Violet and the Pie of Life

by D. L. Green

  “You? What? She took you to an open house?”

  McKenzie blushed. “Your mom’s sort of teaching me the real estate biz.”

  I thought about the clothes Mom had bought for McKenzie, the social worker and volunteer group Mom had sent to her home, all the times Mom had driven her to our house and made dinner for her and let her sleep over. Dad wasn’t really part of our family anymore, but McKenzie was.

  “So did that house close escrow?” she asked, sounding as eager as if it were her house, or her mom.

  I nodded.

  “What’s escrow?” Ally asked.

  “It means when a sale becomes final, like a done deal,” McKenzie said. “I knew Violet’s mom could sell that mansion. She’s the best.”

  “Except when she’s nagging or asking me a quadrillion questions,” I said.

  McKenzie shrugged.

  Ally frowned.

  I wished I could take back what I’d just said. My mom was there for me, unlike Ally’s mom or McKenzie’s. I wasn’t sure why McKenzie’s mother hardly ever drove her places and stored all that junk in her house, whether she was despondent about her husband dying or had some kind of mental illness. Once McKenzie and I were by ourselves, I needed to get up my nerve and ask her about it.

  Not only was my mom a lot better than McKenzie’s and Ally’s mothers, she was better than she used to be. She’d quit nagging me. Sort of, anyway. She still had slipups. But if I ever made a Mom Situations from Bad to Worst list, like the one I’d done for dads, my mom wouldn’t even qualify for the list. She’d be on a Mom Situations from Good to Great list.

  Though she wouldn’t be the greatest mom. That spot would go to Lindsey Rodriguez-Smith’s mother, who managed the ten-plex theater in the mall. Lindsey got to see every movie there for free and buy popcorn and candy for half off. She’d seen Wonder Woman eight times.

  “So how much commission did your mom earn on that mansion?” McKenzie asked. Before I could answer, she said, “Ally, real estate agents get three percent of the selling price. Violet can figure out the exact number because she’s, like, a math genius.”

  Ally nodded.

  “No, I’m not,” I said, wondering if I was. “It sold for three point two million, so her commission is ninety-six thousand dollars.”

  “Minus a third of that for the company your mom works for,” McKenzie said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. That’s what your mom said.”

  “Too bad. So, two-thirds of 96,000 is 64,000.” My tone was casual, but inside I felt an excited jolt from all the money we’d get.

  “I can’t believe how fast you figured that out in your head,” Ally said, gazing wide-eyed at me.

  I tried not to smile.

  “Told you she was a math genius,” McKenzie said. “I would have needed a calculator and about an hour.”

  “Me too. And I probably would have gotten it wrong,” Ally said.

  “Violet may be a math genius, but she can’t do this.” McKenzie touched her tongue to her nose.

  Ally and I laughed, tried it, failed, and laughed again. Some color had come back to Ally’s face, though her eyes still looked tired.

  “But can you guys do this?” Ally made a fart noise with her underarm. Over our laughter, she said, “My little sisters taught me.”

  “Teach me. I’m so doing that in class,” McKenzie said.

  We practiced fart noises. We didn’t even stop when Zahara Khalil came by with a couple of other girls. They shook their heads at us, but they were smiling. Ally was so popular she could even make fake farts seem cool. Though her popularity was based more on her niceness to everyone than on being cool. Plus, I bet even Ally would lose popularity points if she spent every lunch period making fart noises. There was probably a hard limit on that of, like, no more than twice a month. For girls, anyway. Boys seemed to have no limits on their love of anything involving farts.

  FART NOISES VS. POPULARITY LEVEL

  Days per Month Making Fart Noises

  When the bell rang, I hated that lunch period was over. And it wasn’t just because next period I had a quiz I hadn’t studied for about a chapter I hadn’t read in a textbook I’d barely opened. It was because of my new friend sitting across from me and my old friend sitting next to me, and the three of us laughing as if we’d always been happy together.

