Living Violet (13 page)

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Authors: Jaime Reed

Tags: #Young Adult, #Fantasy, #Romance

BOOK: Living Violet
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14
“O
kay, so, I was talking to Courtney G., right? And she was like ‘I never knew Garrett took drugs.' “And I was like ‘Really?' and she was like ‘Yeah,' but she was like all weird and shifty-eyed, so I asked Courtney B. And she was like, ‘Yeah, I knew he was like all drunk and stuff, but I never saw him do drugs, but that would explain why he had such a bad temper.' So, I was like ‘Hold up, he had a temper?' and she got all quiet and was like, ‘I don't wanna talk about it,' and I was like, whoa, there's something rotten in Denmark, 'cause if they knew Garrett was all strung out, then why didn't they say something, you know? I mean, that's like, so wrong, you know?”
Mary-Beth Hessling paused to take a sip of her Frappuccino.
I just stood behind the counter in a blank daze, my left eye twitching. Mary-Beth was Garrett's blabbermouth cousin who talked like an auctioneer. If there was a drinking game based on her favorite word, people would pass out within ninety seconds.
I held up my hands in surrender. “I don't know, Mary. There are all walks of life.”
“Well, my dad's gonna look into it. I'll let you know what's up. See ya.” With a wave, and to my great relief, she scampered away.
“Is the coast clear?” Nadine called from the back kitchen.
“Yeah. You can come out now.”
Peeking around, she crept out with a notepad in her hand. “God, those girls scare me. They are so high-strung.”
“It's the caffeine.” I nudged my head to her notepad.
“What you got there?”
“It is poem I work on for tonight. I want to try it at Commons poetry reading.”
I tried not to laugh, but failed miserably. “I still can't believe you write poetry. About what? The starving kids in Kuwait or the sweatshops in Taiwan?”
“No, not this one. This one is different grievance.”
My back rested against the counter. “Well, let's hear it.”
“You will hear it tonight at the poetry meeting. I want you to come for moral support.”
“Really? You're serious?”
“Yes, why not?” When I looked away, she threw in, “You can invite Caleb, if you like.”
My head whipped around to face her. “What's he gotta do with it?”
“You have thing for him, I can tell. I've never seen you so distracted over a boy.”
“I'm not distracted.”
Her eyes lowered to the cup in my hand. “Then why do you pour espresso in your soda?”
Following where she pointed, I jumped. “Oh, damn!”
Watching me clean the mess, she said, “Just admit it, you're smitten.”
I slung a rag at her. “Witch, mind thy wicked tongue!”
“Why do you talk all Elizabethan when you're annoyed?” A painfully familiar voice reached my ears.
Caleb stood with hands in his pockets and humor in his eyes.
My stomach flipped. “I—I don't know.”
His sweet, boyish smile crept forth. “I think it's cute, in a schizoid sort of way.”
And like that, the thrill was gone. With lips tight and fists even tighter, I glared at him. “What do you want?”
“What are you doing after work?” he asked.
Nadine jumped in. “Sam is going to my poetry reading tonight.”
His face twisted in confusion. “Really? I didn't know you were into poetry.”
“I'm not,” I was quick to explain.
“You are free to come along, Caleb. It's at the Commons Theater. It starts at eight. Tonight's theme is bohemian jazz. Dress accordingly.” Nadine tossed her apron on the counter and moved through the swinging doors. “I go on my fifteen. You two have fun.”
When Nadine was out of earshot, Caleb said, “Poetry, huh? This should be interesting. She's a little ...”
“Morose,” I finished.
“Yeah. You want me to pick you up?”
The question took me aback. “Uh, no, I'll take my car. You really wanna go?”
He set his elbows on the counter and locked eyes on me. “I wanna be where you are. Now, give me a cookie, woman.”
 
