Violet Raines Almost Got Struck by Lightning Read online

  “Come on, Violet,” he yells over his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere with you,” I yell back. “I didn’t even want a BrainFreeze!”

  6

  I’m so mad at Eddie that I cut through the woods, pass the bridge, and make it back to the road in just a few minutes. What does he know anyway?

  I try not to think of it as I pound down the road, but that word keeps bubbling up in my brain: B-R-A. Brassiere. Slingshot. Cup holder. Nope, the thought of being hooked up in one of those harnesses does not appeal to me. I’m not jealous and now I’m even madder at Eddie for thinking I was.

  As I get up by Lottie’s yard, I see the sheets still on the line, waving in the breeze. Lord, that girl is moving slow today. I wish she’d hurry up. But I don’t feel like doing laundry, so I keep marching down the road. I’ll give her another half hour.

  In the meantime, I’m getting hungry. I don’t feel like eating alone, so I cut through some yards to Parker’s to see if Momma can take a lunch break. The air-conditioning whooshes over me when I walk through the electric doors. Goose bumps pop out all over my arms. I head over to the bakery, and Momma sees me right away.

  “Let me get the cookies out,” she says, but first she leans around the corner and kisses the top of my head. She used to kiss my face, but I told her I was too old for that. She’s allowed to kiss my head, but no other kissing. Don’t even blow me a kiss; I’ll just duck and the kiss will land on the wrong person.

  She puts on those big oven mitts and pulls out trays of chocolate chip cookies. I have come at just the right time.

  She disappears into the back for a moment and comes up front to me. “You come for lunch?” She’s pulling off her apron, so I’m guessing she’s hungry too.

  I nod. “Maybe some egg salad,” I say. “Maybe some of them cookies.”

  Momma laughs and we head for the deli.

  One egg salad sandwich, four dill pickles, and two chocolate chip cookies later, I’m walking much slower back to my house. I don’t cut through yards on my way back, ’cause you got to be quick when you do that—people don’t like to see you cutting through their property.

  Purple and black clouds block out the sun. The air is heavy and still—it feels charged. Going to be some lightning soon. After looking at the sky, I give myself about fifteen minutes before the first strike. A turtle could make it to Lottie’s in that time. Even so, I pick up my pace. I don’t want to get rained on.

  From down the street, I can see those sheets in Lottie’s yard hanging on the line like big flags. I cannot believe she’s not done yet. I shake my head. If I wait on her any longer, I’ll be stuck home during the storm. Lord, I wish that girl would get it into gear. Now I’m going to have to help.

  I knock and wait. She’s got to be faster with her chores if she wants to do anything fun. We could have been playing tag or getting a BrainFreeze, or she could have had cookies with me and Momma. Oh, well. We can still have fun. Probably we’ll play cards or games because that storm’s coming and we’ll be inside. I hope we play cards because I’m really fast at Spit and I almost always win.

  I knock on the door again. If we play games, I got secret word tricks for winning Scrabble. Most people don’t know that every letter of the alphabet is also a word, like the word for the letter C is cee. Put that word down, and they’ll challenge you and lose their turn while you get points.

  Mrs. Townsend comes to the screen door. “Hello, Violet!” She looks past me to the sheets. “I better get those in,” she says and steps out.

  “I’ll get them,” I say. Now I’m thinking if I do Lottie’s work, she’ll let me pick the first game. I step to the clothesline and help take down the sheets. “Is Lottie almost done?”

  “Lottie’s not home, Violet. She went to Sheldon’s Discount with Melissa.”

  My mouth drops open. My hands freeze in midair. Sheldon’s has your good stuff, like where you get your school clothes or a nice picture for your living room. “She went to Sheldon’s? With Melissa?”

  Mrs. Townsend still works the line, taking off clothespins and clipping them to her own shirt. “Mrs. Gold and Melissa came by a while ago and invited her. But come back later. She’ll be home then.”

  My cheeks harden and the tips of my ears feel hot. A few sprinkles wet my face and then suddenly rain pours down. I bundle up the one sheet I’ve taken down and shove it into Mrs. Townsend’s arms before running home.

  I have misjudged the storm.

  7

  If Lottie thinks I’m going to show up on her doorstep, she is sorely mistaken. I won’t call her, and she’s afraid to call me. I know this ’cause the phone hasn’t rung in two days. Serves her right. She wants to go off with Melissa, fine, but don’t think I’m waiting around. I got lots of stuff to do.

  Like right now, in the two days the phone hasn’t rung, I have read three and a half books I got from the bookmobile. I cleaned my room—not shoving everything under my bed like how I usually do it, but actually sorting things out and putting them neat like how Momma likes it. I also pulled weeds from Momma’s flower beds. I thought I’d let Lottie see me outside so she could come over and apologize, but that girl is ashamed enough that she couldn’t find her way over.

