by Nina Perez
Every customer in the Cool Beans coffee shop watched as Kalina strode from the service counter to a small two-person table in the back of the café. Violet watched from the table with a mixture of awe and annoyance. Awe because Kalina was six feet of feline movement, graceful limbs, and caramel-colored skin, and annoyance because Violet’s own raven hair would never bounce like Kalina’s brown, curly tresses.
It always amazed Violet when anyone mistook them for sisters even though it was an honest enough mistake. Violet was bi-racial; her complexion similar to Kalina’s in that it was a mocha blend of her black mother and white father. Her brown eyes had flecks of green, unlike the full-on emerald explosions that were Kalina’s eyes. Violet felt that her hair represented how she sometimes viewed herself: not quite one thing, not quite the other. It couldn’t make up its mind whether it wanted to be straight and silky or tight and curly, so it settled for layered waves.
Violet was used to her tutor turning heads; especially in South Rosemont where most women wore “Mom jeans” and Crocs. Women did not often wear knee-high leather boots, black tights, mini-skirts and leather jackets to get coffee. Whether it was on purpose or not, everything about Kalina said look at me, yet she never looked back.
Kalina sat down, placing a cup of hot cocoa in front of Violet and a latte in front of herself. “So, name another reason the south used in order to justify slavery.”
“Religion. They believed that black people were inferior and that it was their Christian duty to give them purpose.”
“And what do you think about that?”
“I think some people actually believed that, but mostly, I think it was a pretty crappy excuse.”
“Indeed it was.”
Violet checked her cell phone. It was already dark and she’d told Liza she would be at her house by seven. She started packing her books.
“Do you have any plans tonight?”
Violet stopped and looked over her shoulder for the person Kalina was speaking to. Surely, it wasn’t her. They didn’t do small talk or chit chat. When they first started working together, Violet had tried talking to Kalina like a friend, but Kalina didn’t seem interested. Kalina didn’t talk about herself. At all. Violet knew that she was a graduate student and she lived in one of the warehouse loft apartments in Little City. She thought she went to school in Philadelphia and possibly worked in a bank, but she couldn’t say for sure.
Anything she knew about Kalina came from bits of conversation overheard when her parents didn’t know she was listening. She didn’t know Kalina’s last name and she had learned long ago not to ask questions. Kalina wasn’t rude about it, but she definitely had a way of not just steering personal talk away from her, but shutting it down altogether.
“Me?”
“Yes you, Violet. You’re looking at the time. Do you have plans?”
Kalina’s voice had a melodious quality that reminded Violet of her father’s jazz albums. It didn’t matter that they didn’t usually talk about personal things, she found herself wanting to tell Kalina everything.
“Oh, I agreed to go to my friend Liza’s party even though I really don’t want to.”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know. I just…” Violet shrugged. She couldn’t explain to Kalina that she’d connected to Liza’s emotions and let them influence her decision - so much for telling Kalina everything.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Liza can be persuasive I guess. You should meet her.”
Violet knew she’d gone too far. Kalina went from looking at her with mild interest to boredom. “Well, have fun. Don’t… stay out too late.” Kalina looked as uncomfortable giving the advice as Violet felt receiving it. Kalina rose and left the coffee shop, turning heads as she went. Violet realized that, as usual, she never touched her coffee.
Liza Grant lived in one the largest homes in one of South Rosemont’s most posh subdivisions. All the homes were custom-built and valued in the high six figures. Liza’s parties weren’t loud or out-of-control – she couldn’t risk someone telling her mother. Not that her mother would stop going out of town; she would just hire someone to stay with Liza when she did. Liza knew that in order to keep having the parties, they had to be low-key and exclusive. She only invited those she considered to be the coolest kids. Violet always felt like she was invited by default since she’d been friends with Liza before her physical and social blossoming began.
Violet had no intention of staying late and her parents wouldn’t stand for it. They’d only agreed to let her go out on a school night because she’d promised to be home by ten; a promise she didn’t think she’d have any problem keeping since she was, once again, feeling very unenthusiastic about attending by the time she rang Liza’s doorbell.
As usual, Liza had gotten some of the boys in their class to move all of the living room furniture against the wall to clear dance space and reduce the risk of anything getting stained. An interior designer featured on Oprah had chosen to fill the house with bright whites, black, and rich reds. Violet always felt like she was walking through a museum.
Violet found Liza in the kitchen setting out boxes of pizza on the counter. “I’m here,” Violet said, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and rocking back on her heels. The plan was to find the quietest corner and stay there until she’d put in her obligatory time.
“Gee, curb your enthusiasm. What? Am I keeping you from your study date?” Liza never teased Violet about her learning disability, but she did poke fun at the time Violet spent with Kalina. She suspected that Liza might be jealous that she was hanging around someone who effortlessly received more attention.
“Nope. We’re done. You need any help?”
Liza leaned close and lowered her voice even though they were the only ones in the kitchen and in no danger of being heard over the music in the next room. “You wanna help?” Liza asked. “Help me get Barbara Lewis to leave. Can you believe Casey brought her to one of my parties? I’ll have to talk to Casey tomorrow about her priorities. I mean, did you see what Barbara’s wearing?”
