Monica McKayhan - Indigo Summer

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FRESH. CURRENT. AND TRUE TO YOU

Dear Reader,

What you’re holding is very special. Something fresh, new and true to your unique experience as a young African-American! We are proud to introduce a new fiction imprint—Kimani TRU. You’ll find Kimani TRU speaks to the triumphs, problems and concerns of today’s black teens with candor, wit and realism. The stories are told from your perspective and in your own voice, and will spotlight young, emerging literary talent.

Kimani TRU will feature stories that are down-to-earth, yet empowering. Feel like an outsider? Afraid you’ll never fit in, find your true love or have a boyfriend who accepts you for who you really are? Maybe you feel that your life is a disaster and your future is going nowhere? In Kimani TRU novels, discover the emotional issues that young blacks face every day. In one story, a young man struggles to get out of a neighborhood that holds little promise by attending a historically black college. In another, a young woman’s life drastically changes when she goes to live with the father she has never known and his middle-class family in the suburbs.

With Kimani TRU, we are committed to providing a strong and unique voice that will appeal to all young readers! Our goal is to touch your heart, mind and soul, and give you a literary voice that reflects your creativity and your world.

Spread the word…Kimani TRU. True to you!

Linda Gill

General Manager

Kimani Press

God is the source of my talent and blessings.

To my sons who took me back to being a teenager for the sake of this story. To my husband, who is the ringleader of my cheering section. And my family and close friends who keep me grounded.

To my editor, Evette Porter: Thank you for putting Indigo Summer on the map and other titles just like it. The minds of our youth depend on the voices in fiction that Kimani TRU books represent.

For my Granny, Rosa A. Heggie:

You are special in so many ways, and the

strongest woman I know. My life is rich because of you.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Indigo

“What kind of name is that for a dog?”

“What, Killer?”

“Yes. That’s stupid!”

“What’s stupid about it?”

“It just is.”

“What kind of name is Indigo?”

“A perfect name, for a perfect girl.” I rolled my eyes at him, placed my hands on my hips and was about to give him a piece of my mind. But I decided not to. “How did you know my name anyway?”

He was silent for a moment, standing there with waves all in his hair, as if he slept in a doo-rag or something. His teeth were perfect, and I knew without asking that he used to wear braces. I wished my parents would spring for some braces for me, so that I could have perfect teeth like that. But instead, they were always complaining about having to pay bills and telling me that my teeth weren’t that bad.

“Money don’t grow on trees, Indi,” Daddy was always telling me. “But you got it better than most kids. We provide a nice home for you, you eat good, and you have your own room. That’s more than I had when I was your age. I had to share a room with your uncle Keith when I was coming up. Never had my own room.” Then he’d go into his spiel about having to walk ten miles to school in a Chicago blizzard. Imagine that. Ten miles in a Chicago blizzard? He’d lose me at that point.

“Daddy, come on,” I would laugh. “Ten miles is a lot of miles.”

“Don’t forget the part about the Chicago blizzard, girl’d have to laugh himself, because he knew that he was only telling half the truth.

Sometimes I loved listening to my daddy’s stories about growing up in Chicago at my nana Summer’s house. It was an old house, two stories tall, with an old porch and shutters that needed to be painted, but the house always smelled so good. Like fried chicken, or my all-time favorite, macaroni and cheese as only Nana could make. But she was older now, and not quite the Nana I remembered when I was little. She couldn’t remember anything anymore, and was always having aches and pains somewhere on her body. I missed the Nana that would come for visits in the summertime, creep into my room at night with chocolate chip cookies and sit in the wooden rocker next to my bedroom window. I could see my grandmother’s caramel face in the moonlight, as she rocked back and forth with her eyes just barely closed.

“Don’t get crumbs in the bed, either, little girl,” she’d say.

“I won’t, Nana.” I’d promise, but still have to brush the crumbs from the sheets.

Nana and I would talk about everything we could possibly think of. I could talk to her about any and everything. Whenever something was bothering me, she always knew. Even if I tried to smile and pretend everything was okay, Nana knew. And she’d always make me laugh even when I didn’t feel like it.

Nana insisted that I teach her all the latest dances. I taught her how to do the Harlem Shake and had to admit, she had rhythm. Before long, she could do the Harlem Shake better than some of the girls I knew from school.

Nana would come to our house in June and stay the whole summer. I wished she could’ve stayed the entire year, but she always went back to Chicago at the end of August.

“I gotta go check on my house, baby,” she would say whenever I would ask her to stay forever. “But I’ll be back for Christmas. And we’ll decorate that old tree together, make hot apple cider and stay up all night on Christmas eve.”

“Can I open at least one gift on Christmas Eve?”

“You always do, and end up picking the biggest package under the tree,” she’d chuckle. “When will you learn that the best things don’t always come in the big packages? Good things come in small packages, too.”

She was right, too, because I remembered last year when I got that sapphire necklace with the matching ankle bracelet. It was my favorite gift under the tree, and it came in the smallest package. And in the big box was a bunch of bras, panties and socks—things I didn’t care about.

I always cried for a week after Nana was gone.

I’d tell her about all the ugly, stupid boys in my class and tell her how much I hated them.