Violet and the Pie of Life

by D. L. Green

  Maybe McKenzie had decided to be generous and give those girls a second chance, like I’d done with Ally, and Ally had done with me. I was willing to give McKenzie a second chance, but she didn’t seem to want it. What she really seemed to want was lunch company that wasn’t me.

  Today was only the third day Ally and I were eating together, but she’d put her backpack and a notebook on the bench across from her to save spots for Zahara and me.

  Ally must have seen me looking at McKenzie as I walked over, because she said, “Did McKenzie ever tell you why she’s mad at me?”

  I sat down. “McKenzie’s not mad at you. Maybe jealous.”

  “No, she’s mad.” Ally said softly, “She didn’t tell you about the hand-me-downs?”

  I shook my head.

  “Last year, I…” Ally’s voice got so soft I had to lean in close to hear. “Well, I noticed her clothes weren’t in very good shape. And I get a ton of hand-me-downs from my mom’s boss’s daughter. Really my grandmother’s boss’s daughter, but I call my grandmother ‘Mom.’ Anyway, I’m too tall for a lot of the clothes, so I offered McKenzie some of them.”

  “That was nice of you,” I said. Nicer than I had been. I hadn’t even thought about giving McKenzie clothes until my mom had bought some for her. I hoped Mom would keep buying her stuff.

  “McKenzie didn’t consider it nice,” Ally said. “She considered it insulting. I made the offer in private, but I probably didn’t say it right.”

  “Say what right?” Zahara asked as she sat next to me.

  “Oh. Nothing.” I grabbed my sandwich and bit into it.

  “Nothing,” Ally said. “And speaking of nothing, let me show you something.”

  “How could nothing lead you to something? They’re like inverse functions of each other,” Zahara said.

  I gaped at Zahara. Wasn’t inverse functions a math term?

  “Here it is.” Ally handed me her phone. A picture of a boy filled the screen. He looked a little older than us, and had pale skin, short hair, and big ears. Ally said, “This is my cousin Cameron at his Boy Scout awards ceremony.”

  “Congratulations?” I said like a question.

  “Cameron’s really proud of that picture,” she said. “He got an award for most passionate. Or most compassionate. Something like that.”

  I had no idea where she was going with this. I raised my eyebrows at her, meaning SOS.

  “There’s this big, stupid rumor about me,” Ally said, which did not seem to Save Our Ship, but rather to knock a big hole into it.

  “You’ve probably heard about Ally dating a ninth-grader,” Zahara said.

  I didn’t know whether to lie or not. I glanced McKenzie’s way as if she could Save Our Ship. She was staring at Pearl, who was talking with her mouth full of food. Yuck.

  “That rumor is fake,” Ally said. “I’m not dating an older boy. I’ve never dated anyone. My cousin and I hang out. Someone must have seen us together.”

  Guilt globbed inside me. My stomach felt like it did after eating too many Slab o’ Ribs at Bonzo’s Barbecue.

  “Stupid rumor,” Zahara said.

  “Yeah,” I said as the glob of guilt grew.

  “So stupid,” Zahara said. “I met Ally’s cousin once. All he did was talk about his merit badges. The only boy I would date would be…” She leaned across the table and whispered, “Braden Chalmers. Mr. Muscles!”

  I tried to hide my disgust. Braden ate everything with his hands and looked like a blond-haired boulder. He wasn’t anywhere near as cute as Diego Ortiz.

  This week Diego and I had spent Saturday and every day after school together in rehearsals, but mostly in character onstage. The play was only a week away.

  “I know who you’d date, Violet,” Ally said. She whispered, “Diego Ortiz.”

  “What? Me?” I felt my face get warm. “Diego?”

  Ally nodded. “Your face is as red as a throbbing heart. I’ve suspected your crush since the first rehearsal. I always hear you laughing harder than anyone at Diego’s jokes.”

  “Just because I think he’s funny doesn’t mean I have a crush on—”

  “But you do,” Ally said smugly. “And I’m pretty sure he likes you, too.”

