The Wondrous World of Violet Barnaby

by Jenny Lundquist

  Aunt Mildred stared at the ring and hesitated.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mildred,” Grandma Bertie said. “It’s freezing out here—say yes before the girls become senior citizens themselves.”

  Aunt Mildred didn’t seem to have heard; her eyes had taken on a faraway quality. I was sure she was thinking of her first husband and the car crash that took him away from her all those years ago and how differently her life had gone ever since.

  “Say yes,” I spoke up. “He’s your second-chance family.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, because I knew you weren’t supposed to say anything while you were watching someone propose to someone else. But I also knew I was right. Everyone surrounding us, they weren’t just Aunt Mildred’s people, they were my people, too. And I knew we were both so lucky to have them.

  “What?” Aunt Mildred said, turning to me. “What did you say?”

  “Well . . . ,” I said slowly, looking at Melanie. “We’re all born into a family—but sometimes bad things happen, and if you’re lucky, you get a second chance. A chance to create another family.”

  “A second-chance family,” Aunt Mildred murmured. “I like it.”

  “I’ve loved you since I was a boy, Mildred,” Scooter said. “Now that I’m an old man, I love you still. Will you marry me?”

  “I will,” Aunt Mildred whispered.

  Everyone broke into boisterous applause as Scooter placed the ring on her finger.

  “Boisterous”—it can mean “very noisy or active in a lively way.” Right now I was feeling lively and active, and I needed to do something before my heart jumped clear out of my chest. I grabbed Izzy’s and Sophia’s hands. Sophia reached for Daisy, and the four of us went running down the porch steps.

  “Come join us!” I called to Olivia over my shoulder.

  The five of us made a line. “On three,” I said. “One . . . two . . . three!” We all flopped onto our backs and began moving our arms and legs back and forth—creating a line of snow angels. Cold from the snow was seeping into my back, but warmth was spreading through my heart. Everyone here, Melanie and Joey and Olivia and the Charm Girls and their families, they were my second-chance family, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Mom had sent them all to me, just when I needed them.

  As I stared up at the December sky, Izzy’s and Sophia’s fingertips brushing mine as we made our snow angels, it felt like that thin wall of glass that always separated me from everyone else began to shift and stretch, until it broke apart and dissolved, and was no more.

  CHAPTER

  36

  NEW PATTERNS

  Dear Mom,

  Christmas was five days ago, and I’m not going to lie, it was hard. The Terrible Beautiful Ache was wrapping around me like a sad blanket while we all opened presents, and just when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, I glanced up at the fireplace mantle and noticed someone had moved aside Melanie’s collection of nutcrackers and put a picture of you up there, and it made me feel better. Melanie took down all the Christmas decorations this morning, but I noticed she kept your picture up there. That made me happy.

  This is going to sound strange, but sometimes I wonder, if life had turned out differently, would you and Melanie have been friends?

  We’ve made some new patterns: Every morning, Olivia, Joey, and I have been watching TV on the couch, and passing our secret bag of candy back and forth under a blanket when Melanie isn’t looking. It was fun until Dad called the three of us the Lazy Lumps the other morning and said if we didn’t get out of the house, he’d give us all chores to do. That got us all moving pretty fast, so we went over to Austin’s house, and the two of us took Olivia and Joey and Izzy ice-blocking down Poppy Hill.

  Another new pattern is that Melanie moved your old record player into the living room, and I can play your records whenever I want. Olivia doesn’t think that’s fair, because she’s not allowed to play her music downstairs anytime she wants, but Melanie said that’s just too bad because Olivia’s music gives her a headache. We’ve been listening to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong at night after dinner. I guess Gray Christmas actually hasn’t been as gray as I thought it would be.

  I guess in some ways, it’s been wondrous.

  I finally told Melanie all about the Terrible Beautiful Ache and Gray Christmas, and she said she hopes next year will be even better. She says she’s already planning for a brighter Christmas. Beige Christmas, she called it. I thought that sounded sort of nerdy, but also sort of funny. And sweet.

