Violet and the Pie of Life Read online

  “You’re going to miss your cue,” Diego said.

  Onstage, Glinda the Good Witch welcomed Dorothy to Munchkin Land. Backstage, Sarah cursed out Diego and me before running to the wings.

  Diego and I burst out laughing.

  “I spy a missing dress,” I said. I pointed to Diego’s lumpy right calf.

  He bent down, rolled up his silver Tin Man pants leg, and took out the scrunched-up dress. “How did that get there?” he asked with a smile.

  As he returned Sarah’s dress to the chair, I stared at the video monitor, relieved that Ally seemed to have gotten her confidence back.

  A few minutes later, Sarah stood onstage singing “If I Only Had a Brain.” Her costume really was ugly—a shirt and pants made from brown burlap bags with pieces of straw glued on them, a thick belt, and an orange pointy hat. But scarecrows weren’t supposed to be cute. They were supposed to scare crows. Sarah sang like the Scarecrow in the movie, except a lot angrier.

  Diego played the Tin Man with a silly, squeaky voice. Each time Dorothy moved his limbs, he said “Ow!” or “¡Ay, caramba!” or “Oy vey!” The audience laughed like crazy. Phew.

  When he got serious in his song about wishing for a heart, I felt my own heart swell.

  Then it was time for my big “Courage” song. I stood downstage and opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I peered into the dark at the audience. I could only see the first few rows. I could tell that Mom was worried. I could also tell that she could tell that I was worried.

  Ally thinks I have a pretty voice, I told myself. Mr. Goldstein said I’m splendid. Plus, I’ve practiced this song a quadrillion times. And the most important thing, even more important than what Ally and Mr. Goldstein think of me, is that deep down I know I’m good.

  I started singing. I was good. As I sang about being a lion instead of a mouse, I realized I’d become much more like a brave lion than a timid mouse. I’d refused to quit the play when McKenzie asked me to. I’d summoned up the courage to apologize to Ally and tell off my dad. And now I had the nerve to belt out this song in front of a quadrillion strangers and, even scarier, people I knew.

  The applause at the end of my solo was loud and long—long enough to bask in.

  Then Ally, Diego, Sarah, and I skipped around the stage, arm in arm. We took three extra laps as we waited and waited for the green spotlight.

  When it finally came on, we exclaimed that we must be nearing the Emerald City and sang “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”

  The curtain closed, shakily this time, for intermission. The first act of the play was over, and we’d survived. Actually, we’d thrived.

  THIRTY

  PROBLEMS IN ACT TWO OF THE PLAY

  1. The Munchkin who was sick before the play admitted he’d barfed on the Toto prop and thrown it behind some bushes, so we were stuck with Scooby-Doo Toto.

  2. When the Wicked Witch came onstage, a little kid cried in terror. The Wicked Witch said, “This is Mr. Goldstein’s fault. He made me do the play tonight.”

  3. Monkey #2 broke up with Monkey #1 during intermission, causing Monkey #1 to play her part with tears streaming down her face.

  GOOD THINGS ABOUT THE PLAY

  1. My costume didn’t burst into flames.

  2. We remembered almost all our lines.

  3. The person who blew the most lines was Sarah.

  4. The play went a lot better than the dress rehearsal.

  5. We got a standing ovation.

  GREAT THINGS ABOUT THE PLAY

  1. During the final bow, when the whole cast held hands, I stood next to Diego.

  2. Our hands fit perfectly together, as if they were made for each other.

  3. Diego and I held hands longer than anyone else, standing silently behind the curtain after it had shakily closed. Finally, Diego gave my hand a little squeeze and let go. Then we ran off. It was the most romantic minute of my life.

  When I got to the girls’ dressing room, Ally grinned at me and exclaimed, “We did it!”

  “I knew we could,” I said.

  “I didn’t,” she said.

  The door opened wide, and McKenzie walked in.

  “Actors only,” Sarah said with a sneer. “No fan girls allowed.”

  “I’m definitely not your fan girl,” McKenzie shot back.

