The Wondrous World of Violet Barnaby

by Jenny Lundquist

  CONTENTS

  1. SHABBY SWEATSHIRTS

  2. MEMORIES THAT WON’T GET MADE

  3. A NEW START

  4. THE TERRIBLE BEAUTIFUL ACHE

  5. ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER

  6. BACK IN BUSINESS!

  7. COOKIES AND SODA

  8. BURSTING WITH FRUIT FLAVORS

  9. PARTNERS

  10. WHAT IF?

  11. LOVE ALWAYS, VIOLET

  12. A PASSEL OF PROBLEMS

  13. NO TEXTING AT THE TABLE

  14. INSIDE JOKES

  15. A CHAIN OF TEXTS

  16. A THIN WALL OF GLASS

  17. POPCORN BALL

  18. THE BEST PRESENTS

  19. GRIEF AND GHOSTS

  20. ICE BLOCKING

  21. THE PERFECT FAMILY OF FOUR

  22. OPEN UP THE UGLY

  23. IN THE DOGHOUSE

  24. AN INVITATION TO STAY

  25. SLEEPOVER

  26. WHO’S SMARTER?

  27. HURT FEELINGS

  28. ROASTING MARSHMALLOWS

  29. CANDY CONTRABAND

  30. THE WRAP-A-THON

  31. IRIDESCENT

  32. INDESTRUCTIBLE

  33. DANCING SNOW

  34. SISTERS?

  35. SECOND-CHANCE FAMILY

  36. NEW PATTERNS

  Acknowledgments

  ‘The Charming Life of Izzy Malone’ Excerpt

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To Finnigan Joseph and Graysun Monet, the two of you make the world a more wondrous place

  CHAPTER

  1

  SHABBY SWEATSHIRTS

  I have a glittery purple journal where I keep word lists. Each list has a different title, like Words I Love, Funny Words, or Words That Annoy Me. On my list of Words I Love, I have “sparkling,” “bubbling,” and “spinning” because they remind me of parties and people smiling and no tears at all. It’s my favorite list. But it’s been a long time since I added anything to it.

  I also have a list of Words I Don’t Like. Words like “bucolic,” which means “relating to rural life,” but reminds me of the flu, and makes me queasy every time I hear it. Then there are words I despise, words that can wrap around your heart and squeeze you until you feel like you can’t breathe anymore.

  For my dad and me, that word is “cancer.”

  “Cancer”—It’s on the top of my Words I Hate list. But last month, I added a new word just below it:

  “Stepmother.”

  For Halloween most kids got a bucketful of candy. I got a stepmother. And not just any stepmother, either. Nope. My dad couldn’t meet a nice lady over the Internet like a normal person. No, he had to go and marry Ms. Melanie Harmer—aka the Hammer—the meanest teacher at Dandelion Middle School.

  Dad and Melanie got engaged at the end of October, but they didn’t want the hassle of a long engagement. So while other kids were putting away their Halloween costumes and trading candy with their friends, I was putting on my old Easter dress and trying not to puke the whole way over to the county courthouse, where it took the judge less than ten minutes to pronounce Dad and Melanie man and wife.

  As I stood there, watching them kiss, I wondered what it would be like to live with the Hammer and her two kids—Olivia, who’s my age; and Joey, who’s eight—in the house Dad and Melanie bought.

  Now, nearly a month later, it was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Moving Day. Dad and I were in Dad’s soon-to-be-vacated bedroom. The moving people had taken almost everything out of the house. We had just a few things to pack up before we left the only house I’d ever lived in forever. With all the furniture gone, it didn’t seem like a real home anymore. Of course, it hadn’t felt like a real home for the last year and a half, since Mom died.

  I swept the floor while Dad went through a box of old clothes. Once I finished with the broom I checked “Sweep Dad’s Floor” off the cleaning list I’d made. The list was two pages long, but I was almost finished with it. Dad wanted the house to be spotless before he gave the keys to his real estate agent.

  Dad held up a green T-shirt. “What do you think? Keep or toss?”

