by Sarah Mello
“Being a Violet is not as enticing as it seems, believe me.”
“Maybe that’s true,” he replied. “Or maybe that’s the sick lie the rich tell us poor people so we settle for mediocre lives.”
“You do know we live in the same neighborhood, right?” I covered the Sierra Leone flag with my crossed arms. “In the valleys?”
Winston and I lived in the same neighborhood, which proved to be rather convenient when he decided to crash at my house after scuffling with his parents. We watched love movies together. Ones that most never knew existed and wouldn’t bother watching if they did. The flicks mostly took Winston’s mind off the strict, rigorous rules back home. He came from a long line of marines who believed in conduct and order. That was tough for an informal, mordant spirit like Winston. I let him be him. Whatever that meant, it worked for us.
“Not on the weekends,” argued Winston. “On the weekends, you go to your supposedly not-so-enticing life on the hillside with your dad.”
My parents went through a filthy divorce when I was younger. Lana and I never really knew the reasons. We just assumed they fell out of love. Or possibly came to the realization they’d never fell in.
My dad kept the house on the hillside. My mother, who was left with almost nothing after my dad utilized every legal loophole possible, moved to the valleys. I wish that were a play on words. The valleys of Westcott are suited for the blue-collar families, who live in homes twenty times smaller than the mountainous castles on the hillside.
“And I miss your passive-aggressive undertones every second of every privileged day I’m away,” I said.
“Mock me all you want. But you’re lucky your last name sealed your color.”
“Sealed my color.” I pressed my lips together. “That almost makes it sound important.”
Winston shifted his weight from one leg to another. “So, have you heard?”
“Heard what?” I asked.
“About Mrs. Penn.”
“The new English teacher? Don’t tell me she was caught with a student.”
Winston looked down at his yellow plaid scarf, adjusting it to just the right position. “I wish,” he said. “She left six of the Chosen Ten unnamed.”
Every year, WH hosted an award ceremony for local families, as well as influential tycoons from numerous Ivy League schools. Between the junior and senior class, ten students, also referred to as the Chosen Ten, were carefully selected by the English teacher to present one piece at the event. The piece could be anything—a song, a short film, and fortunately for me, a paper. After the ten students presented their projects to the audience, the faculty selected the strongest piece, and one of the Chosen Ten received an award so highly respected that it guaranteed entry into an ILS.
I didn’t think it was possible, but apparently fear can physically creep into one’s vocal cords. “What? How?”
“I don’t know the answer to that any more than I know why Mrs. Penn replaced Mr. Russell. Teachers fly in and out of this school faster than a Violet in ‘detention.’ ” Winston held up his signature air quotes for the end of his sentence.
I tucked my wavy brown hair behind my ear; my irritation was obvious, I hoped. “Who told you this?”
“Mrs. Penn posted it online this morning,” he replied.
“She can’t do that. We have to know who our competition is. Comparison is the only way to know if we should up our ante.”
“Well, if you’re asking me, you should always up your ante. But just be thankful you were still chosen after your sister almost completely ruined your family’s last name.” Winston locked his phone screen. “Not that I care, mind you.”
I clenched my jaw.
“Besides, look on the bright side—if your paper sucks, you can apply to Yale and your rich daddy can pay for it,” Winston said. “All is not lost.”
“That’s not how that works,” I retorted. “I need to stand out. All of our college applications look the same. The only thing that makes anyone unique around here is winning that award.”
“That appears to be bad news for me,” Winston mumbled under his breath.
“Why do you think I take being a Chosen Ten so seriously? Winning the award would allow me to exhale, and it would give me a chance to enjoy my high school experience without the pressure of trying to stand out.”
“Enjoy your high school experience?” Winston paused. “You almost sounded like you believe that’s an actual thing.”
Just then, I heard the dreaded, high-pitched voice of the one person I couldn’t avoid if I wanted to. “Sonny . . .” Norah’s voice traveled across the din of other voices. “Can we count on your paper to be the sequel to your super interesting short film on why milk is bad for your hormones from last year’s English class? I hear the cows from the farm on Fourth Street are dying for part two.”
Norah Soros—a Violet. Beautiful, with a dark, slightly tortured soul. A Chosen Ten who could paint circles around some of the most notorious of artists.
I glanced at Norah, desperately trying to ignore her cruel comment. But like most of her comments, it wasn’t one that quickly rolled off my back.
“What a facetious question, Norah,” said Winston. “Tell me—do your fellow cattle know you’ve escaped the gates and come here for the day?”
Norah learned about the nuances of painting from her father, Mr. Soros—a true artisan. Allegedly a true deadbeat too. Supposedly her father, who moved to Greece following his divorce from Ms. Soros, recognized Norah’s raw talent for painting after she shipped him an original piece for his birthday one year. He began requesting that she send him more, so he could advise. What she believed to be a blossoming relationship with her dad turned into a shoddy business transaction when Mr. Soros began selling Norah’s artwork at local auctions throughout Athens. He cashed in on some of her most impressive pieces, allowing him to move to another city—his whereabouts unknown. Norah told some people her dad was a tortured artist who took off into the night, and she told others her father was dead. I couldn’t help but think that in some twisted way there wasn’t much of a difference between the two.