  * * *

  Wishful arithmetic:

  Violet + Diego = Sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I had Mom drop me off at rehearsal on Saturday at nine o’clock sharp—an hour before rehearsal really started. As soon as Mom left, I did too.

  I walked quickly. I needed to get to McKenzie’s house, try to make up with her, and return to the school auditorium on time. I also walked quickly because I was a little scared. If Mom had known what I was doing, she’d probably be scared for me.

  We had picked up McKenzie at her house a lot, but seeing the houses flash by from the car window at twenty-five miles per hour was different than looking at them from the sidewalk at three miles per hour. Some of the homes in McKenzie’s neighborhood were cute. If my mom were selling them, she’d call them “hidden gems.” But most of the homes I passed could, at best, be described as “cozy,” “charming,” or “quaint.” Some of them couldn’t be called any of those things. With their faded paint, dirty windows, and dead yards, the best term for them was “handyman special” or “a steal for investors.”

  McKenzie’s house was the worst one of all. It would have to be called a “tear down,” meaning it was such a disaster that the entire house would have to be torn down and replaced.

  I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, staring at the cracked, stained driveway, the peeling paint, the front window with duct tape over it. My body felt heavy as cement.

  I made myself walk forward, stepping over ancient brown and green hoses that lay jumbled along the narrow path to the front door. Lying on the cement around the door were rusted bike parts, a huge toaster, and a broken umbrella.

  I knocked on the door.

  “Go away!” McKenzie’s mom said loudly in her raspy voice.

  Before I could convince myself to leave, I said squeakily, “Is McKenzie home? It’s me, Violet.”

  “The Girl Scout?” McKenzie’s mom asked.

  “Yes. I mean, no. Not anymore.” I called out, “McKenzie? Are you there? I came here to—”

  McKenzie cracked open the front door. She didn’t look happy to see me. More like nervous. Her lips were pursed, and she crossed one arm over her chest. She was wearing the old gray nightgown, her sleepover uniform. “What are you doing here? Did your mom drive you?” Her gaze darted over my shoulder to the street.

  “No, I walked here. My mom doesn’t know.” Right then I wished my mom knew. I wished she were standing right next to me.

  “Get out of here!” McKenzie whispered, sounding panicked.

  I whispered back, “But I just—”

  McKenzie’s mother flung open the front door. She wore a faded red bathrobe and looked shorter than I remembered, probably because I’d grown taller. She had large, dark eyes like McKenzie’s. But while McKenzie’s eyes always seemed to shine with energy, the shine in her mother’s eyes looked like pure anger.

  “You’re trespassing,” Ms. Williston barked. McKenzie had said her mom was still really sad from McKenzie’s dad dying, but to me she just seemed mad.

  A smell hit me. It reminded me of the dumpster near the school auditorium. I looked inside the house, but couldn’t see very far in. There was a large cardboard box with random stuff like electrical cords and old towels spilling out of it, a three-legged chair, an old pizza box, a cracked computer monitor, and a pile of ratty winter coats no one would wear in Orange County—or probably anywhere else.

  “Did your mother send you?” McKenzie’s mom asked like an accusation.

  I shook my head.

  “I know she called the social worker about m
e and that ridiculous volunteer group. She needs to butt out of my life.”

  I didn’t know my mom had butted in. But if my mom had called people to help McKenzie and her mom, then, well, it seemed like she had good reason to.

  “Get out, Violet!” McKenzie whispered. Now she sounded desperate.

  I stared at the train wreck of her house. It was rude and it was making me nauseous, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t look away or speak or move.

  “Please!” McKenzie hissed, either to me or her mother.

  Then McKenzie’s mother did us all a big favor and slammed the door shut.

  For a few seconds I stood, still frozen, in front of the dusty, dirty door.

  Then I turned and ran.

  Running is the last thing you should do when your stomach hurts. But the faster I got away from McKenzie’s house, the better I felt.

  I wondered whether McKenzie felt the same way whenever Mom picked her up in old but pristine Grandpa Falls-Apart and took her to our clean, orderly house. I wondered how McKenzie had put up with my stupid complaints about Mom nagging Dad to stop cluttering our hallway with his shoes.