  Ally and I giggled.

  McKenzie rushed over to me and gave me a quick hug. “Congratulations! Good show!”

  “Thanks. We couldn’t have done it without your Scooby.” I handed him to her.

  “True, McKenzie. We really needed him,” Ally said.

  “You did terrific tonight, Ally,” McKenzie said.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you came,” Ally said. “I need to go. My family’s waiting for me and it’s way past my sisters’ bedtime.”

  “If you want to stay longer, I bet my mom could drive you home,” I said.

  “Yeah.” McKenzie nodded. “Violet’s mom is always driving people home. She’s great.”

  “Ask your parents,” I told Ally. “We can sit in the back seat together and talk.”

  After Ally walked out, McKenzie said, “I shouldn’t have quit the play. I might not be the most talented person, but I could have acted like a monkey without sobbing.”

  I laughed. “Hey, you want to sleep over tomorrow night?”

  “Sure,” McKenzie said. “Did your dad come to the play?”

  “Highly doubtful,” I said.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m over it.”

  McKenzie raised her eyebrows. “Highly doubtful. We can talk about it tomorrow night. Or call me before then.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “You should go greet your fans and enjoy your Horton Johnson Middle School fame,” McKenzie said. “And I’d better leave before Sarah reports me for trespassing.”

  Right after McKenzie left, my mom walked in. She hugged me. “You were fantastic! I loved the play!”

  I stepped out of the hug because I had a low tolerance for parental public displays of affection. I said, “We made a lot of mistakes.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice,” Mom lied. Then she said, “Violet, do you know your father is here? I saw him at intermission.”

  My heart pulsed, not in the achy way it felt lately when I thought about Dad, but in a fluttering butterfly way. I couldn’t help asking Mom, “Did you sit together?”

  She shook her head.

  My butterflies drooped a little.

  “I need to get out of this costume,” I said. Dad wasn’t a patient person. It would be awful if he left while I was still in the dressing room.

  “I’ll wait in the auditorium,” Mom said.

  I scrubbed off my makeup before she even left the room. Then I threw on my jeans and T-shirt and hurried out.

  The auditorium was mostly empty. My parents stood in the aisle about ten rows back, talking and leaning in to each other—only about a five-degree angle for each of them, but I could see it.

  I took a few quiet steps toward them. My heart did the fluttery butterfly thing again. I’d fantasized about this—Dad coming to my play and talking to Mom.

  Except in my fantasy, my parents were sitting, and Dad had his arm around Mom. I’d also pictured a big bouquet of roses on Mom’s lap.

  I hadn’t fantasized about what their faces would look like, but they wouldn’t have been tight-lipped and narrow-eyed like they were now. I’d never imagined Dad taking out his phone and staring at it while Mom picked at her cuticle.

  I walked toward Mom and Dad, my fluttery butterflies replaced by stinging wasps. Even though I hadn’t seen my parents together in months, walking toward them, toward their unhappiness, felt so awfully familiar. Just another night of trying to get between them and head off one of their fights. The sting
ing wasps felt familiar too. Why had I thought things could change?

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, my voice shakier than I’d wanted it to be.

  He looked up from his phone. He had grown short fuzzy hairs on the lower half of his face. I didn’t know if he wanted to grow a beard or didn’t feel like shaving. He also had pierced his nose. The round red stud in it looked like a zit.

  He gave me a giant smile and grabbed me in a bear hug.

  I hugged him back. I completely forgot about his phone scrolling and hair scruff and pierced nose and my low tolerance for parental public displays of affection. It just felt so good, like old times. I basked in Dad’s hug like I’d basked in the applause.

  When the hug ended, I was so keyed up I could barely think. Except I noticed Mom had walked away.

  “Vi, the apple of my eye,” Dad said. “You were terrific! Quite the actress!”

  “Did you like my song? I was nervous at first. I bet you could tell.”

  His smile faded a little, and he blinked fast a few times.

  My smile faded completely. I glared at Dad’s silly, selfish face and asked, “What time did you get here?”