Violet shrugged. “I didn’t notice.”
Liza let out a deep sigh like she’d been trying to teach a puppy a trick he was too stupid to learn. “Leave it to you to miss the fashion faux pas of the season. Anyway, are you sleeping over?”
There it was. Violet used to envy Liza for the fancy house and expensive clothes her father’s massive child support payments afforded her, but she knew that despite it all, Liza was lonely. After every party she pleaded with Violet to sleep over and most times Violet obliged, but she knew she couldn’t this time; not on a school night.
“You know they’d have a fit. This weekend, though? I promise.”
“Oh, yeah. I know. That’s cool. Maybe tomorrow night.” Liza tried playing off her disappointment with a smile. She grabbed two red plastic cups from the counter and pushed one into Violet’s hand. Then, she put her free hand on the small of Violet’s back and ushered her towards the living room. “Let’s party.”
Violet could smell the alcohol in the cup before it even reached her lips. She paused and asked, “What’s this, Liza?”
“Patrick’s older brother bought it for us. Taste it. It’s just like juice.”
Liza watched Violet with a look of certainty that Violet wouldn’t drink it. There was something so certain and smug in her look it made Violet want to do the exact opposite. She took a sip and then another. Liza was right; it tasted like pineapple juice, but with a bit of a kick.
“OK. Pour me another one.”
Violet found satisfaction in the look of surprise and then joy on Liza’s face. She didn’t surprise people often and it felt good. After four cups, she felt her limbs go warm and loose and she required greater effort to move them. She leaned against the doorway separating the living room from the foyer and watched everyone fuse together like images in a kaleidoscope. She wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t comprehend what was happening: for the
first time in her life, Violet was drunk.
The music, which hadn’t been up too loud to begin with, lowered to an indistinguishable hum. Violet looked around to see if someone had turned down the volume, but no one stood by the stereo. Violet heard the static-like noise before feeling overwhelmed by intense jealousy, then anger. She looked around for the source. Everyone seemed to be doing just fine – most were laughing and some were even dancing.
Her eyes fell on Liza and Patrick, leaning very close to one another against the fireplace. Patrick, a tall, lanky boy in desperate need of a haircut, was leisurely tracing the word SASSY, which was spelled out in glitter on the front of Liza’s t-shirt, with his index finger. While Violet watched, the anger and jealousy amplified. She wanted to stomp over there and push Patrick’s face into the hearth.
Who the hell is this coming from?
She looked away from the couple and scanned the room, hoping to find something else, anything else, to focus on until it passed. Then, she noticed a boy from their biology class - Violet thought his name was Ryan - also watching Liza and Patrick. His hands were at his sides, balled into fists. Even from across the room she could see how white his knuckles were.
Between the alcohol and feeling the overcharged emotions of a jealous teenage boy, Violet needed air. She stumbled into the foyer and heard the static-tuning sound. The frequency was changing. She was about to connect to someone else.
Suddenly she felt nervous, then aroused, flushed in the face, with flutters going through her stomach. Her hands were sweaty. She looked at Liza and noticed a blush paint her face, and she felt that, too, on her own. Violet had one brief, drunken thought.
So that’s what it feels like to flirt with a boy.
Violet turned down the hallway, making her way through the kitchen and out the back door. It had happened four times in one day – a new record. Violet didn’t know if it was the alcohol or all of the connecting, but one of them was taking its toll and she just wanted to go home.
Once she was in the backyard, Violet headed for the tree line signaling the entrance to the woods behind the subdivision. She fell to her knees and turned her face towards the sky with her eyes closed. Violet felt a breeze drying the sweat that had gathered on her forehead. She pushed her hands into piles of dead leaves at her sides, as if this would steady her, tether her to reality.
She opened her eyes. There weren’t many stars in the sky, but she focused on the few she could see, using this to drown out the emotions that seemed to have followed her outside like a cloud of smoke. Only when she was sure that her emotions were her own did she attempt to stand. She walked the few blocks home; the whole time feeling like something was following her.
On most mornings, if Jack was lucky, both of his parents would be gone before he left for school. Lucky mornings were rare since Nick Morrow hadn’t been hired to design or build a house in nearly a year. He mostly accepted smaller jobs, like decks or additions. People who could afford to buy homes were able to purchase like-new, foreclosed homes at a fraction of the cost of a custom-built one.
Jack had never seen his father depressed over anything. Nick Morrow had always been one of those proud, blue-collar guys that believed that a hard day’s work solved everything; if you put one in, you’d be rewarded. He’d spent most of his life doing the right things: working hard, taking care of family and putting aside savings - savings the Morrows had spent the better part of a year dipping into.
Jack knew that breaking curfew, skipping school and generally being a pain in the ass wasn’t helping the situation. He wanted to explain to his father that he wasn’t acting out to hurt him or his mother and tell them it wasn’t their fault. Jack didn’t know how to explain what was going on and worse, didn’t think anyone would believe him. It was best to keep quiet – even if that meant he was viewed as an ungrateful troublemaker because of it.
