The Wondrous World of Violet Barnaby

by Jenny Lundquist

  “No,” Austin said quietly, and I had to stifle a laugh.

  “I want to know what it is,” Stella Franklin said.

  “Suck-up,” Austin muttered.

  “Totally,” I said, and Austin smiled.

  “This month, we’re going to be studying the ancient Egyptians!” Bounce, jingle. Bounce, bounce, jingle. “And”—she paused dramatically—“you have a project due before winter break starts!”

  Groans rose up over the jingling of her Santa hat, but she continued, “You’ll be writing an essay on the life and culture of the ancient Egyptians”—bounce, bounce, jingle, jingle—“as well as constructing your own Egyptian pyramid! It will be a lot of work. But I know you can do it!” She ended her speech by throwing her hands in the air, like she was a cheerleader with pom-poms.

  “Wow,” Austin whispered, as we watched her continue to bounce. “There’s something really wrong with her.”

  “Seriously,” I said.

  “Wanna partner up?” he asked.

  Austin wasn’t someone I’d normally choose for a partner—everyone knows he’s practically allergic to homework, and studying in general. But I remembered how it felt when all of a sudden you realize that someone who was always there to take care of you suddenly might not be anymore. Even if it was for a good reason—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—I figured it might feel similar. Behind his goofy smile and the way he was bouncing in his seat—trying to mimic Miss Mallery while he waited for me to answer—I wondered if I saw a little bit of a Terrible Beautiful Ache inside of him.

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s be partners.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  WHAT IF?

  “What If ?”

  Those two words top my list of Words That Make Me Nervous. I guess for some people “What if?” could be happy words: What if I won the lottery? What if the cute boy in math class asks me out? What if I never had to do any homework for the rest of my life? Really, they’re just two small words. I guess what matters is how you use them.

  For me, when I get all dreary inside, I start thinking things like: What if Mom had gone to the doctor three months earlier? What if she’d never gotten sick at all? What if I’d watched her every single minute of every single day—could I have detected the exact moment she got cancer? Would it have made a difference?

  I told Dad about my What If ? game once, but he said I was wasting my time, and that the past is the past, and you can’t ever change it. Then he slammed into his room like he was really mad. But I’m pretty sure he went in there to cry. That’s why I don’t always tell him stuff, even when he asks. I figure he’s got enough dreariness of his own. He doesn’t need any of mine.

  But all through the rest of my classes, I couldn’t help playing the What If? game:

  What if Mrs. Jackson likes the cooking school? What if she leaves for ten months and it’s just Austin and his dad at home?

  What if? What if? What if?

  If you’re not careful, What if? can drive you crazy.

  After Mom sat me down and told me she was sick, she and Dad left me alone—so I could get used to the news, I guess. But I didn’t want to get used to anything. I was so mad; I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what. Finally, I made a list of everything in the house that needed to be cleaned, and then I got started on it, furiously dusting and wiping, until I was too tired to be mad or upset.

  As I walked home from school, I remembered there was this vegetable soup Mom used to eat all the time whenever she got a cold. She said it made her feel better, stronger. It stank to high heaven, though, because there was a ton of garlic in it, but I never minded cooking it, because it made me feel like I was being useful. We called it Stinky Soup and it was the first meal I ever made by myself without Mom. Sometimes I still make it, just because it reminds me of her.

  So later, after I’d finished my homework, I went to the kitchen and started chopping veggies and peeling garlic. Everything was bubbling away in a stockpot when Melanie came in from the garage.

  “What is that god-awful smell?” she said, making a face.

  “I’m making soup,” I said, giving it a stir.

  “Soup?” She checked her watch. “It’s a little early for dinner.”

  “It’s not for us,” I retorted, deciding right then that it wasn’t. My voice sounded sharper than I’d intended, so I tried to soften it. “What were you doing in the garage?”

