Violet and the Pie of Life

  Copyright © 2021 by Debra Green

  All Rights Reserved

  HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  www.holidayhouse.com

  First Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Green, D. L. (Debra L.), author.

  Title: Violet and the pie of life / by Debra Green.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2021] | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: “When twelve-year-old Violet’s dad walks out, she faces the aftermath the only way she knows how: with pie and math. But family and friendship turn out to have are more variables than she thought”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020009971 | ISBN 9780823447558 (hardcover)

  Subjects: CYAC: Family life—Fiction. | Theater—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Mathematics—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.G81926 Vio 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020009971

  Ebook ISBN 9780823449026

  a_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Acknowledgments

  TO JEFF GARFINKLE, THE COURAGE, BRAINS, AND HEART AT THE END OF MY RAINBOW

  ONE

  I knew my parents could solve most of their problems by applying simple math.

  The night when everything went wrong started problem-free. Great, actually, once Dad came home. I was in my room, but I heard Dad at the door because our house is only 875 square feet, and my dad is never quiet. “Who wants a bucket full of heaven?” he asked.

  I hurried to the front of the house, inhaling the delicious smell of fried chicken along the way.

  Dad stood grinning at the door, holding a large fast-food bag. He hugged me with his non-bag-holding arm and said, “Vi! The apple of my eye! You hungry?”

  “Now I am!” I said, following him into the kitchen.

  Dad pulled out a bucket of fried chicken and plopped it on the counter. “Your mom’s not here?”

  I shook my head. “She’s at that listing appointment she was all excited about.”

  “Some people have a passion for music. Some for doing good. Your mother has a passion for real estate.” Dad laughed. “Hey, let’s each sneak one piece of chicken before she gets home.”

  I stared at him. It sounded like fun, but not if Mom found out. She was into family dinners—with the whole family, not two-thirds of it. I loved fried chicken, but it wasn’t worth hearing another argument.

  “Come on, Vi,” Dad pressed. “It’s killing me to resist this smell! If I can’t sneak a piece of chicken, I’ll keel over and die.” He stuck his tongue out and clutched his chest.

  I laughed. “The smell is driving me completely crazy,” I said. “If I can’t sneak a piece of chicken, my brain will explode.”

  “We can’t let that happen. You know how your mother feels about messes. For her sake, you’d better eat.” Dad opened the bucket, pulled out a thigh, and bit into it. “Ahh,” he said.

  I took a drumstick, ate a mouthful, and said “Ahh” too.

  “But seriously, don’t tell your mother,” Dad said.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” If Mom saw us—eating without her, leaning against the kitchen counter, talking with our mouths full, not using napkins—she might die.

  “The only thing better than eating fried chicken is eating fried chicken with my favorite girl,” Dad said, and I grinned at him.

  I’d finished about 80 percent of my drumstick when I heard a car in the driveway. “It’s Mom!” I whispered.

  “Toss the chicken bones! Wipe your hands!” Dad said.

  We rushed around the kitchen, two laughing fools.

  “Admit to nothing!” Dad said in a loud whisper.

  Mom walked in right as I was throwing paper towels over the evidence in the kitchen trash. She smiled. “What’s so funny?”

  “We’re just deliriously happy to see you,” Dad said.

  Mom raised her eyebrows. That didn’t ring true. Not lately anyway. Then she pointed to the bucket on the counter while she put her hand on her hip. “Why didn’t you tell me you were picking up dinner? I defrosted turkey cutlets.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dad said unwelcomingly.

  Mom put her other hand on her hip, doubling the unwelcomeness. “Did you go to the market for eggs and broccoli like I asked?”

  “Does every word out of your mouth have to be a nag?” Dad said, frowning now.

  “Does every word out of your mouth have to be a complaint?” Mom complained.

  That’s where math should have come into the picture. My parents should have stopped right there and determined how many words from Mom’s mouth actually were nags and how many of Dad’s words were complaints. Mom nagged a lot, but she also talked about real estate and the weather and other boring stuff. And Dad’s complaints were totally outnumbered by his funny stories. One simple division calculation for each parent could have shown them that they did a lot more than nag or complain.

  Or my mom could have solved most of their problems simply by reversing her nag-to-compliment ratio from this:

  NAGS

  Compliments

  to this:

  Nags

  COMPLIMENTS

  Unfortunately, my parents weren’t interested in my mathematical solutions. Last time I’d suggested one, Dad had laughed as if I were joking and Mom had apologized for arguing in front of me. At least my math proposal had distracted them from their fight.