  “Toss, definitely,” I said. “It has holes in the sleeves.”

  Dad stared at it and frowned. “I guess. But I could find a use for it. Maybe when I paint?”

  “Dad, we talked about this,” I reminded him. “Toss it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Dad moved it into the trash pile, and then pulled out a raggedy sweatshirt. “What about this one?”

  “Mom gave you that one, remember?” I said.

  Dad flushed, and hurriedly put it into his “for keeps” pile, muttering that he was sorry, and I felt like a big jerk. The sweatshirt was really shabby and falling apart, and it’s not like I thought that by throwing it out he was forgetting Mom. But sometimes I feel like he’s packed up and moved into Melanie’s life and left me behind. Like I’m an old sweatshirt that suddenly seems too small and too shabby. Maybe one day Dad had woken up and decided he’d outgrown his old life. Our life. Then he met Melanie.

  While Dad finished going through the box, I consulted my list. Next up was “Vacuum Your Room,” so I headed for my bedroom. I paused in the empty living room. Memories of my mom filled these rooms and they spun around me like dust motes dancing in the sunlight. I wondered if the new owners would know how happy our family had been here—before Mom got sick, that is. Would they know she used to sit by the fireplace and knit, or that there used to be a piano under the window where her music students would play during their afternoon lessons, or that next to that piano was a vintage record player where we played old records from her collection—always records, never a CD or an iPod, because she felt a true fan of music should have a decent record collection?

  But now that piano was at my friend Izzy’s house so her sister Carolyn could use it, and our record collection, along with the rest of our furniture, was packed up and on its way to the new house—or on its way to the Goodwill, because Melanie said we no longer needed it.

  My room didn’t look like a real bedroom anymore, either. I stared at the purple walls as I ran the vacuum cleaner. Mom and I had painted them together; she’d even let me stay home from school one day to do it. A couple days later, after the paint had dried, she sat me down on my bed, and said, “I have something to tell you.”

  It’s amazing how quickly six little words can change your entire life.

  Next on my list was: “Wipe Down Dad’s Closet.”

  I pulled a paint-splattered folding chair up to the top shelf and was about to get started when I saw a dusty red envelope pushed against the corner. I flipped it over. On the outside it read, “For Violet, For Christmas.” I recognized the handwriting immediately.

  It was my mother’s.

  CHAPTER

  2

  MEMORIES THAT WON’T GET MADE

  “Dad! Dad, come in here!”

  I must have sounded pretty panicky, because Dad came rushing in. His cell phone was ringing. By the ringtone—a shrill-sounding trumpet—I knew it was Melanie calling again. Apparently, the movers Dad had hired were completely incompetent, and for some reason she needed to call him every ten minutes to tell him so.

  “What?” he said as he sent the call to voice mail. “What is it?” His face turned white when he saw the envelope. “Where did you get that?”

  “I found it in your closet.”

  We stared at the letter, and Mom’s swooping cursive, until Dad sank onto the folding chair, and put his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice sounding muffled. “I forgot—” His phone trumpeted. With an irritated grunt, he sent the call to voice mail again. “I completely forgot a
bout that letter. I was supposed to have given it to you last December, but . . .”

  He trailed off, but I understood. Last Christmas—Black Christmas, I called it privately—was our first one without Mom, and Dad had forgotten a lot of things. To put up a tree. To buy presents. To buy groceries. Sometimes it seemed like he even forgot I was in the room.

  “Do you remember all those letters Mom wrote you when you were having trouble with spelling?” he asked.

  I nodded. Mom used to write me long letters, using all the words on my spelling list. It was the highlight of the week for me, getting her notes. Pretty soon, I became the best speller in my class.

  “Well . . . before she died, she wrote you a letter. She thought the holiday season might be hard for you. You know how much she loved Christmas.”

  I nodded again, but I hoped he wouldn’t go into a big pep talk about holiday cheer. I had no interest in Christmas, or the holiday season at all. It was fine with me if we just skipped straight ahead to New Year’s.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dad said. “I really didn’t mean—” His phone rang again and he muttered a nasty word under his breath.

