Living Violet Page 3

  “Not unless there was a witness to the concurrence.” I shot a look to Mom. “Mom is a participant and standing witness to the pact. This new clause was not present during the concord and therefore is not germane to the original contract. In addition, your retraction will result in the infringement with the agreeing parties, signifying that a man’s word means nothing, in turn, placing your personal ethics into question.”

  Now I stood, waiting for the backhand of justice to strike me dead. But nothing came.

  Mom stopped stirring and looked over her shoulder. The sizzling vegetables in the pan replaced the quiet.

  After a two-minute stare-down, Dad spoke. “Quite the litigator you are.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  Slowly, a brilliant smile melted his hard features. “All right, what do you want then?”

  I paused. “What?”

  “What do you want? Like I said, I can’t get a refund on my reservation, so I need you to watch the twins. Since I can’t extort you, I’ll use old-fashioned bribery.” His smile widened.

  I couldn’t believe this. He had granted a carte blanche to anything I wanted. I quickly grew drunk with power. Usually, my mind teemed with mischievous deeds, plots of world domination and the overthrow of Hollywood, but nothing came to mind.

  Mom finally spoke. “Might I make a suggestion? Since you can’t omit the prior contract, then add to it. If she watches the twins, you will ensure that she’ll have enough to afford her car, no matter how short she is on her end. You will not only match what she has, you’ll pay the difference.”

  Dad rubbed his chin in thought. “So basically, I’m paying for the car.”

  “No. What purpose would that serve? She’ll put a nice chunk of her own money in it.”

  My shoulders sagged.

  Her blue eyes narrowed at me. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve watched those Sweet Sixteen shows with those brats getting Ferraris and yachts for their birthdays, and talking back to their parents who pay for the whole thing. Life doesn’t work that way, and it’s better that you learn that now than later. Your father and I believe in hard work, and if you want something, then you earn it. Education is more important than whose name you’ve got on the back of your jeans. Heaven knows I don’t want you ending up like Mia.”

  For as long as Mia and I had been friends, Mom had always held a modicum of patience for Mia’s flashy lifestyle. Though Mom had once lived in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Williamsburg, her early take on motherhood popped that bubble indefinitely. From then on, Mom was a straight coupon and blue-light-special woman.

  “Mom,” I whined.

  “I’m serious. Little Miss Trust Fund is giving you the wrong idea about wealth. I see her with her designer shoes and purses that could pay our mortgage for six months. I don’t want you to be like that, Samara.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then you won’t dispute the arrangement your father and I set for you. Whatever you earn at work, we’ll match it, and you’ll have your car by the fall.”

  I stood quiet for a moment, whipping out the mental calculator. Two thousand dollars already in savings, plus two months’ worth of slave wage. I still didn’t have enough to reach my quota.

  I knew the suggestion was dead in the water, but I had to try. “What about my college fund? I could use some of that.”

  “Over my cold, dead body! You don’t touch that account until you’re eighteen. You’re going to college even if you have to walk there.” Dad didn’t even bother to make eye contact, which rendered the subject closed.

  “I’ll ask Linda if I can pull a few double shifts at work.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself, baby,” Mom warned. “You still need time to be a kid. Time will pass quicker than you think.”

  I moved around the kitchen island, took my mother’s hand, and placed it over my heart. Putting my sophomore drama club acting to work, I declared, “All things must end. ’Tis a heavy challenge you proffer me, but I accept, my lady.”

  Mom chuckled.

  Dad cut his eyes at both of us, not amused by this transaction at all. “There’s no way to get out of this, is there?”

  “Nope. Do you accept the terms?” I extended my hand, waiting for the verdict to fall from his lips.

  After what felt like days, he shook my hand and almost broke all of my fingers. My heart jumped, and as soon as my stomach stopped doing cartwheels, I was going to call Mia and rub it in her face. Yes, victory would be mine!

