Oopsy Daisy

by Lauren Myracle

  “A … what?” Violet says. “Never mind. But thanks! But, would one of you hold on to it for me for now? Okay, that’s awesome. Great. Bye!”

  She presses the phone’s off button. She slips her thumb to the side of the phone and turns the whole thing off, ringer and all. She leans forward and puts it on the coffee table, giving it a shove so that it slides out of reach.

  She smiles at her mom even though she feels as if a giant hand is pushing on her, and she’s going under.

  Do not go under, she commands herself. You have to be strong. You are the strong one, and it’s your job to keep your mom from going under.

  She picks up her abandoned iPod and scrolls through playlists. Music is like poetry, and her mom loves poetry. Poems mixed with melodies will keep them both afloat.

  A title catches her eye. Yes. She hits the play button, and the opening chords twine around them.

  Her mom strokes Violet’s head. “Oh, I like this,” she murmurs. “So pretty. What’s it called?”

  “‘Defying Gravity,’” Violet tells her. “I like it, too.”

  Actually, no. The butterflies aren’t in her stomach. They’re in her rib cage, and they’re frantic and edgy, flapping their wings against her ribs. They’re making her heart beat way too fast.

  “Are you sure, Boo?” her mother asks. A wrinkle forms in the middle of her forehead. “It makes more sense, and your dad could get to work earlier. And I want to see your school and meet your friends.”

  “No, Dad always takes me,” Violet says. “He doesn’t mind, do you, Dad?”

  Violet’s dad spreads his hands. The car keys are already in one of them. “I’m fine with whatever, but we do need to get going.”

  “Then let’s go already,” Violet says. “I’m not the one being slow.” She hears in her voice that she’s being bratty. Imperious, her dad would normally say, but nothing’s normal, so for once he doesn’t call her on it.

  Violet’s mom opens her mouth as if she’s going to scold Violet, but then she closes it. Violet can hardly stand it. Yesterday, Violet couldn’t bear to leave the house. Today, she can’t bear to stay a moment longer, so she grabs her lunch from the counter—the lunch her mom packed, which Violet had to repack, which is what started the day’s badness—and bangs out the back door.

  “Bye, baby,” her mom calls.

  Violet presses her lips together and strides across the driveway to get to the garage, which is twenty feet or so behind the house. In Atlanta, their house had an attached garage. In Atlanta, their favorite place to get chicken nuggets was Chick-fil-A, who never served them up raw.

  Violet hears a kiss—her dad pecking her mom’s cheek, probably—and then his deep voice saying, “Call if you need anything. I can be home in fifteen minutes. All right?”

  Her mom forces a laugh. “Please, you two. I’m sorry about the chicken. It was a silly mistake, and I’m sorry. Will you stop worrying?”

  “Lavinia …,” her dad says.

  Violet gets into the front seat of the Range Rover and closes the door, craving silence. She holds her lunch in her lap. She knows she won’t eat any of it, even though there’s nothing wrong with it anymore. She’ll throw it away before school starts. Even so, she can’t help imagining what would have happened if she hadn’t noticed the box of frozen chicken nuggets on the granite island.

  She didn’t, not right away. What she noticed, when she first came downstairs, was her mom, humming as she bustled around the kitchen.

  “Mom, you’re up,” Violet said, surprise blooming inside her.

  “Well, of course, Boo,” her mom said. “I’ve already packed your lunch—”

  “You have?” It wasn’t all that long ago that packing Violet’s lunch, or simply thinking about packing Violet’s lunch, would have thrown Violet’s mom into a tailspin of worry, because one task led to another and another, and it was all too much.

  “And now I’m going to fix you breakfast. How does oatmeal sound?”

  “Um, oatmeal sounds great.” Violet couldn’t stop smiling. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “With plenty of butter and brown sugar, just the way you like it,” her mom announced. She returned Violet’s smile. “And you are very welcome.”

  With no lunch to pack and no breakfast to prepare, Violet felt at a loss. Then she saw the chicken nugget box lying on the counter. She went to it, thinking she could help clean up, and out of habit, she skimmed the description of the breaded chicken nuggets within.

  “Mom?” she said.

  “What, baby? What do you need?”

