“BrainFreeze?”
All my nerves fire up. “I can’t cross that bridge.”
“I know,” he says. He looks at me real steady. “We’ll take the long way around.”
That suits me just fine.
30
Open House at the junior high is like a party. Everyone you know is there, and the teachers got snacks and drinks out and everyone’s all smiling. They ain’t got me fooled; I know this is still school. They’re just trying to warm us up. I eat all the cookies I can, ’cause they ain’t gonna be this generous when school starts.
Momma and I rode up with Mrs. Townsend and Lottie. Lottie’s got her diamond watch on and she’s wearing lip gloss and she looks real pretty. When we came in, they gave us stickers to wear that say, Hi! My name is blank. Except of course it don’t say “blank”; that’s where you write your name in. Lottie’s sticker says, Hi! My name is Char. She has written it in real good cursive.
Each teacher has a table with handouts and such. Mrs. Townsend and Lottie go in search of her teacher. My teacher’s got an easy name, Mrs. Nash, and Momma and I spot her right away. When Mrs. Nash realizes we’re walking up to her table, she squints in on my name tag and then her face looks all surprised.
“Violet Raines,” she says, coming from around the table. She sticks her hand out to me and I shake it. Her hand’s bigger than mine, but the shake is just right—not too firm, and plus she doesn’t hold on to my hand when the shake is over like some ladies at church do.
She shakes Momma’s hand too, but then turns right back to me. “Violet, I’m Mrs. Nash, and I’ve been waiting all day to meet you.”
She’s serious. My eyebrows scrunch up, and I look straight at her. “Why?”
“You’re going to be my first guest speaker! We’ll be studying lightning and electricity in science. I saw you in the newspaper, found your name on my class list, and I thought, ‘This is serendipity.’ ”
“Serendipity?” It sounds like ice cream being scooped on a summer day.
She nods. “ ‘Serendipity’ means a stroke of good luck. It’s a great word.”
I think so too. I tuck this word into my brain so’s I can write it down later and save it in my shoe box. Looking at her, I decide right then and there she’s all right. Well, you can’t help but like another word collector, even if she is a teacher.
She goes back around her table, and Momma and I walk up to it. A big envelope has my name on it, and Mrs. Nash starts pulling things out of it. “Here’s a map of the school and the portables; you’ll want to walk around today and see where everything is. Let’s see, locker combination, gym combination, oh, and here’s your lunch pass.” She hands me a bright blue plastic card with my name on it. “You’ll have to show this every time you walk into the cafeteria for lunch.”
Then she says to Momma, “We have six lunch shifts this year, a different color for each shift; it’s the only way we can make sure that the children are where they’re supposed to be.”
Momma nods. They start talking about overcrowding and boring stuff like that.
“Violet!” It’s Lottie! I turn around, but there’s so many kids running around, I don’t see her. My eyes become lasers, scanning the crowd. No Lottie. Turning back, I listen to Momma and Mrs. Nash. They’re talking about my schedule now.
“Violet!” Eddie! I whip my head around in the direction of his voice.
At first, I don’t see him; I don’t see anyone except strangers. Then Lottie and Eddie and Melissa come through the crowd, holding up bright blue cards like trophies. Oh Lord, my heart swells up like a hot air balloon. I shoot my hand up, waving my own blue card. My friends make their way toward me. I start for them, but Momma pulls me back. “Honey, Mrs. Nash just asked you a question.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say to my teacher, using my good-manners voice.
“That’s all right,” she says and smiles. “It’s very busy in here.” She leans forward and pats my hand. “So, how do you feel about starting junior high?”
I glance at my friends, their smiling faces and their blue cards, and I look back to Mrs. Nash. “I am jubilant,” I say.
And that is no taradiddle.
