Violet and the Pie of Life

by D. L. Green

  On the way to school, Mom talked about her new real estate listing and the fall leaves and other fascinating stuff, while I stared out the car window at the gloomy fog. The plan I made yesterday, pretending to be in the hospital, was Swiss cheese-y with holes.

  “Did you hear me, Violet?” Mom asked.

  “Huh?” I turned my head toward her.

  “I asked when the school play is.”

  “A couple of months from now.”

  The play! It wasn’t like a giant light bulb suddenly lit up my brain…more like a sequence of little bulbs that made my brain brighter and brighter. When one bulb turned on, it lit up the next one, and so on, until I saw the light:

  “Look, Violet.” Mom pointed as we drove past a house even tinier than ours. “That was my first sale ever. Now the paint is peeling, and the yard needs sprucing up.”

  If she talked about her real estate listings to Dad in the auditorium, she’d never reignite a spark. She’d probably put him to sleep.

  Once we got to my school, I asked Mom, “Can you pick me up today at five-thirty?”

  “Five-thirty? Why are you staying—”

  “Callbacks.” I opened the car door.

  “You got a callback! That’s great, Violet!” she said as I got out of the car.

  “So, can you pick me up?”

  “Of course. Congratu—”

  I closed the door behind me.

  * * *

  AUDITION ADVICE FROM MCKENZIE DURING LUNCH

  1. Stand tall like Mr. Goldstein told you before.

  2. If he criticizes your singing, tell him you’re usually a lot better but you have a cold.

  3. Beware of Ally’s sweet act.

  I stood by the back door of the near-empty auditorium for a minute, looking around, wondering why I’d been put on the callback list. The other kids had given fantastic auditions. Ally, for instance. And Henry Tomaselli, who looks like what would happen if Harry Styles and Liam Hemsworth had a baby. And Sarah Blanchette, who always got solos in choir. But Diego Ortiz had gotten a callback too, after playing the Tin Man like he was doing a comedy routine.

  I wondered where to sit. Sarah Blanchette stood behind the last row of chairs, doing weird voice exercises—ahh ahh ahh ahh ahh, like she was at the dentist’s, and then ee ee eee eeee, like she was a martian. I couldn’t wait to imitate her for McKenzie. Mamie Glassman paced up and down the left aisle, muttering, “You got this. You got this. You got this.”

  I slowly headed down the middle aisle. It felt kind of scary to do stuff without McKenzie. I wasn’t used to it.

  We’d been best friends since she joined my Girl Scout troop at the start of fourth grade. First, we’d had a circle of friends. My circle, really, made up of the girls who’d been in my Brownie troop and then moved onto Junior Girl Scouts together.

  But McKenzie and I both quit at the end of fourth grade. As McKenzie pointed out when she was convincing me to quit, there’s no reason to earn badges. It’s not like earning money. It’s only a piece of cloth for your mom to sew on your sash. (Well, for McKenzie’s mom to glue on her sash. And after half the glue stopped sticking, for my mom to sew the badges on for McKenzie.) Also, McKenzie said the sash made us look like dorks pretending to be beauty queens. She thought the whole uniform was silly.

  Anyway, quitting Girl Scouts made me spiral out of my circle of friends, which was fine because I had McKenzie spiraling right next to me. Later, the kids I’d gone through elementary school with split into different middle schools. I watched them spiral and scramble to make new friends while I clung safe and tight to my friendship with McKenzie.

  Having only one real friend wasn’t fine now, walking through the auditorium, barely knowing any of the people I passed.

  “Hey, Violet,” Ally said. She was sitting on my right.

  I froze.

  She smiled and patted the seat next to hers.

  Then the door opened, and Diego walked in. He stood at the entrance and said in a loud, high voice, “Here I am! Your Dorothy!”

  Everyone laughed. My laugh surprised me. I hadn’t laughed, or maybe even smiled, since I saw the U-Haul yesterday.

  Diego rushed down the aisle behind me, calling out, “I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore!”

