Violet and the Pie of Life

by D. L. Green

  Instead, I stayed there and took a deep breath. On the exhale, I muttered, “Determination, joy, energy.” Then I stretched my neck high as a giraffe and raised my nose in the air like a celebrity and plastered a smile on my face like Mom showing a real estate listing. The giraffe + celebrity + real estate agent combination must have looked really dumb.

  “Superb,” Mr. Goldstein said.

  Okay, maybe not so dumb. And standing straight and smiling felt better than slumping and frowning.

  I started singing and stopped thinking about how I looked or what the other kids thought of me, or even about Mr. Goldstein or Diego. I was Dorothy. I had determination, joy, and energy. The gangly girl who sang like a kitten had been replaced by a confident pro.

  I sang two verses of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” while smiling the world’s biggest smile and keeping my back perfectly straight. For those two verses, I liked having the attention on me. It felt amazing. I felt amazing.

  When I finished, Mr. Goldstein nodded at me, and I could feel his positivity.

  I bounded off the stage and down the aisle of the auditorium, grinning the whole way.

  Once I returned to my seat, McKenzie patted my shoulder and said, “Great.”

  As soon as I was done freaking out about going onstage, I started worrying about my dad again. There were a lot of explanations for his disappearance, so that was good. But some of them involved criminal attacks and gruesome injuries and Dad lying in a ditch, so that wasn’t good. The possibilities were getting complicated, so I opened my notebook, put my hand over it so no one (McKenzie) could see what I was doing, and tried to work it out.

  “McKenzie Williston,” Mr. Goldstein said.

  “Knock ’em dead,” I whispered.

  McKenzie walked onstage with a huge smile, holding her head up and her back straight. She strutted like a runway model, except pudgier and about nine inches shorter.

  I thought she sounded nice, but Mr. Goldstein didn’t shiver or tell McKenzie she was superb or anything. Of course, he’d already heard two hours of auditions. As I told McKenzie, the world’s greatest singer (Beyoncé, obviously.) could have performed at that point and Mr. Goldstein would have cut her off after two verses.

  A few minutes later, after the last kid auditioned, Mr. Goldstein made a speech about how everyone performed wonderfully, blah blah blah, and not to take it personally if we didn’t get cast.

  “How are we supposed to take it?” McKenzie whispered.

  “Yeah,” I whispered back. Maybe I hadn’t cared about getting cast before, but my audition had sucked me into caring. I’d imagined myself somewhere over the rainbow, starring in a play, and it had felt exciting.

  Mr. Goldstein said he’d made up his mind about some people today, so we might get a role even if we didn’t get a callback. He’d post a list online tonight.

  When we left the auditorium, I was grateful to see Grandpa Falls-Apart, our ancient Ford Mustang. Mom had a thing about being on time. That meant she was always telling me to hurry on weekday mornings, but it also meant never having to wait for a ride after school. Unless Grandpa Falls-Apart was acting up.

  As I opened the heavy, dented car door, Mom said, “Does McKenzie need a ride?”

  “Want a ride?” I shouted to McKenzie.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  “It’s getting dark!” Mom shouted.

  “My mom’s on her way. Bye.” She waved.

  I bet she wasn’t coming.

  McKenzie said her mother was in the Free-Range Kids Movement, which meant she believed in giving kids independence. When McKenzie and I first became friends in fourth grade, her mother would leave us at the mall for a few hours. We had a great time trying on fancy dresses and makeup, playing with stuff at the Apple store, and going the wrong way on the escalators. But my mom found out and ended our fun. She tried to make up for it by taking McKenzie and me to the mall, but it was completely different with her there.

  Anyway, the Free-Range Kids Movement was great at the mall, but not so great if you wanted a ride home from school. McKenzie usually walked there and back. My mom didn’t know that though.

  Mom frowned. “I bet she’s walking home.”

  Maybe she did know.

  “I’ll feel terrible if something happens to her,” Mom said.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to her.” I looked out my window. Mom was right. It was getting dark. I’d feel terrible too. “Get in the car!” I yelled to McKenzie.

  “It’s no problem driving you!” Mom said.

  “My mom texted me she’s coming,” McKenzie insisted.

  “By the time she’s halfway home, the sun will be down,” Mom muttered.

  “McKenzie isn’t going to change her mind,” I said. Once McKenzie decided on something, there was no going back. She stuck with the things she loved—and hated. For the three years we’d been friends, she’d loved Justin Bieber and the color red, and despised Ally Ziegler.

  Mom sighed and pulled away. Then she hit me with her usual quadrillion questions.

  I informed her that school was good, lunch was good, and the audition was good.

  “Well, good luck,” Mom said. “Oh. I think you’re not supposed to say good luck to an actor. It’s like saying bad luck. I should say break a leg. Or maybe that’s just before a show.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Then Mom did something weird. Weird for her, anyway. She stopped talking. No rambling about up-and-coming neighborhoods in Orange County, or open houses full of looky-loos, or condos that smelled like cat pee. No more about my day. Mom didn’t even ask me about my homework.

  Something was very wrong.

  I looked at her hands. Yep. The hand that wasn’t on the steering wheel was picking at her cuticle.