Acknowledgments
Here we are at the end of the book, and I’d like to thank the people who helped me along the way: God Almighty, for one; Ted Malawer, my wonderful agent; Brooke Haworth, who shared her lightning experience with me; Sandra Friend, Joan Jarvis, and Steve Rajtar for sharing their swinging bridge experiences with me; Michelle Carr, who read and commented on the earlier drafts; and Steve Haworth, who read the early drafts, the later drafts, and who stayed up way too late with me talking about lightning and alligators.
Finally, I want to thank Stacy Cantor, my editor at Walker Books for Young Readers. Stacy was one of the first people to meet Violet, and she recognized her immediately. Her keen insight and vision for the story were an inspiration to me. I couldn’t have found a better friend or a better home for Violet.
A Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing. But sometimes writing doesn’t look like writing. For the story you hold in your hands, I sat in my computer room, my creative sanctuary, and stared out the window past the ligustrum tree. Anyone looking in on me would have said, “What is she doing in there? She’s just sitting; I thought she was going to write a new story.” But I was thinking—thinking and thinking about what to write next.
One day, when I was sitting there thinking, Violet showed up. The first thing she said was, “When Eddie B. dared me to walk the net bridge over the Elijah Hatchett River where we’d seen an alligator and another kid got bit by a coral snake, I wasn’t scared—I just didn’t feel like doing it right then.”
I had to type really fast to get it all down. Then, there it was, the first paragraph of the book. And when she was talking, I could see her, with her blue eyes and her dark hair cut to her shoulders. She reminded me of Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird. Violet spoke with a Southern accent, and her legs were bare with a little dirt smudged on them from walking through the woods. Immediately, I could see how independent she was. I liked her. I couldn’t wait to see what happened to her.
The river setting and lightning events in the book are inspired by real places and events. I live near the Econlockhatchee River, east of Disney by about an hour. The river is the color of iced tea. Cypresses and palmettos hang over the water, a leafy canopy. Once, my husband and I were canoeing on the river, and we passed under a swinging footbridge. It was high in the treetops and looked like nothing but a net. I was too scared to go on it—I thought I’d fall right through. We floated under it, and about five minutes later, two little girls ran across it. They pranced across like wood sprites and then disappeared. We could hear only their laughter trailing off in the woods. I never forgot that bridge—how it sounded like a rusty swing and how scary it looked. I wondered how some people could cross that bridge so easily while others were too scared even to try. The bridge was the perfect metaphor for the coming-of-age theme in Violet Raines Almost Got Struck by Lightning.
I’m thankful for the gift and the drive to write. I don’t have a ritual so much as a daily discipline, same time, same place, every day. I do not wait on inspiration. I work every day and inspiration meets me. Sometimes it meets me after my writing time. (Parts of Violet Raines were written on the backs of grocery receipts.)
I am also very grateful to you, for taking the time to read Violet’s story.
Thank you and I hope you enjoyed it!
Danette
Reading Group Guide for
violet raines
almost
got struck
by
lightning
1. Bridges are frequently used as metaphors. Another famous one in children’s literature is Bridge to Terabithia. The bridge that Eddie dares Violet to cross could stand for the bridge between childhood and adolescence. As in life, crossing from one thing
to another is scary, with dangers along the way. In the case of the bridge: “Most of the netting has fallen off. The wires look thin. And there are gaps big enough for a person to fall through”. As if that weren’t enough, the bridge is suspended over water filled with giant alligators. If you were Violet, would you dare to cross it? Why or why not?
2. Violet lags behind Melissa and Lottie as far as transitioning from childhood to adolescence is concerned. Melissa and Lottie have become interested in makeup, bras, and soap operas, and Melissa talks about Eddie as a love interest, something that has never occurred to Violet. She’d rather go out and collect Brain Freeze cups with Eddie. When Eddie makes a bra joke—“You got everything she does . . . except the bra” —it infuriates Violet. Why does she get so mad at him?
3. Why is Melissa able to make Violet so crazy with innuendos about her alleged crush on Eddie—like singing “K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . .” when Violet and Eddie are in the tree cave?