  “Intermission,” he said quietly.

  I folded my arms. “You missed my big song.”

  “I wanted to get here sooner, but…” His voice trailed off. “I had important—”

  “I’m important!” I half shouted.

  Then I took a deep breath and stared at my dad, not at his nose stud and chin fuzz this time, but at his eyes. They were the same shape and color as mine, except they seemed sad and they had wrinkles around them, more wrinkles than I’d remembered.

  I’d spent the last few months—most of my life, really—expecting the Wizard of Oz. I’d discovered the Man Behind the Curtain.

  “You are important.” Dad stared right back at me. His eyes got shiny and he started blinking fast again, but this time he was blinking back tears. Then he said in a voice as sad as his eyes, “You deserve more than I’ve given you, Vi.”

  I nodded. I did deserve more. I said, “I’m glad you came tonight. To the last half of the play, anyway.” My voice came out a little sad, though not as sad as his.

  My dad had a lot of faults. But I wouldn’t rank him on the bottom of my list of Dad Situations from Bad to Worst. Besides, I’d realized that ranking people on lists doesn’t really work. Relationships are much too complicated, even for a math genius.

  “You can come to my apartment and sing the show songs for me,” he said. “A special command performance.”

  “When? Tomorrow?” I asked quickly without thinking.

  Dad looked away and took his time to respond. “Someday soon,” he answered.

  I bit my lip. Why did figuring himself out mean abandoning me? Mom had figured out how to make herself into a great real estate agent while still driving me to school and making dinner and stuff.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m going back to my friends.”

  Dad reached out to hug me again, but I turned and walked away.

  I plodded up the aisle toward McKenzie and Ally, who were talking about twelve rows back, and Mom, who stood by herself a few rows behind them. The closer I got, the faster I walked.

  I hadn’t brought my parents together. I never would. I didn’t even want to anymore. But I’d brought McKenzie and Ally together. And I’d sung onstage in front of hundreds of people while wearing ugly yellow makeup and an even uglier lion costume. Plus, I hadn’t collapsed when Diego held my hand. And I’d done something that took even more nerve: I told my dad I was important.

  You might not call any of those things heroic feats. I wasn’t the bravest person in the world. I was just Violet: loyal friend, math genius, good singer, homework-challenged student, bold/needy daughter, and far from cowardly.

  THIRTY-ONE

  When I reached Mom, Ally, and McKenzie in the auditorium, Mom said, “How about I take you girls to celebrate at Sunshine Desserts on the way home?”

  “Sounds great to me,” I said. Sunshine Desserts meant pie.

  “Me too!” McKenzie and Ally said.

  Ally called her parents and got permission. McKenzie told Ally she didn’t need permission because her mom was part of the Free-Range Kids Movement. Mom and I bit our lips while she said it.

  The four of us piled into Grandpa Falls-Apart. Mom acted as chauffeur and McKenzie, Ally, and I sat in the back. I didn’t even mind being squeezed in the middle of the back seat with my skinny butt perched on the hard bump, because my two best friends were on either side of me. Plus, the pie factor.

  As Mom drove out of the school parking lot, I said, “Sunshine Desserts makes an apple-berry pie to die for.”

  “She really means that,” McKenzie said. “Violet would lay down her life for that pie.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If I was dead, I couldn’t eat pie,” I said. “I’d only sacrifice a small body part for it, like a tonsil or pinky toe.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I’m so glad the play’s over,” Ally said. “I never want to star in a play again. Way too much pressure.”

  McKenzie gave a little snort. It was too dark to see, but I knew she was rolling her eyes too.

  “I’m lucky I got cast though,” Ally said, probably in response to the snort. “I just felt awful every time I screwed up. Which was a lot.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” McKenzie said.

  “No one’s perfect,” I added sort of automatically. Then I thought about it. There’s a lot to that expression. No one’s life is perfect, and no one acts perfectly either. Ally had whined about getting to star in the play. McKenzie had kicked me in the cafeteria. Dad missed the first half of the play. Mom had emailed me pretending to be Dad. And I was far from perfect. I’d made quadrillions of mistakes.

