Color Blind

by Gardin, Diana

  Color Blind

  a novel by

  DIANA GARDIN

  Copyright © 2013 by Diana Gardin

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1-Act Like a What?

  Chapter 2-Luka

  Chapter 3-Double Date

  Chapter 4-Cooper

  Chapter 5-First Date

  Chapter 6-Jet-Skiing

  Chapter 7-Mamma Mia!

  Chapter 8-The Bonfire

  Chapter 9-Turning Point

  Chapter 10-Truth

  Chapter 11-Official

  Chapter 12-Seashell

  Chapter 13-The Spot

  Chapter 14-Perfect For Him

  Chapter 15-The Spotlights

  Chapter 16-Pain

  Chapter 17-Lilly Brewer Strikes Again

  Chapter 18-Distraction

  Chapter 19-Answers

  Chapter 20-Safe and Sound

  Chapter 21-Ready

  Chapter 22-Revelations

  Chapter 23-Fear

  Chapter 24-Line Of Fire

  Chapter 25-Found

  Chapter 26-Slow Motion

  Chapter 27-Over

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  To my mother, Inez, thank you for instilling early on a great love of books and reading. Maybe I never knew then that I could do this, but without the love, it never would have been possible.

  To my brother, Tommy, thank you for always believing that I could be better than I myself believed.

  To my husband, Tyson, thank you for being moderately patient with me when I had to run off to find an “office” in which to write. Thank you for picking up my slack when I needed time away, and for always supporting my dreams no matter what. Muah. I love you!

  To my children Carrington and Raleigh, thank you for patiently waiting for Mommy to be finished working so I could play with you. Thank you for being the beautiful muses you are day after day, and for giving me unconditional love and affection.

  To my best friend, Melody, thank you for being my biggest fan and my first reader. You are irreplaceable. I love you like a fat kid loves cake.

  To my beta readers: Richelle, Heather, and Ant. Thank you for wanting to read what I wrote, just because you love me. Your enthusiasm drove me forward, and made me think that I could do this.

  To the readers who stumble upon this story, thank you for giving me a chance to entertain and move you with my writing. I hope you fall in love with Cam, Cooper, and Luka the way I did.

  Chapter 1

  Act Like a What?

  Camryn

  Standing in front of them, fists clenched, eyes narrowed, my heart begins to beat too fast. My knees shake, and I am afraid my anger will betray me. That I’ll lose my cool.

  Losing my temper in front of these girls isn’t something I’ve ever done before, and I don’t intend to start now. I steel myself against their words of hate and ignorance, and prepare to turn around, to walk away.

  Like I always do.

  As I stride by them, my head held high when I really want to duck my chin, I overhear a snippet of conversation.

  “---Acts like a white girl.”

  My head snaps around toward the group and I stop short.

  The group of gorgeous girls stare hatefully at me, as if daring me to say something. There is no way I am going to confront them here, now. So I continue to walk. Their not-so-hushed whispers ensue.

  And then I change my mind.

  I’m not going to slink past these girls like the vile words they said don’t matter. It matters. And I’m tired of hiding behind strength and the high ground.

  “Why do you care how I act?” The words fly out of my mouth before I realize I am striding back toward the group.

  “We don’t care about nothin’ you do,” one girl replies. “Now exit to the left, before you walk your ass right into trouble.”

  I stop, but stand my ground. “You must get pretty tired of seeing me in your dreams at night. I mean, if you care enough to talk about me all day at school, you must dream about me, too.”

  Another girl steps forward. “Look, wanna-be-white girl—“

  I stop her with my hand, my eyes shooting sparks in her direction. “I don’t wanna be anything but rich and famous one day. And when I am, I’ll be sure to thank all of my haters for the motivation.”

  I walk away without looking back.

