Fortunes of Indigo Skye by Deb Caletti

Author:Deb Caletti [Caletti, Deb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-04-14T03:00:00+00:00

"Only because you look like a fly," I say. "I'm not worrying

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about staying true to myself. I know myself pretty well."

"Money changes things, In."

"What's all the ooh-ahh about money and change? It's like it's some voodoo curse. I plan on being me with more money."

"Okay, In."

"I don't see why that's not possible."

"I never had a lot of it, okay? But even when I had maybe more than average? It makes you see things differently. Like yourself. What you expect from other people." He's tucking his keys and our sun lotion and shoes under three layers of towels, protection against marauding thieves.

"I will stand true against the forces of e-vil," I say in a superhero voice.

"I don't know how to explain it," he says. He's still tucking and hiding. "Not to say there's some kind of glory to being poor, because there isn't. There's nothing glorious about fear." Dad stands, brushes the sand off the butt of his swimsuit. "Just that for some reason, money can make you expect certain things, owed certain things. And some people think they're owed them just by virtue of having, not by virtue of earning. I guess that's the easiest way to put it. Are you ever going to put your flippers on?"

"Flippers are the most ridiculous thing one could put on their body," I say.

"Rainbow wig," Dad suggests.

"Bowling shoes," I say. I snap the flippers on, and Dad holds out his hand to help me stand. We flap, flap down to the water's edge, balancing with arms out like tightrope walkers, as everyone around does a version of the same act.

Dad gets there before I do. His feet are in the water, and he turns to wait for me. It's just another blue-sky day in Hawaii, and

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the black lava cove we're in bends around us. "Here's my great advice," he says. He reaches out his hand, and I take it, hobbling the last few steps. "When it seems like too much, remember, this is the real world. Nature. Under here, no one cares about money, or about what race you are, or what car you drive. It's just another day of everyone swimming different directions, looking for food, staying well, being beautiful."

"One, two, three," I say, and we dive. It's the only way to do it, because no matter how warm the water is, diving in is always oh-shit cold.

At first, it's just murky green, small bits of floating algae, Dad's legs, the color of someone else's swimsuit going past. I keep focused on Dad (don't panic, don't panic), push my fins against the push back of the water. I follow, and then suddenly, right there below us, is a school offish, bright yellow, and a few orange striped ones (clown fish, I think), and I remember all this, the unreal National Geographic thrill, the am-I-really-here astonishment, the creepy unease that a fish might swim against your bare legs, mixed with complete, goose-bumpy wonder. Dad's hair is serpent-wild, and he's gesturing to the fish below as if I could miss them.

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