“Do you think you could give me a break, Norah?” I asked. “I’ve been taking your abuse since freshman year.”
Norah brushed back a long strand of thick, shiny blonde hair behind her shoulders. “Abuse? I just came over here to remind you that you won’t be winning the award.”
Winston tilted his head to the left. “You do realize it’s considered cheap to intimidate your competition, right?”
“You do realize you’re only here because I’m paying for you, right?” Norah said, her blue eyes piercing through him. “Consider it a military special, from me to you.”
Winston’s straight face remained unprovoked. “Military special? Sounds like something you’d give out underneath the bleachers at one of our basketball games.”
“I’d be careful if I were you, Winston. My position here is more powerful than your scrawny little arms could hold.”
“Is that because you spent last year unapologetically flirting your way up the football roster?”
“Flirting your way to the top is a thing,” she replied. “You should try it.”
“No, actually, I enjoy my dignity.”
“Says the guy who wears scarves.”
I massaged my temples with my pointer fingers. “Enough, you two.”
“Did you hear her?” Winston asked, glaring at Norah. “Enough. Now grab your broomstick and head to first.”
“Can I borrow the one that’s shoved up your—”
“Okay, enough!” I stepped in between them.
Norah reached around me and tugged down on one side of Winston’s scarf. “Have a great day,” she said, pivoting. Her jeans looked tighter than she was wound.
I often wondered what it would feel like to have your own father use you as profit for his selfish desires. Perhaps that would turn anyone into a crass, bitter human being. Unfortunately for her classmates, No
rah never allowed anyone to get to know another side of her.
I yanked Winston back by the arm before he could follow up with another insult as we watched Norah disappear down the hallway.
“You shouldn’t talk to her like that, Winston. You’re asking for trouble.”
“Please. I will never miss an opportunity to drag her after what she put Lana through,” he said, readjusting his scarf. “It’s one thing for a video to leak. It’s another for someone to go on a crusade, relentlessly pushing it in front of everyone’s faces. Between Norah and Cliff—Lana didn’t stand a chance.”
Norah had a genuine detest for most people at Westcott, but eventually, Lana made the top of the list. When the video was leaked last year, Norah made it her mission to expose Lana for what she always believed she was: a promiscuous girl with daddy’s credit card. Maybe Norah was jealous of Lana and my father’s close relationship. Perhaps she wished her own dad was a well-respected, successful businessman. Or maybe Norah couldn’t stand the idea of another girl being more popular than her, regardless of the reasons behind the notoriety.
“At any rate, don’t listen to Norah. You’re going to win that award. Just ask Casey!” Winston grabbed Casey’s attention from across the hall by waving.
Casey Langdon. The sweetest, most genuine girl at Westcott. A bookworm, much like myself. A Cobalt, unlike me. Her mission in life was to become a meteorologist; while tornadoes had always intrigued her, any natural disaster would do.
“Ask me what?” Her tired eyes struggled to stay open.
Casey brought a whole new meaning to the word perseverance. She moved to Westcott when her mother sent her and her two younger brothers to live with their aunt. Casey’s father had been arrested for drug trafficking a year prior, and her mother, too, was unable to stay clean. Realizing Casey was intelligent beyond her years, her mother knew sending her daughter away to take the WH entrance exam was Casey’s only shot at opportunity.
“I was just explaining to Sonny that she’s going to be the chosen one.” Winston cracked his knuckles in preparation for music class.
“Oh, right. The Westcott Awards.” Casey pushed her loose glasses up on the brim of her nose. “Is it true Mrs. Penn hasn't released all ten names yet? Mr. Russell wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that.”
“Does anyone know why she replaced Mr. Russell?” I asked. “He’s been at Westcott High for thirty years, and we all know he planned on retiring here.”
“Maybe he already retired,” Winston said.
Casey looked down at her casual cotton T-shirt. It was off-green and off-brand. “I don’t think so. I heard he was fired.”
“Fired?” I felt my heart drop. “Mr. Russell?”
“That’s what I heard,” she replied, repeatedly brushing her flat hands over her wrinkled shirt.
Casey’s move to Westcott was by no means an easy transition. Her aunt, although better off than Casey’s mother, worked double shifts to afford the valleys. And despite agreeing to take three kids on, she had zero desire for children. On top of being a big sister, Casey became her brothers’ mother, tutor, and friend. Between that and the grueling workload at Westcott, staying strong would be difficult for the toughest of girls. And every girl has their day.
My eyes wandered to the left as Casey attempted to de-wrinkle the painful truth that was her life. She always tried to look presentable enough to blend in, all the while knowing she never would.
“If you really want to know what’s going on, why don’t you go talk to Mrs. Penn yourself?” Winston asked, daring me with his eyes.
“I’m with Winston,” Casey said, checking her wristwatch. “Listen, I’ve got to run!”
Winston and I watched as Casey turned around and began walking toward the library.
“Did she tell you?” Winston asked, crossing his arms and staring ahead.
“Tell me what?”
“Her mom came back around,” he replied. “She’s been visiting.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I asked.
