The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond (5 page)

G
am's hairdresser was able to get my hair back to its normal color, and boy, was I glad. Some people just look better with brown hair and I'm definitely one of them. For the first time in a while, I liked what looked back at me from the mirror.

“Can I go to Athena's house? Her mom said it was okay,” I asked Gam after we got home.

“No more hair color tricks. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“And call me when you get there.”

I nodded and sped to Athena's. I couldn't wait to tell her how my life had suddenly become extremely un-boring. Today, there were no clouds in my head, no feeling-sorry-for-myself look on my face.

Athena's mom, Ianthe, opened the door. Her hair is streaked gold, her eyes greenish blue, and she's usually thin, except for now, because she just had a baby. Ianthe means “violet flower” in Greek, at least that's what she told me a long time ago, so it's kind of like we have the same name. But if you want to know the truth, I actually like the name Violet a lot better. With one arm, she was cradling the baby, who was wrapped tightly in a blanket, and all I could see was the top of his head.

“Hi, Violet,” Ianthe whispered.

“Hey, Miz Starros. Can I see him?” I asked.

“Of course, but shhh, he's sleeping,” Ianthe replied, carefully peeling the blanket away so I could see his face.

“He's so cute,” I said, admiring his dark curls and tiny pink mouth. “Hey, little Dio.”

Dio made a baby sound and squirmed.

Like a bullet, Athena flew into the room and ran her hands through my hair. “Your hair is back!” she screeched. “Awesome!”

“Shhh,” Athena's mom reminded her.

“All right already,” Athena told her as she grabbed my hand and pulled me to her room.

I settled in on her huge pink bean bag chair and got comfy.

“Your mom didn't kill you,” she declared.

I waved my arm in front of me as if to say I'm right here and replied, “Do I look dead?”

“You could be a ghost. Maybe I see dead people.”

“You're not funny, Athena.”

“Yes, I am,” she said. She jumped up and did a funny dance to the music that was coming from the TV.

I laughed and shook my head. “You're insane.” As usual, it was almost impossible to be anything but happy around Athena, and it's one of the things I liked best about her.

Athena continued dancing until the song ended, then plopped on her bed and started flipping through one of her teen magazines.

“I'm going to Seattle this weekend with my mom. We're staying the whole weekend,” I told her.

“For what?”

“To go to an art exhibit.”

“Ho-hum,” Athena said, and made a fake yawn.

“An exhibit of paintings by my grandmother.”

Athena scrunched up her face. “Huh? I never saw her painting anything.”

“Not Gam . . . my other grandmother.”

“I didn't even know you had another grandmother.”

“I do. Her name's Roxanne Kamaria Diamond. And she's famous.”

“You are so lying, V.”

“I am so not.” I reached for her computer. “Turn it on,” I commanded. “I'll show you.”

I typed in my grandmother's name and showed Athena. “See, Roxanne even has her own website.”

Athena studied the photos, glanced at me with a question-mark face, and proclaimed, “But she's black . . . dark black.”

“She's my dad's mother. What'd you expect?”

Athena shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know.” She stared at the screen and then back at me. “It's just I never think about you really being black.”

“But I am black.”

“Only half . . . you're biracial.”

“Half is still black. What do you think people notice when they first look at me?”

“Curly hair?”

“Not. The first thing they think is Violet Diamond is a
black girl.
In school I'm the only
black girl
in class. And at the ice rink, Yaz Kilroy is the
black girl
who might one day go to Nationals. It's just how people are.”

“So? Maybe the first thing people think when they meet me is that I'm Greek.”

“Not. People can't tell you're Greek just by looking at you. But people always know when you're black or Asian or Mexican even.”

“I spoze,” she replied.

“How would you feel if you were the only white girl in class?” I asked.

Athena shrugged. “I don't know. I've never been the only one,” she answered, then glanced back at the pictures of Roxanne Diamond on the computer screen. “Her clothes look like she's from Africa.”

“No, she's bohemian.”

“Where's that?”

“It just means she's different. And look at her paintings . . . they're really good, huh?”

Athena nodded. “Can I go with you? I know my mom'll let me. Anything is better than being told to shush all day long because the baby is sleeping or listening to him cry, even in the middle of the night. Plus, I'm being forced to learn Greek cooking from scratch from my grandma every day.
Microwave
isn't in her vocabulary. Yesterday we made stuffed grape leaves.”

I'd eaten stuffed grape leaves before and they were really good. “Yummy.”

“I know they taste good, but I hate cooking. Please take me with you.”

“Um . . .”

“Um, what?”

“I don't think my mom will like that.”

“Why?” Athena asked.

I felt embarrassed to tell her the truth, but I did. “Because I've never even met my other grandmother before.”

“How come?”

A knock on the door kept me from spilling the beans.

“Come in,” Athena said.

It was Athena's grandma, Mrs. Matsoukis. I've met her lots of times. She has a foreign accent, mostly gray hair, a happy round face, but a slim body. “Athena, I am making meat and macaroni pie. Pastitsio. It's a good dish. You should learn.”

“But my friend is here. It'll take all day,” Athena whined.

I waved. “Hi, Mrs. Matsoukis.”

“Hello, Violet. You should learn, too, and join us for dinner.”

I'd never had meat and macaroni pie, but it sure sounded good. “Does it have cheese?” I asked.

“Kefalotiri cheese.”

Athena rolled her eyes. “Gramma, I really hate to cook.”

“But you like to eat. Come.”

As instructed, we followed Mrs. Matsoukis to the kitchen. “First, the meat sauce.”

I really like to cook and it must have shown, because Athena's grandma patted me on the back as I carefully mixed the meat sauce in the pan. “You are good at this, Violet. Do you cook with your mother or grandmother?”