  “Going through some of your dad’s stuff. He’s got boxes and boxes everywhere. And those old records!” she exclaimed, moving to the sink to wash her hands. “He never gets rid of anything, does he?” She gave me a conspiratorial smile, like we were in this together. Can you believe what a packrat your father is?

  I turned back to the stove. I was glad she couldn’t see my face. “Those old records were my mother’s,” I said, stirring the soup slowly. The onions were stinging my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them until after Melanie muttered a startled apology and went scurrying back into the garage.

  After the soup was done, I poured it into a plastic container, then left to walk it over to the Jacksons. I wanted to get out of the house and I figured they might actually appreciate it.

  I had to hold the container tightly as I stomped down the street. What right did Melanie have to go through our stuff? The only reason why we still had so many packed boxes was because she obviously preferred her things. Our things—the stuff we’d actually kept—had been relegated to the garage.

  At the Jacksons house, I rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer. “I brought you soup,” I blurted after Austin opened the door.

  “You brought me soup?” he repeated. Then a wide smile broke out over his face, and he cocked his head. “Heeeeyyy . . . you brought me soup!”

  “Yes. No. Sort of,” I said, flustered. “It’s a recipe my mom liked. She always said it made her feel better. I just made it today and figured . . . maybe you guys would want some?” My face was flaming, and I felt like the biggest dork in the world, because I knew I was making no sense. Austin’s mom wasn’t sick; she didn’t need a container of soup. Why exactly did I think they’d want some?

  But Austin didn’t seem to think I was being weird. His grin vanished, along with his cocky demeanor, as he reached out and took the soup.

  “Demeanor”—it means “conduct, behavior, or facial appearance.”

  His facial appearance became tentative as we stood facing each other awkwardly. “Thanks. So . . . do you want to come in or something? I guess we could start planning our Egyptian project.”

  “Uh, no,” I said, backing up a few steps. “I’m good. I’ve got other homework I need to do.” That wasn’t exactly true—I always make a Homework List every week and keep ahead of it—but it felt strange, Being Invited Into a Boy’s House. Maybe I should’ve asked a girl to be my partner, because Austin looked cute standing in the doorway in a T-shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes, and I felt even more ridiculous for bringing him soup for no good reason. Who does that?

  “Okay, well, see you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yeah—see you,” I said.

  The sky was turning dusky as I walked home. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Mom’s list. “Cook a Christmas meal,” second from the bottom. I don’t know that Stinky Soup qualifies as an actual Christmas meal, but I figured the embarrassment I’d suffer if Austin told everyone at school I’d shown up at his doorstep carrying a container of soup made it count. As soon as I got home, I crossed it off the list, and wished I could talk to Mom about how strange it felt, standing on Austin’s doorstep while he smiled at me.

  Right then, I thought about Coco’s assignment to write someone a letter, and suddenly, I knew exactly who to choose.

  CHAPTER

  11

  LOVE ALWAYS, VIOLET

  Dear Mom,

  My guidance counselor told me I should write a letter to someone, and I decided to write to you. Coco says that the best letters are wondrou
s. I looked that word up, and it means “amazing and delightful,” which sounds about right, because it was amazing and delightful to get a letter from you after so many months of wishing I could hear your voice. I don’t know if you can see me from heaven or the great beyond or whatever you’re supposed to call it, but I like to think that you can. So that means you must know Dad and I just moved in with Melanie, Olivia, and Joey.

  I just got your letter this Christmas, and I don’t know how to feel about it. I know you want me to find beauty in a new pattern, but there’s nothing beautiful about living with the Hammer. I liked the patterns of our old life: how you and Dad would put on one of your old records and dance at night, wood crackling in our fireplace. How you’d play your piano for hours, until I thought if I looked closely enough, I’d see the notes bouncing and bopping across our ceiling. How the lavender bushes would bloom in our backyard every spring, and how you would tie some together with rosemary sprigs for a sweet and spicy bouquet.

  You once said, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” But what happens when everything you’re thinking and feeling isn’t nice? Do you just stop talking? I wish I’d thought to ask you that back when I had the chance.