  I stopped running about a block from school and tried to calm down before rehearsal. I sang the Cowardly Lion’s Courage song in my head. It took about a dozen repeated verses before my breathing returned to normal.

  But the stink of McKenzie’s house still came through every pore in my body.

  Text to McKenzie: R U ok?

  McKenzie: Don’t ever tell anyone about my mom or my house

  Violet:

  McKenzie: Don’t tell anyone

  McKenzie: Promise me

  Violet: I won’t tell. I promise. R U ok tho?

  McKenzie: Fine. Don’t ever mention it!!!

  Violet: Do U want help?

  McKenzie: Don’t ever mention it

  Violet: Ok I won’t

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Five days after going to McKenzie’s house, my stomach was churning again, but for a different reason: We were about to begin our first and only dress rehearsal.

  I stood with most of the cast in the crowded greenroom, watching a video monitor of the stage. Ally stood upstage in her Dorothy costume—a polyester white blouse and gingham dress that Mr. Goldstein had snagged online, and red clogs her mom/grandma had heaped with glitter. Next to Ally were Jada Morales, who played Auntie Em, and Henry Tomaselli, who conveniently played Uncle Henry. The music teacher played a medley of songs from The Wizard of Oz on the piano.

  Mr. Goldstein sat in the front row with his husband, who was skinnier than him and had even less hair. Seated around them were about ten really old people from the senior center where Mr. Goldstein’s husband worked as the activities director. Principal Slimeball (real name: Principal Simon) sat a few rows back. At an assembly last year, she said we should each give 110 percent to making middle school count, which made me lose all respect for her, since giving anything over 100 percent is a mathematical impossibility.

  Ms. Merriweather sat near the back, but her height and magenta hair made her stand out. I didn’t want to mess up in front of her, not after she’d written on my last homework packet that I should think seriously about a career in math. I also didn’t want to disappoint any of the senior citizens, because this could be the last play they saw before they died.

  Diego was sitting on the folding chair right next to me, with our knees almost touching. The thing Ally had said—“I’m pretty sure he likes you, too”—whooshed inside my head along with a quadrillion other thoughts.

  SOME OF THE QUADRILLION THOUGHTS WHOOSHING IN MY HEAD

  Does Diego really like me?

  Like like me?

  How does Ally know, especially since she hasn’t even dated anyone?

  Why would the funniest guy in school like someone whose jokes are about as funny as Ally’s little sisters’ knock-knock jokes?

  Fortunately, makeup covered my blushing cheeks. Unfortunately, it was thick, greasy, gold makeup. It matched my big, furry gold costume and the hood of gold yarn over my head. Not a good look for me. Plus, I smelled bad. I probably stank. The last person who wore this costume must have run a marathon in it.

  Diego smelled fine, but he wasn’t exactly looking his best either. He wore silver makeup, a silver shirt, weird silver pants, and a papier-mâché hat fastened to his head with a quadrillion bobby pins. He was supposed to be a Tin Man with an oilcan on his head, but he looked more like a disco robot wearing a dunce cap. I still thought he was cute.

  On the video monitor, the right half of the faded red stage curtain opened. About ten seconds later, the left half started to jerk. It took another thirty seconds or so for it to open all the way.

  “Yikes,” I said.

  Ally uttered her first line, “Auntie M&M!”

  A soft groan went through the greenroom.

  “Auntie M&M and Uncle Oh Henry Bar,” Diego whispered.

  I very cleverly responded with another “Yikes.” I hoped Ally wasn’t freaking out too much about her mistake.

  Mr. Goldstein had told us the show must go on no matter what. If someone forgot a prop or a line, we were supposed to improvise so the mistake wouldn’t be obvious to the audience. But no one could hide the fact that Dorothy had called her aunt “M&M.” Especially not after Jada/Auntie Em/Auntie M&M started laughing.

  The prop guy ran onstage and handed Ally a basket with a stuffed dog in it, which she should have been holding when the curtain opened.

