Living Violet (4 page)
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 justâ”
“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.”
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
A
h, Mondays. The starting line of the rat race, and the end of all free will.
h, 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 faced 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 justâI 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.
Soda in hand, I meandered through the aisles, perusing the new releases. Nothing looked appealing enough to waste a week of reading, so I moved to the bestsellers. It was hard to ignore the shrine dedicated to the
Specter Saga
and the squealing tweens bowing down at its altar, but I tried anyway.
Specter Saga
and the squealing tweens bowing down at its altar, but I tried anyway.
By doing so, I caught the silhouette of law enforcement leaving the music section. The voyeur in me itched to know what was going on. At first, I assumed the cop had come to catch a punk shoplifting, but then I remembered what Linda had told me earlier. They were still investigating the incident in the parking lot. It would only make sense to interview the last person seen with the victim.
Curiosity had me by the throat as I reached the metal detector of the music department. Not seeing anyone at the counter, I strolled around, picking up random CDs and reading the covers.
“You break it, you buy it,” someone said right behind me.
I jumped and saw Caleb holding a half-eaten chocolate-chunk cookie the size of my hand.
I put the CD back and faced him. “Are you following me?”
“You're in my department, so I would have to say ... no. You see something you like?”
“Not really. It's all the same.”
He took a bite of his cookie and nodded. “Most of it, but there're a few diamonds in the rough. Here, come listen to this.”
Caleb led me to the endcap and stopped in front of the music sampler. He placed the headphones over my ears before I could object. Long fingers punched away at the display, and in seconds, a deep, soulful voice caressed my eardrums. I closed my eyes as the drum and bass picked up tempo, bringing my heartbeat along for the ride.
Once the thirty seconds of heaven ended, my eyes opened and found Caleb behind the counter with a customer. He met my gaze for a moment and flashed a smile before steering his focus to the young woman in front of him.
I removed the headphones and took my time approaching the register, overhearing the woman stammering and giggling. What this guy did to get these girls to act stupid around him was beyond me. The woman looked well put together, and she didn't appear to have a problem getting a man, if the wedding band was any indication. But she gawked at Caleb like a man hadn't crossed her path in decades.
And Caleb, the cocky SOB, rang up her order as if drooling women were part of standard procedure. He went along with the company spiel about membership cards and clearance items, and the woman scrambled for her credit card.
Not wanting to waste any more of my lunch break, I inched toward the exit. “That was a good song. Thanks.”
He threw me a look that told me to stay and handed the woman her merchandise.
“I knew you'd like it.” He turned to face me. “It's a group from Brazil. I have all of their albums, back when they did underground house music. This one's a bit more mainstream.”
“Oh. Well, I'll be sure to check them out.”
“I'll let you borrow the CD, if you want,” he offered.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Caleb watched me, studying me, possibly trying to learn the mechanics of my existence, when the woman spoke up.
“Um, I'm sure you're asked this a lot, but, um ...” She licked her lips and fingered the chain on her neck. “Do you wear contacts?”
Caleb's eyes dragged from mine as he regarded the customer. “Do you have a quarter?” Seeing her obvious confusion, he threw in, “It's for a charity fundraiser.”
“Sure, let me see.” She dove into her purse, no questions asked. Unsatisfied with the delay, she deposited all of its contents on the counter. When she found a quarter, she presented it to him, her chest heaving from her rigorous search. Charlie wasn't even that happy when he found the golden ticket in his Wonka Bar.
Smiling, Caleb plucked it from her manicured fingers and reached to the shelf under the register. The clatter of coins soon followed, announcing the latest donation into the Caleb vanity bank.
Having kept his audience in suspense long enough, he put the woman out of her misery. “Thank you, and the answer is no. This is all natural.”
“Wow,” she gushed.
I rolled my eyes and went to the music sampler again. There had to be a reason for that woman to throw herself at Caleb. It was distracting the way he kept looking at me, and I completely forgot the name of the band I just heard. He said that he would bring me the CD. Or maybe he just said that to be nice, like when people say they'll call you back when they really mean, “I'm done talking to you.” Why
was
he being nice all of a sudden? He had barely talked to me before. I still had no idea what the police said to him, so I really needed to think up a game plan before going for round two with that fool.
was
he being nice all of a sudden? He had barely talked to me before. I still had no idea what the police said to him, so I really needed to think up a game plan before going for round two with that fool.
These thoughts plagued me while I scrolled through the display, trying to find the song that echoed in the back of my head. So it didn't come as a big surprise when Caleb snuck me from behind again.
“It's called âLa Boya,' ” he whispered in my ear.
I spun around to him sporting that smug grin that I wanted to slap away. Before I lost my nerve, I went down the list of questions I had memorized.
“Is your girlfriend okay? What did the cops say to you? Why are there so many chicks on your jock? Do you have a sugar deficiency, or what? Are you really gonna let me borrow that CD, or are you just as flakey as I suspect?” This was not the smoothest way to get into someone's business, but I had to pour it all out before he distracted me again.
His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Yes, I promise to bring you the CD. I'll even bring you a playlist that you might like.”
My jaw dropped.
He's gonna make me a playlist? That's kinda sweet.
He's gonna make me a playlist? That's kinda sweet.
“And I just like junk food. I have a fast metabolism, and sugar is the only vice I have, so cut me some slack.”
I was still on the playlist part.
“I did go by the hospital, and the girl is fine. She's getting released day after tomorrow.”
That got my attention. “The girl? You don't even know her name?”
His eyes lifted to the ceiling for the answer. “Megan, Meegan, Morgan, or something.”
The warm and fuzzy feeling was officially gone. “You don't even know the name of your girlfriend?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “She's not my girlfriend. I just met her that day.”
“And you just start molesting her on the book floor?”
“She jumped on me. I was on my break.” He shrugged, unapologetic.
“Youâwhat?”
“The police asked if I knew her, and I told them I saw her in the store, and it's true.”
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