  It’s true that I have a Terrible Beautiful Ache inside of me. Sometimes it presses on me so hard it leaves me speechless. I’m guessing you thought if I did all the things on your list, it would get better. Maybe you’re right. Today I made Stinky Soup for Austin Jackson’s family, and I decided that should count for making a Christmas meal. It felt good to do something nice for someone else—except I felt weird standing outside Austin’s house. For a second, I almost thought he was flirting with me, and I wished you were here so I could talk to you about it.

  After I finished homework tonight, I made a Christmas card to mail to Grandma Barnaby, just so I could cross “Make a card for someone” off the list. I guess this means I’ve definitely decided to do your Christmas to-do list. My goal is to complete the list before Christmas Day. I’m not sure if I can actually do that, but I promise to try.

  Anyways, I miss you.

  Love always,

  Violet

  CHAPTER

  12

  A PASSEL OF PROBLEMS

  Next up for me on Mom’s list was the last thing on it: “Tell a friend about this list and let them help you!” I decided I’d show Izzy, Sophia, and Daisy the letter at lunch today. On the way to the cafeteria, I stopped off at my locker to empty my backpack. I had just finished when Melanie cornered me.

  “What are you doing after school today?” she asked.

  “Um, what?” I glanced around the crowded hallway. Were we really going to have a conversation here in front of everyone? I already got enough grief for having the Hammer as my stepmother.

  “After school today,” she said. “Do you have plans?”

  “I’m going to the Dusty Shelf,” I said. “I want to find some books on the ancient Egyptians for my history project.”

  “Could you go there tomorrow instead? I really need you home this afternoon. Emma—Joey’s after-school sitter—just texted me that she’s starting a seasonal job at Harrison’s Hardware today and can’t watch him anymore.” Melanie looked put out, and it dawned on me I was being told—not asked—to babysit Joey this afternoon.

  Did Melanie have the right to do that?

  “Some notice would have been nice,” I said.

  She nodded. “I agree. Emma is completely insensitive.”

  “I wasn’t talking about—never mind.” I sighed. “Why can’t Olivia watch him?”

  “Olivia has plans—she has a meeting for the student newspaper after school.”

  “I have plans,” I said. “I’m going to the bookstore.”

  “Yes, but a meeting isn’t something you can just cancel. You can go to the bookstore anytime, right?”

  “Right,” I repeated, slamming my locker shut. Really, what she was saying was Olivia’s plans were important and mine weren’t. I wondered what Dad would say if he could hear this conversation. I wondered, too, what would happen if I just said no. But I knew that would upset Dad, and besides, Addison Binchy, who’s one of the biggest gossips in the sixth grade, was dawdling at her locker, listening. “I’ll go straight home after school,” I promised.

  Melanie relaxed a little. “Thank you so much,” she said.

  “No problem,” I answered, although I wasn’t sure why she was thanking me. After all, it wasn’t like she’d given me a choice.

  • • •

  On my way to my usual table in the cafeteria I passed Austin, who waved at me. He was looking pretty bored; Tyler and Trent, who he was sitting with, were busy playing video games on their phones.

  When I sat down and began unpacking my lunch, Daisy and Sophia were eating quietly while Izzy talked. “She said they were atrocious and she couldn’t believe I could stand to be seen in public wearing them. I mean, how can you not love these?”

  Izzy stood up and modeled her new combat boots. They were glittery pink camouflage, with white sparkly laces.

  “They’re fabulous,” I agreed, sliding Mom’s letter out of my pocket. I figured once Izzy was done talking about her boots, I’d show it to everyone. While I was waiting, my phone pinged with a text from Austin:

  I’m waiting.

  Huh? I looked up and saw him grinning at me.

  Waiting for what? I texted back.

  For more soup! I am soooo hungry.