  Before he could mow me down, I took a seat next to Ally.

  She looked toward the back of the auditorium and whispered, “I didn’t know McKenzie got a callback.”

  I turned around.

  McKenzie stood at the entrance with her arms crossed, staring at me. Her gaze flitted to Ally and then right back to me.

  I bit my lip and gave McKenzie a big, dumb shrug, as if I had no idea how I’d ended up here, as if I’d been unconscious and next thing I knew, here I was, at this callback McKenzie had wanted, sitting in a three-thousand-square-foot auditorium right beside McKenzie’s mortal enemy, who was supposed to be my mortal enemy too.

  McKenzie shook her head.

  I didn’t know what to do. I wished I could build a machine to travel back in time to choose a different seat in the auditorium. Or I could go farther back and skip the audition, or go way back and tell McKenzie to trust me, even if she saw me years later sitting next to her worst enemy.

  To work out what to do, I did flowcharts in my head.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of anything amazing that would make McKenzie happy and solve everything. So I turned away from her. When I heard the auditorium door close, I sighed with relief.

  “You nervous?” Ally whispered.

  I nodded.

  “Me too,” Ally said, as if we had soooo much in common.

  But we didn’t have anything in common. It made sense that Ally got a callback. She was a beautiful, popular girl who probably had beautiful, popular parents and a beautiful house that was probably so popular Ally’s family bought it in a bidding war.

  So of course, with Ally’s perfect life, she was guaranteed to make callbacks. But it was a total surprise that I did. And I had other things to be nervous about: McKenzie seeing me with Ally. My dad leaving. The real possibility that I’d start crying at any moment. Ally was probably nervous that she’d get the Good Witch or Scarecrow part instead of Dorothy.

  When the back door opened again, I didn’t turn around. What if McKenzie had returned? I was a wimp.

  But it was Mr. Goldstein. He hurried to the front of the auditorium and began talking. “Do you understand the theme of The Wizard of Oz?”

  Duh. There’s no place like home. I pictured my home this morning—its missing leather armchair, the bare hardwood floor. My home wasn’t even like home anymore.

  Sarah Blanchette raised her hand to answer Mr. Goldstein’s question. I knew the right answer, but I wasn’t a fan of being stared at.

  “The theme of the movie is ‘There’s no place like home.’ ”

  Mr. Goldstein said, “But remember, we’re performing the play.”

  Sarah put her hand down.

  I was so glad I hadn’t raised my hand.

  “An appreciation of the theme of The Wizard of Oz will help inform your auditions,” Mr. Goldstein said.

  Next to me, Ally started to yawn. She covered her mouth and tried to stop it, but made a little quacking noise.

  I looked around to see if anyone else had heard Ms. Perfect quack. Diego was grinning and staring at Ally. I bet he’d heard.

  I glanced back at Ally. Her cheeks were pink. She looked like I would if I’d made that embarrassing noise, except prettier.

  Mr. Goldstein kept going. “Dorothy is trapped on a farm in Kansas. The Scarecrow is tied up—literally. The Tin Man cannot move. And the Lion is paralyzed with fear. They each yearn to discover what they have deep inside them to propel themselves down the yellow brick road of life.”

  Ally yawned and quacked again—loude
r this time. A few kids stared at her. She turned bright red.

  Too bad McKenzie wasn’t around to hear that. She would have loved it.

  Mr. Goldstein frowned and said, “Anyone unwilling to take this audition seriously should leave right now.”

  I actually felt sorry for Ally, for the first time ever. I changed my mind about telling McKenzie about her yawn-quacks, because now it just seemed cruel.

  Mr. Goldstein connected speakers to his phone and played “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Then he had us listen to the Scarecrow’s, the Tin Man’s, and the Lion’s songs.

  Ally went onstage first and sang “Somewhere over the Rainbow” beautifully. I was glad McKenzie wasn’t around to hear that.

