Violet in Bloom

  Violet thinks she dreamed that she, her mom, and Cyril all had tea together at a fancy restaurant. Only they didn’t have tea; they had hot chocolate. The roof of the restaurant was made of glass, and they could see the stars above them, and the stars looked like mini-marshmallows.

  She woke up feeling as if she’d had a good cry: wiped out, but also wiped clean. Ready for a fresh start.

  So, dressed for success in a flippy black skirt, purple argyle vest, and purple flats, she gets to school early and waits for Cyril to arrive. She stands guard next to the office, because she knows Cyril will have to pass her in order to get to Mr. Emerson’s room. Her heart is drumming in her chest, but so what? She folds her arms over her ribs and holds herself tight.

  You can do this, she tells herself.

  Yasaman arrives, accompanied by her mom and little sister. Yasaman darts over and says, “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Violet says. “Everything.” She wavers, wondering if maybe she should just head to the fifth-grade classrooms with Yasaman. “I don’t know.”

  Yasaman studies her, and then makes the most unexpected remark. “You’re a very nice person, Violet.”

  “Ha,” Violet retorts.

  Yasaman squeezes her arm. “Find me before the Snack Attack, all right? It’s going to be awesome.” Then she jogs off to catch up with her mom and sister.

  Next through the door is a gaggle of second-grade girls talking about which Disney princess they may or may not be for Halloween, which is still a month away. The second graders are followed by Max, and he and Violet exchange hellos. After Max comes—

  Whoa.

  It’s Modessa, back from the dead. She’s flanked by her parents, and no one looks happy.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Modessa’s mother says, prodding Modessa to the front desk.

  “But, Mo-o-m,” Modessa whines.

  “Shut it,” Modessa’s father says. “School is your job. Being an attorney is my job. And in order for me to get back to my job, you have to do your job. Nod if you understand.”

  Violet lifts one eyebrow. Who wants a father who says “shut it” and “nod if you understand”?

  Sulking, Modessa nods.

  “Then let’s find this boy you have to apologize to,” he says.

  Well, Violet has no choice but to stay and watch now. Poor Cyril, she thinks. She spots him trudging through the door with a herd of kids, and she has the urge to run and shield him from the evil Medusa monster. She doesn’t, of course.

  “That’s him,” Modessa mutters, jerking her chin at Cyril. Cyril sees her and stops. He looks as strange and disheveled as ever. A boy knocks into him from behind, and he lurches forward.

  Modessa’s father exhales impatiently. He’s wearing a suit, an expensive red tie, and an expression that suggests Cyril is hardly worth missing work for.

  “Go on, then,” he says. “Or wait. Do you have to have a witness?” He scans the entryway. His eyes land on Violet.

  Oh, this is not good, she thinks.

  “You,” he says. “Come over here, please.”

  He says “please,” but he doesn’t mean it, she thinks. He’s just accustomed to being obeyed. And Violet does obey him—or at least, her feet do, propelling her forward despite her reluctance to be part of what’s to come.

  “You, too,” Modessa’s father says to Cyril.

  Cyril is frozen.

  “Now,” Modessa’s father commands.

  Where is Ms. Westerfeld? Violet wonders. Where is Mr. McGreevy, or Pam the lunch lady, or any nice and normal adult whose presence would force Modessa’s father to behave?

  But the commons is bustling with kids and chaos, and no one is there to save Cyril except Violet. And what can Violet possibly do?

  Well, you did get the most gold stars, a rebel voice says inside her.

  Stars! Like in her dream?

  Mr. McGreevy came in at second place with three gold stars. But Violet got fifteen, if she counts every single one Cyril gave her.

  (In his notebook, which she stole, and which he ripped to shreds when she returned it, pieces of paper fluttering to the ground like falling stars.)

  Oh, whatever, she says to herself. Don’t worry about being a star. Just be real.

  “Hi, Cyril,” she says, going to stand beside him. She looks directly at Modessa. “Hi, Modessa.”

  Modessa twists her face.

  “Go on. Say what you need to say,” Modessa’s father says.

  It’s not about saying it. It’s about meaning it, Violet thinks. She moves her body so that her arm is barely grazing Cyril’s. Just a bit of human connection to say, You’re weird, but I am, too, and so are lots of people.