Poetry Night transpired in a smoky auditorium filled with every art-house cliché ever conceived: the afro-centrics with their political agenda and head wraps, the white-guy Rastafarians with dreadlocks and “peace pipes,” a ton of emo vampires, and the feminists who didn't believe in bras or hair removal. A percussion band was situated in the corner, providing a soundtrack to the gut-wrenching prose that corrupted the stage. When each poet finished, the audience countered with the
Addam's Family
snap. Seated in the center of this pretentious fog were the three of us.
According to Nadine, each meeting had a different theme from a Def Jam session to Edgar Allan Poe's greatest hits. Tonight's theme was the beatnik era. It reminded me of a Parisian jazz club back when visionaries discussed true philosophy and experimented with life. In honor of their memory, I wore a tight blue striped shirt, black beret, and scarf. Caleb wore all black with shades, and Nadine looked like a reject from
Cabaret
, including the bowler hat.
A tall man with a dashiki approached the stage. “The wind flows ... through me ... your lips call ... to me. I feel the liberation, the summation, and the antici ... pa-tion.” Then the bongo beat filled the cramped hall.
“Omigod.” I banged my head against the table. “Why, Nadine? Why?”
Nadine patted my head. “Relax. I'm almost up; then we can go.”
Caleb massaged his temples. “I don't get it. Why do all poets talk like William Shatner?”
“It is ... flow.” Nadine made a snake motion with her hand.
I mimicked the gesture. “It is ... retarded.”
A large woman with a buzz cut grabbed the mic. “He ... the scourge of the sea ... and the land. He, known as Man ... holds the world in his hand. His power is poison to all who drink from his cup. Liar! Men will burn in the lake ... of fire. Death to the oppressor ... and the transgressor to the Mother Earth. Thank you.” She bowed, followed by snaps from the audience.
“And she wonders why she can't get a date.” I shook my head in sympathy.
Just as the woman stepped down from the stage, the host announced Nadine's turn.
Through the onslaught of snaps and whistles, Nadine shuffled through the crowd. Caleb and I gave her a thumbs-up and urged her on, mainly so we could hurry and leave.
Reaching the stage, she unfolded her poem and cleared her throat. “Time ... the man-made device that keeps everything from happening at once. Man strives to outdo the contentious engineer who divided the day and night. Time ... the symbolic appliance that we pick apart, then discard once its mysteries are solved, because ... because we can. Because ... because there is no such thing as ‘well enough.' It can always be improved, because ... man wants to edit God's rough draft. The obsession with time is an earthly quality; the autocratic government of moments. But, if everything did happen at once, there would never be a dull moment, would there? Thank you.” Nadine bowed and left the stage.
Tossing three snaps in the air, I turned to Caleb. “Well, at least it doesn't rhyme.”
“She really needs a puppy or something,” he added.
When Nadine approached our table, she asked, “So, did you like it?”
“Uh, well, no.” I stood and grabbed my bag.
“Sam!” Caleb scolded.
“I'm sorry, Nadine. I'm not deep like that. It went right over my head. Plus, it doesn't matter what I think. Look around. They loved it.”
Nadine's head panned around the room to the patrons praising her with a standing ovation. After a bow, she looked to me. “Sam, I actually care what
you
think.”
“You really shouldn't. I'm not creative or emotionally sound.” I nudged my head to Caleb to show my point. “Anyway, are you ready to go?”
Nadine's bottom lip poked out. “Yeah, sure.”
Caleb rose from his seat. “Cool, I'll meet you guys out front. I'm going to the bathroom.”
Nadine and I stood by the entrance in silence. Set a good two yards apart, we faced away from each other with arms folded. Nadine was still sore about her poem, but I tried not to lie if I didn't have to.
“Nadine, I'm sorry,” I said finally.
“No, is cool. Don't worry about it,” she replied, though her posture told a different story.
“I know it meant a lot to you, and I didn't want to ruin your night. For what it's worth, I think you're brave to put yourself out there like that in front of all those people.”
She turned to me. “Really? You're not shy.”
I smiled. “So my disguise works. I've been insecure for years. I never thought I would fit in.”
“Why?”
“Look at me, Nadine. I'm a mutt. Every day I've got people looking at me funny. They ask that patronizing question, ‘What are you?' like I'm a new species or something. And it doesn't help when I have to fill in ‘other' on an application when asked my ethnicity. Black girls talk about me because I quote-end-quote ‘act white,' and white people chuck me off as the token of the group, like affirmative action also applies to pool parties. If I don't get that, I get the people who wanna touch my hair.”
“I touch your hair.” Nadine pouted.
“I know, sweetie, but I actually know
you
,” I countered. “And there are the ones that look at my mom like she's trash. And most of those looks come from family members. My grandpa won't speak to my mom and he won't even look at me. So yeah, I have insecurities, and I've never made a point to stand out any more than I did. But thankfully, I found a small circle of people who dig me for me. And I'm proud to say that you're one of them.”
“You are trapped between two worlds. You are neither, but both.” Nadine closed the distance between us, pondering the concept with a heavy brow. “I'm sorry, Sam. I never knew.”
“Well, you're Polish; you can't help it.”
“Shut up!” Nadine shoved my arm. “But the way you are is what draws me to you. You don't act like everyone else. You are rare, unique snowflake.”
“Whatever.” I chortled.
“I mean it. This is why Caleb likes you. There's something about you that keeps him coming back for more. Maybe he likes verbal abuse.”
I walked to the door and peered inside. “Speaking of which, where is he?”
Nadine shrugged. “Maybe he fell in.”
Not putting that possibility past Caleb, I opened the door. “I'll go find him.”
I paced in front of the restrooms and saw no sign of him. After asking the third man if he had seen Caleb, I started to worry. Before I could get Nadine, low grunts down a vacant hall stopped me. I moved toward the racket of gurgling and crying. Opening the door of a storage room, I clicked on the light, and nearly screamed.
A plump woman lay half dressed in the middle of the floor, engaged in some sort of fit. I yelled for help and rushed to her side. I managed a grip on her shoulders, then cupped her head in my hands. She balled the front of my shirt in her fist, bearing down against a fruitless labor. Her heavy chest heaved in a hoarse breath, like she forgot to bring her inhaler.
Tears gathered around her bright blue eyes, her hips and torso bucked on impulse.
I recognized the nervous tick, that final attempt at survival delaying the ultimate power cut to the body. The same thing had happened to Garrett, right when he ...
“Can you hear me? What happened?” I asked, rocking her back and forth.
Her eyes stared blankly at the opposite wall. A lonely tear streaked her temple, disappearing under the pillow of brown curls. “Lavender ... eyes,” she wheezed through her cracked lips. Without another word, her eyes closed and her body fell limp in my arms.
“No, no, come on! Please, lady, don't do this. Wake up!” I yelled, slapping her sallow cheek.
I checked her pulse and found nothing. Only a faint echo answered my cries for help, and even that abandoned me in the end.
A murky deafness surrounded me, a clamor within the silence. I searched the room, as though some solution would appear miraculously. Shadows danced around this depository of sporting gear and moldy theater costumes, a place where an overactive imagination ran amuck, a place where no one should die. This was the second time in a week that someone had met an untimely end before my eyes. All the fear and profound ramifications of life came to a head, and lay unmoving in my arms.
“Sam?” The voice came from the door.

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