A Different Blue(53)

“Ugliness.”

Wilson's hand shot out, pulling me to a stop. He searched my face, as if trying to glean the

meaning behind my words. “You are many things, Blue Echohawk, I can even name twelve.” He

smiled a little. “But ugly isn't one of them.”

His words made me feel funny inside. I was surprised by them. I had assumed he had never noticed

me on a physical level. I didn't know if I wanted him to. I just shook my head and shrugged him

off and began walking again, answering him as I did.

“I've had a lot of ugly in my life, Wilson. Lately the ugly has gotten to be more than I can

take.”

We resumed our steady march through the sleeping street. Boulder City was incredibly quiet. If

Vegas was the city that never slept, then Boulder made up for it. It slept like a drunkard on a

feather bed. We hadn't even been barked at.

“All right. So that's two more. We're at fourteen. You've had an ugly life, but you're not

ugly. And you enjoy praying in darkened hallways in the middle of the night.”

“Yep. I'm fascinating. And that's fifteen.”

“I would think that after the shooting, the school would be the last place you would go for

prayer . . . or redemption.”

“I didn't really choose the venue, Wilson. I was stranded. But if God is real, then he's just

as real in the school as he is in the church. And if he's not . . . well, then maybe my tears

were for Manny, and all the rest of the lost misfits who walk those halls alone and could use a

little rescue.”

“From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw; I could

not bring my passions from a common spring,” Wilson murmured.

I looked at him expectantly.

“'Alone' by Edgar Allan Poe. Misfit. Loner. Poet.”

I should have known. I wished I knew the lines he quoted, that I could continue the poem where

he left off. But I didn't and I couldn't, so silence reigned once more.

“So tell me why you don't know when you were born,” Wilson said, abandoning Poe.

“Do you enjoy picking scabs?” I shot back.

“What? Why?”

“Because you keep picking mine, and it kind of hurts,” I whined, hoping my pathetic pleas of

“ouch” would end the questioning.

“Oh, well, then. Yes. I suppose I love picking scabs. Out with it. We've got at least three

miles to go.”

I sighed heavily, letting him know I didn't think it was any of his business. But I proceeded to

tell him anyway. “My mother abandoned me when I was two-ish. We don't know exactly how old I

was. She just left me in Jimmy Echohawk's truck and took off. He didn't know her, and I wasn't

old enough to tell him anything. He didn't know what to do with me, but he was afraid that

somehow he would be implicated in some kind of crime or that someone would think he had taken

me. So he split. He took me with him. He wasn't exactly conventional. He roamed around, made

carvings for a living, sold them to different tourist shops and a few galleries. And that's how

we lived for the next eight years. He died when I was ten or eleven. Again, I don't have any

idea how old I really am, and I ended up with Cheryl, who is Jimmy's half-sister.

“Nobody knew who I was or where I came from, and I thought Jimmy was my dad. Cheryl didn't tell