A Different Blue(51)

have been spray painted, I'll know who to point the finger at.”

“Paint is not my medium,” I sniffed, offended.

“Oh really? What exactly is your medium?” He locked the door behind us as we stepped out into

the night.

“Wood,” I clipped, wondering why I was telling him. Let him think I was a graffitti artist.

Who the hell cared. “You do,” a little voice taunted mildly. And I did.

“And what exactly do you do with wood?”

“I carve it.”

“People, bears, totem poles, what?”

“Totem poles?!” I was incredulous. “Is that supposed to be some kind of slam to my ethnicity?

”

[page]“Your ethnicity? I thought you told me you weren't Native American.”

“I don't know what the hell I am, but that still sounded like a slam, Sherlock!”

“Why don't you know what you are, Blue? Haven't you ever tried to find out? Maybe that would

make you less hostile!” Wilson seemed frustrated. He stomped ahead of me, almost talking to

himself. “Absolutely impossible! Having a conversation with you is like trying to converse with

a snake! You are vulnerable and tearful one moment and hissing and striking the next. I frankly

don't know how to reach you, or even if I want to! I only said totem poles because they are

usually carved from wood, all right?” He turned and glared at me.

“Cranky when you stay up past your bedtime, aren't you?” I mumbled.

“See?” he griped, throwing his hands up. “There you go again.” He stopped at his car, his

hands on his hips. “I know you are incredibly bright, because when you are not being a

smartarse your comments in class are very insightful, and when you ARE being a smartarse you are

witty and clever and you make me laugh even when I want to slap you. I know you are either an

adrenaline junky or you have more courage than anyone I've ever met, and you know how to unload

a weapon. I know you were raised by a man with the name Echohawk. I know you don't know when

your real birthday is. I know you have no plans to go to university when you graduate. I know

you enjoy being the class clown and making me the butt of your jokes.”

He counted on his fingers. “That's eight things. Oh, and you carve something out of wood. Most

likely NOT totem poles, since that seemed to get a reaction out of you. So nine or maybe ten if

we count being a smartarse.” He put his hands back on his hips. “I would really like to know

more. I don't want to know about the little blackbird who was pushed from the nest. I would like

to know something about Blue.” He poked me in the center of my chest, hard, as he said 'Blue.'

“It's a parable,” I whined, rubbing the spot he'd jabbed with his long finger. “My father –

Jimmy – used to say I was like a little blackbird, far from home.”

“Eleven things. See? Not so difficult.”

“You're kind of cute when your angry.” I meant to ruffle him, but it came out sounding

flirtatious, like something Sparkles, aka Chrissy, would say. I felt stupid and darted a look at

him. Luckily, he just rolled his eyes. Funny how you can tell someone is rolling his eyes, even

when it's dark and you can barely see them.

Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have