  When it was my turn, Mr. Goldstein handed me a sheet of paper with lyrics to the Lion’s song in a big, bold font.

  McKenzie had said she wanted to play the Lion if she couldn’t be Dorothy. It would be a disaster if I got the part instead.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t have the nerve to sing “If I Only Had the Nerve.”

  “Do you want to be here, Violet?” Mr. Goldstein asked.

  I nodded. I wanted to be here more than I wanted to be home with my fake-cheery mother and missing father and whirling brain.

  “I mean really want to be here,” Mr. Goldstein said. “Remember the theme. You’re yearning, Violet. Yearling.”

  I closed my eyes and thought hard about it. I did really want to be here, and not just to get out of my house and my head. I wanted to feel the joy and satisfaction I had yesterday onstage. And offstage, too, as I’d walked past the other kids. I, Violet Summers, had been noticed for something positive. I liked it. I wanted it to happen again.

  But what I wanted more than anything was for my parents to sit together, watch me perform, smile at each other, and realize they should get back together.

  “Mr. Goldberg, I really want to be here,” I said.

  “She yearns to be here,” Diego said.

  A few kids giggled.

  I opened my mouth and sang the first words on the song sheet. I thought about my dad—his long, funny stories and his loud, easy laughter. I yearned for him. I sang and I yearned.

  When I got toward the end, I pictured Dad walking through the front door, kicking off his shoes and throwing his arms around Mom, like I remembered him doing when I was little. Dad would call out “Vi, get in here!” and we’d have a family hug. As I sang, I stretched my own arms wide and then hugged myself.

  Afterward, Mr. Goldstein smiled and said, “Splendid.”

  When I got back to my seat, Ally patted my arm and said, “Awesome!”

  “Thank you,” I murmured. I didn’t want to come off as conceited, so I didn’t add I know I was awesome. But I did know that.

  FIVE

  It was close to ten o’clock and I was already in my pajamas when the email came. I read it while sitting on my bed with my laptop, my door about 5 percent open because Mom doesn’t let me use the internet in private.

  Dear Wizard of Oz cast member:

  Yes, cast member! This email signifies you won a part in our fabulous play. Congratulations!

  We have a tight schedule. Starting this week, Ally, Diego, Sarah, and Violet will rehearse most days after school. Everyone else will rehearse once or twice a week. Closer to show time, the entire cast will rehearse four days a week and on Saturdays.

  Attached are the cast list and schedule. I look forward to working with you.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Goldstein

  After checking the cast list, I felt…thrilled? Terrified? Shocked? Yes.

  I got off my bed and paced. My room was ninety square feet, so I turned more than I walked. Even my familiar things didn’t keep me from feeling so out of sorts.

  Whatever out of sorts meant. I hardly ever felt calm. When my Girl Scout troop sang “Kumbaya” around the campfire, I hadn’t felt peaceful. I was too worried about singing off-key, and the campfire embers starting a forest fire, and mountain lions. For me, being in sorts meant nervous and on edge.

  I had to call McKenzie. That was the mature thing to do. Plus, it would be easier to talk over the phone tonight than face-to-face tomorrow at school.

  It was my lucky night, kind of, because McKenzie didn’t answer my call. So I left a voicemail.

  “Hey, McKenzie. It’s me, Violet. Obviously. So…Sorry for calling so late. Well, I…I’m sorry you didn’t get the part you wanted. I hope you’re not too upset. I didn’t know I’d get cast as the Lion. I mean, I’m happy to be in the play, but…I’m sorry you didn’t get a bigger part. Like Dorothy. Or the Lion. But, you know, playing a monkey will be…It sounds fun. I’m really, really glad you’re in the play. Anyway…I guess…Did you hear that? Someone’s knocking. So, okay. Bye.”

  For a second, I hoped it was my dad knocking. Sometimes when he came home late, he’d tap on my door to see if I was still up. If I wasn’t already up, the tapping would wake me up. Then he’d lean against my desk or sit on the foot of my bed, and we’d talk.

