The Fortunes of Indigo Skye by Deb Caletti

have put their credit card in the plastic folder and are shifting around
in their seats. The bookstore guy has pushed his plate away and I can feel his
eyes tugging on me to notice. In terms of my kindergarten class, I've got one
kid who's knocked over the finger paint and another who's jumping up and down
with his hands in his pockets, needing to use the bathroom. It's starting to
fall apart, but I don't care. This is Vespa guy we're talking about, and he
needs me.
    "I don't know. My situation's ... complicated,"
he says. "But man, sometimes I want to just ..." He shoves his hands away from
himself as if pushing something heavy. His voice is soft.
    "Whoa. You're not talking drastic measures
here--"
    "No, God. Suicide? No, never. Never. I
mean, like quit my job. Give it all up. Become a basket weaver."
    "Why not? My father did that. Well, he's not a
basket weaver. But he up and quit one day, ditched all the high pressure and
moved to Maui and now he rents surfboards."
    "Wow. Sounds great."
    "He loves it, I think. He's got this small
house by the beach. Surfboards, and what are the things with the sails that you
stand on? My mind just went blank."
    "Windsurfers?"
    "Yeah. Windsurfers. I went there once. It was
beautiful."
    "I'd love that. Maui."
    "I don't even think he wears shoes anymore. Of
course, you have very nice shoes," I say.
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    "I have very nice everything. It's
exhausting."
    "Look, I gotta take these people's money," I
say. "Sure, sure," he says.
    I grab the ladies' credit card and give it to
Jane to run. She's already cleared the bookstore guy's plate, and I give him his
check and sit a Darigold worker and make change for the salmon hatchery folks.
Nick's trying like crazy to catch my eye, and so is Trina and Funny, and Jane
keeps nudging me every chance she gets and Joe even whispers Well? even
though it is hardly a whisper. I ignore all of them, and it takes some
doing.
    The Vespa guy holds up his hand in a Stop motion to indicate no more coffee. When I bring him his check, he
says, "Thank you, you know. Really. I have faith again that everyone doesn't
give just to get."
    And he seems to mean it. One little gesture,
you know? The Oh, shit from earlier is gone, and I fill up with a
fellow-man-humankind gladness. I have this sense of satisfaction. A
beach-ball-just-blown-up feeling, or a full tank of gas feeling. "Hey, just
promise you'll ditch the smokes," I say.
    "Promise," he says.
    The Vespa guy leaves the plastic padded folder
on the table. On his way out, he stops me, holds out his hand. "Richard
Howards," he says.
    "Indigo Skye," I say.
    "S-k-y?" he asks.
    "With an E," I answer.
    "A pleasure, Indigo Skye. And thank you again."
We shake. When he leaves, I see there is something else on the table too, left
in the saucer of his coffee cup. It's the package of cigarettes. It's a brand
I've never seen before, a white package with a red square
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    in the middle, Dunhill Special Reserve. I hear the Vespa start up outside. I watch him ride off, and he's butterscotch,
melting into the distance.
    "Well?" Trina practically shrieks.
    "I couldn't hear hardly anything from over
here," Nick says.
    "Something about quitting his job," Funny says.
"Becoming a basketball player."
    "Basket weaver," I say. But I feel suddenly
proprietary about our talk; decide to give them crumbs and crust, not the
squishy center of the bread. "He's unhappy with his work."
    "He said his life was complicated," Nick
Harrison says.
    "I thought you said you couldn't hear," I
say.
    "He said he could hardly hear anything,
is what he said." It's the bookstore guy, interjecting. We ignore
him.
    "A smoker?" Jane waves the package in the air,
gives it a shake.
    "He's quitting," I say. I hear the
defensiveness in my own voice. You feel responsible to someone when they've
given you something private.
    "Tell me you didn't give him shit about it,
Indigo. I can't afford to lose any customers."
    "She's merely