  His body relaxes a fraction of a degree.

  “I’m sorry for how I behaved on the playground,” Modessa recites, rolling her eyes.

  “Great,” Modessa’s father says. “Done.” He pins Violet with his lawyer’s stare. “You. You’ll tell whomever needs telling that Modessa has paid her debt to society?”

  Violet nods curtly. She doesn’t give him the ha-ha-yes-it’s-stupid smile he seems to expect, and surprise flickers across his face. He seems—just for a moment—to actually see her. And then it’s gone.

  “Great,” he says. “Then I suggest you all go to class.”

  Modessa stalks off. Violet doesn’t have to obey Modessa’s father any longer, however, so she stays put. So does Cyril. Their arms are still touching. Not in a bad way. Kids enter the building and move past them in a steady stream, and one of them is Milla, her eyebrows forming surprised peaks as she’s swept along.

  Violet? she seems to say.

  Violet starts to reassure her, but she’s distracted by the sight of Max, who hasn’t yet gone to class, and who’s gazing at Milla in the same worried way that Milla is gazing at her.

  As Violet takes this in, the oddest sensation of clarity comes over her. Love is bigger than hurt. Love matters more than hurt. It doesn’t have to be lovey-dovey love, either. It applies to all love.

  Violet will go to Milla in a moment, and she’ll tell her that bad things do happen. Mothers get sick. Hamsters die. People act stupid again and again and again. She’ll tell Milla how all of this can be true, while at the same time, other truths can exist right alongside them. Like how she’s pretty sure Max does still like Milla—like, likes her likes her—and how Milla is allowed to be happy about that, despite the sad stuff.

  And how Yasaman is right that the Snack Attack is going to rock.

  For now, she turns to Cyril, and she sees that his eyes aren’t blank, bottomless pits after all. There are flecks of gold in his dark irises.

  They don’t say anything to each other . . . and yet, they kinda do. Not with words. Just with, like, a feeling that passes between them. But if they did speak, their exchange might sound like this:

  Violet: I’m sorry about your notebook.

  Cyril: Yeah. Well.

  (beat)

  Cyril: Um, thanks. About Modessa.

  Violet: Yeah. Well.

  (beat)

  Violet: It was my pleasure. Really.

  A grin comes and goes so quickly on Cyril’s face that Violet can’t be positive she saw it. Watching him move through the crowd, she wonders why in the world she ever found him spooky.

  my video camera, Katie-Rose thinks at ten o’clock. The commons is filling up with kids, and Katie-Rose feels a surprising flutter of anxiety. Why in the world didn’t I give someone my video camera so they could record my speech?

  Well, too late now. Too late, too late, too late—and where are Milla and Yasaman and Violet? And Elena, and Porkchop the pig?

  Milla hugs her from behind, draping herself over Katie-Rose’s shoulders. “Ready, Freddy?”

  “No, and don’t call me Freddy,” Katie-Rose says. Milla’s cheer seems slightly forced, and Katie-Rose suspects that while Milla does care about the Snack Attack, it’s more like distraction therapy than anything else. And maybe a way to right a w
rong, not that their presentation will bring Stewy back. But for Milla, it’s not really about Healthy Happy Farms. It’s about Stewy. It’s about Max.

  Katie-Rose gets that.

  “Thanks for doing this,” Milla says. “Because . . . well . . . it means a lot to me, that’s all.”

  “I know,” Katie-Rose says.

  “No, really,” Milla insists.

  Katie-Rose holds her gaze. “No, really. I know.”

  Violet joins Milla and Katie-Rose. She scans the room, which is already crowded. The older kids are sitting in the back, and the preschoolers are sitting on the floor in the front. Chance and Preston are by the water fountain, practicing their Chicken Dance, and the rest of the fifth graders are standing in a block of solidarity at the far end of the room.

  Violet whistles. “Holy mackerel. That’s a lot of people.”

  Katie-Rose smiles tightly. She clutches her type-written speech, even though she’s got it memorized.

  Ms. Westerfeld approaches the three flower friends. “It’s time to start, girls.” She furrows her brow. “Where’s Yasaman? Milla, didn’t you tell me that Yasaman was part of this?”