  I think what I’m trying to say is, I’m going to be okay. Maybe one day, I’ll just feel grateful for the Christmases I had with you, instead of sad for all the ones we didn’t get to have together. I still like to think that you’re watching me, and I hope you’re proud of me.

  I’ve decided to keep writing you, because it makes me feel like you’re still here, even if I can’t see you.

  Like maybe you’ve just walked into another room to put an album on your record player, and at any moment, I’ll catch a glimpse of you again.

  Love always,

  Violet

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Of all the books I’ve written, this has been the most challenging, and it would not have been possible without the heroic efforts of my amazing editor, Alyson Heller. Alyson: Thank you for all your fantastic revision notes. Thank you, too, for always partnering with me on the vision that I have for my books, and then going out of your way to help me make them the very best they can be.

  To Stefanie Wass, my critique partner and friend: Thank you so much for your fantastic editorial eye. This book is so much stronger because of your input. One day our paths will cross and we will finally meet in person!

  To Kerry Sparks, my Agent of Awesome: None of this would ever be possible without you!

  To Deanna Bosley, Christina Edwards, Lora Knopf, Deana Lewis, Dorothy Poole, Christina Sahota, Donelle Swain, and everyone else who joins our Wine and Appetizer Nights: Thank you for being a refuge where we can chat about everything from faith to parenting to books to all the vacations we daydream about taking together one day.

  To Suzette Leger: Thank you for always going so far out of your way to encourage me and make me feel like a rockstar.

  To Rose Cooper and Shannon Dittemore: Thanks for putting up with me on our “writing days” when I spend most of the time procrastinating and trying to distract you!

  To Kristin Dwyer, Adrienne Sandvos, Joanna Rowland and Jessica Taylor the fearless leader of Team NorCal, and the rest of our crew, I don’t know what I would do without having a community of writers like you guys. Go Team NorCal!

  To the Journey Girls: Annie Chin, Carrie Diggs, Ruth Gallo, Cara Lane, and Sarah Mahieu: You are my soul sisters, and I am so lucky to have you. Thank you for being a place where we can say all the words inside us—the good ones and the hard ones—and still be there for each other.

  To the Allen, Carroll, Lundquist and Winkler families, thank you for all your constant encouragement and support.

  And finally, to Ryan Lundquist, who taught our boys how to go ice-blocking, and who once drove up Highway 50 to find snow so he could turn our drought-stricken front yard into a Winter Wonderland, I am so glad we get to do life together. You are truly my One.

  And thank you to God. This world you created is truly wondrous. Thank you for all the amazing people you’ve put in my life.

  CHAPTER

  1

  The bracelet and the first charm appeared the day I punched Austin Jackson in the nose. I didn’t mean to slug him. His face just got in my way. It was a bruising end to a disastrous first month in middle school.

  You know that kid in class that everyone secretly (and not-so-secretly) thinks is weird? The one people laugh and point at behind their back, the one who gets picked last in gym class, the one you wish you hadn’t gotten stuck with for a science partner?

  At Dandelion Middle School, that kid is me, Izzy “Don’t Call Me Isabella” Malone.

  Truthfu
lly, my slide into loserdom started in elementary school and was pretty much an established fact by the time sixth grade started last month. It’s partly because my mouth often has a mind of its own. But I think it’s also because there are a bazillion other things I’d rather do than talk about boys, clothes, and makeup, and I refuse to wear strappy sandals and short skirts.

  (If you ever catch me wearing strappy sandals or a short skirt, you have my permission to kick my butt.)

  I do like skirts, though. Really long, colorful ones I get from Dandelion Thrift. I like to wear them with my camouflage combat boots.

  I call the look Camohemian.

  “I don’t understand how it could be locked,” Ms. Harmer, my English teacher said, tugging on the door of our classroom. “Fifteen minutes ago it was open.”

  “Does this mean class is cancelled?” I asked. Our class was held in an outdoor portable. The day was chilly but sunny, and being stuck indoors writing another round of horrible haikus was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “No, Isabella—”

  “Izzy,” I said.

