The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond

by Brenda Woods

  As I scrolled down her website, I came to some photographs of her when she was a girl and stopped. I gasped. One of the photos looked a lot like me. I went to the mirror and stared at my reflection.

  Questions I wanted answers to were on my mind. Why was Roxanne Diamond acting like I didn’t exist? Why was the accident my mom’s fault? And what other secrets were being kept from me?

  10

  TRUTH AND TEARS

  Ever since I can remember, Sunday hikes with Mom are one of those usually always things. It used to be me, Mom, and Daisy time, but between Daisy’s job and Wyatt, the boyfriend, she hardly ever comes with us anymore. Today Daisy had to work, so Mom and I packed a lunch and were off to the lake. Because I had so many questions, I was glad we were going to be alone.

  I tied a bandanna around my head and put on a baseball hat to keep people from gawking at my orange curls. Tomorrow at nine, my hair would be back to normal, I hoped. With skin so brown, I felt like I looked totally bizarre. I didn’t like it—at all.

  We hiked for a while, until we got to this huge boulder where we decided to rest. In silence, we watched the blue water ripple on the lake. Mom and I both like quiet. But today I needed some answers.

  I took an extremely deep breath before I said these words because I was worried about upsetting my mom. I hate it when she gets that look like she’s been stung by an insect. On the other hand, there were things I had to know. I exhaled. “She’s an artist.”

  “Who?”

  “My dad’s mom, Roxanne Diamond.”

  As expected, the stung-by-a-bee look covered her face. “How did you find that out?”

  “On the Internet.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is she from Africa?” I asked.

  “No . . . why would you think that?”

  “Because in her pictures she’s usually always dressed in African clothes and her paintings are mostly of African people.”

  “She was born in New York City, V, but she’s always been very Afrocentric.”

  A cool new word. “Afrocentric?”

  “A person who’s very interested in the history and culture of Africa and black people. She used to teach African art history, and while she was in college, she didn’t call herself Roxanne; she went by an African name.”

  “Kamaria?”

  “I think so. How did you know that?”

  “It’s online, too. It means ‘like the moon.’ It’s her middle name.”

  Mom cracked a grin and squeezed my head to her shoulder. “You’ve done good research.”

  “Yep . . . her website says she lives in Los Angeles now.”

  “Really? She travels a lot, and she lived in Paris and Berlin and Nairobi for years, but she’s always had a house in Los Angeles.” Mom sighed. “She’s just different. Artists sometimes are. She’s bohemian.”

  “Bohemian? Where’s that country?”

  “It just means she lives an unconventional life.”

  Bohemian? Unconventional? Two more new words. Well, I suppose if they mean the same thing, it’s really only one new word. “English, please?”

  “She doesn’t live an ordinary life.”

  “Oh . . . you mean not boring?”

  “Yes, not boring.”

  “She’s pretty, huh?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Did she ever see me . . . ever? Like when I was a baby?”

  “She’s never seen you in person, but every year I send her pictures of you,” Mom replied, then got that will-you-please-shut-up look. So I did.

  But minutes later, when a flock of ducks skid-landed on the lake, I laughed. “Ducks are goofy, huh?”

  Mom smiled but not with her eyes, sighed loudly, and replied, “Yep, ducks are goofy.” I could tell she really didn’t want to talk, but I still did.

  “If you want me to stop yakking about her, I’ll be quiet.”

  “You don’t have to be quiet, V. If I were you, I’d have lots of questions, too.”

  Good, I thought, and continued my interrogation—which means to keep asking a person questions they probably don’t want to answer. “Why doesn’t she care about me?”

  “She cares about you, V.”

  If she cared about me, she would want to know me.

  “Then how come I never met her and how come she never calls me and how come I don’t get to go to visit her like Daisy gets to visit her grandpa and grandma in Connecticut and how come she doesn’t send birthday cards or presents and how come—”

  Mom pressed her finger to my lips. “It’s because of me, V.”

  “You mean because she didn’t want her son to marry a white woman?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I heard you and Gam talking last night.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “That the accident was your fault . . . Was it?”

  Mom hung her head and stammered, “Y-yes. I was driving.”

  “Were you on your cell phone or something?”

  “No, we passed a baby furniture store and there was the prettiest crib in the window, so I made one of my famous U-turns. I can still hear him warning me not to when the truck broadsided us and sent us into the telephone pole. Your dad was gone instantly.”

  I wanted to get up and run far, far away, but I didn’t. “So it really was your fault?”

  No wonder Roxanne Diamond was mad. So was I!

  “No wonder she hates you!” I blurted out. “If you didn’t do that, I would have had a really nice dad! Instead of . . .”

  “Instead of what?”

  “Instead of just you!” I’d tried very hard not to say that part, but it just flew out and there was no taking it back now.

  Mom’s eyes filled up with tears. “I made a mistake, Violet. People make mistakes.”

  “Not just a mistake, a horrible mistake!”

  “I’m sorry, Violet,” Mom said, and started to cry hard.