  Hot tears sting my eyes as I walk out of the school building into the bright sunshine. Crying is the very worst thing that can happen to me right now. I will not cry because of those girls. I am so tired of being hated for absolutely nothing. What the clique of girls said was nothing new to me. No one had ever says it to my face, but I’ve heard it since middle school. Middle school is when girls are at their ugliest. Everyone is just trying to find a place in the first fishbowl of life, stepping on the backs of others to make it to the top. So the whispers started then. Always from girls, never from boys. And sadly, never from the small amount of multicultural students who attended my schools, and never from white girls either.

  Sharing the same skin color means a world of competition and bitter comparisons. If you don’t act a certain way, according to an unwritten rulebook, you are an outcast. You are strange and weird and different.

  How does one go about “acting white” anyway? I never understood it. Maybe it is because I am articulate. I have no accent, and I was raised to speak clearly and enunciate. Maybe it is because I have a lot of white friends. But that’s stupid. I have a lot of Filipino friends too. No one ever says I act Filipino.

  Maybe it’s because I love the beach, and don’t shun the oceanfront during daylight hours and only frequent The Strip at night, like my African-American counterparts. This is coastal Virginia, where the ocean is a part of daily life. We cross a bridge or enter a tunnel every time we leave the house. I love feeling the hot sun hitting my face, and the sound of the waves crashing into the soft sparkling sand. If I denied it because of my skin color, I’d be living a lie. And I don’t lie.

  More likely it is because I live an urban lifestyle in spite of all that. Tiny apartment, mom who worked two jobs. Dad who is nowhere to be found. I am a cliché in that way. But my mom told me a long time ago that just because we didn’t have a lot of money, it didn’t mean I couldn’t have everything I wanted to have in life. I’d just have to work harder for it.

  Whatever the reason, certain girls at my school (who I’d dubbed the Pretty Black Girl Clique) have an idea about me they can’t, or won’t, change. And they won’t forgive me for it, either.

  It’s no wonder I feel like a dolphin in shark-infested waters at school most of the time.

  When I arrive at Dara’s car, she’s locked in an embrace with her boyfriend Brandon. Her black boyfriend. Unlike some of the other girls in school who look like Dara, she doesn’t date Brandon for a status upgrade, or to upset her parents, or to “see what it would be like to be with a black guy.” She just fell for him. I don’t even think she’s noticed his skin color yet. Or, if she has, it hasn’t registered as an issue at all. That is one of the reasons I love her so much.

  She’s colorblind.

  I clear my throat as I approach.

  She smiles brightly at me. “Hey, Cam! How did the rest of your day go after lunch?”

  I shrug. “It was alright.”

  “What’s wrong?” Her shrewd glance tells me she already knows I was upset. I’m never able to put anything past her.

  I recount my confrontation with the P.B.G.C.’s for Dara and Brandon.

  “Whoa,” says Brandon. “They said all that?”

  Dara scowls. “It’s nothing new, Brandon. She’s dealt with those stupid bitches--�
��

  “Hey,” I interrupt. “There’s no need, Dara. They mean less than nothing to me. I don’t even know why I let what they say behind my back upset me.”

  “It upsets me too. You’re my best friend. I’m sick of seeing you hurt about this stuff. I love you, and so do a lot of other people. They’re missing out on a kick-ass friend.” She hugs me. Thank God for Dara.

  “Come on,” she pulls my arm toward her car and blows Brandon a kiss. “We have a date with Ling Cho ‘n them. Mani-Pedi time!”

  I laugh, and let her pull me toward meaningless, fun girl time. Yeah. Thank God for Dara.

  ***

  Another day, another torturous experience with the girls who hate me. Trying not to think about them as I dress for school is nearly impossible. Spending your day on guard, checking over your shoulder for the people who detest you isn’t my idea of a party. I smooth my black hair with my flat iron, grab my backpack, and head down the hall.

  Breakfast consists of a Pop-Tart, still warm in the toaster, and a banana. It’s all Mom has energy to make after working all night at a manufacturing plant. I grab them both.