  “—that is definitely not what that means. Everyone wait here while I go to the teacher’s lounge to look for my keys. Lauren, you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

  Lauren Wilcox smiled, all angelic-like. “I will.” After Ms. Harmer left, Lauren’s smile pulled back, like a beast baring its fangs. “You heard her. I’m in charge.”

  Students clumped off into their cliques. Being the class outcast, I am thoroughly cliqueless, and normally I’d sit by myself. But today I was planning to change all that.

  Lauren and her friends claimed a grassy patch of sunlight—kicking out a couple other girls who’d gotten there first. I stared at them and squared my shoulders, preparing myself to do some major strappy-sandal smooching up. Lauren and her crew are the sixth-grade members of the Dandelion Paddlers, a competitive after-school rowing club. Lauren’s family owns the aquatic center on Dandelion Lake, and you need to get in good with Lauren if you want to be a Paddler.

  I learned that the hard way last summer during Paddler tryouts. I thought the fact that I was a great rower would be enough. There were four open spots, and they all went to Lauren’s friends—even though I came in fourth during the timed heats. The last spot went to Stella Franklin, who had somehow managed to become BFFs with Lauren over the summer. I’m guessing the fact that Stella can kiss butt faster than a frog can catch flies has something to do with it.

  But I wasn’t about to give up. Being on the Paddlers is a big deal in Dandelion Hollow; when my dad was my age he was on the boys’ team. He’s taken me rowing for years, and we trained for tryouts all summer. Dandelion Lake is my favorite place in the world. I love being on the open water, where the only thing I feel is the wind in my hair, and words like “odd” and “strange” blow away like dead leaves on a blustery autumn day.

  Lauren’s locker is right next to mine, and this morning I took an extra-long time loading up my backpack so I could listen while she told her friends they were one Paddler short since Emily Harris moved away last week. I figured now was my chance.

  “Hi,” I said, plunking down next to Lauren. “It’s weird Ms. Harmer can’t find her keys, right?” I took the headphones from my iPod out of my skirt pocket and twirled them around, like I was bored and just making conversation.

  Lauren blinked at me like I was a species she didn’t recognize.

  “Um, excuse me,” Stella Franklin said. “What makes you think you can just sit here?”

  It’s a free country, is what I wanted to say. “I want to join you” is what I blurted instead.

  “You want to join us?” said another of Lauren’s friends. A husky blond girl who was wearing a chunky red headband over her ponytail.

  “I mean, I want to join the Paddlers.” I looked at Lauren. “I know you have an open spot, and last summer at tryouts I finished ahead of her.” I jabbed my finger at Stella, who swelled up like a puffer fish.

  “You did not! We tied.”

  “Nope,” I said, twirling my headphones. “I beat you by three-tenths of a second.”

  Lauren leaned back and looked me up and down. I sat up straight, trying to appear taller. I’m pretty short, but what I lack in size I make up for in won’t-quit-till-I-die persistence.

  “I only have winners on my team,” she said.

  “I’m a winner,” I said. Only my voice squeaked a little, and “winner” came out “wiener.”

  “Did you just call yourself a wiener?” Headband Girl asked.

  Everyone laughed, and I counted silently to ten, because my patience was all puckered out.

  “I think if you saw me paddle again,” I said, crossing my legs, “then you’d realize I’m much better than—”

  “What are those?” Stella interrupted, poking at my combat boots. “Those are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. Don’t you know boys don’t like to get up close and personal with girls who wear boots like that?” She poked me again.

  “You keep running your mouth,” I snapped, smacking her hand away, “and these boots will get up close and personal with your face.”

  Darn it! The mouth strikes again!

  Lauren directed her gaze to Headband Girl, who seemed to take it as a silent command. She snatched away my headphones and flung them in the air. They circled once in the breeze before landing on an overhanging branch of a nearby tree. Then, one by one, Lauren, Stella, Headband, and the rest of them stood up and left in a line of ponytail-swinging nastiness, leaving me sitting alone, while the rest of the class watched me, waiting to see what I would do.

