My father took her hand and sobbed. “Violet!”
“There, there, it will be okay, Greg,” she said.
They stood there a long time, Violet holding his hand, my father crying, until finally, she said, “I should let you greet the others.”
Dad nodded. “I’m so glad to see you, Violet. Maybe we can talk later.”
“Of course, Greg.” Violet moved away. “I’ve missed you.”
Dad said to me, “Violet was my best friend in elementary school. Such a nice girl. I haven’t seen her in years.”
At the time, I didn’t think about it, but now, I realize that Violet had told my mother she didn’t know her. She’d obviously lied.
After the wake, she was back. She seemed to really want to talk to Dad. “After what happened, I quit volunteering at the zoo. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t go back.” She shuddered a little. “But I’ve loved animals since we made those birdhouses with your father.” She touched Dad’s hand.
Dad smiled. “I remember that. Dad was asking about you last time I saw him. He remembers all that old stuff.”
“Grandpa made birdhouses?” Grandpa didn’t remember my name, usually.
Violet knelt beside me. She smelled like roses. “Sweet child. Has your father never made a birdhouse with you?”
Dad said, “Jennifer was terrified of animals since the dog attack in high school—you remember. She avoided them, and yet, they couldn’t seem to stay away from her. Cats peed on her shoes. A raccoon lived on her car for a month and wouldn’t leave when shooed. We had to sell the car. She had a job at an ad agency downtown, but she was forced to quit when pigeons ganged up on her on the street. Now this . . . ” His face broke, and he began to sob. “I should have taken the troop myself! I should never have let her near the zoo.”
Violet embraced him, rocking him back and forth while he sobbed in her arms. When I think about it now, it was weird, like he was a little kid. But at the time, it seemed so perfectly comforting that I hugged both of them. She said, “Don’t blame yourself, Greg. There’s no way you could have known.”
We stood there, crying, the three of us, and somehow, Violet’s presence made it better, made it almost right. It was like magic.
Two days after the funeral, Violet arrived with an animal carrier. From it, she drew a small ball of fur, orange and white. “Someone left her in my yard. My cat was my fondest friend when I was a lonely teenager, so I thought a kitten might help. A cat always helps.”
I couldn’t believe anyone as beautiful as her had ever been lonely.
She placed the kitten on the ground. I reached out, but she started to run away from me. Violet touched its back, and suddenly, it switched direction and gamboled toward me.
“I asked your dad if you could have it,” she said.
“Really?” The kitten pawed at my leg. I scooped it up, and it began to purr, like the small motorboats we used to rent on vacation at the lake.
“Really,” my father said from behind me. “A child should have a pet.”
That made me feel bad. The reason we hadn’t had a pet was because of my mother, her fears. Now, I could have a cat. I’d rather have had my mother. But the kitten curled itself into a ball on my lap. It felt so warm.
“She likes you,” Violet said, “but who wouldn’t like a sweet, pretty girl like you?”
“Oh, I’m not pretty,” I said, though I’d been hearing it all my life. In fact, I thought I was strange-looking, with jet-black hair and white skin like my father’s, though I had my mother’s blue eyes. I hated when people said I was beautiful because it was always something like what Violet had said, something that implied I should have no problems because of my looks.
Obviously, that wasn’t true. If anything, my looks made people like me less. The first day of kindergarten, the kids had just stood around, staring at me. But then no one asked me over to their houses or to sit together at lunch. Mom had always said they were scared of me. That was why she’d volunteered to be the scout leader, so she could help me make friends. Once people got to know me, they forgot about my looks—sometimes.
But I wanted Violet to like me, so I didn’t say any of this. The kitten nuzzled my face. Violet stood real close to Dad, smiling up at him.
“Your modesty makes you all the more beautiful,” she said. “Maybe one day, you can come over and see my cat. I’ll make you dinner too. I’m a good cook.”
“Okay.” I hugged the little cat.
