Violet Raines Almost Got Struck by Lightning (2 page)

“Momma!” God Almighty, the fish are gonna be fried and eaten if she takes much longer.

I pace around the table, then look through the window at Lottie's house. Mr. Townsend's cutting table ain't out back yet, so they haven't got started. Good. I don't like to miss anything. I figure I got a couple minutes still, so I pick up the newspaper from the table. Big black headlines shout this is going to be the worst hurricane season ever. They say that every year. I pass all those headlines and find the comics.

In the corner is what I'm looking for:
Today's
Word.
Today's word is
taradiddle.
It means “fib” or “lie.” The first part is pretty; the second part is just plain foolish, like you can't even believe that's a real word, and that's just what a lie is—something pretty you can't even believe.

Taradiddle.
I like it. I tear it out carefully and add it to my word collection, which is in a shoe box sitting in the china cabinet reserved especially for this purpose. I put
taradiddle
right on top of
magniloquent.
You might think
magniloquent
is good since it sounds like
magnificent
, but it means that you talk in a stuck-up or highfalutin manner. Like if I was to use these words in a sentence, I might say, “Melissa is quite magniloquent. And that is no taradiddle.”

“You can barely close that box anymore!” Momma says as she rounds the corner.
Finally!
She's put on a yellow summer dress and her hair's loose down her back. She lays her arm around my shoulders. “Going to the fish fry?” she asks.

“Yep.” I buzz around her, pushing the shoe box back, setting the newspaper down, grabbing my flip-flops.

She yawns and stretches her arms. “I'm a bit tired. I believe I might take a nap.”

“You sang real good today.” I say this because it's true. Momma has the voice of an angel. But I don't slow down none. I know Lottie's waiting on me.

Momma smiles as I slide into my flip-flops. “You have a good time now. Be good.” She squeezes me in a hug.

I laugh and wriggle out of her arms. “I'm always good!” I say. I blow her a kiss and fly out the back door to my best friend's house.

3

Mr. Townsend's fish-cutting table is all set up by the back door. He's kind of how I imagine my dad might have been except my dad died before I was born. The ice chest sits nearby, but no one's outside. 'Course I can hear all the playing and shouting going on inside. I walk up the concrete blocks and swing open the screen door. Lottie's little sister, Tootsie, twirls around the kitchen, bellowing a song I'm sure she's making up. There is so much noise, no one notices me at first. But I notice. I notice Melissa Gold sitting at the table with Lottie.

“Violet!” Tootsie runs up to me and grabs my hand. “Lissa's here!”

Lottie turns around and steps over the bench. They don't have a regular kitchen table—a wooden picnic table is what they eat on. They're so lucky. It's like summer every time they sit down to eat. “Violet, you're here!” Lottie says this like maybe I wasn't coming or something.

My eyebrows pull together. “ 'Course I am.” But what I want to know is why is Melissa here. I give her a quick glance. “Hey.”

She looks up. “Hi.”

I don't smile and neither does she. Can't blame her—I did call her a
priss,
but she deserved it for calling this place
nowhere.

“Lissa's from Troit!” Tootsie yells.

Lottie taps Melissa's shoulder. “Tell her.” But before Melissa can open her mouth, Lottie's telling the story herself. “Detroit is the
murder
capital of the United States!” She flashes her eyebrows at me.

Okay, that is interesting. I would be willing to listen to that. I sit on the end of the bench real casual, and Lottie sits in the middle. Tootsie takes off my flip-flops and puts them on her own feet. Leaning around Lottie, I say to Melissa, “You ever see anyone killed?”

“Not me,” she says, then she looks at Lottie. “But a girl I knew, her uncle had a cousin who worked in a drugstore and someone got shot there.”

I snort loudly.

She folds her arms. “It's true.”

“Yeah, but it's not like you saw it happen or anything.”

She stretches her neck, just like a goose. “Well, I wouldn't want to.” She shudders like she's seeing it right now. “If a murderer knew you saw him, he'd track you down. You'd have to go into one of those witness protection programs and change your name and move and everything.”