  Life = Mistakes x 1015

  My biggest mistake was being so scared of making mistakes that I didn’t do stuff—like stand up to my dad, or ask McKenzie about her mom, or tell my mom I appreciated her.

  As we walked into Sunshine Desserts, Mom said, “I love the decor here.” Only a realtor would care about decor at the best pie place in Orange County.

  “It’s nice,” McKenzie said. “But the light fixtures could use some updating. And I’d suggest crown molding.”

  Mom and I sat on one side of the table, with Ally and McKenzie on the other.

  “I hope they have sweet potato pie,” Ally said. “That’s my favorite.”

  Sweet potatoes don’t deserve to be in the same sentence as pies, let alone inside them! How could that be Ally’s favorite? I stared wide-eyed at her and hoped this wouldn’t hurt our friendship.

  McKenzie started giggling.

  A second later, Ally was giggling too. Between giggles, Ally pointed to McKenzie and said, “She told me to say that.”

  I laughed and shook my head at them.

  After some internal debate, I ordered a slice of my usual: apple-berry pie à la mode, which was never less than amazing. McKenzie also ordered her usual: chocolate pecan pie with whipped cream. Mom ordered banana cream pie, and Ally ordered razzleberry pie with whipped cream.

  When the slices arrived, McKenzie, Ally, and I traded forkfuls. We each decided we liked our own order best.

  Mom ate only about 30 percent of her pie and let us split the rest. Banana cream pie barely made my top twenty list. But it still tasted delicious.

  I was so grateful, I told Mom, “Now that we’ve celebrated the play with pie, we should celebrate your real estate deal with sushi.”

  “That would be fun,” Mom said, looking surprised.

  “Not fun for the fish,” McKenzie said. “If sushi is raw fish, does that mean the fish is alive when you eat it?”

  “No,” Mom said. “Not usually, anyway.”

  Ew. If only Dad had taken Mom for sushi, I wouldn’t have to.<
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  Taking someone to a raw-fish restaurant just because it’s their favorite may be the definition of true love. Since my dad had refused to do it, I should have known that saving my parents’ marriage was mathematically impossible. And I shouldn’t have tried to solve my parents’ problems with math.

  I should have solved my own problems with math. I’d made so many charts, but my focus had been off. It was like endlessly trying to calculate the exact amount of pi instead of using pi to discover more about circles and spheres, which is the real point. I’d focused on the subtraction and division of broken homes and fractured friendships, but I should have been thinking about the addition and multiplication of new friends and growing relationships.

  As we sat at the café, talking and laughing and sharing whipped cream and ice cream, I realized life is like a pie chart—it always fills up. When one slice gets thinner or even disappears, another slice expands to takes its place. And the new slice may be even better than the old one. So you have to be willing to try new things. Maybe one day I’d even order Sunshine Desserts’s lima bean pie and find out I like it.

  Well, the odds of that happening were about quadrillion to one.

  I looked around the table, at my mom and my best friends. You can learn a lot about life from pie charts, but you can learn even more from people. The very best kind of pie chart is one filled with people, especially the people who filled up my life now.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Start with my mother, Judy Green, who’s as sweet as pie.

  Add Jeff Garfinkle’s support, as infinite as pi.

  Add the blessings of my children, Sarah, Mark, and Aaron.

  Add love and laughter from my writer sisterhood, Marlene Perez, Alyson Noel, Stacia Deutsch, Priya Ardis, Debbi Michiko Florence, and April Henry.

  Then add critiques and compassion from Denny Holland, Louella Nelson, Beverly Plass, Kristin James, Brad Oatman, Herb Williams-Dalgart, Debra Gaal, Susan Angard, Laurie Casey, Begoña Echeverria, David Collins, Jody Feldman, Mary Beth Miller, Cinda Chima, Martha Levine, Pam Gruber, and mighty junior critiquers Darcy, Megan, and Maddy.