  “I love fried chicken,” I said now, trying the distraction technique again. Also, I was still hungry. I put my nose in the air and said in a snooty voice, “Such excellent cuisine.”

  My parents laughed.

  My mom said, “Quite so!”

  It wasn’t that funny, but I faked a laugh to keep the household mood up.

  “Let’s eat,” Dad said.

  Mom put the bucket and sides on the kitchen table, I got the ketchup from the fridge, and we all sat down.

  Then Mom tried to ruin things again. She said, “Do three people really need a large bucket of fried food?”

  Before Dad could respond with his usual line that nothin
g he did was ever good enough for her, I said, “Yes, three people need a large bucket of fried food when one of those people is me.”

  To prove it, I grabbed another thigh and drumstick from the bucket, drowned them in ketchup, and wolfed them down.

  “Slow down, Violet,” Mom said, frowning. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  Dad winked at me. “It’s impossible to slow down with such excellent cuisine.”

  I winked back at him, poured out more ketchup, and grabbed more chicken, even though I already felt like I might throw up.

  It was worth it though, because Dad put his arm around my shoulder and said, “That’s why I bought a large bucket,” and Mom said with a smile, “Twelve years old, ninety-something pounds, but she eats like a linebacker.”

  Dad laughed and went with it, speaking in a deep, dramatic voice like a sports announcer, “Violet Summers, newest, youngest member of the Chargers. Best known for her fierce tackle and her charming smile.”

  I grinned, and my parents grinned back, and I clutched my stomach under the table.

  * * *

  I felt even more throw-up-y later that night in my bedroom when the fighting started again. I could hear it through my door.

  The thing about math is that it’s logical. You have to solve the first part of a problem before going on to the next. Once that’s figured out, you keep moving on until you have the whole problem solved.

  My parents’ fights were the opposite. They started arguing about one thing and moved to another and then another. Nothing ever got solved. In fact, it seemed like everything was getting worse.

  I sat at my desk and added my parents’ latest argument to my chart to see if I was right.

  I stayed there, frowning down at the chart while my mom and dad shouted in the background. Finally, I put the chart facedown in a drawer, climbed into bed, turned out the light, and put a pillow over my head.

  TWO

  After school the next day, I sat in the back of the Horton Johnson Middle School auditorium with my best friend, McKenzie Williston. We were waiting to audition for the school play.

  “It’s so great that we’re doing The Wizard of Oz this year,” McKenzie said. “My dad played the Scarecrow when he was in high school. Did I tell you that?”

  “Yeah.” This was the third time she’d told me.

  “I hope I get Dorothy,” McKenzie said. “Go big or go home, right?”

  I nodded, but I didn’t want to do either of those things. I mostly wanted to hang out with McKenzie at rehearsals. And, hopefully, Diego Ortiz, who was sitting in the third row. I’d been stealing stares at the back of his gorgeous head. His hair was dark and thick and amazing.

  Going big meant singing solo in front of hundreds of people. That was fine for McKenzie, but terrifying for me. I didn’t like to stand out, not even for being good at something. For example, the odds that announcing my math skills would help my middle school popularity quotient were zero, so I kept those skills as secret as my crush on Diego.

  I didn’t want to go home either. Not if it meant hearing my parents fight again. Or hearing the front door slam late last night, and then a car driving off. Or trying to stay awake to hear the car return. Or checking for Dad’s car this morning and coming up empty.

  “I doubt I’ll get cast at all,” I said. I wasn’t just being modest. There were so many kids in the auditorium, the ratio of auditioners to roles was at least two to one.

  “You sing like a kitten,” McKenzie said.

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. Soft and mewly? Or loud like a wildcat?

  “On the plus side, you’re pretty,” McKenzie said. She must have meant the kitten thing as a minus.

  I didn’t feel that pretty. I liked my big brown eyes and peach-colored skin, the same combo as my dad. But my arms and legs were too skinny and long for my body. I was basically shaped like a spider.

  McKenzie was softer and rounder. Nothing wrong with that. Pie was soft and round, and it was my favorite food. Plus, her skin was the same color as unbaked piecrust.

  “Violet, you have to be in the play with me. It won’t be any fun without you,” McKenzie said. “What’s a good non-singing part for you? Who’s pretty in The Wizard of Oz?” I barely had time to think about it before McKenzie answered her own question. “The Good Witch. Does she sing?” Before I could answer that question, she said, “I don’t think so.”

  Besides not wanting to stand out, the other reason I usually kept quiet was because McKenzie did so much of the talking.

  McKenzie elbowed me. “Ugh. Look who’s here.