  Ally ad-libbed the line, “Tonto!” Then she covered her mouth, uncovered it, and said, “I mean Toto.”

  Jada bent over with laughter. The white powder on her hair flew all over the place and made her sneeze. Her sneeze sent more powder into the air, which made Henry/Uncle Henry sneeze.

  Backstage, Diego whispered, “Is this The Wizard of Oz or The Wizard of Schnoz?”

  “Yikes,” was my witty comeback again.

  Behind us, Sarah Blanchette said, “Ally is screwing up so bad.”

  “Give her a break,” I said at the same time Diego said, “Leave her alone.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes as if to say by ESP, We are on the exact same wavelength, joining together to fight evil, like soulmate superheroes.

  Ally made up for her flubbed lines by singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” beautifully.

  After Ally’s solo, one of the really old ladies said loudly, “Like a taller Judy Garland.”

  Then a really old man said equally loudly, “Thelma, simmer down.”

  Then Thelma (most likely) said, “Shut your pie-hole, Jerome.”

  Mr. Goldstein’s husband made a loud shushing sound.

  The play didn’t improve. Two Munchkins (Henry’s and Diego’s younger brothers) ran into each other and fell on their butts. Another Munchkin (Mr. Goldstein’s niece) got clobbered by Glinda the Good Witch’s wand. Sarah Blanchette’s Scarecrow rope belt came untied, so she sang “If I Only Had a Brain” while one of her hands clutched the top of her burlap pants.

  “Poor dear is losing her slacks,” Thelma said, and Mr. Goldstein’s husband loudly shushed her again.

  I messed up too, skipping a verse of my “Courage” song and, later, tripping over the melted witch, who came back to life for a second to say “Ow.”

  Diego’s bobby pins kept flying off his head. Toward the end, his oilcan/dunce cap fell off. He said with a smile, “That was meant to happen.”

  No one laughed—not even me.

  HORRIFYING DISASTERS IN U.S. HISTORY

  1. The Great San Francisco Fire

  2. The Donner cannibalism party

  3. The sinking of the Titanic

  4. Horton Johnson Middle School’s production of The Wizard of Oz

  The dress rehearsal seemed to last a quadrillion years. Durin
g this era, I thought about how I could skip out on the actual play. If only I hadn’t used up all my dead relative excuses! If only Mr. Goldstein hadn’t kept saying the show must go on. My hopes turned to faking a serious-but-temporary disease or injury.

  Finally, we reached the last scene. Ally said her famous “no place like home” line and clicked her heels three times. In rehearsal, Mr. Goldstein had told her to click with exuberance and gusto, and she did.

  Her left clog flew into the air.

  “Heads up!” Ms. Merriweather exclaimed.

  I let out a sigh as the curtain shakily closed and the horror finally ended.

  Mr. Goldstein called everyone to the stage. Our faces looked shocked, like we’d barely survived an apocalypse. Mr. Goldstein seemed pretty shocked himself. But he said, “Let’s give a big round of applause to everyone for trying so hard and braving the dress rehearsal.” He started clapping.

  No one joined in.

  He stopped after about six claps. “All right. Down to business. Stage manager, we must repair the curtain. Ally, be careful when you click your heels. Your ruby slipper just missed one of the senior citizens in our audience and glitter-bombed several people in the second row.”

  Ally was stooped over, hugging her arms across her chest. This rehearsal had to be worse for her than anyone else. She had screwed up first and last and in between, appeared in practically every scene, and had no confidence in her ability to remember her lines.

  I walked over to her and squeezed her arm.

  She looked at me and sighed.

  “They say the worse the dress rehearsal, the better the actual show,” I whispered.

  “Really?” she asked, a microscopic speck of hope in her voice.

  I nodded. I hoped Ally didn’t ask who “they” were and where I’d heard that, because “they” was really me and I’d made it all up. Also, it was as logical as saying the worse you did on a practice test, the better you’d do on the actual test, or the worse your parents’ marriage was, the better their chances of reuniting. But I’d lie to Ally all night if it would cheer her up.