I think on this. She's right. I wouldn't want to change my name or move or anything. I like things just the way they are. I want to ask about the girl with the uncle who knew the cousin in the drugstore, but Tootsie grabs my hand. “Come on, Violet. Play in my room.”

“I can't right now,” I say.

“Play dolls with me.”

Melissa's eyebrows go up. My face flushes with heat. Normally, I don't mind playing dolls with Tootsie, but I don't want Melissa to think I'm a baby.

“Violet's talking with us,” Lottie says, pulling Tootsie's hand out of mine. “Besides, she didn't come here to play with you, Tootsie-Tutu.”

Tootsie lays her head in my lap. Her curls spill all over my legs. “Please.”

Lord, she's like my own little sister; I can't hurt her feelings, but at the same time, I don't want to be upstairs playing dolls while Melissa's got Lottie all to herself. “Tootsie—”

Her voice comes out muffled. “Please.”

I sigh and push her head up. I say to Lottie, “I'll be right back—don't start frying without me.”

“I won't,” Lottie says. She leans toward Tootsie. “Violet can only play for five minutes, okay? Then you have to let her come back down.”

I swear Melissa looks relieved when I let Tootsie drag me out of the room. After we leave the kitchen, Lottie and Melissa start talking and then Lottie giggles. I lag behind Tootsie on the stairs.

I'm sitting on Lottie's half of the room while Tootsie arranges her dolls in a circle. They're having a fish fry. Apparently, some of the dolls don't like each other and are arguing with Tootsie over where they should sit.

Running my fingers over Lottie's footboard, I feel for the words Lottie and I scratched into the wood when we were six. Lord Almighty, did we get in trouble for that. Even though Mr. Townsend did his best to cover them up, the words are as plain as the nose on your face:
I love you Violet. I love you
Lottie.
We have known each other all of our lives; our parents were neighbors before we were even born. My fingers trace the letters. I hope I'm not missing out on anything downstairs.

Tootsie thrusts a doll at me. It's the one with purple eyebrows. “You're this one. You're from Troit.”

“I don't want to be from Troit.” I smooth Purple Eyebrows's hair. “I'm from here.”

“No!” She slips her thumb in her mouth, just like Lottie used to do when we were little. Back then, I carried a baby blanket everywhere and Eddie had a fish doll. He twiddled the fins so much he wore them right down to threads.

Momma's got my blanket in a keepsake box along with cards and drawings I've made for her. And I bet Eddie's momma's got that fish doll, too, because even when you outgrow your childish things, someone saves them for you. Someone who loves you does that so you don't forget who you are.

I'm still holding Purple Eyebrows when Lottie hollers up for us to come down. It's a bull race, me and Tootsie in the lead and Lottie's middle sisters, Hannah and Ashley, thundering down behind us. The grown-ups come in, and the noise level goes up about a thousand decibels.

Mr. Townsend slaps me on the back. “How ya doing, Vi?” He grabs his knife sharpener off the counter. “Time to get this show on the road,” he says and heads out the back door with Mr. Gold.

“Well, look at all these girls!” Mrs. Gold says. She looks at me, then turns to Mrs. Townsend. “Another one of yours?”

Lottie and her sisters are all dishwater blondes, but I like it that Mrs. Gold thinks we might be family.

Mrs. Townsend laughs. “Four's not enough? This is Violet, Lottie's best friend.”

Hearing that, my heart bulges with gladness and it's all I can do not to look straight at Melissa. Instead, I step forward and shake Mrs. Gold's hand. “Momma and I live next door. If you're not late for church next week, you'll hear my momma sing.”

Mrs. Gold chuckles. “Well, you're certainly not a shrinking violet, are you?” Mrs. Townsend laughs.

I don't know what she means, so I just say, “No, ma'am.”

“Let's go see how Mark is coming along.” Mrs. Townsend ducks out the back door with Mrs. Gold.