  I turned toward the door and saw Ally Ziegler. “Ugh,” I said.

  “She must have bought a new outfit just for this audition,” McKenzie said.

  Ally wore a blue dress kind of like the one Dorothy wore in the movie. McKenzie had on a blue dress too, but hers wasn’t new. She’d worn it to fifth-grade graduation. It was pretty tight and short on her now.

  McKenzie sighed. “Ally’s going to be Dorothy.”

  “No way,” I said, though there was definitely a way Ally would get cast as Dorothy. Easily. Ally wasn’t just pretty—she was beautiful, with wavy black hair, creamy, copper-colored skin like in a tanning commercial, and huge blue, angelic eyes that looked like those sparkly quartz rocks in museum stores. Also, she was super popular, but not in a Mean Girl way. Everyone truly liked her.

  Except McKenzie. And me, because I was loyal to my best friend. “Maybe Ally’s a bad singer,” I suggested.

  McKenzie shook her head. “Ally Ziegler doesn’t do anything bad.”

  She had a point.

  Mr. Goldstein, the drama teacher, came in a few minutes later. He was short and balding, but he strutted up the aisle of the auditorium like a star quarterback taking the field. He passed the front row, turned to face us, and said, “Greetings, fledgling thespians.”

  “Couldn’t he just say hello?” McKenzie whispered, and we both giggled.

  Mr. Goldstein told us the girls had to sing two verses of “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” and the boys had to sing the opening of the Tin Man’s song. But he took a quadrillion hours to say it, because he also talked about each character starring in their own story and revealing our emotional cores and plumbing the depths of our inner beings.

  At last, the first kid was called onstage. Poor Grayson Aljian sang just one line from “If I Only Had a Heart” before Mr. Goldstein told him to start over and project.

  I definitely had a heart, and it was racing like crazy. Auditioning was bad enough. Getting interrupted and told to try again was terrible.

  McKenzie nudged me. “Grayson will get cast because there’s only, like, eight boys here. It’s so unfair.”

  I nodded. There were around forty girls, so the boy/girl ratio was one to five. Thinking about math calmed me a little.

  But my heart raced again once Diego got onstage and started singing. He spread out his arms, which were long like mine, so they went really wide. He thumped his chest on every word of “If I Only Had a Heart,” giving me the giggles again. Then he clutched his heart, sank to the floor in ultraslow motion, and pretended to die.

  Mr. Goldstein sniffed as if Diego were made of rotten eggs, and said, “I cannot say I agree with your humorous approach. The Tin Man is meant to be rife with heartache and longing.”

  Watching Diego made me rife with heartache and longing.

  Ally came on next. Her voice was almost as beautiful as her face.

  As Ally sang, Mr. Goldstein rose to his feet, which he hadn’t done for anyone else.

  He was silent afterward, even though he’d said “Thank you” or “Good job” to the other kids. A quadrillion years later, he finally said, “Your ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’ gave me chills. Chills.” He wrapped his arms around his chest, pretending to shiver.

  “Get a hold of yoursel
f, dude,” I whispered.

  “Told you she’d get the lead.” McKenzie gave a long, dramatic sigh.

  I wasn’t sure whether I should agree with McKenzie or tell her she still had a chance. So instead, I joined in the sigh.

  As Ally walked offstage, Mr. Goldstein said, “Let’s see…. Who is next?”

  Not me, I hoped. Not after the beautiful and chilling Ally.

  “Violet Summers,” Mr. Goldstein said. Of course.

  “Knock ’em dead,” McKenzie whispered.

  I froze.

  “Come on, Violet,” McKenzie said, louder.

  A few people turned around to stare at us.

  “Violet Summers. Are you present?” Mr. Goldstein asked.

  “You got this,” McKenzie urged. Then she said, “She’s coming, Mr. Goldstein!”

  I left my seat and made my way to the stage in a slow daze, like Dorothy in the poppy field, and stood in front of Mr. Goldstein and, two rows behind him, Diego Ortiz.

  “Stand tall,” Mr. Goldstein said before I even started singing.

  I straightened up, forced my mouth open, and began: “Somewhere over the rainbow, way up—”

  “Positivity, Violet,” Mr. Goldstein said. “Dorothy is a determined, joyful character. Be Dorothy. You’re determined and joyful.”

  No, I wasn’t. But I forced a smile so I could finish the song and get off the stage. I cleared my throat and sang, “Somewhere over the rainbow, way—”

  “That is an improvement. Now show me your energy,” Mr. Goldstein said.

  Running out of the auditorium might show him my energy.