  What if Dad hadn’t come back last night?

  I texted McKenzie.

  Text to McKenzie: R U walking home?

  McKenzie: Yeah

  Violet: R U OK?

  McKenzie: Fine. Jeez. U sound like ur mom

  Violet: Sorry

  I wanted to ask her to text me when she got home, but then I’d sound even more like my mom. I couldn’t tell McKenzie I was worried about my dad. It would sound too whiny, since McKenzie was walking by herself in the almost-dark and her dad was dead.

  “You know your father and I love you very much,” Mom said in a choked voice.

  Whoa. Where did that come from? I looked up from my phone.

  “We’ve always wanted the best for you,” Mom said.

  “Wanted, as in past tense? You don’t want the best for me anymore?”

  “We do. We always will.” She picked at her cuticle again. “Though it might not feel that way tonight.”

  We got to our house. A small U-Haul truck was parked in the driveway.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “We’ll explain.” Mom sighed. “Well, your dad will explain. He said he would. Although…” Her voice trailed off. Then she cleared her throat and said with fake confidence, “Your dad will try to explain.”

  THREE

  SIGNS YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A HORRIBLE NIGHT

  Your mom gives you a dumb speech on the way home from school.

  There’s a U-Haul parked outside your house.

  Inside the house is your dad, and his lips are quivering weirdly.

  When you ask him what’s going on, the weird quiver spreads to his entire face.

  He says, “Sit down,” in a froggy voice.

  When you sit close to your dad on the couch, he slides away from you like you have a contagious rash.

  His eyes start blinking fast and he says, “Vi, I’m moving out. I’m sorry.”

  He wouldn’t look at me. Not because he was rude, but so he wouldn’t cry. I could tell because of his quivery face
and fast-blinking eyes and froggy voice.

  “Why?” I asked, my face getting quivery and my eyes blinking fast and my voice froggy too. “Why are you moving out?”

  Mom sat next to me and tried to put her arm around my shoulder, but I slid away.

  He still wouldn’t meet my eyes or give me a reason. I didn’t count his croaky “Sometimes things aren’t meant to be” line as a reason. If my dad asked me why I got a bad grade and I used that line, he wouldn’t be satisfied either. Not that my dad asked me about my grades. My mom did that, and she did it more than enough for the two of them.

  “Where are you going?” I pushed.

  He didn’t answer, not even after Mom said angrily, “Why don’t you tell her, Will?”

  “Can you look at me, Dad?” I asked. If he did, maybe he wouldn’t be able to leave. “Please,” I added.

  He looked at me, finally. He didn’t cry or even blink fast. He said, “Remember when you were worried about starting middle school, Vi? I told you moving forward is part of life. And you ended up liking middle school.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like it that much. And I miss my friends who went to other middle schools.”

  “You’re making this so hard,” he said.

  “Me?” I asked, genuinely confused.

  “It is hard,” Mom said, still sounding angry.

  “It’s for the best, Vi,” Dad said.

  “Best for who?” My voice came out squeaky.

  Instead of answering, Dad gave me a quick hug, stood, and walked out of the house like it was nothing.

  It was the opposite of nothing. It was everything.

  I wanted to run after him, grab his arm, and beg him to stay. But my dad wasn’t the type to cave in to people. It would be like trying to give McKenzie a ride when she didn’t want one.

  He didn’t even glance back.

  I raced to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me, peering out my window as Dad drove off to the place where things were meant to be, wherever that was.

  A minute later, I heard footsteps coming toward my bedroom and two knocks. I knew it was Mom, so I didn’t open my door or tell her to come in. But I also didn’t tell her to stay away.

  She came in.

  I kept standing and staring out the window. The darkness looked infinite.

  Mom tried to hug me, but I squirmed away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You should be,” I muttered.

  I didn’t want her to see me trying not to cry. I stood perfectly still, which was very hard work.

  After about a minute, Mom apologized again, but this time she added my name, as if it weren’t clear who she was talking to, and used her soothy voice, as if Dad had left for one of his short trips to Nevada, packing a duffel bag instead of a U-Haul.

  Dad always went to Laughlin, not Las Vegas. He said you could stay in Laughlin for a third of the cost of Vegas and have just as much fun. Mom said he could really save money by not going at all.

  One time we all went to Laughlin. Dad won big at blackjack and bought Mom opal earrings. Mom had said, “Great, now Violet will think gambling’s a smart way to make money,” but she was laughing and admiring her shiny earlobes in the motel mirror.

  Now Mom said, sounding calm as a pond, “I want you to know we tried, Violet.”

  I couldn’t help turning toward her. “Yeah, you tried! Tried to get him to leave! Tried to nag him to death.” Dad had said that last line a lot.

  “Oh, Violet,” Mom said, her voice full of pity. “I am sorry.”

  I’d never been apologized to so much in one night. As if a quadrillion sorries could make up for Dad leaving.

  “I’m sorry too,” I said. “Sorry you wrecked our family.”

  That got my mom to leave my room. She closed the door carefully behind her.

