Letters For Indie

~Chapter 12~

The streets were lonely. The air was calm. 

The occasional dogwalker or jogger passed by, but other than that, Hallowsbury had settled down for the night.

A few streetlights flickered, dim light pouring out into the surroundings. 

Ethan's elbow propped him up close to the open window, the sweetened sea breeze drifting into his car.

His right arm was on the wheel, swiveling it back and forth at every turn.

I rested my head against the sidedoor and kept my eyes on the newly-paved streets.

He spoke first, breaking the pin-drop silence.

"You never told me your name, Cinderella."

I sighed and turned my head to face him.

"I-I-Indie," I said, stuttering a bit. 

"Full name I-I-Indie?" he asked, smirking.

"Indila Adrienne Odette Blair," I stated confidently, stressing each syllable.

"That's more like it," he grinned broadly, "but why?"

"What?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

"We all have some sort of origin, Indila Adrienne Odette Blair," he said, sweeping his fingers through his touseled hair. "I'm asking you for yours."

What the actual--?

No one has ever asked about my name before.

"Oh, um, it's French. My mother was French."

He made a rolling motion with his hand, signaling for me to continue.

"Well, she really liked this French Pop artist named Indila."

"And?"

"And Odette Hallowes was an allied heroine of the Second World War, also the daughter of the First World War hero, Gaston Brailly."

He slammed his hand down on the wheel excitedly. 

"See, I'm learning more shit than I have all of last year in European History!"

I smiled to myself.

"Continue," he said politely.

"Ok. I know Adrienne Rich was a famous American poet, that my mother met one time before I was born. She was selected by Auden for the Yale Series of Younger Poets," I exclaimed, furrowing my eyebrows in deep thought.

"Now your talking!" he said loudly, pumping his arm in the air, almost hitting the hood of the car.

"Blair was my grandfather's last name. I've never met him."

"Well Indie, you've deeply impressed me," he said dramatically.

"Your turn," I laughed.

"You are sitting in the presence of the the very attractive, idealistic, and highly regarded sex god Ethan Ever Montgomery, the one and only," he said.

I giggled and shook my head slightly.

"Ethan Allen. A notable philosopher and Revolutionary War patriot, who worked alongside Ben Franklin during the American Revolution."

"How interesting," I said, bitingly.

"Who do you think helped keep that old man's shit together?"

I laughed.

"My dad likes a really age-old song called Round Midnight, written by one of his favorite Jazz Guitarists named Wes Montgomery."

I leaned back onto the seat and crossed my arms on my thighs.

"Ever heard of him?" he asked.

"No."

"Who has?" he rolled his eyes.

"It's the same every night. My dad plays Wes's tapes for hours, while sitting out on the porch smoking and reading the newspaper."

"Concentrate on the road," I said playfully, but sternly.

He ignored me and continued. "And Ever, I picked it out on my own."

"Ever?" I laughed, "Why'd you pick that?"

"Don't laugh, Cinderella."

I looked at him with confusion written on my face.

"All secret agents need a fly name," he grinned.

"You'd make a really bad secret agent."

"We'll see about that."

I pursed my lips and looked away. We had reached "The Peach Pit" now.

Ethan turned onto main street. "So tell me about yourself," he said, breaking the silence once again.

"I'm seventeen years old. I grew up in Marrowstone, WA with my mom. She did all sorts of weird jobs to put me through school and raise me. I actually look exactly like her--"

He cut me off. "I asked about you."

"What?" 

"I want to know about Indila Adrienne Odette Blair, not her mom."

"Oh."

"Yes," he stated, turning the curb.

"Okay. I"m seventeen. From Washington..." I said unsurely, but then went on.

"I like plenty of things. I like horror films, the sound of rain, and strong coffee with milk in the mornings. I like listening to feminist punk rock, and watching the sunset every day. I even like drawing little pictures on the fog that settles on my car window."

He stared back at me intently.

"And I hate plenty of things too. I hate my dad. I hate his girlfriend. I hate this town. I hate cranberries and reggae and wet snow and anything with peanut butter in it. I hate most of the people at HHS and I hate my math teacher. I hate dancing and MTV and Megan Crawford from my old school."

I finished ranting with a long, shaky breath.

Ethan smiled and kept his eyes on the road.

"Turn here," I said, barely audible. 

What's wrong with me? Am I crazy? I am crazy. I just poured out half of my dear diary entries to this guy whom I barely knew.

He pulled up in front of my house.

I opened the door, and slowly got out.

Glowing yellow lights shone through the windows of the dining room curtains, and I could make out Martin's figure.

I shut the door and looked towards the front yard.

"You're welcome for the ride," Ethan called out, rolling down his window.

"I was going to say thanks," I spat.

"I know," he replied.

I was about to turn around and start walking, when he spoke again.

"Are your eyes feeling better?" he snickered.

"My eyes?"

"Yeah. You're disfunctional eyes which deprived you of walking straight."

"Oh...um.....no they're not, " I said haughtily, "Your horribly hazardous driving worsened my eyesight."

"I should get an award," he chuckled.

I ignored this remark and spun around, away from him. Gosh, this idiot really knows how to push my buttons.

"Bye Cinderella!" he yelled after me.

And with that, the engine roared to life, and I walked home.