A Different Blue(64)

“Thank you, Blue,” Wilson murmured, and I crept to my seat, relieved it was over, the heat of

so much attention heavy on my skin.

The room was hushed for a heartbeat more, and then my classmates started to clap. The clapping

was modest and didn't shake the room in thunderous applause, but for me, it was a moment I won't

forget as long as I live.





It turned out that Pemberley was the name of Mr. Darcy's house in Jane Austen's Pride and

Prejudice. That was the inside joke. Tiffa had named Wilson's house Pemberley to poke him about

his name. It made me like her even more. And my regard for her had nothing to do with the fact

that she seemed to love my carvings, though that certainly didn't hurt.

[page]I called the number on the card Wilson gave me and enjoyed ten minutes of effusive praise

in very proper English. Tiffa was convinced she could sell everything she had bought up at the

cafe and at significantly higher prices. She made me promise to keep carving and promised to

have a contract sent over for me to sign. The Sheffield would take a healthy cut of everything

sold in their gallery, which would include Tiffa's percentage, but I would get the rest. And if

the pieces sold at the prices Tiffa was sure they would sell for, my portion would still be

substantially more than I made from them now. And the exposure would be priceless. I had to keep

pinching myself through the conversation, but when it was over, I was convinced that, in the

struggle to become a different Blue, my fortunes were changing too.

That Friday night, instead of carving, I watched every version of Pride and Prejudice I could

get my hands on. When Cheryl dragged herself home from work eight hours later, I was still

sitting on the couch staring at the television as the credits rolled by. The English accent had

made it very easy to substitute Wilson into every depiction of Mr. Darcy. He even had the

mournful eyes of the actor who played opposite Keira Knightley. I found myself seeing him in

every scene, angry with him, crying for him, half in love with him when it was all said and

done.

“What are you watching?” Cheryl grumbled, watching Colin Firth stride across the menu screen

over and over again, waiting for me to push play.

“Pride and Prejudice,” I clipped, resenting Cheryl's intrusion on my post-Darcy glow.

“For school?”

“No. Just because.”

“You feelin' okay?” Cheryl squinted at me. I guess I couldn't blame her. My preferences

usually swung toward The Transporter and old Die Hard movies.

“I was in the mood for something different,” I said non-commitally.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Cheryl looked doubtfully at the screen. “I never cared for that hoity-

toity stuff. Maybe it was because in those days I woulda been the one scrubbin' the pots in the

kitchen. Hell, girl. You and I woulda been the girls the Duke chased around the kitchen!”

Cheryl chuckled to herself. “Definitely not Duchess material, that's for sure.” Cheryl looked

at me. “'Course we're Native, which means we wouldn't have been anywhere near England, would

we? They might not have even let us scrub the pots.”

I pointed the remote at the screen and Mr. Darcy disappeared. I pulled my pillow over my face

and waited until Cheryl went into her bedroom. She had ruined eight perfect hours of pretending