  Violet bit her lip. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Surely she was jumping to conclusions, so before saying anything more, she would simply check. Was the oven on? She checked the display, and no, it wasn’t. But it could have been on before Violet came downstairs, right? Because der, her mom would have turned it off when she took the chicken nuggets out.

  She sidled up beside her mom, who was using the stove to boil water for her oatmeal. She placed her hand on the oven’s glass door. It was cool to the touch, and a knot formed in her gut.

  She grabbed the insulated lunch bag sitting on the counter. The Velcro strip at the top made a rough, ugly sound as she pulled it open.

  “Chicken nuggets, grapes, string cheese, and two Oreos,” her mom recited. “Sound good?”

  Violet felt around in the lunch bag. Her fingers grazed the bag of grapes, and she thought of Halloween, and eyeballs-that-weren’t-eyeballs at haunted houses. From there, she thought of intestines that weren’t intestines, just cold spaghetti noodles. Cold, but still cooked, or else they’d be the texture of pick-up sticks, which wouldn’t do at all.

  She found the chicken nuggets, and her throat constricted. They were icy and hard. By the time lunch rolled around, they would have thawed, and if Violet had popped one into her mouth, her teeth would have cut past the breading into pink, slippery flesh. Dead, but uncooked. Raw.

  She would have spit it out, and everyone would have looked her way. The scene played out in her mind:

  Katie-Rose, loving the gross-out factor, would be delighted. Your mom packed you raw chicken? Awesome sauce!

  Milla’s mouth would fall open, and then she’d remember her manners and fix her expression. Katie-Rose, no, she’d say. Raw chicken is really dangerous.

  Natalia would jump in, saying, It ith. It hath thalmonella, and thalmonella can kill you, Katie-Rothe.

  But Yasaman’s reaction would have been the worst. Everybody, hush, she’d say. She’d search Violet’s face, and Violet would want to die. Violet? Are you okay? Do you want me to take you to the office?

  Violet pulled the chicken nuggets out of her lunch bag. Her insides trembled.

  “Boo?” her mom said, puzzled.

  Violet threw the raw chicken nuggets in the trash. Not trusting herself to speak, she picked up the cardboard box they came in and handed it to her mom.

  Nuggets are UNCOOKED, it said in big bold letters. For safety, this product must be cooked to an internal temperature of 170°F as measured by use of a meat thermometer. Cooking times may vary.

  The directions weren’t hidden, or in a foreign language, or able to be seen only with special glasses. If a ten-year-old could figure it out, why couldn’t a grown woman?

  Her dad walks toward the car. Violet sees him in the side mirror. Her mom stays by the house, her hand to her mouth. Violet bets she’s chewing her nails. Back in Atlanta, her mom used to chew her nails all the way past the white part, exposing the tender tips of her fingers. Then she’d be stuck with no nails. No fingernails for scratching Violet’s back, no fingernails for picking bits of lint off her father’s suit jacket, no fingernails for coaxing her own zipper up when the metal tab got wedged down too far.

  Sometimes Violet had to zip up her mom’s jeans for her. That is so wrong, Violet thinks, shifting her gaze to the SUV’s glove compartment. It’s made out of some sort of hard plastic. It’s beige, and it’s blurry. It’s not usually blurry.

 
Her dad climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door.

  “Finally,” Violet mutters.

  His head snaps sideways.

  “What?” Violet demands.

  He sets his jaw and reverses out of the garage. Violet’s mom is still standing at the back door of the house, and she comes in and out of Violet’s sight line as her father executes a flawless three-point turn. When the Range Rover faces forward, so does Violet, separated from her mother only by the shatterproof windshield.

  Her mom stops chewing her nails in order to wave good-bye. Her expression—both hopeful and woebegone—transforms Violet’s anger into shame.

  She hurt her mother, who needs to be protected.

  She made her mom feel like she can’t do stuff. Like she’s dumb, or helpless, or … unwell. Violet’s heart hammers in her chest, because what if her mom is unwell, and everyone’s just pretending she isn’t, and she has to go back to the hospital and not be at home anymore? Not be better???

  Violet wants to make her father stop the car. She wants to run back to her mom and hug her. But her dad honks as he peels out of the driveway, and it startles her, and before she knows it, they’re driving away from the house.