  “You’d probably better answer it,” I said. “She’ll just keep calling.”

  “I’ll text her.” While Dad tapped on his phone, I stared at the letter, my heart pounding.

  When someone you love dies, no one ever tells you that you’ve lost more than just that person. You’ve lost a lifetime of memories that won’t get made. You’ve lost a lifetime of getting to hear that person’s voice. But here in this letter were Mom’s words, and I was sure when I read them, I’d hear her voice. A voice I missed so much I oftentimes felt sick inside.

  “Do you want to read it now?” Dad asked. “Before . . .”

  Before we go to the new house is what he meant. Melanie’s house, a place Mom would never be.

  Dad’s cell pinged with a text, and we both glanced at the message: I NEED YOU HERE TO DIRECT THE MOVERS. THEY’RE IDIOTS!

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I can read it later.”

  I shoved the letter into my backpack. As much as I wanted to tear it right open, I wanted to do it on my own time. When Melanie wasn’t interrupting every two seconds—like a shrill alarm clock you just couldn’t shut off.

  CHAPTER

  3

  A NEW START

  As Dad started up the car, I looked at our house one last time. The front door was made of worn, splintered wood and was painted a bright shade of red that Mom always said reminded her of ripe strawberries. The door got smaller and smaller as we drove down the street, until we turned the corner and it slipped from view altogether.

  Here’s something else that’s red and worn and splintered: a heart that’s been broken in two.

  We were only moving to the next neighborhood over, but it felt like a million miles away, and my stomach heaved when the new house came into view. It was a big two-story that was painted brown with bright white shutters and trim. It also had a huge wraparound porch and a big bay window. It was exactly the kind of house Mom said she wanted to live in one day.

  “Ready, Champ?” Dad asked as he shut the car off. He started calling me Champ after I’d won the fourth-grade spelling bee, and the name stuck. He was smiling, and as much as I didn’t like Ms. Harm—Melanie—I at least appreciated that. Smiling Dad was much better than Crying Dad. Of course, he only ever cried at night, when he thought I was sleeping.

  “I’m ready,” I lied. “Let’s go.”

  As we strode up the walkway, I ran my fingers along the golden charm bracelet I always wear on my wrist, and I felt a little better. My friends Izzy, Sophia, and Daisy have the same bracelet, and I was going to see them tomorrow night at the Dandelion Hollow Christmas-Tree-Lighting.

  I just had to get through the next day and a half first.

  The front yard was covered in boxes, and Melanie was arguing with one of the movers—a short, round man whose eyebrows looked like thick black slugs.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asked.

  “The movers are quitting,” Melanie said, shooting the man a withering glare.

  “We’re not quitting,” he said, going red in the face. “I just refuse to have my men continually berated because you couldn’t be bothered to label your boxes.”

  “The boxes are labeled!” Melanie shouted.

  “Where?” He spread his hands wide. “Show me, and my men will get back to work. Otherwise, we’re leaving. We’re not waiting around while you open every single box!”

  “They were labeled!” Melanie insisted. “I don’t know what happened!” Her eyes found mine. “Do you know anything about this?” she demanded.

  I wanted so badly to say something snarky back to her. But Mom always said, “If you can’t say something nice, it’s better to say nothing at all.” Consequently, I’ve spent a lot of the last month keeping my mouth shut.

  “No, I just got here,” I said, in a polite voice. Not nearly enough time to screw anything up for you, I added silently in a decidedly not-polite voice. Melanie had been irritated with me all week. All month, actually, ever since Dad had let her into our house and the two of them had started deciding what to keep and what they should donate. I overheard her in the kitchen telling Dad she “didn’t appreciate my attitude” when they’d taken Joey, Olivia, and me to the new house to pick out our new bedrooms. I’d wanted to go marching in there and ask why I should be excited about it; none of the rooms in the new house were as good as the one she was making me leave behind.

  The movers started packing up, and Melanie went scurrying after them. Dad scratched his head. “That’s strange. I know we labeled them. Well . . . I guess we’d better get them all off the yard.”

