Violet Raines Almost Got Struck by Lightning (5 page)

I'm expecting a gooey bunch of
I love you
and
I'm
your biggest fan,
but her letter mentions an episode of a show she watched and talks about it point by point. I don't know what the letter's about, but it sounds intelligent. I hate to admit it, but she writes pretty well. I hand it back to her. “Good letter.”

“Did you even read it?”

“I perlustrated it.” One of my newspaper words; it's a fancy way of saying I read it carefully. I like to sound intelligent too.

She gives me a strange look, then she goes on talking about her letter writing and that she sometimes sprays the envelopes with perfume, but how by far the best thing to do is to include a photo.

Her talk is boring. I interrupt. “So what's in those plastic things?”

“Photos from Hollywood.” She hands me a big photograph and I see it's the same guy from the magazine. “Don't put your thumbs on it,” she says. “Hold it by the edges.”

I sigh but do it anyway. There's an autograph in the corner:
Love and peace!
and he signed his name. When I run my finger over it, I don't feel any grooves. “Did he really sign this?”

She frowns. “Of course he did. He sent it right after I sent him my letter.”

“But you can't feel where he pressed the pen.”

She snatches the photo back. “Okay, then look at these.”

I read the first one, then a few more. They all kind of sound the same:
“Hey! Thanks for writing
me!” “I'm glad you like the show!” “Fans like you
make it all worth it!”
They try to sound friendly and cool. “But I don't see anyone offering you a script or anything.”

“I should have known better than to think you'd understand.” She stands up from her bed and carefully puts the Hollywood stuff back. “You don't even watch TV.”

I stand up too. “So what? You don't even read books.”

“You're weird.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

She rolls her eyes. “Still using baby stuff, huh? Lottie told me you were only eleven. I can't believe you're going into seventh grade.”

That's 'cause I have a summer birthday. But since she called me a baby, I hit her with an oldie but goodie: “Want to lose ten pounds of ugly fat?” I ask. “Cut off your head!” I stay just long enough to see her face go into shock, then I turn and run down the stairs.

She races after me. Her mom must have heard us 'cause she comes out from the kitchen just as I put my hand on the front doorknob.

“Leaving already, Violet?” Mrs. Gold asks. She gestures with a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies. I recognize the Parker's label. “I was just about to see if you girls would like a snack.”

“No, thank you, ma'am,” I say and twist the knob. Melissa tries for a hard glint when I look up at her. It's pathetic. My left side makes my evil face at her; my right side is still polite to Mrs. Gold. “But I know those cookies are good,” I say and open the door. “Because my momma made them.”

Mrs. Gold's smile drops. I run out the door and all the way home.

10

Each day has its own troubles—I heard Pastor say that before. What he means is, don't mess up today by worrying about yesterday or what might happen tomorrow. So even though I'm still a little mad at Lottie for going with Melissa, I decide to start this day like nothing's happened.

So if nothing's happened, I'd go over to Lottie's, and that's just what I do.

“Violet!” She grabs my hand and pulls me into the house. “Where've you been? I've got so much to tell you!”

She's so happy to see me, that tiny bit of grudge falls off my heart like a clod of dirt.

We head straight to the bench under Lottie's stairs. It's our secret talking place. It's more like a cave, really, deep enough for an old storage bench and a rug. If you hide under the bench, no one thinks to look for you during hide-and-go-seek. Lottie says she's getting too old for those games, but still, it's a good hiding spot.

Lottie's bursting to tell me something, I can tell. I can't help but lean in. “What?” I say with a smile.

Lottie widens her eyes. “I went with Melissa to Sheldon's the other day. She is so cool. We got hot pretzels, ate in a restaurant, tried clothes on, and—”

I develop a sudden coughing fit. “Water,” I choke out. As Lottie fetches my water, I fume. I do not like listening to my best friend telling me what a good time she had with someone else.

“Where was I?” she asks after she hands me the glass.

“I don't remember.” I take a long sip from the water. “But
I
got something to tell
you
.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“Oh, nothing,” I say, as if it's just the least little important thing. I pick some lint off her shirt. “Just me and Melissa are pretty good friends now.”

She grabs my arm. “You are? What do you mean?”

I've got her now. Leaning back, I fold my arms behind my head and say, “We practically spent the whole day together yesterday.”

A smile breaks over her face. “You did? Oh, my gosh! I was worried you wouldn't be friends. Now we could hang out together; we could be like the Three Musketeers.” She claps her hands. “Tell me what you did! Isn't her room pretty?”

My face pinches together. I sit forward. This is
not
the reaction I expected. And besides, “When were you in her room?”

Lottie seems confused and leans away from me. “The other day. Mrs. Gold invited Mom and all of us over.”

My eyes narrow a little and I nod. So I was right the other day. “Well, we had a great time.” I say this because Lottie's not even acting jealous. “We talked about books and magazines and stuff, and she showed me all those letters she wrote.”

“What letters?”

God Almighty, Melissa acted like she had the Secrets of the Universe in those plastic-encased letters. I can't believe she didn't force them on Lottie. Even so, I act like Lottie has totally missed out. “She didn't show you?”

Lottie shakes her head. “I barely had time to talk with her because of my annoying sisters.”

I can't believe this! “They were in her room too?”

“They were maniacs,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Touching everything, jumping on the bed. Melissa only let them in because they promised they'd be careful with everything. It was so embarrassing.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “So they were jumping. Big deal.”

Lottie looks at me like I'm thickheaded. She fondles her watch. “You saw her room. It's not a little kids' play area—it's like a teenager room, for doing teenager things like painting your nails and writing in a diary.”