“We’ll make a date.” Dad touched Violet’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
I named the kitten Sapphire for her blue eyes, and the next week, we had dinner at Violet’s house. She made what she called “gourmet” mac and cheese, with some kind of weird smoked cheese in it and told stories about working as a lawyer for the US Attorney’s office, putting criminals away in jail. I played with her cat, whose name was Grimalkin.
In the next few months, we spent more and more time with Violet until we were seeing her every day. I didn’t mind. Violet had two passions, animals and her beauty routine, so some weekends, we went on nature walks, like in the Everglades, seeing alligators and birds and once, a panther. Other times, she did my hair so easily it seemed like magic, or we went for mani-pedis, stuff I’d done with Mom. Of course, Violet wasn’t my mom, but having her around made it a little easier. And Dad was a lot less sad. I noticed the photos of my mother went from the living room to his bedroom. Then, one day, they disappeared. I found a big photo of the three of us in his closet. I took it out and put it under my bed, but I didn’t let either Dad or Violet see it.
A year later, they got married. I wanted to be a flower girl in the wedding, but Dad said it wouldn’t be formal, and it had to be small. “I’m a widower. It’s only been a year since your mom died. We don’t want a public wedding.”
“Yes, no fancy dress for me, but I’ve got my man.” Violet leaned over and kissed my father on the mouth. I looked down. They kissed a lot. “Besides, none of your dad’s school friends liked me much.”
“Why wouldn’t they? Were they jealous because you were so beautiful?”
Violet looked at Dad and laughed. Then, she hugged me. “Oh, my sweet girl, you crack me up.”
I didn’t know what the joke was, but I laughed along anyway.
I wanted Violet to love me. She was the only mother I had, after all.
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2
“Can you guys stop making out?” Violet was doing my hair for dance. At least, she was until my father came in. Then, she launched at him like a pumpkin in a catapult.
“We weren’t making out. I’m just kissing my wife hello.”
I rolled my eyes. They were always kissing, and since Violet had my hair in her hand, it was getting tugged. “I’m going to be late.”
“Okay.” Violet tore herself away from Dad and went back to brushing. “Your hair’s so pretty. Black as a crow.”
“A crow?” I wrinkled my nose. “Crows are ugly.”
“Have you ever really looked at a crow, Celine?” Violet continued to brush my hair. I was eleven, old enough to do my own bun, but it was hard to tell Violet that. “I mean, up close? They aren’t completely black. In the light, you can see purple and green. They almost shimmer. And each feather is lined up perfectly with every other one. So beautiful.”
“Why do you love crows so much?”
“I love all birds. When I’m old, I mean to travel the world and see as many as I can. But crows and ravens will always be my favorite. It was because of a crow I met your father.” She looked up at Dad. “Remember?”
“Of course. We rescued it on the playground. Some boys were throwing rocks at it, and Violet saved it.”
“After that, we were alwa
ys friends,” Violet said.
I detected a false note in her words. She and my father hadn’t “always” been friends. She’d just showed up after my mother died. But there was no point in saying that, particularly when she had my hair in her hands. Besides, I loved Violet, and I liked birds too. Sometimes, we went for walks and counted how many different kinds we saw. “Well, if you like crows, I’ll like them too.”
She hugged me for that, though her eyes were on Dad. Then, she put the last pins in and sprayed my bun. I always had the best hair in class.
But then, everything changed.
I was thirteen when I had my first period. I had it at school, of course, because that’s just how things go with me. And, when I went down to the clinic to get a pad, one of my friend’s moms was there. “Do you want me to call your dad?” she asked.
“What? No! He’ll get all weird. Call Violet if you have to call anyone.”
Laurel’s mom got kind of a weird look on her face. “You and Violet actually get along, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s nice. We’re going bird-watching in Texas for spring break.”
