The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond (14 page)

W
hat's gesso?” I asked as I examined a large plastic container in Bibi's studio. She was dressed in paint-stained jeans and an old yellow T-shirt that had the words
Peace, Love, and Happiness
plastered across the front.

“Surface prep for canvasses and other things people paint on. Goes on before you paint to seal the canvas and make it smooth.”

I read the label. “Says you have to wait twenty-four hours minimum before you paint.” I sure didn't want to wait a whole day before getting started. “Do we really have to put this stuff on first?”

Bibi pulled two large canvasses out from a shelf. “I primed these a while back. I try to always have some ready for when the mood to paint strikes me.”

“Do you only paint when the mood strikes you?”

“Not if there's a project I need to finish. Then it's the same as a”—she spelled out the word—“J-O-B.”

“Is today a J-O-B, or did the mood strike you?”

“Neither. Today is a teaching day. Haven't done that in a while,” she replied as she set up the matching blank white canvasses on side-by-side easels. “What's your favorite color, V?”

That wasn't an easy question to answer. “I think blue. Or maybe purple. I don't know.”

“Ask yourself this question. What is the one color that always makes me feel good inside? Be decisive.”

I took a few seconds before I blurted, “Okay, I choose blue.”

“They're my favorites, too. There are about fifty-nine different colors of blue.”

“Fifty-nine! That's a bunch.”

Bibi pulled out a chart with different shades of blues and I studied the names. There was electric blue, Bleu de France, midnight blue, cobalt blue, Persian blue. “There are too many to memorize,” I decided. I'd have to write them in my journal.

“For real,” Bibi replied, and motioned for me to follow her to a wall that was lined with drawers. She opened one and I peered inside. Tubes and jars of paints were inside, all blues. “Pick one . . . the one that speaks to you.”

I wanted to tell her that paints don't speak, but I knew what she meant. Finally, I fished out the one that I liked the best. “This one . . . ultramarine.”

“Now for the palettes. We'll need large ones for this exercise,” she said as she retrieved two.

“And brushes,” I reminded her.

“Nope, no brushes. We'll use our fingers.”

Finger painting? She'd better be kidding.

“I'm not a baby.”

“It's just an exercise in color, Violet. There are all kinds of things to paint with: palette knives, rollers, fingers, not just brushes.”

“I don't want to exercise. I just want to learn to paint with a brush . . . please, please, please and thank you very much.”

The disappointment in my eyes must have shown, because she replied, “All right already, V. We'll use brushes, then.”

“I want to paint a bird. Can you teach me to paint a bird? A blue bird.”

Bibi let out the longest sigh I'd ever heard. “Yes,” she replied, and asked, “A bird alone on the canvas?”

“No, in a tree. A pomegranate tree, because the fruit reminds me of red ornaments. And so I'm going to need some red and green, and I'm gonna name it
Blue Bird in a Pomegranate Tree on a Sunny Day.
So I'll need yellow for the sun.”

Bibi chuckled. “Your persistence shouldn't surprise me. Warren was the same . . . once he made a decision, that was that. Sounds like you have your mind made up, Violet.”

“Yep.”

“We should at least sketch first, then.” Bibi smiled and said, “First we'll sketch?”

From the way she pulled out the sketch pad, I could tell there was no getting around the sketch part.

Persistence definitely runs in the family.

“Do all artists sketch first?”

“Some sketch directly on the canvas, but I'm methodical.”

“What's that mean?”

“I have a special method. First I sketch, sometimes in color, sometimes in black and white. Then, I sketch on the canvas. Then, I paint.”

“Sounds like a lot of steps.”

“I have to be careful for it not to consume me.”

“I know what that means . . . like it eats you up.”

“Yep, it eats me up so much that there are times I actually forget to eat. It's not healthy.”

By the time we finished the sketch, Bibi had taught me about perspective, which made a lot of sense. And I suppose because she didn't want to be consumed, she declared it was time for lunch. “I could go for some fish. Does that sound good to you?”

I nodded and we headed to the car.

“Do all artists have to know this stuff about perspective and shading and fifty-nine different blues?”

“Most artists.”

“I don't want to be an artist. I just want to do it for fun. It's supposed to be fun, right?”

“For some people it's a J-O-B, Violet. Remember that.”

The fish place was called Fish Fry City and the neon sign outside said
You Buy We
Fry.

“What kind of fish would you like?” Bibi asked.

I studied the sign. “Do they have salmon?”

For some reason that made Bibi grin. “I don't think so,” she replied.

“What are you gonna have?”

“My favorite, the catfish.”

“Is it good?”

She licked her lips. “Delicious.”

We both ordered the catfish, potato salad, and fruit punch. And minutes later, sitting on one of the outdoor tables with our food, I chomped away and thought,
Boy, was she right.

• • •

On the way back to Bibi's house, her cell rang in the car's Bluetooth. It was a call from my mom.

“Hi, Mom!” I screeched as soon as Bibi pressed the button on the steering wheel. “We just had lunch and we're heading back to maybe do some painting if we're satisfied with the sketch. Are you at work?”

Before Mom could answer, Bibi interrupted, “Hi, Justine.”

“Hi, Roxanne. Sounds like the two of you are having lots of fun.”

“We are!” I blurted. “Did you know how to do a dance called the Mashed Potatoes? Because if you don't, I learned last night, so I can teach you. I'm going to download the song to my iPod.”

“I only have a few minutes to talk,” Mom sort of whispered. “But about Violet staying another week, it's fine with me.”

I glanced at Bibi. “Another week?”

