an actress. I
was crowned Hollywood’s Princess, thanks to my illustrious pedigree. Four
generations of Hollywood stars from my father’s side and three generations from
my mother’s gave me the unique title never before given to anyone else. Not
even Beryl got crowned as a Prince, because his mother, Ana, made her first
movie at nineteen, co-starring with my dad. They eloped right after filming it.
Three months later, my father rekindled his relationship with Josephine Frost,
my mother, and Ana’s marriage to my dad ended. That’s why they call us the
Belfrois’ twins—even though we are only half siblings—we are just three months
apart.
So it is, that I have the wealthiest and most beautiful
family tree. We even have a family crest, specially made by my illustrious
great-grandfather Aero Belfrois. He was a pompous man, who I believe thought
too much of himself and his legacy—the stupid crest being proof enough.
“I’ve had a few bad dreams,” I finally admit, evasively.
“Different ones, I guess.”
Dr. Pemberton brings the tray over to the settee in front of
me and pours us the tea. She then picks up her cup and sits across from me,
carefully crossing her legs and leaning back against her upholstered chair. As
she cradles her cup, she lets out a slight, involuntary sigh. “Care to expand?”
“I’m not being chased by aliens anymore, but I am being
followed. It’s weird, but it’s worse somehow,” I say, as I slump into the
velvet settee.
“Elaborate,” Dr. Pemberton says as she sips her tea and eyes
my posture with contempt.
“Well… it’s like I’m going about my day, and someone is
watching me. Like a camera is on me all day long, even while I sleep. It’s
exhausting! Then, last night in my dream, the same thing happens. I’m going out
for a jog, and I get that feeling that someone is running behind me, but when I
turn, there’s no one there. Finally, I start running so fast that I feel like
my lungs are on fire, and when I look behind me, a zombie paparazzo is chasing
after me!”
“Zombie? That’s a new one. Weren’t you in a zombie movie?”
Pemberton asks, her large droopy eyes looking more alert than normal.
I nod. “When I was eight,” I say, looking down at my cup. A
few tea leaves are settling toward the bottom of my cup. I take a big gulp and
swallow the whole thing, leaves and all. In response, Dr. Pemberton raises one
eyebrow. I’m not sure if she considers my actions indicative of something, or
if she’s simply appalled by me gulping the tea. Maybe she’s sad there’ll be no tea
leaves left for her to look at.
“What do you think your dream zombies might do to you if
they catch you?”
“Eat my brains, take my picture, I don’t know!” I say with
irritation.
“Do you know the zombie who chases you?”
At this, I have to pause. I bend over and pour myself more
tea. “I’m not sure. It feels as if I know him, or her, but I can’t remember the face,” I lie. I know very well who
my dream zombie is. Wait, that sounds weird. Is there such a thing as dreamy
zombies? Well… this one might be. He’s the cute new photographer that started
following me around last week. Most of the paparazzi that trail me are soft,
pasty, middle-aged men—so this one sticks out. He’s tall, about six-foot-two
with dark, wavy hair that loosely hangs past his ears. He’s fit, has large
brown eyes, and olive skin—not at all fitting the traditional paparazzi mold.
Instead, he looks like the ultimate frat guy—flip flops, khakis, t-shirt, and a
perpetual five-o-clock shadow. He looks young, older than me, but in his early
twenties. Very early twenties I hope, since I just turned seventeen a few
months ago.
I saw him again just this morning as I was getting out of my
blue convertible. As always, I braced myself for the onslaught of flashes when
I open the door, and step out with my six-inch stilettos and skinny jeans. I
always have to focus on coming out gracefully, and to also have that fake smile
plastered on, like I haven’t a single care in the whole world. Even with all
this in mind, I still felt his presence right away. It was like a black hole,
sucking all the energy from around him and pulling me in as well. Maybe it was
the nightmare still fresh in my mind, or maybe it was the fact that he always
looks so put out. His blasé stance, the look of forbearance on his face, the
way his eyes roll every time I pose for the cameras, all of these things seem
to tell me one thing: “I can’t stand you.”