She nodded. “Okay. I wish your mom were here. This is a day a mother and daughter should share. I can’t believe it’s been five years.” She gazed at me. She and my mother had been best friends when they were kids. “You look so much like your mom.”
“You think so?” I could barely remember her face. When I tried to picture her, I could only see the photo I still kept under my bed, her in the same pink dress, the same frozen smile. I couldn’t remember the look and feel of her at all anymore. It was like the photograph had painted over my real memories of her. “I have black hair like my dad.”
“Yeah, but those big blue eyes, they’re Jennifer’s eyes.”
She looked about to cry, so I said, “It’s all right.” Because what else, really, was there to say? I just wanted out of there.
Finally, she called Violet and shared the news. “You can go back to class now,” she said after.
I got out of there as fast as I could.
But half an hour later, Violet was there, carrying dark jeans and checking me out of school.
“You didn’t have to,” I said. “We’re doing a lab in science. I sort of wanted to—”
“Science can wait. This is a special occasion for us girls.”
I shrugged. It was sort of weird that she and Dad hadn’t had other kids, but it was better for me. So I guessed if I had to act like her daughter, it was worth it.
She took me to Marble Slab Creamery. We both got chocolate with Oreos mixed in, and as we paid, the college boy at the register looked me up and down. I turned away, blushing like I always did when guys stared at me. Later, when Dad got home, Violet made my favorite dinner (still the mac and cheese) and filled him in. “Your little girl’s becoming a woman.”
I squirmed when she said that, squirmed more when he said, “A beautiful woman.” With his hand, he turned my face toward him. “Like your mother.”
“She doesn’t look like her.” Violet touched my dad’s face. “She looks like you.”
“More like Jenny,” he said. “My lord, Vi, she’s even as beautiful as you.”
It was only for a second, so I thought I imagined it. But, in that instant, I saw Violet’s eyes turn from lavender to black as a crow’s. Then they went back to normal.
But that couldn’t have happened. She wasn’t a witch or anything.
“Do you think so, Greg?” Violet asked. “Yes, I suppose she is, just as beautiful.”
She, too, gazed at me, and I saw hatred behind her smile. From that day on, she never looked at me the same way again.
And when we went to Texas over break, a black-footed booby swooped down and attacked my face.
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3
(Sophomore Year)
When I get on the bus, wearing my usual hoodie, army boots, and jeans a size too large, Whitney Jacobs stage-whispers that I look like a bag lady, but Alex Abercrombie does a Parisian pass, brushing his hand against my ass to get by me. I ignore them both. Eyes on the prize. Laurel’s holding a seat for me. She’s near the back, where we live, waving and generally looking more excited than anyone has the right to look at six-forty in the morning.
I know why. And sure enough:
“Is your mom letting you go to the concert?” she asks the instant I sit.
The concert! I let down my guard and do a little seat-dance to let her know I’m excited too, then say, “My wicked stepmother, if that’s who you mean, isn’t in on the decision. But my dad says yes as long as your mom’s going.”
“Well, of course. What did he think, a couple of fifteen-year-olds are going to hitch to Orlando?”
“For Jonah Prince, I completely would.”
“Can I get an ‘amen’?”
And we squee in unison.
Whitney and her mean girlfriends look back at us and roll their eyes. I smile.
“Jelly?” Laurel says.
“Not of anyone who still says ‘jelly.’” Whitney turns away.
“Is ‘jelly’ not a thing anymore?” Laurel whispers to me.
“Don’t worry about it. She is such a hater.” I pat Laurel’s shoulder.
Jonah Prince, as everyone knows, is an incredibly gorgeous and gifted singer-songwriter. Previously the front man for the Boyz Band, he went out on his own when he noticed he was the only one with talent. And beautiful green eyes. And a hot British accent. I’m in love. Laurel and I host unofficial Jonah Prince pages on every social networking site I can think of, even Facebook, which only parents use.