4. Violet is very close to nature. How does she use nature to retaliate against Melissa?
5. Living in “Lightning Alley,” the characters in the book have great respect for lightning. Here’s a description from Violet:
Then the air whooshes up like there’s a big vacuum in the sky. I glance at Eddie, whose eyes look as big as mine feel, then static rushes over me, prickling my hair, and my heart jumps, but before I can open my mouth, a single bolt strikes and flares over the woods across the street and at the same time BOOM! like an earthquake.
Have you ever been that close to lightning? If so, was your experience similar to Violet’s? How? (In case you’re ever that close to lightning, you might want to read these tips on lightning safety from the National Weather Service: www.lightningsafety.noaa.gov.)
6. As the book progresses, Violet feels that change is near. What do you think Violet is referring to when she says, “The air around us is charged with electricity. I wait. Something big is going to happen, I just know it”?
7. When Melissa’s mother first meets Violet, she says, “Well, you’re certainly not a shrinking violet, are you?”. Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines a shrinking violet as a “bashful or retiring person.” Indeed, Violet isn’t. What are some of the ways that Violet demonstrates bravery? What is she afraid of?
8. After Lottie and Melissa give Violet a makeover, she thinks she looks like a movie star. But when she bumps into Eddie and “hit him with the full power of my beauty”, he looks like he’s about to throw up. What sparks such a drastic reaction from Eddie when he sees her?
9. Melissa dares Violet to kiss Eddie. Fed up, and not wanting to give Melissa the advantage, Violet takes the dare. Why is Eddie so upset afterward when Violet jubilantly calls out, “I did it—I kissed him! It was nothing”?
10. Violet thinks Melissa’s collection of autographed celebrity photos is quite silly. But when Lottie’s parents find out they won’t get any insurance money, those letters inspire Violet to write to the local newspaper, asking for help for her best friend. How does Violet’s letter lead to a peace treaty between Violet and Melissa?
11. When Violet finally forces herself to cross the scary bridge to apologize to Eddie, and he helps her back to land, she suddenly sees him in a new light. Why? What do you think has changed?
12. It’s pretty obvious that Violet is not too fond of Melissa. Throughout the novel, we get a good sense of how Violet sees her. But how do you think Melissa sees Violet?
A magical summer is about to begin at The Meriwether Hotel when Allie Jo and Chase meet Tara, a beautiful girl with a mysterious secret. . . .
Read on for a sneak peek of this exciting new adventure!
ALLIE JO
“Hey!” I yell.
I don’t know who I’m yelling at; I can’t see them. But I was lying out on the concrete pad around Hope Springs—Hope Springs Eternal, if you want the full name—with my face turned up to the sun, letting it press its golden rays on my face. Later today, the sun will fry the skin right off your bones.
So I was lying here all peaceful. Quiet. No tourists, which are the worst kind of trespassers. Until suddenly I hear a crash, someone jumping into the water on the other side. I sit up real straight, lean forward, and watch as a girl glides through the water, fast as a sailfish. Her hair flows behind her like a fin and she flashes with color. I sit even straighter now; why is she wearing regular clothes in the water?
Two hands grip the edge of the wall that surrounds the springhead, and she rises from the water.
“Hey!” I yell again, recoiling from the ice-cold splatters.
Water streams down her face, causing her to squeeze her eyes. She pushes her hair back and pops her eyes open. They are as black as midnight.
She smiles at me as she hoists herself out of the water, fully clothed in jean shorts and a black and purple T-shirt. “Hello to you,” she says.
I gape at her.
She’s so pretty. Her long, dark hair shimmers with blue, reflecting the sun and water. She leans her head to the side, grabs her hair into a twist, and squeezes the water out.
Pointing to the hotel, she asks, “Would that door be open?”
I nod dumbly.
She flashes her Colgate smile again and winks at me.
