Violet and the Pie of Life

by D. L. Green

I forced my gaze from the handout. “It’s one hundred percent all right, Ms. Merriweather!”

  TEN

  We’d spent the past two weeks of rehearsal working on blocking, which meant learning where to move onstage. Mr. Goldstein said our bodies were instruments. Diego joked that his body felt like a battered drum.

  I’d practiced my big solo in the shower a quadrillion times. The repetition of singing my “Courage” song became as relaxing as yoga, or how yoga is supposed to make you feel. We had to do it in P.E. class last year, and I spent the whole period making sure I didn’t fall asleep or fart.

  The only thing I did more than rehearse the song was check my email—and voicemail and missed calls and text messages. But there was nothing from my dad.

  I was pretty sure he hadn’t died or anything. I’d asked Mom, “You’d find out if Dad died, right? And you’d tell me?”

  She’d looked at me like I was an orphaned kitten. “I’d find out and you’d find out,” she said. “Your dad isn’t dead. He’s just…” She’d furled her eyebrows, like she was thinking Dad was a kitten orphaner. Then she looked away for a bit.

  When she turned back to me, her face had calmed down, but her hand was balled into a fist. She said, “Your dad is alive. He’s fine.”

  That didn’t give me much relief. Because if he was fine, why was he ignoring me?

  There was one benefit of Dad disappearing: I had more important things to worry about today at rehearsal than my big moment, singing my solo in front of everyone. Actually, big moments, plural, because a moment is approximately a second, and my song lasted about a minute and a half, which meant approximately ninety seconds, a.k.a. moments.

  So anyway, I was pretty calm when I sang “If I Only Had the Nerve” in front of Mr. Goldstein and the cast.

  After I finished, Ally clapped and said, “Nailed it, Violet!”

  Mr. Goldstein nodded at me and said, “You have natural talent.”

  I beamed on center stage, though I couldn’t help thinking I got my “natural talent” from practicing so hard at home.

  Then Diego said, “That’s nothing. I have supernatural talent.” He tied the sleeves of his sweatshirt around his neck so it looked like a cape, spread his arms out like they were wings, and jumped off the stage.

  Everyone laughed, even Mr. Goldstein.

  I’d worked in plenty of groups before. During the first week of school, I’d had to do a skit about the American Revolution with three other kids in my history class. James M. kept complaining about how cheesy the skit was, Lyla Lopez refused to wear a wig, everyone fought over who got to play George Washington, and Anna Markel kept shrieking that we idiots would destroy her perfect grade point average. We ended up getting a B-plus, but I hated every minute of the project, except for eating the homemade cherry pie Anna Markel brought in for extra credit.

  Play rehearsals were different than an assigned skit, because we wanted to be there. We had spent hours after school auditioning for the chance to stay after school many more hours, plus a few Saturdays. We pulled for one another to make the play as good as possible.

  The more choice you had in doing something, the more you cooperated.

  As I walked down the stage steps at the end of rehearsal, Ally said behind me, “I can’t believe we’re supposed to have everything memorized so soon.”

  “I know!” I said, waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of my lines.”

  “Maybe we could practice during lunchtime,” Ally said.

  I didn’t say anything back. I couldn’t leave McKenzie alone in the school cafeteria while I rehearsed with her worst enemy!

  “Or do you want to come over tomorrow after rehearsal? We could eat dinner and then run lines.”

  I stared at Ally. Was she inviting me to her house? On a Friday night? Didn’t she have a bunch of better offers? The invite must have been a spur-of-the-moment thing. She was probably already regretting it.

  “You don’t have to. I could get my mom to run lines with me,” she said.

  Okay. She was already regretting it.

  “Or my dad,” she said.

  To save face, to save Ally’s face, I’d have to say no.

  “But I hope you can come.”

  “No. Oh. I mean, yes. Yes, that would be fun. Useful, I mean. Fun, too. Thanks.”