“I called your mom last night. Thought we might get down to Laguna Beach and also maybe take a day trip to Santa Barbara on the train. That is, if you want to.”

“A real train?” I'd never been on one.

“A real train,” Bibi answered.

I grinned. “Yep, I'm staying.”

That made Bibi smile, too.

“Okay, it's settled then. I'll call you later, V. Bye, Roxanne,” Mom said in her I'm-a-busy-doctor voice.

“Bye!”

I wanted to reach for Bibi's hand to hold it the way I sometimes hold Gam's when it's just the two of us and we're driving and I'm feeling happy. But Bibi had both hands on the wheel, so I didn't.

By the time we got back to the studio, it was hot inside. Bibi turned on the ceiling fan to cool it off, and she was in the middle of teaching me how to copy the sketch to the canvas when she said she needed a nap.

“You sure are a sleepyhead, Bibi.”

“I sure am,” she replied, rubbing her left arm.

“Does your arm hurt?” I asked as we headed inside.

“Cramps up sometimes when I'm sketching and painting.”

“Don't worry about me. I have plenty of stuff to do. Okay if I use your laptop to send some e-mails and pics to Daisy and Athena?”

“Sure, pickle,” she said as she logged on for me. “You sure it's okay if I call you pickle?”

“Yep, I like it.”

“Okay then, pickle.”

T
he next morning, I found out two things. The first thing made me smile. We were going to the marina to have lunch at Cousin Lorna and Laura's. And even though I knew they saw me as half white and therefore not exactly black like them, they were still very nice. The second thing—Ahmed was coming, too—made me frown.

His house wasn't too far from Bibi's.

We were walking up to Ahmed's door when he opened it, came out on the porch, and said loudly, “Welcome to my hood!”

A teenage girl standing outside next door asked, “Is that your chick, Ahmed?”

“Naw, it's my cuzzin, nosy.”

“I know that's right cuz you ain't never gonna have no chick cute as her.”

That made me laugh.

“Shut up, Jo'Nelle!”

“That's about enough,” Bibi said, and the nosy girl slinked inside her house.

I glanced over where the girl lived, then at Ahmed in the backseat when we got in the car. “Is that your chick, Ahmed?” I mocked.

“Jo'Nelle? You gotta be kiddin'. She is way too skinny, plus she's not my type.”

“What's your type?”

“Not Jo'Nelle. That's my type.”

“Can you two please not fuss?” Bibi commanded, then turned on the radio.

Ahmed sneered at me. “We're not fussin'. We're having a friendly conversation.”

The next thing he almost whispered. “So what'd you come down here for . . . tryin' to learn to be black?”

“I didn't know it was something you could learn,” I told him.

“You're right, it isn't. It's something that you are, all the way down to your soul,” he said snidely.

Ahmed Diamond, please disappear.

The twins, Lorna and Laura, lived in a place called the Marina City Club. Their condo was on the seventh floor.

“Hello, hello, hello. C'mon in,” one of the twins said as she hugged each of us tightly, then motioned us inside.

Before we could get inside good, the other twin rushed up and hugged us. “Hello, hello, hello. C'mon in.” I almost wondered if they'd practiced what to say before we got there.

“They need to wear name tags so we can tell 'em apart,” Ahmed whispered, and for the first time I agreed with him.

“Wow!” I said as I made my way to the living room. The ocean view was awesome.

Bibi took my hand and held it. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

I gazed up at her pretty face. “Yep.”

“Cooltastic is what I call it,” Ahmed said as he scanned the horizon.

“Cooltastic? That's not even a real word,” I informed him. “You can't just go around making up words.”

Ahmed smirked. “Yes I can and yes I did.
Cool
plus
fantastic
equals
cooltastic.
”

He's definitely a being from another planet.

Before long, lunch was ready and we were served all kinds of fancy, unusual foods. Foods from Thailand, India, Africa, and China. “We love to cook,” one twin said.

“Just love to cook,” the other echoed.

I couldn't imagine one of them without the other. Just like Mom claims identical twins often are, they were
two peas in a pod.

“A walk around the marina might do us good,” the twins suggested after we'd stuffed ourselves.

The marina was one of the prettiest places I'd ever been to. There were all kinds of shops and restaurants and the ocean breeze was just right—not too cold. Bibi was holding my hand, Ahmed was being quiet, and the twins were chatting to each other about their plans for the school year. The diamond ring on Bibi's hand glittered. It felt like I belonged to them. They were mine and I was theirs.

When we reached the big rocks, we sat, watching the rolling waves. Boats, some with sails, raced by and a few people were fishing, but from what I could see, no one was catching anything. From one man's portable radio, jazz music played. The beach sun warmed my skin. Because we looked alike, no one gave us puzzled looks and I remembered my beach dream. Just like the dream, it felt nice.

I glanced around once more at the Diamond family around me, then stood and walked along on the huge boulders toward the deeper part of the ocean.

“You be careful, Violet,” Bibi warned.

“I will,” I told her.

Of course, Ahmed got up and followed me, pouncing from rock to rock like a cat, showing off.

Finally, I reached the end of the rocks and was admiring the view when I lost my footing. But a hand reached out and saved me from falling—Ahmed's hand.

“Thank you,” I told him.

“Ain't nuthin',” he replied.

A selection of homemade desserts awaited us when we got back to the marina condo. Chocolate-filled cream puffs, macaroons, flan, and lemon mousse. The twins really did like to cook and I hoped I'd be invited back again before I went home to Washington.

Even though I was just getting to know my father's family, being here with them made it feel like Moon Lake was very far away—almost as far away as the moon.