He was coming down the stairs behind the kitchen when he heard the tail-end of his parents’ conversation.
“Did he talk to you about it at all when you picked him up?” his father asked.
Jack imagined his mother running her fingers through her short blond hair as she often did when she was stressed or sensed an argument brewing.
“No, he didn’t want to tell me what they talked about.”
“Well, you might have to make him. Tell him he doesn’t have a choice.”
“Really, Nick? You think that’s going to help? Because that’s worked so well for us so far, right?”
“No need to be sarcastic. Dr. Tesla said…”
“I know what he said.”
Jack quietly stepped backwards up the stairs then made a show of walking down them loudly. He heard his parents shuffling to get into position; put on happy faces, and pretend that everything was normal. He headed straight for the fridge and grabbed a carton of juice.
“Hey, son.”
“Dad.”
“Jack, Sylvia’s giving me a lift to work, but we can drop you off if you’d like,” his mother offered.
“That’s okay. I’ll walk.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
From the corner of his eye, Jack saw his parents look at each other. When his mother tried so hard, it made it difficult for Jack to maintain the wall he’d built. Jack knew if he allowed small talk and rides to school he would start to get comfortable, and that was the last thing he wanted because comfort led to touching. Nick nodded towards a basket of muffins on the counter.
“Diane, where’d these come from?”
His mother sighed. “Nick, I told you yesterday when you asked; Sylvia sent them. She had them delivered from this bakery she found when she was in California. A thank you for the sales we did last month.”
Diane Morrow managed a clothing boutique in Little City. Sylvia Decklan, the owner, spent most of her time traveling around the country and abroad, buying designs and making sure the shop was filled with the latest couture. The store was barely turning a profit before Sylvia came along – most didn’t think that Rosemont would appreciate or could afford such an establishment and thought it might thrive better in Philadelphia or New York. But once Sylvia took over, the store began turning numbers in the black and sometimes doubling their profits from the previous month. No one was quite sure how she did it. Diane said the woman simply had an eye for what women liked, but she really didn’t care what her secret was. The Morrows needed the sales bonuses Sylvia gave Diane, and the perks - like muffins and fruit baskets - didn’t hurt either.
Nick looked at the basket in confusion. “I swear I don’t remember you telling me that.”
“You’d forget your name lately if it wasn’t on your license. What has gotten into you?”
Diane reached across the kitchen island and rubbed her husband’s neck. Nick Morrow was a bear of a man; a high school football lineman back in the day, and had a solid foot of height and fifty pounds on his petite wife. Jack could see the tension release from his father’s shoulders as he leaned into her touch. It was a nice moment - one he wished he could join, but… the touching.
“Jack, you’d better get a move on or you’ll be late. You sure I can’t take you?”
Jack knew the offer was more about making sure he actually went to school than it was about being helpful. He wanted to reassure them that he had no intention of ditching, but to do so would just remind them of all the times he had.
“Yeah, I can walk. It’s not that cold today.”
Nick settled at the kitchen table and bit into a muffin. “Oh, and don’t forget, Jack. We’re going out to dinner with the Loebs. We won’t be out late though.”
“OK. No problem.”
Jack headed for the foyer to grab his backpack. He walked past the table, and by the time he realized what his father was going to do, it was too late. Nick Morrow reached out and touched his son’s arm, stopping him mid-step.
“Have a good day, buddy.”
“You too, Dad.”
Jack nearly cried w
ith relief. When his father touched him, he saw nothing.
Whether it was because of the power that had come out of nowhere or her poor judgment in drinking the night before, Violet felt like she was being punished. She’d made it home well before curfew, and with more stealth than she’d have thought possible, managed to shower and fall into bed before her parents even realized she was home. Her last coherent thought was this has got to stop.
When the connections first started about six months ago, they began small - predicting what her parents were going to say or gauging their mood without looking at their faces and before they’d spoken - sometimes before she’d even step into the room. Then one day at the mall, she watched a young mother as she tried to handle a toddler in the middle of an epic meltdown. Violet could feel the woman’s frustration and embarrassment. They had completely taken over Violet’s own feelings of mild interest and boredom a few moments before. Then it happened more and more until she couldn’t deny it any longer.
And though she still didn’t know where it came from or why it was happening to her, she knew that it was getting stronger. It was occurring more frequently and the after effects were longer-lasting. Violet spent most of the day at school battling a headache though that could have been due to the alcohol, too.
She wanted to confront Liza, to have someone to blame, but Liza didn’t come to school and it wasn’t like she’d forced Violet to drink. She’d done so of her own free will in a desire to both impress Liza and prove her wrong. Violet wanted to be the type of girl who didn’t care what others thought, but she did. It was bad enough that she already stood out for being the girl with the learning disability, who wasn’t quite white enough and not really black enough. She didn’t want to be the girl that didn’t know how to have fun, too. But Violet had to face the fact that she was different. She was the girl who had to study harder than everyone else, the girl that didn’t drink, and now, the girl that could feel the emotions of others.