  None of us got up from the lunch table until the cafeteria manager, McSneerface (not sure what her real name is), yelled, “Out, girls! Out!”

  As we all stood, Ally said, “I hope you sit here next week too, McKenzie.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Except Ally and I might not be here next week. After tonight’s show, we might get expelled for ruining the school’s reputation.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about the P.L.A.Y.,” McKenzie said.

  “It’s okay,” Ally said. “Violet might want to. She’s just as freaked out as I am.”

  Judging from Ally’s reddish eyes, I doubted that.

  “You’re going to do fine,” McKenzie said flatly, avoiding our eyes. Obviously, McKenzie wasn’t good at pep talks. She was not a peppy person in general.

  “They say, ‘Bad dress, good show,’ ” I said, attempting my own pep talk. “So our bad dress rehearsal means we’ll put on a good show.”

  McKenzie raised her eyebrows.

  “It makes no sense to me either,” Ally said.

  I shook my head. “Me neither.”

  The three of us exchanged small, sad smiles.

  * * *

  In class a few minutes later, I opened the pocket of my backpack to get a pen. That’s how I found the note. I was so distracted at lunch, worrying about the play and about Ally and McKenzie sharing a table, that I didn’t notice Zahara Khalil had unzipped my backpack pocket and slipped in a piece of notebook paper.

  Hey, Violet,

  I realized something kind of cool/kind of dorky this morning in math class: You’re the other person secretly doing supplemental work! Now it all adds up. (Pun intended.) Let’s get together and talk numbers! Here’s mine: 555-4790.

  Good luck with the play.

  Zahara

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I hadn’t studied chaos theory yet, but if it involves frenzied masses, I was experiencing it…in the greenroom before the play.

  Mr. Goldstein stood in the middle of the room, speaking loudly into his cell phone: “Kimmi, I’m sorry about your stress hives and your scary monkey nightmare. But you need to toughen up, get to school, and put on your Wicked Witch costume!”

  Ally sat in the back corner, slumped over a highlighted script as she muttered her lines. Every ten seconds or so, she let out a long sigh.

  Jian Cho, our props manager, burst into the greenroom. “Where’s Toto?” he shouted. “We’re toast without Toto!”

  Ally looked up from her script and cried, “Toto’s missing? Oh no!”

  Sarah Blanchette walked into the greenroom with her mother.

  “Parents are not permitted backstage,” Mr. Goldstein said sternly.

  “But Henry Tomaselli’s father is here,” she said.

  “He’s a mechanic. He’s trying to fix the stage curtain. The entire right side won’t even open!” He took a deep breath. “Mrs. Blanchette, find a seat in the audience. Please.”

  “Sarah needs my TLC,” she said.

  “TLC?” Diego murmured a few feet away. “Treatment Like a Child?”

  I giggled, mostly from nerves.

  Ally’s grandmother walked into the greenroom.

  Mr. Goldstein repeated, “Parents are not permitted backstage.”

  Ally’s grandfather followed her, carrying three large pizza boxes.

  “Never mind. Come in,” Mr. Goldstein said.

  My phone pinged with a text.

 
McKenzie: Can’t wait to see the show tonight.

  Break a leg

  Violet: Thx. Do u have a stuft dog?

  McKenzie: ?

  Violet: We lost toto

  Thirty seconds later, our costume manager told Mr. Goldstein that a nervous Munchkin had thrown up on four pairs of shoes. On the bright side, the Munchkin had missed Dorothy’s ruby slippers.

  With everyone distracted, I grabbed my Lion costume and ran outside, violating Mr. Goldstein’s rules about keeping ourselves and our costumes backstage.

  I unzipped the costume, turned it inside out, and frantically waved it in the fresh air to try to get rid of the stink.

  After about eight strong waves, I put the costume near my nose and took a big whiff.

  Yuck. Still disgusting.

  I held the costume away from me as I walked back to the building.

  My mom stood outside the door, carrying a spray bottle.

  “What are you doing? Parents aren’t allowed backstage,” I said, even though Sarah’s mother and Ally’s grandpa were still here, and the vomiting Munchkin’s mother was on her way with Tums and cleaning supplies.