  “At least it’s for a good cause. This trip means a lot to Rhonda.” He stared off with a secretive smile, anticipating the alone time with his significant other. Only God could understand why.

  “Where are y’all going anyway?” I asked.

  “D.C. I have us booked at the Capital Hotel. We have a whole tour planned out, with dinner and dancing—the whole nine yards.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said as an explosion of clattering dishes came from the sink.

  Dad and I looked to Mom, who leaned over the counter. Every muscle in her body looked tight. After a deep breath, she excused herself from the room, her arms glued to her sides, her fingers balled into fists.

  Dad watched Mom vanish around the corner before he turned to me. “What’s with her?”

  “She’s going through a thing right now.” I turned off the stove, then removed the food.

  Eyeing me carefully, he leaned closer. “Talk to me.”

  “Well, you really expect her to be happy about you traipsing off with that woman?”

  He scowled. “You mean my wife?”

  “Semantics. You were practically flaunting your relationship in front of her.”

  Dad shook his head. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know, but she’s still a little sensitive about it. She’s almost thirty-four and unmarried. She only dresses up when you’re here. Did you know that she’s been looking up dating services online lately?”

  Dad’s expression was a long, dumbfounded blank. “Wait, this is the same woman who warned me about that scandal on Craigslist?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m just saying, don’t give her mixed signals, and don’t flaunt your new life in front of her, ’cause I’m gonna be the one who’ll have to talk her off the ledge when she finally snaps, not you.”

  “You know I love your mother. It’s just—”

  “You love her like you love me,” I interrupted. “It’s not the same.”

  Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts, and well, things got a little too hot and heavy. In the spring of their junior year, I showed up, and that’s when the epic family feud began. Grandpa all but disowned Mom for having a baby with one of “those people,” so Dad’s parents practically adopted us. I knew very little of the white side of my family, and you can’t really miss what was never there. Things soon fizzled between Mom and Dad after high school, and they went their separate ways, but Dad had more luck with moving on.

  Dad got up from the stool and strolled to the door. “Maybe I should go. Tell your mom I had to run. I’ll call you later on in the week.”

  “Okay.” I followed him out.

  When he opened the door, he pulled me in for one of his suffocating bear hugs. Though my dad was a big guy and stricter than a drill sergeant, his power showed the most through his hugs. No matter where I was, his oaky cologne would always remind me of home.

  “For what it’s worth,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you too, baby girl. Thank you again for bailing me out.” His lips brushed the top of my head.

  I pulled away and forced a smile that I didn’t feel. “No problem. Drive safe.”

  As soon as I closed the door, the voice of Joni Mitchell rang through the house, one of Mom’s old angst-ridden CDs used to jump-start her pity party. I knew she wouldn’t crawl out of her cave until she was good and ready, which meant it was all on me as far as dinner was concerned.


  After setting the security system, I returned to the kitchen to clean up. Two slices of last night’s leftover pizza rotated in the microwave while I wrapped up the half-cooked food and took ice cream from the freezer. I balanced the load upstairs, careful to avoid that annoying creak on the eighth step. Stopping in front of Mom’s door, I tapped a code against the wood, but didn’t expect a reply. I set the ice cream and spoon on the floor, then went to my room.

  A click of the light switch revealed the crash site known as my bedroom. The color scheme was lime green, but the clutter hid that fact from all who entered. My bed stood against the wall, giving me plenty of floor space to work on my Tae Bo moves. Half of my wardrobe was slung about the room along with countless books, DVDs, and magazines.

  Still buzzing off the high of getting a new car, my first course of action was to call Mia and spread some I-told-you-so her way. Judging from the last time I saw her, she needed some cheering up. I grabbed my phone and plopped on the bed with a plate of meaty, cheesy goodness warming my lap.

  After three rings, I heard a stuffy voice on the other end. “What? Just let me die in peace.”

  I stared at the phone, then put it back to my ear. “Mia? It’s Sam. What’s wrong with you?”