  Ally nodded.

  If McKenzie found out about me going to Ally’s house, she’d be so upset. She’d never understand. Unless I told her it was for the sake of the play. Or that Mr. Goldstein forced us to practice together. Or…Or…

  “Do you?” Ally asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you need to check with your parents?”

  My mom would be thrilled I’d made a new friend, a friend besides McKenzie. And I couldn’t check with my dad even if I wanted to. Which I did.

  I said, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “Great. My mom can drive us to my house after rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you have to ask her first?” I said.

  Ally smiled. “I already did.”

  ELEVEN

  That night I dreamed I was at Ally’s house, an enormous white mansion with grand, cylindrical columns in front and shiny marble floors inside. I sat at a long, oval table piled with platters of steak, lobster, and doughnuts. Then Ally screamed at me, “Who do you think you are, sitting at my dining room table! I invited you here to wash dishes with the other servants. Get up, Violet! Get up!”

  I opened my eyes and heard Mom calling, “Get up, Violet! Get up! You’ll be late for school!”

  I rubbed my eyes. Even my dreams were dorky. That enormous white mansion I’d dreamed up was the White House. And who has platters of doughnuts at the dinner table? Though if I were the president, I’d order my staff to serve doughnuts and pie every night.

  As Mom left my room, she told me to hurry and get dressed. It was hard to choose what to wear while Mom kept saying “Come on” and “What are you doing in there?” etc. every two seconds. All she did was ruin my concentration and slow me down.

  If I’d known Ally was going to invite me over, I wouldn’t have worn my favorite outfit two days before. (My only pair of expensive jeans, which Mom and Dad had given me for my birthday, and a horizontally striped sweater that made me look not completely flat-chested.) I decided to wear my expensive jeans again and hoped no one would notice.

  But choosing a sweater was harder. People would know if I wore the same one twice in one week. McKenzie did it a lot, but she only had four sweaters, including one that barely fit. I never said anything, but I noticed. So I vetoed my favorite sweater due to recent wear. And I couldn’t wear my second favorite, because it was dirty. My third favorite sweater was my favorite color—pink. But the first day I wore it, McKenzie had said, “That sweater sure is bright.”

  I finally decided to wear my fourth favorite sweater, a brown wool one that Mom said brought out my dark eyes. After putting it on, I realized its left sleeve was stained.

  I was trying to decide what my fifth favorite sweater was when my mom yelled, “Violet, you have precisely sixty seconds before I take your phone away for a week!”

  So I put on my “sure-is-bright” pink sweater and expensive jeans and cute-but-too-tight boots, hurried out of my room, and said, “I’m ready.”

  “What about breakfast?” Mom asked. “I made scrambled eggs.”

  “Thanks. I’ll eat in the car.” I plopped some ketchup on the eggs, sandwiched them between two slices of bread, grabbed a paper towel, my phone, and backpack, and headed out of the house.

  Mom followed me, lecturing me about going to bed earlier and setting my alarm and acting responsible, blah blah blah.

  As I fastened my seat belt and put my egg sandwich on my lap, Mom said, “Don’t make a habit of eating in
the car. I have to keep it pristine. I want my clients thinking Grandpa Falls-Apart is a cool classic car instead of a junky old heap.”

  She turned the key in the ignition.

  The car sputtered.

  She turned the key again. Grandpa Falls-Apart made a weak, weary whine.

  The third time, the car did nothing.

  Mom rested her head on the steering wheel and said, “Great. Just great.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  I meant what was wrong with the car, but Mom said, “Everything,” and a tear fell halfway down her cheek. She wiped it away roughly, like she was mad at it for daring to wet her face.

  Then she sighed and straightened her head and said, “Hopefully, only the battery. But who knows? This car is older than you are. I’ll walk you to school.”

  “It’s cold and I’ll be late,” I said. Plus, my feet were already achy in my tight boots. I didn’t tell Mom that, because they were my cutest footwear and changing out of them would make me even later.