  Dad spoke to me like a friend. A friend like McKenzie, who talked more than listened, but he always had interesting things to tell me. Like the story of first spotting Mom at a restaurant where he used to work. She was meeting a blind date. Dad said he fell in love with her at first sight, so he pretended he was the blind date! He got Mom out of the restaurant before her real date could show up or his boss could blow his cover. It was super romantic, even though Mom tried to ruin the story during one of their fights. She said, “Even on our first date, you ditched your job and lied to me.”

  After a few minutes of Dad telling me stories like that, Mom would peek in the doorway and say it was past my bedtime and I had school the next day and blah blah blah. Then Dad would kiss my forehead, his breath smelling like beer and breath mints, and he’d leave. But sometimes he’d say, “Let me finish this one thing I was telling Violet about,” and he would, and this one thing often would lead to one other thing and then another thing until Mom made Dad leave.

  I’d also ask Dad for advice. He really understood me. And even if I didn’t need advice, it kept him talking to me. After I told Dad about McKenzie wanting me to quit Girl Scouts, he said he’d only gone to one Boy Scouts meeting, because he’d found out the next event was a three-mile hike in the desert. Then I’d asked him, “So you think I should quit?” But before he could answer, Mom had stuck her head in the doorway and ruined things again.

  Tonight, though, it wasn’t my dad knocking. Of course not. If he came home late, he wouldn’t come to this home anymore.

  It was Mom. She opened my door halfway and leaned into my room. “Did you find out yet?” she asked.

  I played dumb. “Find out what?”

  “If you got a part.”

  “Yeah. I’m the Lion.”

  Mom smiled huge and put the rest of her body in my room. “That’s wonderful, Violet! How exciting!”

  I shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I’m Dorothy.”

  “The Lion is a very big part!”

  It was. I tried not to smile.

  “How about McKenzie? Did she get a part?” Mom asked.

  I nodded.

  “What is she?”

  “A monkey.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows. “A monkey?”

  “Uh-huh. A monkey,” I said. Then to change the subject—and because I really wanted to know—I asked, “Where’s Dad?”

  Mom stared at a spot to the side of me.

  “Mom?” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know where Dad is? You’re still married to him, you know.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Mom said in a tone almost as snotty as mine.

  “Is he within a ten-mile radius?” I asked.

  “I don’
t know,” Mom repeated.

  “Maybe he left town so you wouldn’t argue.”

  Mom sighed. “Maybe.”

  I didn’t want to think about Dad leaving town or my parents arguing. So I said, “It’s past my bedtime,” which was probably the first time I’d ever uttered those words. It was probably the first time in history any kid had ever uttered those words.

  “Good night. Congratulations.” Mom backed away, closing the door behind her.

  If Dad had come in, he would have told me a funny story. My favorite was about this waiter Dad used to work with who faked a French accent because he thought it increased his tips. Then one of the customers started ordering from the guy in French. Dad laughed so hard at that, it took him three tries to tell me the end of the story: It turned out the customer was faking his French too. I started laughing with Dad. Then every time one of us stopped laughing, we’d look at each other and laugh some more.

  Maybe one night soon I’d open my door, and Dad would be standing in front of me. He’d say that leaving us had been a giant mistake. The U-Haul would be in the driveway again, but this time Dad would bring his stuff back in.

  If it wasn’t past my bedtime, I’d call him.

  Dad was probably awake, though, because he was a night owl. Mom was a lark. That’s what she called getting up early and going to bed early. Dad once called it a stick-in-the-mud.

  I decided to email him. We never emailed, but I was a better writer than talker. And I’d seen his email address on the school forms my parents filled out every fall and on permission slips for field trips.

  I realized Dad might notice what time I emailed him and know I was up too late.

  I paced my room some more while I figured out an excuse. Then I sat on my bed with my laptop, opened my email account, clicked COMPOSE, and started typing.

  Hi Dad,

  Just woke up to get a drink of water and thought I’d send you an email.