  I check the kitchen clock. It’s almost three o’clock. My eyes are going to pop out if I read any more, and I’m wearing down a path to the window, where I keep spying on Lottie’s house. I have decided that Lottie’s sentence will be over at three. She has suffered long enough.

  Lord, that minute hand creeps slower than a snail. I can barely take the slowness. Sweat trickles down by my ear. I’ve already shut off the fans and closed the windows so I don’t waste any time getting over to Lottie’s. Ten, nine, eight, seven—c’mon, c’mon—five, four, three, two, one. Finally! Three o’clock.

  Gladness rushes over me as I dash out the door and over to Lottie’s. I’ll forgive her instantly. I’m not one of those to hold a grudge over someone who’s truly sorry, and I know Lottie will be. We been best friends forever.

  I raise my fist and knock on the door. We haven’t driven Mr. Townsend’s old truck around for a while. Today would be a good day for that. I knock again. Then I notice all the windows are sealed and the wood door is shut solid behind the screen. I pound on the door. “Lottie! Lottie!”

  I don’t hear even a whisper.

  Backing off the porch steps, I look up to the bedroom windows. No sign of anyone. I back up a little more so I can see the whole house.

  Nothing.

  I have been shut out.

  My heart hollows out, then hardens. I bet I know where they are. All laughing and having a good time with Melissa Gold. Lord, how I hate that girl. Marching back to my own porch, I kick up their gravel driveway, sending a spray of stones against their house. I didn’t mean to hit it, but it’s kind of satisfying because now I have hurt them, even if it’s only their house.

  8

  I’m still sitting on the porch swing when a storm blows in. The sky is dark and moody—my feelings exactly. The air prickles. But it don’t rain, not yet. The first lightning strikes the sky and I can barely say “one thousand one” before the thunder rumbles. You want to know how close lightning is, count “one thousand one, one thousand two,” and so on after the strike until you hear thunder. Every “thousand” you count is a mile. This lightning’s only a mile away. I rush inside and turn off the oven, which is heating up tonight’s casserole. Don’t ever leave your electric stuff on when lightning’s close—it will blow up your house.

  I shuffle back out to the front porch and sit down. The sky flashes and booms. Momma used to tell me thunder was just the angels bowling in heaven. You could always tell when the unskilled angels took their turns ’cause some thunder’s quiet, and some’s loud, like that particular angel got herself a strike. ’Course I know it’s just a story to make little kids brave during storms. I just like to think of it sometimes.

  Suddenly, rain bursts do
wn and pummels the trees and the house. No warning to it, just starts full force like that. It’s thundering and lightning, but I am safe and sound on my porch.

  I’m sitting there watching the show when Eddie comes through the rain on his bike. Jumping to my feet, I yell, “What’re you doing out there? Get up here!”

  He dumps his bike and plods up the porch steps like a swamp monster. His sneakers make wet squishy sounds. He is soaked to the bone.

  “Oh, my Lord,” I say. “What are you doing in the rain? I know your momma taught you better than that.”

  “Oh, man,” he says and shakes his hair. Water flies everywhere.

  I flinch backward. “Quit doing that! I’ll get you a towel. Don’t you dare sit down till I come back.”

  After he scrubs himself dry, we sit on the swing. His legs are longer than mine, so he pushes the swing while I sit curled up on my side. The rain drums on the roof. Lightning sparks in the sky like fireworks.

  “I give that one a seven,” Eddie says.

  I nod. It wasn’t especially bright or loud. “Maybe just a six.”

  We watch, throwing out our scores after each strike.

  “Eight,” he says.

  He’s being too easy. “Seven,” I say.

  Then the air whooshes up like there’s a big vacuum in the sky. I glance at Eddie, whose eyes look as big as mine feel, then static rushes over me, prickling my hair, and my heart jumps, but before I can open my mouth, a single bolt strikes and flares over the woods across the street and at the same time BOOM! like an earthquake.

  My blood pumps like a fast-moving river. My heart races. I can’t hear nothing and when I close my eyes, I see the bolt of lightning etched on the back of my eyelids. Eddie turns to me, his eyes blazing.

  “I think that hit something,” he says.

  I nod. My hands are shaking. “Did you feel it?”

  His eyes burn bright blue. “Yeah, I felt it.”

  “Me too.” We look at each other in amazement.

  The air around us is charged with electricity. I wait. Something big is going to happen, I just know it.

  9

  After Momma leaves for work in the morning, I put on my best T-shirt and shorts and head outside. But don’t even think I’m going to Lottie’s. Oh, no— two can play at this game.

  I’m going to Melissa’s.