  “I’ll write you a tardy note.”

  “Too bad Dad’s not here. He could have drove me.”

  “Ha,” Mom said, but it wasn’t a laughing ha.

  I crossed my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s a difference between could have and would have,” she said.

  I kept my arms crossed and didn’t say anything.

  “Well, your dad’s not here, so let’s go,” Mom said.

  I opened the car door and hurried out, forgetting about the scrambled egg sandwich on my lap. It fell and became unsandwiched on the way down, leaving red streaks and yellow lumps all over the floor mat.

  “Great. Just great,” Mom said again.

  She got out of the car as I picked up the mess and dumped it in the trash can.

  “Let’s go,” Mom said. “I’ll clean up the rest later.”

  I wiped my hands with the paper towel. “I’m twelve. I can walk to school by myself.”

  “And I suppose your history project will walk itself to school too.”

  “Oh. I forgot.”

  “That’s why I made you put it in the car last night.” Mom opened the trunk.

  I peered down at my stupid California Gold Rush scene I’d started and finished last night, taping and gluing old toys and household junk onto foam board left over from last year’s science fair project. My stupid Lego people were dwarfed by my stupid plastic My Little Pony figurines, which were dwarfed by the stupid stagecoach I’d made from chopsticks, toothbrushes, and toilet paper. I’d tried to create a lake from aluminum foil, but it just looked like aluminum foil. The whole project turned out awful, but it had taken me less than an hour while watching TV and would probably earn me at least a B-minus. It was too bulky to carry 1.3 miles to school by myself.

  As Mom peered into the trunk and picked at her cuticle, I asked her, “Can you just drop this stupid thing off at school once the car is fixed?”

  “What period do you have history?”

  “Second.”

  “Then no. Grandpa Falls-Apart might not be fixed by then. I’ll help you carry it to school.”

  “Maybe Dad can come and drive me,” I said, staring down at the trunk again.

  Mom didn’t respond.

  “Mom?”

  “Fine.” She sounded anything but fine. And her cuticle had torn, leaving a spot of blood on her ring finger. “Call him,” she said.

  I stared at the open trunk again. Even when he lived here, Dad didn’t drive me to school. He worked late at whatever bar or restaurant he was assistant managing or waitering or bartending at, then slept until eleven or noon. In February, Mom had sprained her ankle and couldn’t drive for a week. I had to walk to school, even that morning it rained.

  “Let’s just go,” I said.

  Mom and I hauled out my stupid project, and we started walking. My feet already hurt from the tight boots.

  “I hope no one I know sees me like this,” I said.

  “I hope they do and offer you a ride,” Mom said. “Although I’m sure everyone’s left for school by now. Unlike you, who slept late and then dawdled in your bedroom and then spilled the eggs I made all over my car.”

  I hadn’t heard her this grumpy since Dad lived with us. I’d forgotten how mad she could sound. She’d blamed her sprained ankle on Dad because she’d tripped over his shoes in the hallway. He’d told her she should have watched her step and to stop trying to make everything his fault. Even though it had meant walking to school in the rain, I had felt kind of relieved to get away from their arguing.

  That morning it had been raining hard—not just cats and dogs, but bobcats and wolves. I had an umbrella, but I didn’t own a raincoat. You don’t need one in Orange County, because it hardly ever rains, and everyone rides in cars anyway. Except for me that day. I stared at the ground, out of misery and the need to avoid puddles, which are only fun to splash in when you don’t have to worry about spending all day in school wearing soggy shoes and wet jeans. I wished for a raincoat. I wished my mom’s ankle wasn’t sprained. I wished my dad had gotten out of bed and driven me to school. None of my wishes came true. Not exactly.

  I was only about two blocks from our house that morning when I heard a car pull up beside me. Before I could say “Stranger Danger,” Mom had shouted from the driver’s seat, “Violet, get in!” So I’d hurried into Grandpa Falls-Apart.