  When I exit the front door and walk out into the bright autumn sunshine, I turn my face up and inhale deeply. The fresh, salty air accosts my lungs, causing a smile to touch my lips. I love living by the ocean. The prospect of living anywhere but the coast just confuses me. I cant fathom it.

  Beep. Beep.

  I drop a glance down over the railing of the third-floor landing.

  The horn on Dara’s Civic honks again. I grin and jog down the cement staircase to the car, opening the passenger side door.

  “Damn girl, what the hell takes you so long to get your buns out here every morning?” Dara grumbles as she pulls out of my driveway. It’s her usual rant, so I give her my usual answer.

  “First of all, you don’t drive me to school every morning. We alternate, because ‘Lil Red can’t take the heat.” I pat the dashboard on her old Civic affectionately. Second of all, you know I sleep until the last possible second. You should just get here later.”

  We’ve been driving each other to school every day since we got our licenses sophomore year. We took driver’s ed. together, because our birthdays were only four days apart. I got my car later than Dara did, though. My mom told me she’d match what I saved from working at the studio, up to a thousand dollars. I knew she had to work overtime hours to do it at both of her jobs. I feel a pang of guilt every time I drive my car.

  Dara Giovanni looks like a supermodel. She’s tall, and completely all-American with her long blonde hair and light blue eyes. The dimples that flash in her cheeks when she smiles just round out her near-perfect look. She is also five foot ten. The girl is just fierce. Her problem is that she doesn’t even realize it. She’s never had a boyfriend. It’s our senior year, and she finally decided to accept some of the male attention she’s been ignoring since fifth grade.

  When we pull up to our gigantic, beige-brick school building, we park in the side lot reserved for seniors. There, standing next to his dark blue Jeep is Brandon Travis. His handsome face breaks into a wide grin when Dara pulls in next to him.

  “Hey, girl,” he greets her, and takes her in his muscled, chocolate-brown arms. “I’m tired today. Someone kept me up talking on the phone all night.”

  Dara flashes those deep dimples and replies, “Really? That’s funny. I feel so well rested.”

  He squeezes her tighter as I grab my backpack and step out of the car.

  “’Sup, Miss Grimes?” he glances back to greet me.

  “Hey Brandon,” I answer. “I’m going to need you to stop making my best friend rush me in the mornings. Looking like this takes time. It can’t be hurried.”

  Laughing loudly, he pushes his fist out for me to bump, which I do.

  We walk into the building as a threesome, but I suddenly feel like the odd one out. Turning a pair of best friends into a party of three will do that to you. Where Dara and I usually keep to ourselves, with the exception of my dance team members and her choir group, we now go everywhere with Brandon by our side. So even though I like Brandon, and I like the way he treats my best friend even more, it’s awkward to be a third wheel.

  The throes of navigating high school relationships.

  I hang back, walking alone up the sidewalk leading up to the building.

  And then I am attacked by a midget.

  Chapter 2

  Luka

  Okay, maybe Sarah Alba isn’t an actual midget, but she is very, very tiny. And very, very hard to miss.

  My brown-skinned, fellow dance team member is five-foot one inches of Filipino fireball, and if she had something to say, everyone in yelling distance usually heard it.

  “Camryn Grimes!” Sarah screams, eliciting a cringe from me.

  “Girl, you better look at me when I’m talking to you! What happened last night? We were supposed to get together so you could help me with the hip-hop! You know I need some black girl flavor when it comes to those funky routines!”

  I sigh. I’m not even good at hip-hop. But that never seems to matter. Black girls are supposed to be great at hip-hop. So everyone assumes it’s my specialty, even though it definitely isn’t.

  “Sorry, Sarah. I was at the studio until late, then that Lit paper was calling my name. Tonight?”

  “Mmm-hmm. I guess so. Catch ya at lunch! I brought lumpia to share!”

  She runs off, hollering loudly at a group of girls down the hall. Sarah always seems to be running, maybe because her legs are so much shorter than everyone else’s. It takes her three steps to everyone else’s one.