  “After you told me about your costume problems, I googled ways to freshen up sweat smells.” Mom took my inside-out costume from me and wrinkled her nose. “You weren’t kidding! This reeks!”

  She held it away from us, pressed the tab of the spray bottle, and doused the costume.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  “Water.” Mom looked away from me. “And one other ingredient. Make sure you stay away from open flames.”

  I took my costume from her and sniffed it. There was just a slight odor now. “Much better. Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be rooting for you from the front row.”

  “Can I have the spray bottle?” I asked. “I’m not the only one with a smelly costume.”

  She shook her head.

  “But—”

  “That other ingredient…” Mom leaned in and whispered, “Supposedly, the best thing for removing odors from costumes is diluted vodka.” She hugged me and hurried away.

  When I came back inside, Sarah was pleading with Mr. Goldstein to let her wear a brown minidress instead of her ugly burlap Scarecrow costume, while he said, “No, no, no, no, no, no.”

  I had just gotten into my costume and makeup when McKenzie rushed into the dressing room. She held up a plastic bag. “I brought Toto. He’s the only stuffed dog I have.” She pulled out a large stuffed Scooby-Doo dog that had seen better days. It also had seen better years—probably better decades, too. Its fur was faded and frayed, its left eye and right ear were missing, and it had neck tattoos of crooked red hearts. The thing was too big for Dorothy’s basket. It might scare young children in the audience. Plus, it wasn’t a dark terrier like the famous movie Toto. It was Scooby-Doo.

  McKenzie handed him to me. “Give him back when you’re done with him, okay?”

  “Why?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “This guy slept on my bed from, like, the time I first got a bed until…well, he still sleeps on my bed. And I used to take him with me everywhere, even to my dad’s funeral.”

  I held him carefully against my chest. McKenzie was a good friend. “Thank you so much. He’ll make a great Toto.”

  McKenzie nodded like it was nothing, said, “Break a leg,” and left me and Scooby.

  I hurried over to the props manager and said, “If you can’t find Toto, you’ll have to use this.”

  He frowned. “That decrepit Scooby-Doo?”

  “Yes.” If that didn’t motivate him to find our Toto, nothing would.

  I handed him Decrepit Scooby and said, “I know he’s old and ratty, but he’s my friend’s beloved stuffed animal. So treat him with care.”

  On my way back to the greenroom, I saw Ally in her Dorothy costume, leaning against the hallway wall, staring at the script and mumbling her lines again.

  “Ally,” I said.

  She looked at me. Her eyes were even redder than they’d been at lunchtime.

  I grabbed her script and started walking.

  “What are you doing?” Ally sounded panicked.

  “Follow me.” I headed toward the exit.

  “No one is to leave!” Mr. Goldstein called after us. “There are only twelve minutes until show time and—”

  I was out the door.

  Ally followed me. She tried to snatch back the script.

  I held it away from her. “If you don’t know your lines twelve minutes before you go onstage, you’re not going to suddenly learn them now.”

  “I’m doomed!” Ally cried.

  “But you do know your lines. I’ve heard you in rehearsals.”

  Ally shook her head.

  “You got stage fright yesterday, that’s all. Remember, bad dress means good show.”

  “Ha!” Ally said.

  “Listen.” I stared into her red eyes. “I looked up that quote today in the computer lab. The bad dress/good show thing is real. There’s a long Wikipedia article on it. They called the dress rehearsal for Les Misérables “Lake Misery” because it was so bad, and then the show became one of the hugest successes ever. And you know how Carrie Underwood did Sound of Music live on TV? Well, at the dress rehearsal she tripped over her guitar case and got a big gash on her leg. Plus, she forgot the words to that yodeling song. And when she kissed the guy who played the captain, she drooled on him. A lot. Her drool even got on his shirt.”

  “Really?” Ally’s red eyes widened.

