Do You Know Indigo?

Chapter Four

Edited 17th May 2020

My classes rolled in and by in a haze of dictated scribbles onto blank pages and unraised hands to teacher's questions. The mental exercise I had spent a year practising to placate my psychosis proved useless in the face of indigo-eyes and their intentions. No counting to ten, deep breaths in and exhales out could settle me as I anticipated my history lesson that afternoon. Why I was convinced that my history lesson would be our next meeting, I did not know but put it down to the foolish logic of my anxiety.

When history class did arrive, after a lunch of pretending not to notice the concerned expressions exchanged between Beth, Mandy and Jude, I was expecting Indigo Eyes to be occupying the seat that was, to all other eyes but mine, empty at the back of the classroom.

He wasn't.

The only scents pervading the classroom air was the stale sweat and overly applied perfume. Never had two equally offensive aromas been so happily embraced by someone of sound smelling capability.

It felt a long walk to the back of the class to my seat, culminating in me misstepping halfway there as I was overwhelmed by an irrational relief of not being the object of indigo-eyed scrutiny. Mr Gregory studied me suspiciously from behind his round spectacles as I took my seat. I blushed knowing that not only Mr Gregory but the other twenty people in my class had seen me stumble.

I slouched in my chair and glanced at the empty seat two across from me. Though the minutes might have proceeded to tick by without incident, that didn't mean anything more than the Indigo Boy being out there somewhere calculating his next move instead of in here. Or, perhaps I have become just like everyone else once again, blind to the movements of the paranormal.

Just to make sure he wasn't there, half way through the lesson I tore a page from the lined pad in my history folder. I scanned the room, checking I wasn't the subject of unwanted attention. Then, I scrunched up the torn paper and hurled it between the empty table and chair. It fell straight through.

No Indigo Boy then.

It was unfortunate that Mr. Gregory had the eyes of a hawk and the tolerance quantifying the volume of a teaspoon. I was to wait behind after class to answer for my actions. I knew better than to argue.

"Chris, you have been nothing but a conscientious student this term. I would go far as to say it has been a privilege to watch your progress and yet in both our previous class and this you couldn't be further from that. Should I be concerned?" Mr. Gregory asked, taking a seat at his desk as my classmates filed out of the room. He clasped his hands over a pile of half marked essays and made me feel colder with the disappointment in his stare than the indigo-eyed boy ever had. I swallowed, my guilt causing a considerable lump in my throat. I could not rationalise or condone my own actions to Mr. Gregory even if they were justified considering the circumstances.

"I don't know what to say except sorry Mr. Gregory," I began weakly. "I honestly have no excuse for my behaviour." I must have mastered the look of a pitiful teenage girl in crisis as Mr. Gregory's demeanour softened as he leaned back in his chair.

"I don't pretend to be your obvious confidant of choice Chris. I am, after all, an old, grumpy man who won't pretend to know the tribulations of today's youth but I am here to be a listening ear or point you in the appropriate direction of one if you need someone to talk to. Do not suffer in silence," Mr. Gregory said. I was confounded by my history teacher's capacity for grace. My mental instability was no secret and perhaps that was why Mr. Gregory favoured compassion over conviction.

"Thank you Mr. Gregory, I'll bear that in mind." I squared my shoulders. "And I'll try to be more like my usual conscientious self in class." Though I could offer my history teacher no real assurances, he seemed satisfied with my intent at the very least. He gathered his piles of papers into his hands and tidied them.