  Usually always when anyone starts to cry, I feel bad for them, but today I didn’t. I was glad she was crying. I hope she cries enough tears to fill a bathtub, I thought as I ran to the edge of the lake, peered in, and wished. I wished that she hadn’t made the stupid U-turn, I wished that I had a dad, I wished that Roxanne Diamond loved me. I glanced back at her. She was doubled over, weeping. Seeing her like that made me feel sorry for what I had said, and I wished my mom would stop crying. Now.

  I went back to where she was still sobbing, sat beside her, and patted her leg.

  “I wish you didn’t make a U-turn,” I whispered.

  “So do I.”

  “But it’s not like you meant to, not like murder, right?”

  She stared at me with eyes that looked like glass and repeated, “Right. I’m sorry, Violet.” Mom took a deep breath and dried her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.

  “I still have some questions. Is it okay to ask them?”

  Mom sighed and nodded.

  “Is it true that she didn’t want him to marry you because you’re white?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Some black people feel that way.”

  “And some white people feel that way, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Good question. Many answers, I suppose,” she replied.

  “Why do people have to come in different colors?” I wondered out loud.

  “More beauty that way,” Mom answered. “Just imagine if every cat on Earth was a Siamese.”

  “And none like Hazel?” I asked, picturing a room filled with forty Siamese cats, each an identical replica of the next. “That’d be extremely dull.”

  Mom reached for my hand and held it. “Exactly.”

  There was one more thing I needed to know. “Did Gam and Poppy care
?”

  “About what?”

  “About you marrying someone who was black.”

  “They were hippies.”

  Hippies? That didn’t sound good. “What’s a hippie?”

  “People from the 1960s and 1970s who believed in peace, love, and happiness—that color didn’t matter because we’re all humans. It was an era. Gam and Poppy both went to UC Berkeley, lived for a while in a commune . . . and I grew up in Berkeley. People of all colors and every religion were in and out of our house . . . No, they didn’t care about your father being black.”

  “It’s too bad Roxanne Diamond wasn’t a hippie, huh?”

  Mom wiped her tears away and smiled.

  I made a wish and took a huge deep breath. “She’s having an exhibit of her paintings at the Seattle Art Museum.”

  “When?”

  “Starts next weekend. There’s something called a public reception with the artist on Saturday. That means she’ll be there?”

  “Yes, that’s what it means.”

  “And she can’t make us go away because anyone who wants to go to that gallery can?”

  “Right.”

  I took my mom’s hand in mine and held it tight. It seemed like a tri-zillion seconds passed before I asked, “Can we go? Maybe she’ll like me when she meets me.”

  And it felt like an eon went by before Mom finally answered.

  “Yes. We can.”

  11

  A WEEK OF WAITING

  Gam’s hairdresser was able to get my hair back to its normal color, and boy, was I glad. Some people just look better with brown hair and I’m definitely one of them. For the first time in a while, I liked what looked back at me from the mirror.

  “Can I go to Athena’s house? Her mom said it was okay,” I asked Gam after we got home.

  “No more hair color tricks. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “And call me when you get there.”

  I nodded and sped to Athena’s. I couldn’t wait to tell her how my life had suddenly become extremely un-boring. Today, there were no clouds in my head, no feeling-sorry-for-myself look on my face.

  Athena’s mom, Ianthe, opened the door. Her hair is streaked gold, her eyes greenish blue, and she’s usually thin, except for now, because she just had a baby. Ianthe means “violet flower” in Greek, at least that’s what she told me a long time ago, so it’s kind of like we have the same name. But if you want to know the truth, I actually like the name Violet a lot better. With one arm, she was cradling the baby, who was wrapped tightly in a blanket, and all I could see was the top of his head.

  “Hi, Violet,” Ianthe whispered.

  “Hey, Miz Starros. Can I see him?” I asked.

  “Of course, but shhh, he’s sleeping,” Ianthe replied, carefully peeling the blanket away so I could see his face.

  “He’s so cute,” I said, admiring his dark curls and tiny pink mouth. “Hey, little Dio.”

  Dio made a baby sound and squirmed.

  Like a bullet, Athena flew into the room and ran her hands through my hair. “Your hair is back!” she screeched. “Awesome!”

  “Shhh,” Athena’s mom reminded her.

  “All right already,” Athena told her as she grabbed my hand and pulled me to her room.

  I settled in on her huge pink bean bag chair and got comfy.

  “Your mom didn’t kill you,” she declared.

  I waved my arm in front of me as if to say I’m right here and replied, “Do I look dead?”

  “You could be a ghost. Maybe I see dead people.”

  “You’re not funny, Athena.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said. She jumped up and did a funny dance to the music that was coming from the TV.

  I laughed and shook my head. “You’re insane.” As usual, it was almost impossible to be anything but happy around Athena, and it’s one of the things I liked best about her.

  Athena continued dancing until the song ended, then plopped on her bed and started flipping through one of her teen magazines.

  “I’m going to Seattle this weekend with my mom. We’re staying the whole weekend,” I told her.

  “For what?”

  “To go to an art exhibit.”

  “Ho-hum,” Athena said, and made a fake yawn.

  “An exhibit of paintings by my grandmother.”