“Sometimes I make lasagna or spaghetti with my grandma. Italian food is her specialty, but mostly my poppy does the cooking. He's the gourmet. He even takes cooking classes. Last night he cooked spicy-sweet tangerine shrimp with bok choy and rice.”

“On Sunday, we are having a party to celebrate the arrival of Dio Starros. You will come,” Mrs. Matsoukis commanded.

“Thank you, but I can't. I'm going to Seattle.”

“To meet her other grandmother for the first time,” Athena informed her.

“Other grandmother?” Mrs. Matsoukis asked.

“My black grandmother. I'm biracial.”

“What is this ‘biracial'?”

“It means she's two races . . . half black race and half white race,” Athena replied.

Mrs. Matsoukis popped a cherry tomato in her mouth and chewed. “Aren't we all human race, Violet?”

I stopped stirring. “Yes, but . . .”

She didn't let me finish. “Of course we are. Human race comes in many colors. This word ‘biracial' is silly talk.”

“Is that what people think in Greece, that we're all the same?” I asked.

“In Greece, no, but in my mind, yes. No more silly talk . . . understand?”

Athena and I stared at each other and smiled. “Got it.”

• • •

Athena was right, the meat and macaroni pie did take hours. Finally, when we were done, we mixed the rest of the grated cheese with bread crumbs, sprinkled them over the top, and put the meat pie in the oven.

And while it was baking, Athena and I went back to her room, where I finally spilled most of the beans about my mom and Roxanne Diamond. There were only two secrets I didn't tell her—the one about my grandmother not wanting my father to marry my mom because she was white and the one about my mom making the U-turn.

Those facts I decided to keep to myself.

A
t dawn the next morning, loudmouthed Hazel started up. She was mewing her
I'm hungry and you need to feed me now
mew. But my eyes were sealed shut and my body wouldn't move. I needed more sleep. “Later,” I told her.

“Meow! Meow! Meow!”

And right then, for the first time, I wished Hazel would disappear, not forever but just for a little while so I could stay comfy in my bed.

“Meow!”

My head felt glued to the pillow. “I'm sleepy,” I groaned.

But because cats don't seem to understand English, Hazel kept mewing.

“All right, you win.” I squiggled out of bed, practically sleepwalked into the kitchen, and was opening a can of cat food when Poppy came in through the back door, toting his golf clubs.

In an instant, Hazel dashed for the door, and before Poppy could close it, she squeezed outside.

“No!”

Poppy and I ran after her, but she leaped and sprinted off like she was happy to be free.

“Come back, Hazel!” I yelled.

Suddenly Poppy grabbed my hand and stopped in his tracks. “No sense in chasing something that doesn't want to be caught,” he said as he put his arm around my shoulder and led me back to the house. “Sorry, V.”

I hung my head and whimpered, “It's not your fault, Poppy, it's mine . . . for wishing.”

“Wishing?” Poppy asked.

“That Hazel would vanish for a little while so I could go back to sleep.”

“I don't think wishing had anything to do with it. It's what cats do, V. She'll be back,” he promised. “Put the food right outside the door and we'll wait.”

We put two chairs by the door and sat.

“I'll just wish for her to come back,” I told him, and made a silent wish.

Poppy frowned. “This wishing business of yours has me a little concerned.”

“Why?” I asked. “Wishes can come true.”

“Sometimes . . . but other things just are, like a cat that's used to being outside making a break for it when a door opens . . . a simple case of a highly probable event.” Before Poppy retired, he was a professor. “And one that's likely to keep occurring,” he added, “like a drop of rain landing right on the tip of your nose during a storm.”

I chimed in, “Unless you do something to stop it, like carrying an umbrella.”

“Righto, my dear. So if we put a sign on the door that says ‘be careful not to let Hazel get out,' that might reduce the probability of her escaping regularly. We need to
do
something to keep it from being a highly probable event.”

I understood. “Instead of just wishing, righto?”

“Righto,” he echoed.

I dashed to my room for paper, a marker, and some tape. Then, just as Poppy and I finished making the sign, I heard the tinkling of the bell on her collar. And when she crept up to the food, we scooted her inside.

“Bad Hazel,” I scolded.

She looked up from the food and softly meowed as if she were apologizing.

“Speaking of food, you hungry, V?” Poppy asked.

“Yes.”

“Eggs Benedict sound good?” he asked.

I was ravenous and not in the mood to wait for a fancy breakfast. “How about just plain eggs and bacon?”

“I hear you're going to an art show this weekend,” Poppy commented as he cooked.

“Mom told you?”

Poppy nodded.

“Did you ever meet her?”

He sighed and replied, “Only once.”

“At their wedding?”

“No, she didn't make it to the wedding. I met her at your father's funeral.”

“She was sad, huh?”

“We were all sad, Violet. We were all very sad,” he whispered.

“But she was his mother and he was her only child, not like you and Gam, who have three children, so she was probably more sad, right?”

Poppy scrunched his eyebrows together and disagreed. “The loss of any child, whether an only child or one of ten, would make a parent very sad, Violet.”

“But if you had other children, then you'd still have someone else to love.”

He frowned. “One child can't replace another.”

“But—”

Poppy interrupted, “I think you have to be a parent to understand.” Suddenly, that same stung-by-a-bee look that Mom gets covered Poppy's face.

That look is
usually always
my clue to change the subject, so I did. “I made my first Axel at the rink the other day . . . without falling.”

Poppy slid the plate of bacon and scrambled eggs in front of me, finally smiled, gave me two thumbs-up, and said, “Bravo, V . . . bravo.”