  Dad picked up a box and headed inside. I grabbed one and nearly toppled over—it must have weighed a ton. Olivia, who’d been sitting on a rocker on the front porch while all of this was happening, said, “Careful, that one’s heavy.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I snapped, dropping the box.

  “Excuse me?” A deliveryman carrying a stack of pizzas came striding up to us. “I’ve got a delivery for a Mrs. Barnaby—is that your mother?”

  “No,” Olivia said, just as I answered, “Yes.”

  We glanced at each other and blinked. I realized he was talking about Melanie, not Mom. It made me sick that I had the same last name as the Hammer now—but at least she hadn’t changed it yet at Dandelion Middle.

  “I mean, yes, that’s my mother,” Olivia said, just as I said, “No.”

  The deliveryman sighed like he didn’t have time for our nonsense. “Are you two sisters?”

  “No,” Olivia answered.

  “Definitely not,” I said.

  “My mom’s in the garage with the movers, I think,” Olivia added.

  “Yeah, just listen for the sound of shrill arguing, and you’ll find her,” I said.

  The deliveryman sighed again and started for the garage. Olivia shot me a murderous look. Forget being sisters—Olivia and I weren’t even friends. I’d met her for the first time last summer, not too long after Dad and Melanie started dating. I think since we were both starting sixth grade at Dandelion Middle, Melanie thought we’d become BFFs or something.

  “Want to eat lunch together in the cafeteria?” Olivia had asked me the night before school started. She sounded about as excited as someone getting their tooth pulled, and I was pretty sure Melanie had put her up to it.

  “I’m busy,” I’d answered.

  “Busy doing what?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I’d said. “I just know I’m busy.”

  After that, we pretty much went out of our way to ignore each other at school.

  I picked up a couple small boxes, and Olivia, still lounging on the porch, said, “Those belong in the living room.”

  “Way to be helpful,” I said, and headed for the house. Inside it smelled like disinfectant, and furniture was haphazardly pushed up against the walls. Half-opened boxes littered th
e floor. In the middle of the living room was a huge box of Melanie’s Christmas decorations. I wanted to stomp all over them until they broke into tiny bits—she’d decided that Mom and Dad’s decorations were too old and worn, so she sent most of them off to the Goodwill.

  From the front door I heard Melanie shriek, “Who tracked mud into the house?”

  I looked down at my tennis shoes. Oops.

  “Those are Violet’s footprints,” Olivia was saying to Melanie, who was now carrying the stack of pizzas, when I reached the entryway. “She moved some boxes into the house.”

  “Because you told me to,” I said.

  “Um, hello? I didn’t think I’d have to tell you to wipe your feet first. What are you, five? Why don’t you go and ‘help’ somewhere else?” she said, making air quotes around the word “help.”

  “Fine—I’ve got better things to do, anyway,” I said, thinking of Mom’s letter.

  “Olivia, cool it,” Melanie warned as Dad joined us. “The mud will come out.” To me, she said, “How was your drive over?” Like we’d taken a trip across the country, instead of a short ride across Thistle Street. Dad put his hand on my back, and I knew I had to answer nicely.

  “It was fine. I’m going to miss my old room, though.”

  Melanie flushed, and Dad squeezed my shoulder, like I’d said something wrong, instead of just answering truthfully. Melanie asked Olivia to put the pizzas in the kitchen; then she led Dad and me upstairs, making chirpy comments about the house, and when she reached my new room she threw open the door, and said, “Isn’t it great?”

  I just smiled and nodded. Because if I was honest, the room was terrible; it looked even worse than I remembered. My mattress lay on the floor. A pile of boxes was stacked in the center—making the room look smaller than it already was. The walls were white and dusty, and the window was grimy.

  It just didn’t seem like someplace I could ever call my own.

  Dad was smiling and staring at me expectantly. I searched for something nice to say: “These walls would look great in purple.” I could already imagine it, and I knew Izzy would help me paint. She doesn’t like boring walls, either. Last month, she got into a ton of trouble for painting a wall at school orange. Well, we got into a ton of trouble, because I helped her do it.