This is My Message to You

Indigo

INDIGO

Though we hung out constantly during our summers, in our middle school years Connor and I were often too busy to play around in the backyard anymore. Plus, that annoying phase called puberty tends to make things weird between boys and girls at a certain age; we weren't kids anymore, and having mud fights on the soccer fields wasn't as socially acceptable.

Eighth grade stands out as Connor's ego's worst stage. Top of the middle school food chain and easily the most popular guy in the grade, he became almost unbearable to be around. I mean, it wasn't entirely unfounded – he kicked ass at soccer, got decent grades even though he still raised hell in every class, and had the good looks to back up his cockiness.

"You're so lucky you live next door to him, Riley," the other girls would gush as we sat together at lunch. "Look at his eyes, oh my gosh –"

I would roll my eyes and continue eating my peanut butter and jelly without looking over at Connor's table. No matter how cute he'd gotten in the past couple of years, he was still the kid who had pushed me head first down a slide and caused my first stitches.

At the end of the year, eighth grade graduation stood as the most important event in our adolescent lives. Our mothers dressed us up all nice and cried a little as they realized that their children would be attending high school in just a few months' time. I don't know if that's a normal thing in other towns, but in ours it's a major milestone.

Graduation, even eighth grade graduation, marked one of those special dress occasions, which my mother threw herself into whole-heartedly. Though I liked to look nice and everything, I was more concerned about the soccer game I had the morning of graduation, so I didn't think too much about the dress. My mom picked it out and insisted that I wore it.

I remember exactly what that dress looked like. Actually, it might still be in my closet somewhere at home. A short, flared skirt and lacy sleeves that fell to my elbows, such a deep blue in color that it was practically indigo. I guess I liked it enough when I first put in on, but it wasn't until the night of graduation itself that it meant something.

The ceremony passed nicely enough – truthfully, I don't remember much of it at all, big deal that it was. Afterward, all the families attended a reception inside the school, where moms grew tearful over childhood memories and dads took too many candids and us kids ate chocolate cake. After the reception, all the parents left, and the graduates migrated to the gym for the annual Eighth Grade Dance.

If graduation was important, this dance was basically bigger than prom. Most girls I knew had prepared for weeks, many wearing heels and makeup for the first time. I figure it would be a fun time, but dances weren't – and still aren't – really my thing.

Eighth graders, as cool as we thought we were, are still awkward as hell when it comes to anything boy-girl. Kids tried to dance and ended up waving their arms in the air and giggling over fruit punch. I hung out with some of my girl friends, bopping around to the occasional song and overall having an okay time.

Then Connor appeared at my side out of nowhere. He'd ditched his suit coat and had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, I remember, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, because obviously he was too cool to look put-together. As my friends had a mini panic attack, he looked me in the eye, gave me his signature dazzling smile, and said,

"That dress looks great on you, Riley."

And with that, he asked me to dance.

Man, I thought every girl in our grade was gonna kill me that night. Connor was no more cultured than I was at that time, so it wasn't like either of us were actually dancing, but he held my hands in his as the pop song overhead changed into a lighter, smoother melody.

"Bob Marley!" exclaimed Connor, his eyes lighting up.

"What?"

"This song – it's Bob Marley. He's awesome, my cousin listens to him."

He began humming along annoyingly to the song and moving my hands in his along to the rhythm. I didn't know then that he had reached the start of his Bob Marley obsession; I was just uncomfortably aware of how close we were and spent a good minute sweating in my indigo dress, wondering what he was thinking.

"How did your game go today?" Connor asked eventually, like we were sitting on the swings in his backyard and not slow-dancing on the gym floor.

"We won," I answered, and my fake-casual tone matched his. "I scored two goals."

"I would've scored three."

Connor grinned at me, and I would've punched him, but he was holding both my hands (he totally knew this, too).

"At least my team made it to the finals," I shot back, which immediately pissed him off, and just like that, the awkwardness between us dissipated. We spent most of the rest of the slow dance arguing heatedly about soccer – in other words, right back to normal.

He was my first slow dance. I never told him that.

Sometimes I wish now that I had.