  I walk real jaunty as I pass Lottie’s. That way, if she looks out, she’ll wonder why I’m smiling so big and why whatever’s making me so happy has nothing to do with her. I keep it up until I can’t see her house anymore.

  Mrs. Gold opens the door after I ring the bell. She smiles. “I remember you; you’re Violet, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I smile back, putting on my fancy manners. “I came to visit Melissa.” I lean and look into the house behind her. “She home? I mean, is she home?”

  Mrs. Gold chuckles like I said something funny. She swings the door wide open. “Why don’t you come in? Melissa will be happy to see you.”

  Yeah, I bet. But what I really say is, “Thank you.” Goose bumps race down my arms, it’s so cold in their house. God Almighty, most folks ’round here get by with open windows and fans, a window air conditioner for your bedroom if you really got to have it. But not the Gold family. I heard a lady in church saying Mr. Gold had central air-conditioning installed before they even left Detroit. It works real well, too—dries the sweat on my neck right up.

  I expect Mrs. Gold to holler up the stairs like any normal person, but no—she walks all the way up and knocks on a door I can’t see from where I stand. Their voices are quiet, except for the part where Melissa says, “What?” I kind of laugh to myself over that.

  Mrs. Gold comes all the way back down and stands beside me. Melissa stops halfway down the stairs.

  “What are you doing, honey?” Mrs. Gold asks. “You have a visitor. Come on down.”

  Melissa heaves her chest like this is the worst thing in the history of the universe anyone has ever had to do. I want to give her my evil face, but Mrs. Gold is standing right there. Melissa crosses her arms and trudges down the stairs.

  “Well, you girls don’t need me hanging around,” Mrs. Gold says. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  After she leaves, Melissa looks down at me. “What do you want?”

  “How tall are you?” I ask.

  She slits her eyes. “Why?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Just asking. But it don’t matter, if that’s private information.”

  “It’s not private,” she says, almost spitting on me. “It’s just—never mind.”

  That’s okay. I don’t share information with the enemy either. I glance around the living room. It looks like a picture out of a magazine. Very pretty, I can admit that. “I like your house,” I say.

  “Thanks.” Her arms are still crossed.

  I am trying to like this girl—just a little bit—so me and Lottie can go back to normal, but I swear, she is doing nothing to help.

  Mrs. Gold comes back. “What are you girls doing standing by the front door? Melissa, take Violet upstairs and show her your room. You girls talk and get to know each other. Go on!”

  Melissa turns without saying anything and drags herself up the stairs with me following behind. We pass through some beads and we’re in her room. It looks like a princess’s royal chamber. Everything’s pink and purple and soft looking, like a dream.

  “You got a TV in your room?” I can’t believe it.

  She cracks a little smile. “Don’t you?” She sits on her bed and rattles off all her favorite channels.

  I sit on the bed too, but on the end, so’s I’m not too close to her. I keep my posture straight. “We got one in the living room.” I shrug my shoulders. “But we don’t get all those channels.”

  Her eyes practically pop out of her skull. “You don’t?”

  I shake my head and look at her bookcase, which has lots of decorations on it but only a few books.

  “Why not?” Then her face changes. “Can’t you afford it?” She says this softly, like someone has died.

  “ ’Course we can afford it.” Which I don’t even know if we can or not. “I prefer to read.”

  “Oh, my gosh! That’s so . . . old-fashioned!”

  I stiffen.

  “I mean, no offense or anything.” She reaches onto her nightstand and grabs a couple of magazines. “But TV is great.” She opens a magazine and shows me a picture of some older boy. “Isn’t he cute?”

  I stare at the picture. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  She takes the picture back and hugs it to her chest. “My friends in Detroit and I love him! He’s on Paris Heights; you ever heard of that show? It’s a soap opera. I watch it every day with my mom.”

  When I shake my head, she says, “You really are living in the sticks. No offense.”

  I look at her bookcase again. “Well, no offense, but it doesn’t look like you read much.”

  She jumps off the bed, grabs a stack of movie-star magazines, and plops them on the bed. “I read all the time.”

  “These don’t count—they’re not even real books.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she says and juts out her chin. “For your information, I’m going to be a celebrity, and I have already made lots of connections with important stars.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about and I say so.

  Opening a dresser drawer, she pulls out a stack of papers and plastic sheets with pages in them. She cradles them close to her chest. “What I’m about to show you are the results of my work.”

  I must look confused, because she explains, “I’ve written letters to important people in Hollywood to let them know I’ll be available when I’m eighteen.” She smiles all dreamy and sits on the bed. “I get so many letters back.” She looks straight at me. “Not everyone gets responses, but my secret is I include a photo of myself—that way, they can see my potential. Here’s one of my best.”

  I’m expecting a gooey bunch of I love you and I’m you
r 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.”