  Then her footsteps were quick. Maybe she was rushing to her room to hurl herself on her bed in a sobbing heap of sadness. Maybe she was dancing around the house with joy. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.

  I stayed in my room so I didn’t have to face her. I’d already faced enough.

  Luckily, I had everything I needed: my phone, my laptop, and food. Well, I didn’t have TV. McKenzie had a TV in her room and could watch it whenever she wanted because of the Free-Range Kids Movement. But I didn’t. And food meant an old bag of smooshed chips from my backpack. Still, eating stale chip crumbs beat having my mom treat me like a sad little victim.

  My bedroom walls were pale blue, and my comforter was violet. (Of course.) They were calming colors, according to real estate wisdom from my mom. Tonight, being surrounded by blue made me feel like I was drowning.

  I opened my laptop to distract myself, but all I did was stare at the screen while thinking about the U-Haul and Mom’s speech in the car and Dad telling me things weren’t meant to be.

  If my parents weren’t meant to be together, then why did they get together in the first place and get married and have me? Even if they argued a lot, I couldn’t imagine them not being together. They were meant to be.

  And I wasn’t just a sad victim. I could reunite them. I could pretend to be near death in the hospital and then wait for them at the entrance with romantic gifts like flowers, wine, and chocolate. I’d make a speech about how Mom and Dad loved each other and then watch them kiss and vow to be happy together. It would be perfect. Maybe.

  PROBLEMS WITH PLAN TO REUNITE PARENTS

  How could I get both parents to the hospital at the exact same time?

  After finding out I’d tricked them into rushing to the hospital, my parents might be too mad to reunite.

  I didn’t even know if my parents liked flowers.

  • Dad once said flowers were a waste of money.

  You had to be twenty-one to buy wine.

  • Mom liked wine, but Dad was a beer drinker.

  • Beer didn’t seem romantic.

  Giving them chocolates could start another fight.

  • Last Valentine’s Day, after Mom joked about chocolate going straight to her hips, Dad had said, “I like your love handles,” which somehow made Mom mad.

  • If my parents fought even on Valentine’s Day, how were they supposed to happily reunite?

  I called McKenzie to tell her what had happened. Plus, maybe she could help me with my plan.

  “Congratulations,” she said flatly.

  “Huh?” Congratulations for my dad moving out? Is there a greeting card for that?

  “The callback. You didn’t know?”

  “We made callbacks?” I asked.

  “Not we. You.” She said it like an accusation. “Goldstein posted the list online.”

  “He did?” I asked stupidly.

  “Ever since I got home, I’ve been refreshing the performing arts page on the school website every two minutes. You never gave callbacks a second thought. Then you got one and I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, like my parents had said earlier. We were a sorry family. “But Mr. Goldstein told us not to worry if we don’t get a callback. He probably already decided that you’re playing one of the leads. He probably called me back to see if I can even play a Munchkin.”

  “No. You gave a great audition. I can’t believe you didn’t even go on the website,” McKenzie said, still sounding mad, but not as mad.

  “My dad moved out. With a U-Haul and everything.”

  McKenzie gasped. “Oh, Violet! That’s awful!”

  Having your dad die was different than him moving away, but McKenzie understood the awfulness of not having a father around. “Why did he leave?” she asked.

  “ ’Cause my mom kept nagging him.”

  “Ugh. I’m sure Ally got Dorothy, but maybe Goldstein wants me for something else. The Scarecrow should be someo
ne tall and skinny, so that’s out, and the Tin Man should probably be a boy since it’s Tin Man, not Tin Woman. But I’d be good as the Lion.”

  She went on some more about the play, but I wasn’t listening. I was busy thinking: Isn’t it rude to change the subject to auditions right after hearing about my dad leaving? Also: Don’t you think getting a part in a school play is less important than your best friend’s parents breaking up?

  But I didn’t want to argue with McKenzie like my parents argued with each other. Look how that had turned out. Plus, I was a wimp. So I said, “I gotta go.”

  “That’s sad about your dad,” McKenzie said, almost as if she’d read my angry mind.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I have no idea. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Sheesh. Well, you should go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow with your callback. If Ally gets Dorothy, I’ll scream. And it won’t be a scream of joy.”

  “Yeah. See you tomorrow. Bye.” I threw my phone on my bed and sat there for a long time, staring into space—my broken-home space.

  FOUR

  WHAT WAS MISSING THE NEXT MORNING

  Dad’s shaving cream

  His great-smelling cologne that Mom said was a rich person’s cologne and we weren’t rich

  Beer from the fridge

  The beat-up leather armchair

  Dad’s laptop, usually on the coffee table

  All Dad’s shoes from the hallway

  Dad

  Just standing in the hallway and seeing the floor, without his shoes, made me want to cry.

  I must have been staring down too long, because Mom said, “Are you okay?” with the same pitying voice from last night.

  I held back tears and made my face hard. Then I pointed at the floor. “Happy now? You don’t have to tell Dad to pick up his shoes anymore.”

  “No, Violet, I’m not happy. It’s going to be hard for both of us.”

  I glared at her. What did she mean by “both of us”? Me and her? Dad and her? What about all three of us? What had happened to that?