  “My life is over, that’s what’s wrong.” After twenty minutes of sniveling, squealing, and blubbering, I pieced together that Doug really did have a cousin from out of town, and now he won’t talk to Mia because she clipped him in the shin with her BMW when she pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Is he gonna press charges?” I asked while scarfing down my second slice.

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s just mad.”

  “Maybe this is for the best. It’s good to make a clean break now.”

  More nose-blowing blasted through the phone. “You don’t get it. I love him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “If that’s what you wanna call it.” “What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve never been in love.”

  I scoffed. “Look, if it’s anything like what you and Doug got going on and what my mom’s going through, y’all can have it.”

  “What’s wrong with your mom?”

  “She’s looking at online dating sites.”

  The sniffing stopped on the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” I asked with a mouthful of crust.

  “You gotta be kidding? This is the same woman who made us sit down and watch every episode of that Dateline predator show.”

  “Yeah, well, I think she’s getting lonely. You know, that empty nest thing. And the fact that she’s still holding a torch for my dad,” I explained.

  “How is the black Mr. Clean?”

  I snickered. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks to call him that to his face. I dare you.”

  “Oh, hell no. Your dad scares me.”

  After I updated Mia on Dad’s request to babysit his demon spawn, she said, “Wow, that sucks. I suddenly feel better now. You coming to V.A. Beach tomorrow?”

  “Naw, I gotta work in the morning.” The word “work” conjured up thoughts of the day’s excitement. I wondered about the girl in the parking lot and the boy who pretended she didn’t exist.

  When I ended the call for the night, I scrounged around the floor for a T-shirt. I crashed on the bed, twiddling a strip of pizza crust between my fingers, and delved into the mind of my creepy coworker.

  I didn’t know a whole lot about him, except that he was nineteen, an army brat who had lived in Europe most of his life and owned an unhealthy obsession with baked goods and bad techno music.

  Caleb always held a candy bar or a doughnut in his hand when he went on his break. He also kept a coin jar under the register for every time a customer asked him if he wore contact lenses. Talk about vain! The way he tossed women off like used Kleenex didn’t improve my opinion of him either. But those eyes sure were strange, so I could understand the curiosity. He certainly held mine and wouldn’t let go, trapping me in that luminous and haunted gaze....

  Oh god, I had to stop. Thinking about him made my head hurt. I had work in the morning and this guy wasn’t worth another moment of thought. I just had to tell my brain that.

  4

  Ah, Mondays. The starting line of the rat race, and the end of all free will.

  Mondays ran pretty steady at Buncha Books, with the usual business folk needing their morning rocket fuel. I didn’t get the real jerks until later in the afternoon and weekends. The book floor jumbled with stragglers, looking lost and enjoying icy caffeine from Cuppa-Joe. I strolled to customer service and met Linda, who wore “don’t mess with me” like a name tag.

  I scooted past her and clocked in. “Tough night?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “I talked to the police last night about the girl in the parking lot. They wanted to know if anyone saw anything before the incident.”

  “Why? I thought she had a heart attack.”

  “That’s what the paramedics say, but police are coming in today to ask the staff a few questions. The victim had a store bag in her car, and the 911 call came from inside the store,” she said, trying not to fall asleep at the computer.

  I nodded while my brain worked overtime. Linda’s explanation raised a red flag and an accusatory finger in one direction.

  After haggling extra hours from Linda’s greedy clutches, I marched toward the back of the store, where Nadine was pulling fresh cookies out of the oven. The aroma performed a siren song for all the sugar-holics within a two-block radius. However, for the sake of bathing-suit season, I had to fight the temptation.

  “What up?” I called, reaching for an apron.

  “Same old crap. People buying their own means of demise.” She shrugged.

  “You’re bubbly today.”

  “Yeah, well, I opened today, so I leave early, and I have time to finish my term paper.”