Whatever his reasons for looking at me like I’m the root of
all his troubles, this morning he looked particularly tired as he held a cup of
coffee with one hand and his camera in the other. I noticed that his left wrist
had a colorful paper band, like the kind they hand out at concerts or other
private events.
It’s at times like these that I truly wish I were just a
regular girl, one that he didn’t look at with disdain, one that he’d run into
at whatever place he was at last night. I know nothing about him or his life,
but somehow, I know that he’s happier than me. For a second, as I was making my
way up to Dr. Pemberton’s office, I tried to imagine what his life was like.
School, work, hanging out with friends, going to concerts, no one chasing him
around trying to snap pictures of him or hoping to catch him doing something
embarrassing. Even as I tried to think of what this life would be like; I have
no real clue of how it would feel to live that way. I’ve never gone to school,
never had real friends, nor have I ever attended a concert. I’ve been to plenty
of movie premiers, red carpet events, galas, and after parties, but no
teen-filled loud concert halls or dance clubs where people wear flip-flops and
t-shirts. Inwardly, I made a mental note that maybe this needs to change.
Perhaps this is the shift that I feel deep inside—the realization that I could
make different choices.
“Well, it might simply be that you’re playing out your fear
of what the media represents,” Dr. Pemberton says as she takes a dainty sip of
her tea, effectively distracting me from my thoughts. “To you, the paparazzi
are the ever looming enemy,” she adds while swallowing.
I nod and sit up straighter. She might have a point. The
media is always following me. They
have always been the bane of my existence. I can’t go anywhere without having
some photographer with a high-tech camera capturing every moment of my life.
That’s why, when I was young, I started to act the part of a traditional vain,
egotistic, spoiled starlet whenever I was in public. I would simply slap on a
smile and pretend to be the happy, frivolous, and completely untroubled girl
who does nothing but spend money and party all the time (which is partly true,
but not wholly—I attend parties under duress. And though I love to shop… who
doesn’t?).
This Indigo Starlet persona saves what little privacy I do
have. Besides, everyone expects it of me. If they knew the real Indigo, they
wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. There would be nothing to report—nothing
exciting anyway. I can just see a headline, “Indigo
Belfrois finishes Homer’s complete works—again. Boy does she love Homer, and
let’s not forget Dante Alighieri! What’s
next on her list, you ask? Why, it’s Principia Mathematica by Isaac Newton!”
…Yeah, not exactly scandalous tabloid material.
They don’t want to know that I’m a total nerd in real life.
Sure, I wear nice clothes, but that’s only because I have a great stylist who has
taught me well, and literally brings the latest fashions for me to choose from
when I have no time to shop for myself.
To top it all, I’m now in super good shape. That’s because
four years ago, in one of those rare occasions when my mother was sober, she
noticed that I was gaining weight (an offensive crime in my house) and quickly
put me on a strict diet. Soon after that, she added running to my already
strenuous martial arts and gymnastics workout routines. So yeah, I look awesome,
but it’s a concerted effort. Admittedly, I do like to look good. Who doesn’t?
But hours and hours are spent on my appearance every week, just so I can look
like this. If I get a zit, a team of dermatologists is called in to discuss
treatment and removal. My looks alone employ close to thirty people. I have to
look this good because they won’t tolerate me looking bad—or rather, normal.
All excuses aside, I have to admit that I enjoy acting like
a bimbo in public. It amuses me. A few years ago, Beryl and I decided that we’d
do it together. We’re a riot in public—acting like snobs, pretending to be
socialites who don’t know what’s going on in the world. Serves the media right.
If they’re going to stalk me and twist my words, they might as well stalk,
twist, and pester the pretend me.
Then again, I suppose, this dream might mean something else
entirely. It could mean my fear of being judged for real. It might also be my
fear of letting others in—trusting. I don’t know. I’m frustrated and tired.
“How many zombies are
chasing you? Are they all paparazzi? Could some of them be other people you
know? You are surrounded by people in your home that, in essence, watch your
every move. You have Marcus, your bodyguard, your stylist Mei, Ruby, and all
the maids,” Dr. Pemberton muses, making me feel like a lab rat being studied. “I
wonder?” She taps her teeth with the tip of her nail, making a weird hollow
sound.