  Then Mom had driven in silence. At every stop sign, when Mom had to step on the brake and then the gas pedal, her face winced in pain.

  Dad really should have apologized for leaving his shoes out. And also for not driving me that morning.

  I looked at Mom now, walking beside me, and said, “I’m sorry for waking up so late.”

  After a pause, Mom said softly, “It’s okay. I’m mostly upset about the car.”

  “And I shouldn’t have done my stupid history project at the last minute.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t mind so much if it were smaller, like a stupid shoebox diorama.” She laughed.

  I laughed too.

  Then to cheer her up more and because I had to tell her anyway, I said, “Can I go to Ally Ziegler’s house today after rehearsal? Her parents can drive both ways.”

  “Ally Ziegler?” Mom asked.

  “The girl you saw me talking to after rehearsal.”

  “Dorothy!” Mom’s face lit up, like she was overjoyed. “Sure. Call or text me when you get there, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, Mom.”

  TWELVE

  SURPRISING THINGS ABOUT ALLY

  Her house is only about 1,200 square feet and pretty messy.

  She has twin little sisters.

  Ally’s parents are old, like at least fifty.

  Ally’s sisters and parents are tall and have pretty blue eyes like Ally, but their skin color doesn’t match hers.

  • Ally always looks like she just came out of a tanning salon.

  • The rest of the family is white.

  • They aren’t just white. They’re spent-their-lives-in-a-cave, have-to-put-on-sunblock-every-forty-five-minutes white.

  At dinner Ally did a hilarious imitation of our French teacher, saying, “Bone shure, cheeldren,” and fluttering her hands like a flock of birds.

  When the twins told knock-knock jokes, Ally’s parents gave them adoring looks.

  • The knock-knock jokes were really dumb.

  For example: “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Ya.”

  “Ya who?”

  “I’m excited to see you too.”

  Ally’s parents also gave each other adoring looks.

  Dinner at Ally’s house was about 250% louder than dinner at mine.


  • McKenzie’s house noise is probably in the middle. She said she and her mom eat while watching Wheel of Fortune.

  It wasn’t fair that Ally was beautiful and popular and a great singer and funny and had two nice, happy parents. Except her sisters were annoying. Sometimes I wished I had a sister or brother, but that night I was grateful I didn’t.

  After Ally and I cleared the dinner table, we went to her bedroom. It was even tinier than mine, barely fitting a twin bed, a tall, narrow dresser with clothes piled on top, and a small closet. It was cute, though, with butter yellow walls and a thick comforter with a pink-and-yellow daisy print on her bed.

  “Nice room,” I said.

  “Thanks. I like it, even though it doesn’t fit all my stuff.” She gestured to her dresser. “I get tons of hand-me-down clothes from my mom’s boss’s daughter. My sisters’ room is bigger, but they have to share.”

  I wondered whether my mom liked having her own room now that my dad had moved out.

  I frowned. Maybe she loved it.

  Ally and I sat facing each other on her bed, with our scripts on our legs. Ally kept her sneakers on, so I kept my boots on. My feet were dying of pain. But the embarrassment of pos-sibly stinking up Ally’s bedroom with smelly feet would make my heart die of pain, which was worse.

  We started with Ally cuing me for the Lion scenes. I knew about 80 percent of my lines.

  Then I cued Ally. She had about three times more lines than me, but she’d barely memorized anything. Her nose kept wrinkling up as she tried to remember her lines. Even with a wrinkled-up nose, Ally looked beautiful. Life is so unfair. If I wrinkled my nose, I’d just look weird.

  I was glad McKenzie couldn’t see me now. I knew I shouldn’t be here, with her worst enemy. But I was. And I was having fun.

  After a few minutes, Ally turned her script upside down, covered her face in her hands, and said, “I’ll never, ever remember all this! If there were an understudy to do my part, I’d quit right now.”