  How Nadine managed to work three jobs and attend classes during the summer stretched past my span of logic. Not only was she runway gorgeous, she was smart and worked like a dog, upstaging us lazy Americans in every way possible.

  But somehow Nadine and I gravitated to each other like kindred spirits, and we manipulated the schedules at the store just so we could hang out. Oh, and work.

  “We need to make more decaf.” Nadine examined the timer in her hand.

  Aside from the usual summer tourist and mallrat prosti-tots, business was kind of slow for the next three hours. There was always one guy who abused the purpose of name tags, and slaughtered the pronunciation of my name, all for the sake of friendliness.

  Oddly enough, this didn’t tick me off. I just smiled and pronounced slowly, “Sir, it’s Samara. Suh-MAIR-uh. But if you want, you can call me Sam. In fact, I insist.”

  After the lunch rush died down, my favorite customers approached the counter: the historical actors who work at the heart of Williamsburg in Merchants Square.

  These people tripped me out with their white tights, buckled shoes, and powdered wigs. This town was a living, breathing American history class. Tourists came far and wide to walk the cobblestone streets of Colonial Williamsburg and see the tavern wenches, the silversmiths, and the freed slaves reenact olden times.

  The only strange thing was when they were off the clock and the town crier text messaged his girlfriend. Or when Thomas Jefferson showed up at Costco and stocked a thirty-day supply of toilet paper and frozen dinners in his cart. On the way to work today, I saw a sharecropper zoom past me on a motor scooter with spinning rims. Seriously, I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Not a day goes by where I don’t see that sort of thing at least twice, and it’s the best tourist attraction in town.

  After Martha Washington left with her cappuccino, I needed a pick-me-up. Sneaking my second espresso shot of the day, I heard a guy behind me say, “Yo, SNM, got a minute?”

  I knew who it was before I could turn around. Only one person had the perverse humor to turn my initials into a dirty joke. I swallowed my shot and slowly f
aced the counter. “What you want, Dougie?”

  He stood with hands in his baggy jean pockets. His upside-down visor pushed back spiky black hair. Though it shamed me to admit, Dougie was cute in that wigger sort of way, and his green polo shirt brought out his hazel eyes and olive skin. But that popped collar had to go.

  “Have you seen Mia?” he asked. “She’s not picking up her phone.”

  “I thought you weren’t talking to her.”

  He looked down at his unlaced sneakers. “I’m not. I just—I just wanna see if she’s all right. She was really upset. I’m not trying to have her stalk me, that’s all.”

  “So instead, you’re gonna beat her to the punch.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then please, tell me what it’s like. ’Cause from this side of the counter, you’re trying to out-stalk a stalker.”

  Turning away, he mumbled, “Forget it, man. I knew you couldn’t help me.”

  “If help’s what you need, Eastern State Hospital is right up the road.” I pointed to the exit.

  He stopped, then walked back to the counter. With his head down, he looked up at me with the saddest puppy eyes I ever saw. “Look, Samara, I know you don’t like me, but you can’t go around judging something you don’t know about. Mia and I got something not many people have, and I just wanna know if she’s all right.”

  Oh, B-boy was laying it on thick. “You know good and well I love you to death, so put your violins away. If you must know, Lady Moralez is at Virginia Beach, trying her best to look like me.” I extended my arm to him.

  He observed the brown limb, then asked, “Who is she at the beach with?”

  “Some of the gang. Why?”

  His eyes narrowed. His lips tightened. “Is Garrett with her?”

  “He would be part of the gang,” I hedged, watching the green-eyed monster wake from its sleep. Garrett Davenport was the walking stereotype of the football playboy with all the beer-guzzling shenanigans the label entailed. Not saying another word, Dougie shot to the exit with car keys in hand and murder in his eyes.

  With that bit of conflict over, I looked at the clock and realized it was time for my break. I yelled to the back kitchen to let Nadine know I was taking off and unhooked my apron.