I frown. I’m slightly surprised by how well she remembers
the names of my household staff. “I don’t know for sure,” I say cagily.
“Next time you have this nightmare, I want you to write it
down the moment you wake up. I’d like to analyze this further.”
I hate writing nightmares down for her! I feel like it gives
them credibility.
“Now, let’s talk about your family. How’s this summer going
with Beryl?”
“Fine,” I say tersely. She stares at me with a look of forbearance,
a look that says, “go on…”
I sigh. “He has a girlfriend. Someone he met on the set of
our last movie, Circus Maximus MMCXI.
I don’t want to talk about Beryl if you don’t mind.”
“He’s hurt you, hasn’t he?”
“Hurt? I wouldn’t say hurt.”
“What would you say?”
“Disappointed.”
“Okay, how has he disappointed you?”
“Every summer, when he came to stay with us, we would talk
about how we didn’t want to end up like our parents. And now look at him! He’s
doing exactly that! Since he started dating Nina, he’s been out all night partying!”
I blurt out, reproachfully.
“Has he confided in you, since you finished filming the
movie?”
“No. He’s with Nina all the time.”
“Are you jealous?”
“A little,” I admit sullenly. “I’m done talking about him,”
I say flatly. The issue was a gaping wound that threatened to hemorrhage. Beryl
is the only one. THE ONLY ONE, in my life I can confide in, relate with, and be
normal around.
“How’s your relationship with Azure?” Dr. Pemberton asks,
moving on with the session.
“The same,” I say a little irritated. “But I don’t want to
talk about my dad either.”
“Why?”
“Because! It’s always the same! Nothing changes. The world
revolves around him, end of story.”
“How does that make you feel?”
I roll my eyes and set the cup down. “The same way I always
feel—inconsequential.”
Dr. Pemberton gazes steadily at me, waiting for me to
elaborate.
“I don’t hate my father. I don’t hate my mother either,
but—” I say, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t want to end up like them!
I want my life to mean something. I
don’t want to be this empty vessel waiting to be filled by a script. I do enjoy
acting, don’t get me wrong, but… I don’t know,” I frown with frustration. I
don’t know what I want, I really don’t. I just know I don’t want my parents’
life.
“You should try to talk
with Beryl, and Azure too. Maybe even your mom, next time she comes around.
Tell them how you feel. You might be surprised at what they say—”
I snort a laugh. “Yeah, right!”
“There might just be someone in your family who
understands,” she says, distantly, almost as if talking to herself. Then she
clears her throat and looks at me straight in the eyes. “You have to build
bonds with someone, Indigo. Living as
you’re living, not having any real attachments, friendships, or relationships
is unhealthy. You need to learn to trust people. You need to put your trust in people. No doubt some will
disappoint you, but there will be others who won’t. That’s life.”
After a long pause, I look down. A single tear escapes my
eye, and I wipe it away angrily. I don’t want to cry about this anymore, I
think vehemently. I’ve already mourned my family life. When I was little, I
would wake up screaming from a bad dream, and then wander the house like a
ghost, whimpering in fear, and eating whatever was left in the refrigerator
because there was no one around to soothe me. My parents were either passed out
drunk, high, or gone altogether. Ruby and the rest of the household staff were
in their homes with their families, and whatever nanny I had at the time provided
me no comfort. All but one nanny, Flavia, had been like transient strangers to
me. Flavia, I liked, but she passed away rather suddenly after three years.
“What is it about me that makes people not want to be my
friends?” I ask Pemberton curtly. I’m trying hard to hold at bay the swelling
emotions I feel inside, turning them into anger instead of dissolving into
tears.
While growing up, I tried to make friends with the other
kids on set. We spent so much time together playing the part of best friends
that after a while, I guess, I would convince myself that the friendships were
real. But as soon as filming was done, so were those pretend friendships. Some
of them would even turn around, and out of jealousy, trash me in front of the
media. It felt like a knife in the back every time. Eventually, I learned.