Hannah and Ashley start arguing about who has to set the table, and Tootsie marches around them with her hands on her hips and my flip-flops on her feet. I look at Melissa and Lottie sitting on the bench. Suddenly, I realize Melissa is staying for the fish fry.

“Violet, what's wrong?” Lottie asks.

I quickly rearrange my face into a friendly face. “Nothing,” I say, even though my heart feels like it just got slammed. “Nothing at all.”

4

Melissa's nose wrinkles as she looks at the tray of fish fillets Mr. Townsend has just cut and rinsed. She sits down on the bench while Lottie and I begin to press the fish into the cornmeal. I pick up a lemon wedge and drizzle the coating with juice.

“Lottie! You still got your watch on!” I point with the lemon toward Lottie's wrist. Lottie's watch has a diamond chip in it. You have to tilt the watch and catch the light just right so's you can see the diamond, but it's there. Her parents gave it to her for her twelfth birthday, on account of it being her last year before becoming a teenager. She always takes the watch off when we cook 'cause she don't want anything to tarnish it.

She washes her hands, unclasps the watch, and puts it aside. We drop the coated fish pieces into the kettle, careful not to plop them in because you're talking about a kettle full of boiling oil.

“Come on, Melissa, you want to help?” Lottie says. “It'll be fun.”

Melissa shakes her head. Her mouth is turned down. “I can set the table—would that be okay?”

“The forks and knives are in that drawer,” Hannah says, pointing. She grabs Ashley's hand and they run out of the kitchen.

I know why Melissa offers to set the table. What she really means is
I'm not touching that fish!
She's using manners to disguise it, but I'm on to her. I figure if she's going to eat it later, she can help cook it now. I pull her away from the silverware drawer.

“Come on, Melissa,” I say encouragingly. “It'll be more fun if you do it too.” I really do mean it—it would be fun to see her squirm. Lottie gives me an appreciative glance. She doesn't know what I'm up to, but we'll laugh about it later.

I take off my apron and hand it to Melissa. “So's you don't ruin your fancy clothes.”

She has no choice. She takes my apron, stands, and puts it on. “Thank you,” she says to me. Well, I've got to hand it to her, keeping her cool and her manners when I can clearly see how grossed out she is.

Lottie explains how to roll the fish and drop them in. Melissa picks up the first piece and her lips pull back as soon as she touches it. I laugh inside. By the look on her face, you'd think she was handling fresh roadkill. She holds the fish between her thumb and finger and lightly touches it to the cornmeal before slipping it into the kettle.

“Good!” Lottie says.

Melissa turns from the stove and says, “I don't think I can keep smelling this fish.”

“Sure you can,” I say. “Just breathe through your mouth.” Before she can object, I say, “Now the second piece.”

She turns back and picks up another piece, holding it away from herself like a dirty diaper. When she touches it to the cornmeal, I press her hand down.

“Eew!” Her hand flies up like it's been electrocuted, and she jumps back from the stove.

I almost laugh out loud.

“That was gross.” She turns to me. “Why did you do that?”

Lottie is looking at me. She looks mad too.

I make a what-did-I-do face at her and turn to Melissa. “Haven't you ever cooked fish before?”

She hesitates, then goes, “Of course I have. Fishsticks.”

I can't believe Lottie doesn't huff like I do on hearing that. “Fishsticks? Fish don't come out looking like little bars.” I cannot believe this girl. I grab her arm and pull her out the back door.

“Violet!” Lottie pulls fish out with the tongs, but she can't leave the stove with the kettle going.

Melissa wrenches her arm away as we get up to Mr. Townsend's station. Perfect. He's just made the first cut on a big one, right under the head. The fish's eye is wide and looking up. His mouth is gaping, like he was surprised to have been caught. Mr. Townsend turns the blade and pulls it down. He lifts the skin and meat as he cuts and the fish's belly is exposed. With his fingers, Mr. Townsend wiggles out the wormy-looking guts.