“Oh, my Lord. That girl acts like the princess and the pea. Get one thing out of place in her room and
look out
! They're coming to arrest you.”

Lottie shifts on the bench and folds her hands in her lap. “Well, I, for one, think it would be nice to have a room like that. And a little privacy.”

What am I hearing? “Privacy from what?”

“Come on, Violet! I'm sharing a room with a three-year-old.”

“So? You never complained before. Melissa's putting this idea in your head.”

She shakes her head. “No, she's not. It's my own idea.” Sighing heavily, she leans her head against the wall. “Sometimes I just wish I had a place to think. I wish I could leave my stuff out and not have to worry about it.” She gestures at where we're sitting. “We have to sit here just to talk privately.”

I like sitting on the secret bench. When I don't say anything, she goes, “You have your own room; you don't know what it's like.”

Maybe I don't know what it's like, but I wish I did. I jut out my chin. “There ain't nothing wrong with your room. You're lucky to even have sisters. Melissa should shut her big, fat mouth.”

“Don't say that. She's our friend now.”

My lips open. My eyes blink. Then I say, “But I'm your
best
friend.” And we're practically sisters. Suddenly I don't care to argue about Melissa or fancy letters or private rooms. I stand up and reach for Lottie. “Come on, I'll help you.”

She looks frustrated and confused. “Help me with what?”

“Ain't you got some kind of chore to do?”

She sighs and grins.

That's how well I know her. A house full of chores is waiting on her and we'll take care of them together. She stands up and we head to the kitchen.

11

I'm conducting a dragonfly experiment on my porch: how close can I get to the dragonfly before he flies away? I'm already beating my own personal record, which is about three doormats away. I'd say I'm about two and a half doormats right now, and he hasn't even flicked a wing. The secret is to move slow, like you're not moving at all. It's taken me about fifteen minutes to get this close.

“Violet! Violet!” Eddie. I'd know his voice anywhere.

I slide my eyes up without moving my head. If I yell back, the dragonfly will take off and my experiment will be ruined. I continue to be a slow-moving statue. Eddie throws his bike down and pounds up the stairs. The dragonfly disappears.

I put my hands on my hips. “Do you know what you just did?”

He doesn't even pay attention to how he's ruined my morning's work. “You know that lightning the other day?” He's talking loud and fast. His eyes are bright, like there's a light behind them.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say.

“It hit the woodpecker tree!”

The woodpecker tree! No wonder there was such a loud boom. The woodpecker tree is a big, old tree in the woods across the street. You can hear them birds pecking at it every day. Even though the top of it got broke off in a hurricane, it's still one of the tallest trees in the woods.

My eyes get big and round. “Did it burn all the way to the ground?”

“No, but it blew the bark off!” He starts down the stairs. “Come on!”

We leave his bike there 'cause there ain't no way our bikes can make it through the woods with all those vines and roots. I can't wait to see a naked tree. “Let's get Lottie,” I say.

So we swing by, Eddie repeats the story, and Lottie gets her momma to let her go with us.

Just a little ways into the woods and there it is, the woodpecker tree. I'm kind of disappointed. I thought I'd get to see what a tree looks like under all that bark. Instead, there's this strip about five inches wide from near the top of the tree all the way down, like someone took a huge potato peeler to it and peeled off one long strip.

“Wow,” Lottie says.

I step up to it. Closer, I can see two gouges running inside the bare wood.

“Look at this!” Eddie picks up chunks of bark. “It's all over the place!”

He's right, bark and pieces of wood lay around in front of the tree like it exploded. One huge piece sticks out of the ground like an ax. Some of the bark is charred.

I put my hands on the tree and feel the wound. Closing my eyes, I can see that lightning strike again. This is one brave tree. It's still standing and most of its leaves are still green. The storm didn't knock it down. I'm glad now the tree isn't naked. Even this scar don't ruin its beauty. In fact, I think it gives it character, something most of your regular trees don't have.

We look around for a few minutes, then Eddie says, “Let's go to the cave.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

Lottie leans around the tree and peeks at me. “Would it be okay if we invited Melissa?”

I scowl. “She's not on the way.”

“She's only a few houses down from the turn.” Lottie says this hopefully.

She can tell I don't want old gooseneck. If I say no, she won't argue, but I don't want to seem like the kind of person who says no. “It's up to Eddie,” I say. I'm counting on him being too interested in the cave to go even a little out of our way to pick up old Melissa.

But he shrugs and says, “Yeah, okay.”

I jut out my chin and start walking. I hope she ain't home.

12

When Melissa opens her door, her eyes run over the three of us and she seems a little shocked. Lottie tells her about going to the cave and does she want to see it. Melissa's eyes land on me for a second. I try to look innocent while at the same time sending her a telepathic message:
Don't come.
You do not want to come.
But my innocent face must be stronger than my telepathic powers because she smiles at Lottie and says, “Let me go tell my mom.”

While Melissa's in the house, Lottie touches my arm. “Thanks for letting me invite her.”

I didn't want Melissa tagging along, but even so, Lottie's gratitude annoys me. I lift one shoulder. “No big deal.”

“Bet she's never been in a tree cave before,” Eddie says.

Melissa pops out of the house. She's put on a prettier shirt and brushed her hair. She's wearing little sandals with heels. “I'm ready!”

I don't think so. I point to her feet. “You can't walk in those. We're going up by the river.”

“Isn't it paved?” She tilts her head. “They might pave by the river in Detroit.”

“Well, this ain't Detroit,” I say. “This is Mitchell Hammock. You better get your sneakers on.”

“Might be a good idea,” Lottie says.

Melissa looks down at her feet and then at Eddie. She smiles a little, like she's embarrassed. “Maybe I'll just wear these for now.”