They’re not my friends, and they never will be. This realization helped build
my snobby diva front. Unfortunately, this is Beryl’s first movie, and he hasn’t
learned this hard lesson yet. I fear he’s bound to learn it soon—and the hard
way too.
There are two or three kids out there, who, like me, were
born to Hollywood families and, to some degree, understand what it’s like. I
can almost call them friends—almost. They are the kids that I hang out with at
social events. They are the ones that the pretend
Indigo has a lot of things in common with. They are the real socialites, the real self-centered, empty-headed fools.
But, how would I know for sure if that were the case? Maybe they are just like
me. Maybe they too pretend to be idiots, though I highly doubt it. Regardless,
it’s too late. I’ve formed a crust, a durable shell that can not be cracked.
Beryl is the only one who knows me, truly knows me, and that’s enough for me.
“Indigo, I think you know the answer to that,” Dr. Pemberton
says earnestly. “And I think you know that it has nothing to do with you,” she
adds, matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know anything of the sort!”
Dr. Pemberton’s back straightens as she moves to the edge of
her seat. Her eyes are open wide like two round malt balls, and there’s a
strange twinkle in them. It’s a little freaky and unsettling like some major truth
is about to be revealed. “Who are you, Indigo?” she asks, after building up
sufficient suspense.
Her question catches me off guard. Lately, I’ve been
wondering that myself. I guess part of me wants to unify the two Indigos—the
outside, frivolous one and the serious, reclusive, studious one. It’s as if she
read my mind. Did I leave some tea leaves in the bottom of my cup? I wonder, as
I look to the empty cup for proof. Does she have a crystal ball hidden
somewhere? I pour myself the third cup of tea and start sipping silently again.
I’ll be wired later, but who cares. Tea helps me think.
“Indigo! Who are you?” she repeats her question impatiently.
“I—I don’t know. I was just—” I start to say.
“Are you the dimwitted, silly girl you become the moment you
step out of this office? Or are you the girl who cleans up her mother after
she’s been binging on drugs for days, and puts her in rehab? Perhaps, you are
the girl who helps her father save face after he does or says something stupid?
Maybe you’re the girl who devours books, because she has an insatiable thirst
for knowledge? Possibly, you are the girl who loves to act, because she hopes
she’ll find herself in one of her characters? Who are you, Indigo?” she
presses.
I stare at her openmouthed and speechless. “I don’t know,” I
finally squeeze out in a strange murmur. It seems that I am all those things,
yet none of them.
“Who do you want
to be? That’s the real question here.” Pemberton continues more subdued now. “You
can’t become anything all on your own. Part of this process, called life,
involves you appropriately interacting with others. You have to form
relationships of trust. You have to let someone in.” Dr. Pemberton continues
her speech, but I tune her out.
My cup is almost gone again, and I watch as some fine
sediment of tea settles toward the bottom of the cup. Oddly, it forms a shape
on the bottom, a perfect cursive T.
Dr. Pemberton is still talking, but nothing she says is
registering. All I know is that something has to change in my life. Me. I have
to change. I feel like the time is now, and a decision needs to be made. I
either merge all the parts of me into one and let others see me for who I am.
Or I don’t.
“…Maybe start with one person. Let them in your life. Give
them a chance, even if it’s scary at first. I am certain that there are people
in your life, unlikely people, who you can trust. Why don’t you try this for a
change,” Dr. Pemberton says eagerly, “when you leave the office, and as you go
home, look around you. Notice the people that you come in contact with. And as
you do, I’d like for you to ask yourself: Why not open up myself to him or… her?”
“Okay,” I say, feeling strangely on a ledge, as if I’m about
to jump into some unknown water.
Dr. Pemberton smiles at my response. She can see that I’m
open to it. Frankly, I’ve never seen her this lively. Does she think I’m close
to a breakthrough?
“Reveal yourself to someone—other than me.” Dr. Pemberton
suggests energetically. “Maybe even… let that zombie catch you!”