  Only the biggest part of all, Katie-Rose thinks, and then wishes she hadn’t, because thinking about Yasaman is so painful. But you can’t take back a thought, and anyway, it’s true: Yasaman is the brainchild behind the Snack Attack. Even if Yasaman doesn’t like Katie-Rose anymore, Katie-Rose is going to give the best possible speech she can.

  Milla bites her lip. “Um, I’m sure she’s here. Maybe she’s—”

  “There,” Violet says, pointing at Rivendell’s front door. She grins and says, “Yes,” because next to Yasaman is Elena, and next to Elena, on a leash, is the largest, most glorious pig Violet has ever seen.

  “Porkchop,” Katie-Rose marvels.

  “Oh my word,” Ms. Westerfeld mutters. But she agreed to this, so too bad for her if she’s having second thoughts.

  Kids squeal as Yasaman and Elena walk with Porkchop to the front of the commons. Yasaman’s eyes are huge, but she’s beaming. A man with broad shoulders and a ponytail follows them, and Katie-Rose assumes he’s Elena’s dad.

  “Try to keep it down, guys,” he tells the Rivendell students. “We don’t want to get Porkchop too excited.”

  If Porkchop is excited, he’s hiding it well. He lumbers along beside Elena, snuffling occasionally and placidly taking in the scene.

  “That is one massive pig,” Preston says, moving closer.

  “I know,” Katie-Rose says.

  “Hope he doesn’t get scared when he looks at you,” Chance says, and Katie-Rose glowers.

  “All right,” Ms. Westerfeld says, as if coming out of a trance. She steps to the front of the room and tries to get everyone’s attention. It takes a l-o-n-g time, as Porkchop has stolen the show, and the show hasn’t even started.

  “If you want to stay, you will put your hands in your laps and be quiet,” Ms. Westerfeld finally says. “Otherwise, I’m sure your teachers would be happy to take you back to your classrooms.”

  Everyone hushes immediately. Nigar, in the front row, waves at Katie-Rose, and Katie-Rose waves back. Then she realizes Nigar was probably waving at Yasaman, or possibly Porkchop. Along with Elena, they’ve taken their places at the front of the room.

  “Sit,” Elena tells Porkchop, and Porkchop sits. Everyone murmurs with glee.

  “You’re on,” Ms. Westerfeld says.

  “Knock ’em dead,” Yasaman whispers.

  Katie-Rose looks at Yasaman in surprise, and Yasaman gives her a thumbs-up. Wow, Katie-Rose thinks. She feels a thousand times bigger all of a sudden. As big as Porkchop.

  She steps forward. “Um, hi,” she says to the entire student body. “I’m Katie-Rose, and this is Porkchop. Porkchop the pig. Porkchop belongs to Elena”—Elena waves—“and he’s here because . . .” She falters. “Because . . .” Her mouth is dry, and her words have all gone away.

  Modessa titters from the sidelines. Of course, today is the day she decided to come back.

  “Because he’s your best friend?” she says, making some of the kids laugh.

  “No,” Katie-Rose says.

  “Ignore her,” Violet says dangerously.

  “Because of the Snack Attack,” Yasaman prompts in a whisper.

  The Snack Attack! Right! Katie-Rose stands up straight and tall and clasps her hands behind her, military style.

  “Porkchop is here because pigs are very educational,” she says, giving a nod to Ms. Westerfeld, “and also because we, the fifth graders, would like to tell you some very important things that you should know.”

  She doesn’t look at Ms. Westerfeld anymore, because she suspects that Milla might not have told Ms. Westerfeld every last detail of what Katie-Rose plans to cover. Especially since, um, Katie-Rose might not have told Milla every last detail of what she plans to cover.

  “Porkchop leads a happy life,” Katie-Rose tells the audience. “On sunny days, he gets to feel the warm rays of sunshine on his back, and when it rains, he gets to go inside.” She looks at Elena, and Elena nods.

  “But billions of other pigs—and also chickens and cows—aren’t as lucky as Porkchop, because their owners aren’t as nice as Elena and her dad. Did you know that in factory farms, little baby piggies are crammed so close together that they can’t even turn around? And so they bite each other’s tails off?”

  Milla makes a small sound as if to correct her, but Katie-Rose plows on. She can see Ms. Westerfeld out of the corner of her eye, and she seems to be frowning, and Katie-Rose doesn’t want to give her the opportunity to jump in.