  Yeah, stuff like this is pretty much why I think middle school stinks.

  Let’s just pause for a moment to consider my options. I could:

  a. cry, which would only convince them I didn’t belong on their team.

  b. kick Headband’s butt into the next county. (Or try to, anyway. It’s hard to appear threatening to someone who has biceps the size of Nebraska.)

  c. get my headphones back.

  Here’s the key to surviving as a middle school outcast: Pretend you don’t care. Pretend you have such great self-esteem that everything just rolls off your back. Most important:

  Don’t show weakness. Ever.

  I chose option C. I have a thing for trees, and I’d wanted to climb this particular one for a while. I eat lunch under it every day, on account of the fact that the cafeteria usually smells like burnt burritos.

  Plus, it’s not like I have anyone to eat with, anyway.

  I stood up and stretched. A skip, a hop, and a shimmy later, I was scrambling up the trunk.

  “Go, Izzy!” shouted Austin Jackson, who, at the moment, still had a bruise-free face. A few other kids started cheering; Lauren and the Paddlers were already forgotten.

  See what I mean? Pretend you don’t care. Works like a charm.

  I braced my hands against the rough trunk. The star-shaped leaves were the color of a fiery peach, and they whispered in the breeze. The air smelled sharp and crisp, like shiny red apples, and I breathed deep, enjoying being a little bit closer to the sky.

  “Toad Girl is crazy,” Stella was saying down below. I pretended not to hear. I also pretended I didn’t know that was what most of the kids at Dandelion Middle called me. Stella the Terrible and I went to elementary school together and she gave me the nickname at her fourth-grade slumber party, when I put a toad in her sleeping bag. (I swear, that girl can howl like a werewolf on a full moon.)

  I hadn’t meant to do it. I just got bored watching everyone else test out Stella’s lip gloss collection, and I started playing with her brother’s sand toad, Count Croakula. I guess I must have lost him. But Stella swore up and down I’d done it on purpose, so I wasn’t invited to her birthday party last year. I wasn’t invited to a lot of birthday parties last year.

  Turns out, most girls would rather put on lip gloss than play with sand toads.

  “Come down from there! You’ll get us all in trouble!” Stel
la was now standing under the tree. Lauren must have dispatched her to keep me in line. “Come on. Ms. Harmer will be back any minute.”

  “Leave Izzy to her solitary pursuits,” said Violet Barnaby, who liked to use fancy words. She was sitting off to the side by herself, scribbling in a glittery purple journal. “Ms. Harmer won’t find her keys in the teachers’ lounge.”

  “How do you know that?” Stella demanded.

  “Because I have them right here.” Violet produced a key ring and jingled it.

  The class gave a collective gasp, as Violet was known for being an A student who never got in trouble. I took the opportunity to climb up the branch. Slowly, I inched my way across it, where my headphones dangled in the breeze.

  “Hey, Toad Girl!” called Tyler Jones. “Think fast!”

  He lobbed an orange at me. It missed by a few feet and Austin said, “Tyler, you moron! Get out from under there. . . . I said, Get Out!”

  “Ouch! All right, all right. I’m going!”

  I kept inching forward, and stretched my fingers out to get the headphones. From up here I had a good view of several clusters of maple trees, which in late September were all colored in shades of gold and red and orange. A part of me wished I could stay up here forever, away from the middle school mean girls, who circled like sharks below me. I picked a few leaves and stuck them in my pocket, so I could paste them into my leaf collection later.

  “What’s going on?” came Ms. Harmer’s voice. “Is someone up there?”

  Startled, I lost my balance and fell. I caught myself on the branch and swung—gymnast style—through the air, landing right in front of Ms. Harmer.

  “Ta-da!” I said, throwing my hands in the air.

  A few kids applauded, but Ms. Harmer’s face turned purple. “Go to the office. Now!”