“It is when your mom’s a junkie.”
I paused. “Maybe she’s finally clean.”
“I don’t think so,” Winston replied. “Casey’s not that lucky.”
“Well, maybe her luck’s finally turning around.”
Casey reached the end of the hallway. She made an abrupt left turn, not knowing she was walking straight into what was soon to be her very own tornado season.
Winston and I watched as she fell back onto the floor. Her glasses flew off her face, and her cell phone went flying from her hand.
We stared at one another.
“And you said comedic timing wasn’t your thing,” Winston said before jolting down the hall.
I caught up with him but, hearing a familiar voice on the other side of the wall, held out my hand to stop Winston before he could turn the corner.
We stood behind the edge of the brick wall where the adjacent hallway met ours, peeking our heads around just far enough to see.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” Casey patted the tile floor in circular motions, frantically trying to find her glasses. Her hands finally met the clear frames, and she pushed them back onto her face.
Kyle kneeled down and looked into her spent eyes. “Don’t be sorry.” He handed Casey her cell phone. “It’s hard to see who’s coming and going in this hallway.”
Kyle Winchester, the principal’s son. Cliff’s best friend and the running back to his quarterback. A Violet by name, a good guy at heart. A Chosen Ten. Casey’s tornado.
We grew up together, Kyle and I. He was the brother I never had the pleasure of having. The kind of brother every girl should have. He was my best friend, and everyone’s really. Because everyone liked Kyle Winchester. Being likable was perhaps his best quality, and as it turned out, it was also his kryptonite.
“Do you want to stand up?” he asked.
“Sure.” Casey tucked her wavy blonde hair behind her ears.
Kyle jumped to his feet and held his hand out toward her with no luck. His eyes expressed confusion. “So, this is typically the part where you take my hand and stand.”
“Right.” She placed her hand on his and stood to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Winston whispered.
I turned my head toward him. “What does it look like?”
Winston’s breath hit the back of my neck. “It looks like you’re preventing me from stopping a train wreck.”
“Shh!” I slapped the air between us.
“What’s your name?” Kyle slowly pulled his hand away.
She gently made hers into a fist. “Casey Langdon.”
“Oh, you’re Sonny’s friend, right? She’s told me a little bit about you.”
My heart raced as I watched their conversation.
“Are the two of you close?” Casey asked.
“Very,” Kyle said. “I’ve known her for as long as I can remember. Much like most people in Westcott . . .”
“Yeah, well, I moved here the summer before sophomore year, but didn’t really become friends with Sonny until the latter half of the year.”
Kyle nodded. “Until the latter? I can see why Sonny likes you.”
“Sonny’s intellect is hard to match.” Casey looked down at her shattered cell-phone screen. “But I try.”
“You should really get a case for that thing,” Kyle said.
“Yeah, it’s, um, it’s in the mail.” Casey glanced up at him and quickly looked away.
Kyle grabbed the straps of his new backpack. “Well, Sonny and I didn’t become friends until after I confessed my love for her in fifth grade. I told her I wanted to marry her, but she, uh, she didn’t want to get married at age eleven.”
“That’s weird,” Casey said, smiling a little. “I hear that’s when girls really start thinking about that ring.”
“I thought so too,” Kyle replied.
“So, what did she say when you asked her out? Or, didn’t you?”
“Oh, no, I definit
ely asked.” Kyle grabbed his bicep muscle. “She, uh, she punched me in the arm.” His voice heightened.
“Perhaps just playing hard to get?”
“See, that’s what I thought.” Kyle pointed at Casey. “So I asked again a week later, but when she turned me down the second time, we decided to be best friends instead.”
“Solid foundation.”
“It’s proven to be,” he replied. “I’m Kyle Winchester, by the way.”
“Winchester?” Casey’s voice cracked. “As in principal?”
He pressed his lips together. “As in principal.”
“That’s . . . interesting.”
“Extremely,” Kyle replied.
Casey looked down, picking the bits of glass off her phone.
“Is there a place to exchange the cards life deals you?” Winston asked me, slowly shaking his head. “I thought my life was tragic.”
“Hey, there’s a repair shop down the street from here,” Kyle told Casey. “It’s about a hundred bucks, and you’re in and out.”
Casey put her phone into her pocket and grabbed the straps of her frayed backpack. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll look into it.”
With narrowed eyes, he traced her informal clothes, which did anything but paint the picture that Casey had a hundred bucks.
“Look, I have to run. It was nice meeting you.” She gave Kyle one last stare before turning to walk away.
Kyle stayed behind, standing in the middle of the hallway. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “You too.”
I slowly brought my head back from the edge of the wall. “Did you just witness what I did?” I asked Winston, slapping him on the stomach with the back of my hand.
“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. Don’t even think about encouraging this. You know he’s—”
“Sorry, what?” I skipped down the hall, lifting my hand to my ear. “I’m having a hard time hearing you over the endless possibilities floating through the air.”
Winston lifted his chin. “We agreed we wouldn’t be the friends who meddle!”
“I’m sorry, when did we agree to this? Was it before or after you insulted my wardrobe choices?”
“That’s not meddling!” His voice echoed. “That’s caring!”