  “And do you know how they kill the pigs, when it’s time to turn them into bacon?”

  “Pigs get turned into bacon?” a preschooler asks. His eyes grow round. “Will Porkchop be turned into bacon?”

  “Katie-Rose,” Ms. Westerfeld warns.

  “No, of course not,” Katie-Rose says quickly. “But other pigs, in the not nice farms, sometimes they’re bonked on their heads or thrown onto the cement floor. The meanies who work there just grab them by their feet and slam them down! Bam!”

  Two preschoolers start to cry.

  “Why?” asks a stricken second grader.

  “So that you can have your yummy bacon for breakfast,” Katie-Rose says. The second grader starts to cry, and Katie-Rose tries to soften the blow. “Not just you, but everyone who’s ever eaten bacon. And by the way, the same goes for chickens and cows, about being bonked and stuff.”

  “Katie-Rose, that’s enough,” Ms. Westerfeld says, stepping forward.

  “What about sausage McGriddles?” a boy asks. “I had a sausage McGriddle this morning.”

  Katie-Rose sidles away from Ms. Westerfeld as she says, “Well, that delicious sausage McGriddle you ate—and they are delicious; believe me, I know—could have been our friend Porkchop here.”

  Elena’s dad snorts, which throws Katie-Rose off, as does the sight of Ms. Westerfeld coming at her with grim determination. Also, the preschool teachers are trying to round up their charges and leave before the presentation is even over—rude!—but the sudden mass of squirmy three- and four-year-olds pens in Ms. Westerfeld.

  Katie-Rose speaks quickly, knowing she’s living on borrowed time. “And you guys know where chicken nuggets come from, right? Like the kind in Munchy Lunchies?”

  Kids exchange looks of dread. Katie-Rose is betting there will be lots of hungry Rivendell students at the end of the school day.

  “They come from murdered chickens. And would you like to know how those murdered chickens meet their terrible fates?”

  “No, Katie-Rose, they would not,” Ms. Westerfeld says. She’s almost to her, while Ms. Perez is closing the gap from the opposite side.

  “Yes, we do!” a fourth grader wearing glasses calls out.

  “Unless they get banged on their heads, too,” a girl says. “Please tell me they’re not banged on their heads. Please.”

  Other girls make praying han
ds and add their “pleases” to the fray. The noise brings Porkchop to his feet. He grunts, and some of the first and second graders go eeek! and scoot backward into their neighbors.

  “Sit,” Elena tells Porkchop, but Porkchop doesn’t.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Elena’s dad says. He’s leaning against the wall by the water fountain. To the packed room of kids, he says, “He gets excited if there’s too much noise, but Porkchop’s not going to hurt you. Still, I reckon it’s about time to wrap this up, huh?”

  “No!” lots of kids complain.

  “Yes,” Ms. Westerfeld says, angling sideways to avoid a stray preschooler.

  “But we haven’t heard about the murdered chickens!” says the boy wearing glasses.

  “Well—” Katie-Rose says, but she’s knocked back by Chance, Preston, and Brannen. They take over the show, flapping their wings and shaking their tailfeathers as they belt out the lyrics to the Chicken Dance.

  “I don’t wanna be a chicken, I don’t wanna be a duck, so I shake my butt, nah nah nah nah!”

  Porkchop grunts. He dips his head low, then raises it sharply up, throwing Elena off balance. Elena’s father snaps into action, pushing off the wall and rapidly closing the distance between himself and his daughter.

  “Sit, Porkchop!” Elena says.

  “Boys, stop!” Ms. Westerfeld commands.

  Instead, the boys move straight into the neck-strangling, coughing, falling-to-their-knees part of their routine—which is not the modified version agreed upon—and Porkchop lunges forward, dragging Elena behind him. His leash catches Preston behind his calf, and when Preston trips, Elena’s end of the leash flies from her hand.

  “Oh s***,” Elena’s father says as the room erupts in pandemonium.

  Porkchop, as big as a man, but far shorter and rounder, charges through the crowd. Some kids dive out of his path, while others scream and clutch one another, even if they’re nowhere near him.

  “Porkchop, no!” Elena cries.

  “Tranq him!” shouts Chance.