  Athena scrunched up her face. “Huh? I never saw her painting anything.”

  “Not Gam . . . my other grandmother.”

  “I didn’t even know you had another grandmother.”

  “I do. Her name’s Roxanne Kamaria Diamond. And she’s famous.”

  “You are so lying, V.”

  “I am so not.” I reached for her computer. “Turn it on,” I commanded. “I’ll show you.”

  I typed in my grandmother’s name and showed Athena. “See, Roxanne even has her own website.”

  Athena studied the photos, glanced at me with a question-mark face, and proclaimed, “But she’s black . . . dark black.”

  “She’s my dad’s mother. What’d you expect?”

  Athena shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.” She stared at the screen and then back at me. “It’s just I never think about you really being black.”

  “But I am black.”

  “Only half . . . you’re biracial.”

  “Half is still black. What do you think people notice when they first look at me?”

  “Curly hair?”

  “Not. The first thing they think is Violet Diamond is a black girl. In school I’m the only black girl in class. And at the ice rink, Yaz Kilroy is the black girl who might one day go to Nationals. It’s just how people are.”

  “So? Maybe the first thing people think when they meet me is that I’m Greek.”

  “Not. People can’t tell you’re Greek just by looking at you. But people always know when you’re black or Asian or Mexican even.”

  “I spoze,” she replied.

  “How would you feel if you were the only white girl in class?” I asked.

  Athena shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been the only one,” she answered, then glanced back at the pictures of Roxanne Diamond on the computer screen. “Her clothes look like she’s from Africa.”

  “No, she’s bohemian.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It just means she’s different. And look at her paintings . . . they’re really good, huh?”

  Athena nodded. “Can I go with you? I know my mom’ll let me. Anything is better than being told to shush all day long because the baby is sleeping or listening to him cry, even in the middle of the night. Plus, I’m being forced to learn Greek cooking from scratch from my grandma every day. Microwave isn’t in her vocabulary. Yesterday we made stuffed grape leaves.”

  I’d eaten stuffed grape leaves before and they were really good. “Yummy.”

  “I know they taste good, but I hate cooking. Please take me with you.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Um, what?”

  “I don’t think my mom will like that.”

  “Why?” Athena asked.

  I felt embarrassed to tell her the truth, but I did. “Because I’ve never even met my other grandmother before.”

  “How come?”

  A knock on the door kept me from spilling the beans.

  “Come in,” Athena said.

  It was Athena’s grandma, Mrs. Matsoukis. I’ve met her lots of times. She has a foreign accent, mostly gray hair, a happy round face, but a slim body. “Athena, I am making meat and macaroni pie. Pastitsio. It’s a good dish. You should learn.”

  “But my friend is here. It’ll take all day,” Athena whined.

  I waved. “Hi, Mrs. Matsoukis.”

  “Hello, Violet. You should learn, too, and join u
s for dinner.”

  I’d never had meat and macaroni pie, but it sure sounded good. “Does it have cheese?” I asked.

  “Kefalotiri cheese.”

  Athena rolled her eyes. “Gramma, I really hate to cook.”

  “But you like to eat. Come.”

  As instructed, we followed Mrs. Matsoukis to the kitchen. “First, the meat sauce.”

  I really like to cook and it must have shown, because Athena’s grandma patted me on the back as I carefully mixed the meat sauce in the pan. “You are good at this, Violet. Do you cook with your mother or grandmother?”

  “Sometimes I make lasagna or spaghetti with my grandma. Italian food is her specialty, but mostly my poppy does the cooking. He’s the gourmet. He even takes cooking classes. Last night he cooked spicy-sweet tangerine shrimp with bok choy and rice.”

  “On Sunday, we are having a party to celebrate the arrival of Dio Starros. You will come,” Mrs. Matsoukis commanded.

  “Thank you, but I can’t. I’m going to Seattle.”

  “To meet her other grandmother for the first time,” Athena informed her.

  “Other grandmother?” Mrs. Matsoukis asked.

  “My black grandmother. I’m biracial.”

  “What is this ‘biracial’?”

  “It means she’s two races . . . half black race and half white race,” Athena replied.

  Mrs. Matsoukis popped a cherry tomato in her mouth and chewed. “Aren’t we all human race, Violet?”

  I stopped stirring. “Yes, but . . .”

  She didn’t let me finish. “Of course we are. Human race comes in many colors. This word ‘biracial’ is silly talk.”

  “Is that what people think in Greece, that we’re all the same?” I asked.

  “In Greece, no, but in my mind, yes. No more silly talk . . . understand?”

  Athena and I stared at each other and smiled. “Got it.”

  • • •

  Athena was right, the meat and macaroni pie did take hours. Finally, when we were done, we mixed the rest of the grated cheese with bread crumbs, sprinkled them over the top, and put the meat pie in the oven.

  And while it was baking, Athena and I went back to her room, where I finally spilled most of the beans about my mom and Roxanne Diamond. There were only two secrets I didn’t tell her—the one about my grandmother not wanting my father to marry my mom because she was white and the one about my mom making the U-turn.