  It’s too late to say, “No, please don’t! Go back!”

  It’s too late to even say good-bye.

  Rivendell at her usual, somewhat early time. She walks down the hall toward Mr. Emerson’s room, just like yesterday, and just like yesterday, she turns the corner and almost collides with Modessa, Quin, and Elena. Unlike yesterday, there are other kids in the hall this time, but they part on instinct to give Modessa and her companions room. They scoot out of the way because the three girls are evil. Indeed, they proclaim their evilness with matching shirts; well, matching in that Modessa’s says Evil Chick #1, Quin’s says Evil Chick #2, and Elena’s says Evil Chick #3. Their arms are linked. Their smiles are smug.

  Milla almost turns tail and scurries in the other direction. That’s what her body wants her to do. But she isn’t that Milla anymore, so she doesn’t. Also, there’s Elena to think of. Elena who loves animals, a fact that suggests she loves chickens, a fact that suggests she doesn’t think chickens are evil.

  Yet here she is, passing herself off as evil chick number three to Modessa’s evil chick number one. It isn’t right.

  The three evil chicks draw closer. Milla’s palms get sweaty, because she knows she has to do something. She didn’t do anything when she was under Modessa’s wing, and that knowledge haunts her.

  Katie-Rose, Yaz, and Violet are the ones who saved her, and she’ll always be grateful. Now, as a way to act on that gratitude, it’s Milla’s time to return the favor. Elena needs Milla’s help whether she realizes it or not.

  “Hi, Elena,” she says right before their paths cross.

  “H-hi, Milla,” Elena says. She looks at Modessa, who gives a tiny, disgusted shake of her head. She’s too disappointed to expend more than the barest minimum of energy on correcting Elena. That’s the message Modessa seems to want to convey.

  “Nice shirt,” Milla says.

  Elena smiles, then doesn’t smile, then smiles again, but timidly. “Really? You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for wearing them?”

  “Elena?” Modessa says, both condescending and put-out. “Camilla is lying to you. She doesn’t like your shirt. Or she thinks she doesn’t. Really, she’s just jealous.”

  Oh, that tone. That tone brings back so many memories, all of them unpleasant.

  Milla? There’s food in your teeth. It’s gross.

  Milla? I’m sure you were trying to be nice by loaning your pencil to Ava, but don’t do that again. If you let people treat you like a doormat, they’ll keep treating you like, well, a doormat.

  Milla? Please don’t make that sound when you swallow. No offense, but it makes me vomit a little in my throat.

  Milla tried for days—for weeks—to figure out what sound she made when she swallowed. Modessa could hear it, and so could Quin, since she said it made her want to vomit, too, but not Milla. So she just stopped eating … until Modessa told her not to do that, either.

  Milla? she said in that awful tone of fake and weary concern. Having an eating disorder is, like, embarrassing. Also? No offense? But you’re already too skinny, as in bad skinny. You do want to have boobs one day, don’t you?

  Milla shakes her head, and she shakes it hard, nothing like Modessa’s slight shake of disdain. She shakes those memories out of her head and flings them far, far away.

  “Okay, I don’t like your shirt,” she confesses to Elena, whose face falls.

  Modessa snorts. “See?”

  “I mean, it’s good for what it is,” Milla says, “and I think it’s cool that you all made shirts together—”

  “Do you, Milla?” Modessa says.

  “Yeah,” Quin says. “Do you?”

  She doesn’t. She thinks the concept of friends making shirts together is cool, but fine, her opinion doesn’t apply to Modessa, Elena, and Quin, because she doesn’t think they are friends. Not real friends.

  “But, um, you might get in trouble,” Milla says. “I don’t know. Like if Ms. Westerfeld thought you were pretending to be witches …?”

  “Now why in the world would we do that?” Modessa asks. She regards Milla pityingly. “We are witches, silly.” She turns to Elena. “Poor Camilla. For a while, I thought maybe, maybe, she had what it took.”

  Back her eyes slide to Milla. They are stained glass: shiny and glittering, but with nothing behind them. “But you don’t, do you, Milla? You just don’t have what it takes, and you turned out to be so easily replaced.”