I turn and watch as she glides up the lawn to The Meriwether. She barely pauses as she passes the dock and snatches a towel right off a cabinet.
Just as she slips into the side door, my brain starts working again and I want to call out the rules to her: No running. No diving. Towels must be checked out.
She’s broken every one of them.
And, worse, the side door she just went in is Employees Only.
When I see her again, I’m going to have to set her straight. This used to be a five-star hotel; you can’t be running around all splashing and grabbing things like that. But at the same time, she smiled as if she knew me. And when she winked, it was like she was including me in on a secret, just me and her.
Staring up at The Meriwether, I scan the hotel, but I see no movement, no sign of her in the windows. I look down at the concrete where she just passed. Already, her footprints are disappearing.
CHASE
Twenty-two hours cooped up in the car is enough for me. My butt’s sore and I’m bored out of my skull.
“What’re we gonna do first?” I ask Dad. I grab the pamphlets and scan them: parasailing, surfing, skim-boarding, waterskiing. Ah, man, I can’t choose; they all sound good.
Dad cranks the wheel and we turn down a boulevard lined with palm trees. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to sleep.”
“What?” Is he kidding me? I’ve been sitting in this car for a whole day, eating nothing but drive-through junk just so we could get here faster. Florida is a long way from Ohio.
“Yeah,” Dad says. “I didn’t get to take naps like you did.”
“I didn’t take any naps.”
Dad smirks. “Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t. I may have rested my eyes, but I didn’t sleep.” Hey, it gets boring watching scenery pass by.
“Well, you rested your eyes for about three hours a while ago.” He takes a sip from a Styrofoam coffee cup. Where did he get that? Maybe I did fall asleep.
I shrug my shoulders. “But you’re not really going to sleep, are you? It’s only”—I glance at the clock on the dash—“eight thirty in the morning.”
“Oh, good.” Yawning, he rubs the back of his neck, then cracks it sideways. “I can sleep all day.”
“What’s the point of driving all night if you’re just going to sleep all day?”
“Chase,” he says, turning to me. His face droops— okay, okay, he does look tired. But sleeping all day? I can’t be stuck in a hotel room on top of this drive.
None of the pamphlets in my hands show a guy taking a nap. “What am I going to do while you’re sleeping?”
He shrugs. “You can watch TV—quietly.”
Yes! That’s what I came to Florida for—quiet TV-watching. “Dad! Come
on!”
He takes a quick look at me and sighs. “How about we check in, get some decent breakfast, and see how we feel after that?”
I nod, knowing I’ll talk him into something over breakfast.
We turn from the boulevard down a drive that cuts through rolling hills.
“I thought Florida was flat,” I say.
“Not all of it,” Dad says. “Besides, this is hotel property. In the old days, this used to be a golf course.” Of course he would know that; he researched The Meriwether for the travel series he’s writing.
He scans the horizon. I know what he’s doing—he’s writing. He’s always writing. Even with no paper or pen, he takes notes constantly. I bet if I tapped into his brain I’d hear, Century-old oaks shaded the lawn, their branches covered—no—their branches arrayed in the finery of Spanish moss.
I’ve read enough of his stuff to write it for him. You’re a natural, he’s told me. You write like someone much older than yourself. It’s true. It catches even me by surprise sometimes. I’ll just be looking at something and my thoughts slip into a fancy way of speaking. My teachers all say I’m a good writer, too; they read my stories out loud.
I stare out the window. I thought this place would be all palm trees, but it’s mainly oaks with heavy branches that dip low, some touching the ground before curving back up.
We climb a bridge and the hotel springs into view. It’s like stepping into the old days. The place is like four or five stories tall, with peaked roofs and trim that Dad told me come from being built in the Victorian era. Mold eats at the wood under the windows, making the pale yellow paint look dirty. The porch colors are faded—purple, orange, and green—happy colors from a long time ago. Green shutters are missing from half the windows; a couple of them dangle at the sides.
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