  I nodded. “Look, we fixed everything. We have a Toto. My mom cleaned my costume.” I didn’t mention that Toto was Decrepit Scooby-Doo or that I was in danger of bursting into flames.

  Ally smiled faintly.

  “And you’re a fantastic actor and singer,” I added. “Plus, everyone in the cast and crew cares about you a lot. No matter what. We’re a caring family.”

  She hugged me. “And you’re a caring friend. I feel so much better now. You’re a superhero.”

  Not exactly, I thought. But sometimes I was pretty super. Sometimes you could even call me a hero.

  Right after we returned to the greenroom, Sarah Blanchette shouted, “Henry Tomaselli’s dad fixed the stage curtain!”

  “Maybe everything really will go okay,” Ally said.

  I nodded. In any case, I had confidence in my acting and adlibbing skills. I’d just made up all that stuff about Les Misérables and Carrie Underwood. I hadn’t even gone to the computer lab today.

  And if we were awful, I knew a great real estate agent who could sell our house and buy something thousands of miles away.

  “Two minutes until show time!” Mr. Goldstein’s panicked voice called out as if he were shouting, Two minutes until the nuclear bomb goes off!

  I should have given him a drink from my mom’s spray bottle.

  I ran to the stage curtain. Henry’s dad was walking away with a large toolbox and a satisfied smile.

  I peeked at the audience. My mom was there—front row, middle seat. She was always there for me. Sometimes she was there for me too much, but there were worse problems in life.

  A few rows behind her sat Ally’s grandparents/parents and her little sisters. McKenzie sat about eight rows back with Darcy Bollinger, Pearl something, and the girl whose name I always forgot.

  I kept looking. I saw more friends from school and a few teachers.

  I didn’t see my dad. I hadn’t expected him, not really. But I’d still hoped he’d come.

  I gazed at my mom again. She was texting.

  My phone buzzed.

  Mom: Break a leg. I love you.

  Violet: Thx

  Mom: Seriously keep that ingredient secret and don’t go near flames.

  The lights dimmed, and I rushed
to the greenroom to watch the start of the play on the monitor.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Everyone in the greenroom stared at the video monitor. The curtain opened perfectly, and we all seemed to exhale at once.

  Ally stood downstage in her blue gingham pinafore. She clutched a tan wicker basket with Scooby-Doo duct-taped into it. The first scene went smoothly—no missed cues or Auntie M&Ms or sneezing fits—and the greenroom gang exhaled together again.

  Then Ally was alone onstage, singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Her voice didn’t sound like Judy Garland’s. But it was lovely in its own way—sweet and honest—like Ally herself.

  Right before the last verse, the one about happy bluebirds, the sound effects came in too early, drowning Ally’s voice with a recording Mr. Goldstein’s husband made at the senior center. The first sound was a loud gust of wind (actually, a blow dryer and a ceiling fan). Then Mr. Goldstein’s husband’s voice shouted, “Tornado!” An old man yelled, “Shelter down, Thelma,” an old woman said, “Don’t tell me what to do, Jerome,” and another old woman said, “Keep it down. I’m trying to nap here.” Finally, the recording shut off.

  Ally ad-libbed: “Sounds like a tornado is coming. I’ll just sing this last verse before going inside.”

  The audience laughed.

  No one in the greenroom laughed.

  Ally sang the last verse in a slightly shaky voice while I stared at the monitor and tried to send her encouraging thoughts.

  “She’d better not ruin the play again,” Sarah Blanchette muttered.

  “Why don’t you try being supportive,” I said.

  “Sarah, you’re on in a few minutes,” Diego said from behind her. “You need to get ready.”

  Sarah bent down and stared at the chair next to her. “Where’s my Scarecrow minidress? I put it right here.”

  “The dress Mr. Goldstein told you not to wear?” I asked.

  “You hid it, didn’t you, Violet? Where is it?” Sarah demanded.

  I crossed my arms over my Lion costume, which was just as hideous as Sarah’s Scarecrow costume. “I swear on my great-grandma’s grave, I didn’t touch your little dress.”