  Modessa puts her arm around Elena. The gesture is a challenge. It says, She is mine. Once, you were mine. Don’t you know that whatever I want, I get?

  Milla is officially creeped out, especially by the “witches” part. Modessa knows Milla is superstitious. She knows Milla is afraid of the dark, and all it represents.

  She holds it together, though, because Modessa is glossing over an extremely important point. Modessa doesn’t always get what she wants. Milla left her, not the other way around.

  “Um, you could switch into a Rivendell shirt,” Milla suggests to Elena. “You can buy one from Mr. McGreevy, and he’ll put it on your parents’ account.”

  Elena swallows. Does she make a sound when she does? If so, it eludes Milla entirely.

  Milla holds out her hand, palm up. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the office.”

  “No,” Modessa says, no longer sickly-sweet. Her expression hardens, and she steps between Milla and Elena. She places her hands on Elena’s shoulders and says, “You don’t talk to Camilla, for your own good. You can smile at Camilla, but that’s all. And only like this.” She bares her teeth at Milla and growls, making Milla jump.

  Modessa laughs. She growls again, and Quin growls with her. Quin jabs Elena, and Elena joins in. Once she gives herself over to it, she really gives herself over to it, peeling her lips away from her teeth and adding a menacing hiss.

  Milla’s pulse races. It’s awful how they transform themselves, and it’s especially awful in Elena’s case. They are a pack of wild wolf-girls, and Elena, as a wolf-girl, is no longer timid or confused. While Modessa’s eyes are made of stained glass, Elena’s are dark pits.

  It’s as if Modessa really has cast a spell on her. As if she is a witch. Milla knows in her head how ridiculous that is, but her heart says otherwise and tries to jump out of her skin as she hurries past them.

  Instead of going to Mr. Emerson’s class, she flees to the girls’ bathroom and locks herself in a stall for a full five minutes. When she emerges, she looks at herself in the mirror and sees a coward. Her face is drained of color. Her eyes are big, blue, and stupid.

  Later, sitting in Mr. Emerson’s classroom, she calms down. She tells herself again how silly Modessa and Quin and Elena are, pretending to be witches or wolf-girls or vampires, for all she knows. It does seem as though they’ve shed their “girl” id
entities, though. But if they’re not girls, what are they? Or if they are girls, but they’re also something else, what are they? What do you call a girl who bares her teeth and growls? What do you call a girl with black pits for eyes?

  She doesn’t know. She’s not good with words. Violet, who writes poetry and posts it on LuvYaBunches.com, is excellent with words, and if Milla asked her to, she’s sure Violet could come up with the perfect term for girls who are both more than and less than real girls.

  Milla doesn’t want to bother her, though. When Violet came into Mr. Emerson’s room soon after Milla, Milla hopped up and gave her the biggest hug ever, hoping to give strength to Violet and receive strength from Violet simultaneously. Violet hugged her back, but pulled away quickly. Milla doesn’t think they got much of anything from each other, which was sad.

  “So, children of the corn, is everyone clear on how to divide one fraction by another?” Mr. Emerson asks. Milla blinks. She has no clue how to divide one fraction by another, just as she has no clue why Mr. Emerson sometimes calls them “children of the corn.” But does it matter? She craves the freedom of morning break, so she adds her “yes” to the chorus of everyone else’s.

  “Riiight,” Mr. Emerson says. “Sure you do.” He waves his arm toward the door. “Go on, then! Play, frolic, and run wildly about like the savages you are!”

  Milla joins the others as they head for the door. She and Violet are separated in all the jostling, and the October wind whips her hair around her face. It makes her feel bold—not witchy bold, but Milla bold—and she’s almost able to forget the pale, big-eyed coward in the girls’ room mirror. She pulls a hair elastic off her wrist and secures her hair in a ponytail.

  “Max!” she calls, spotting him with his best friend, Thomas.

  He glances over his shoulder, and she jogs over. The wind is having fun with his thick hair, fluffing it into even more of a puffball than usual.

  “Hi,” she says. She takes a sec to catch her breath, and to figure out why she’s there in the first place. Because Max is so solid? Because Max, if Milla asked him about witches, would quote some Discovery Channel show like Mythbusters and tell her—in detail—why witches don’t and can’t exist?