Okay, so I have no life. I study, hang with Laurel, and listen to Jonah. But I know that, when we go to his concert in Orlando (where we’ll get front row floor seats because we’re in his fan club and plan to spend the entire night before tickets go on sale on the Ticketmaster site, entering CAPTCHA codes so we can get tickets the very first second the presale begins—and if that doesn’t work, I’m spending a year’s worth of babysitting money to buy them on StubHub), Jonah will pick me out from the crowd, his eyes attracted by the extraordinarily beautiful and artistic sign I’ll make, and my total memorization of all his songs. He’ll lead me onstage. I’ll have the perfect outfit, of course, something that’s actually figure flattering. Once there, he’ll sing every song to only me, ignoring the boos of the other poor girls. I’ll ask him to bring Laurel onstage to meet his drummer. After the concert, we’ll talk for hours about the charity work he did in Haiti last year or the new songs he’s composing. He’ll ask me to come along on his tour, so I can get permanently away from my stepmother, who hates me.
Yeah, so it’s a bit of a stretch. But it has to happen. There has to be something really good coming to me, to make up for Violet.
In some cultures, like the Greeks and Turkish, they believe in the Evil Eye. It’s the idea that, if someone envies you, bad things will happen. Since that fateful day when my father said I was as beautiful as Violet, I’ve become more beautiful (don’t hate me—I can’t help it) and Violet’s eyes have been seriously evil. Curling irons attack me, leaving scars. Tweezers rip out my eyelashes. Cleansers turn toxic and give me rashes. I avoid Violet—and beauty products—as much as possible. I wear no makeup, no hair spray. I don’t get fake nails or even nice clothes. But people still stare at me. And Violet notices. And hates me for it.
“That’s really trite,” Laurel says, pointing to the chem notebook I’m studying for today’s test. It has J.P. 4-ever written on it in pink highlighter.
“Nothing about Jonah Prince is trite.”
“Do you even know what trite means?”
“Yes, I do.” The bus hits a bump, and I steady my notebook, covering the writing wi
th my palm. “But it probably makes us sound like nerds who use words like”—I lower my voice—“trite.”
“Okay,” she whispers, then giggles.
“Jonah is special. He writes his own songs and plays four instruments.”
“Preaching to the choir. But my mom says he’s just like Justin Bieber. Or someone named Bruce Springsteen, who was apparently famous when she was a teenager. Or the Beatles. Or Elvis. She says the names change, but the pathetic-ness of a teenage girl, scribbling initials of a guy she’s never met, will never meet, is always the same.”
“Laurel, I love your mom. She’s the closest thing I have to a mom, and she lets me call her Gennifer. Plus, she’s letting us use her credit card to buy tickets.”
“And driving us to Orlando,” Laurel reminds me.
“And driving us to Orlando,” I agree. “Your mom is completely legit.”
Laurel laughs because she knows that’s something her mom would say, trying to be cool. Laurel and I have been best friends since we were born a month apart fifteen years ago, to moms who were best friends. I’m told that, usually, when people’s mothers want them to be friends, they inevitably end up hating each other. Laurel and I are the exception. At this point, she’s kind of the only person I hang with, but Dad says it’s better to have one good friend than ten bad ones. Violet sort of rolls her eyes when he says that, but it’s true. Also, it’s Laurel’s house I hide in almost every weekend. Laurel’s mom knows how weird Violet is, so she lets me sleep over. Without Laurel, I’d spend my weekends watching my dad and Violet suck face.
Still, I say, “But your mom’s old, Laurel. She doesn’t remember what it’s like to be our age. When Jonah sings ‘Beautiful but Deadly,’ it’s like we’ve already met, like he’s looking into my soul.”
Laurel rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know. Being the most beautiful girl on the planet is hard for you.”
I look back at my chem notes. She knows I hate when people say I’m beautiful.
“Celine?” Laurel tries to look over my notebook. She’s super-cute with wavy, dark hair. She thinks she’s fat, but she’s not. She’s curvy.