  “Yeah, well, I wish my mom would get off my case about it,” Izzy was saying. “Actually, it’d be nice if she’d stop speaking to me, period. If it’s not about homework or my clothes, it’s something else. Yesterday she said she was taking me to this stupid play she wants to go to—she only invited me because Carolyn is busy that day and can’t go—and then she said I was going to wear a nice Christmas dress, and if I complained, I was grounded. I told her I was allergic to velvet. And lace.”

  “Yeah, it really sounds like you’ve got a passel of problems,” I said, as I texted Austin back:

  Whatever. I am NOT cooking for you.

  When I looked up from my phone Izzy, Daisy, and Sophia were staring at me.

  “Cranky, much?” Izzy said, looking irritated. “And what does ‘passel’ mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just . . . tired today. And it means ‘a lot.’ ” I was sorry, but I’d heard this whole story last night, during my walkie-talkie call with Izzy. She complained so much, I got off before I could tell her about bringing soup to Austin’s family.

  “Passel . . .” Izzy thought about it for a second. “I like it. My mom and I have a passel of problems. Also, yesterday she told me I had to refold all the towels. She said the way I did it was too sloppy.”

  “Yeah,” Sophia spoke up. “What’s with moms and being neat, anyway? Yesterday my mom got annoyed because she didn’t like the way I washed the dishes.”

  I quietly ate my lunch while Sophia talked. Sometimes I don’t relate to Izzy, Sophia, or Daisy, especially when they start going on about their moms. It’s like a game they play—a game every girl in school plays: Whose Mother Is the Most Annoying?

  My phone pinged with another text from Austin:

  Come on. I’m a growing boy. You don’t want me to starve, do you?

  I do if you keep sending me stupid texts, I texted right back, but I couldn’t help smiling when I looked up and saw Austin grinning at me.

  “Don’t complain to me,” Daisy was saying. “I would have gladly fought about dishes and towels. Yesterday Delia went on and on and on about Hollywood and how she wanted to move to Los Angeles and become a famous photographer. I finally opened up my notebook and started doing algebra just to get her to shut up. Of course, it didn’t work, because then she started going on about how schools give out too much homework and how it’s their fault kids are so stressed out all the time.”

  “Wow,” Sophia said, wide-eyed. “She sounds really cool.”

  “Trust me, she
’s not cool,” Daisy said. “She’s my moth—” She stopped short when her gaze caught mine. “Oh shoot, Violet, I’m so sorry.”

  Everyone quieted down real fast and looked embarrassed, and I knew it was because they realized all at once they’d been caught using the M-word around me: “Mother.”

  “Violet,” Sophia began, “we’re so—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  Because it was. When you’re in middle school, it’s normal to complain about your mom. And I’d give anything to be normal. I’d love to have an Annoying-Mom Story of my own to share, but I didn’t. I just had this letter in my hands—and all of a sudden, I didn’t want to show it to them.

  “It’s okay,” I said again as I stood up from the table. “But I forgot to finish my math homework. I’ll see you guys later.”

  I didn’t want to spoil anyone’s lunch with all the ugly things I was feeling, so I figured I should just take my own passel of problems somewhere else.

  CHAPTER

  13

  NO TEXTING AT THE TABLE

  On Saturday morning, we were all sitting at the table, eating the waffles Melanie had made to celebrate our first week in the new house and pretending we couldn’t hear Joey as he called his dad.

  “It’s me, Daddy,” Joey said from the hallway, because Melanie doesn’t allow phone calls in the kitchen when we’re eating. “Joey? Your other son? It’s Saturday at eight in the morning. . . . We’re supposed to talk then, remember?” He paused, and sniffed. “Anyway . . . call me back if you can.”

  Joey looked forlorn as he wandered back into the kitchen. Tears filled his eyes as he sat down and took a bite of his waffle.

  “Forlorn”—it means “sad and lonely,” and I figured it could be one of the loneliest things in the world when your dad doesn’t remember to pick up the phone when you call.

  Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sure he’ll call back soon, Buddy,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. For the time being, Dad was using our paint-splattered folding chair until he and Melanie could find a fifth matching chair for her dining set.