  “I’ll see you in English, D,” I call to Dara, as I turn toward my locker.

  Walking through the blue-lockered hallways before first period is always like walking through the zoo exhibits at feeding time. Such an assortment of species to observe. I tend to notice all the couples, since I’m not currently a part of one. Actually, I’ve never been a part of one. Unlike Dara, I’m not a stunning beauty who just doesn’t notice the attention of attractive guys. I actually know I’m not gorgeous. I mean, I can say that I’m okay looking. Maybe even pretty on a good day. But I’ve always been sort of invisible as far as guys are concerned. I’m not sure why. It could be because I never belonged to a particular clique. I am a bit of a chameleon where school groups are concerned. During theater seasons, I can always be found around the thespians. Last spring, I agreed to be a part of the junior prom committee, so I hung out with a lot of student council members. I am also on the dance team, so during football and basketball season I can be found rehearsing and hanging out with my teammates.

  I grew up attending an elementary school where, in every classroom, you might only have found one or two black children. So many of my friends that I grew up with are white, too. But white guys don’t usually date black girls. The black guys have trouble getting to know me because I’m not with the black girl clique. So I have a feeling the guys at school are just confused. I don’t blame them. I’m confused myself sometimes about where I belong.

  Fascination sweeps over me as I watch a cheerleader snuggle up to her boyfriend, a wrestler. Her short pleated skirt and his letterman’s jacket are a big clue to their school activities; a total idiot would know it. Across the hall from them, two student council members cozy up on the floor, engrossed in a textbook. In the commons, I look left and see a black couple hugging by the patio doors. The guy is standing with his legs apart, arms slung tightly around his girl, and she is nestled snugly between his legs as they embrace. I look right and face a dark-haired girl with a blue streak in her tresses locked in a kiss with her partner, a boy with tattoos lacing up both of his arms and curling around his neck.

  Couples are everywhere in a high school and a part of me aches at the sight of them. I let the loneliness win until the bell rang, and then I pull myself together and head to class.

  It would be nice to have someone to share this crazy ride with. The more practical part of
me tells the romantic side to shut the hell up. Couples are always dealing with drama. I’m drama-free. I don’t need a relationship screwing up the path I am clearing to a different kind of life.

  ***

  I drop my dance bag down by the front door and sniff. My mom is whipping up my absolute favorite dinner. I’m drawn toward the kitchen, led by my nose.

  “Chicken Parm! Yum,” I exclaim.

  “Your favorite, I know,” Mom replies, bustling around the kitchen preparing plates. “Would you set the table please?”

  “Sure.” I retrieve the paper plates and plastic forks from a drawer and bring them to the kitchen table. “I forgot you had the night off from the warehouse.”

  “That’s right, baby,” she answers. “And I wanted to make sure you actually had a real dinner to eat for a change.”

  We sit down at our small glass-top table to eat. My mom immediately starts asking about my college applications.

  “I know you want to go the performing arts route, honey, but you need to put in applications at regular universities, too. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. The most important thing is an education.”

  I sigh. I know she’s right. But an education just isn’t the most important thing to me. Dance is. Performing. Being on stage was where I belong.

  “Okay, mom. I promised I would apply at Tech and GMU, but I’m really headed to L.A. or New York after graduation.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s a tough life, Cam. Lots of struggle, tryin’ to make it.”

  “And a tough life isn’t anything I’m not used to,” I mumble.

  She is quiet, putting forkfuls of pasta in her mouth while she thinks about my comment.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t mean that. I just mean that I can handle it. I know what trying to make it as a performer entails.”

  “It’s your life,” she answers. “Your decision.” She picks up her plate and shuffles tiredly over to the sink.

  I sit there, kicking myself for hurting her feelings. My mom works her ass off so that I can have dance classes. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even have the passion I do. I go over to the sink and pick up a rag. We finish the dishes together in silence.