Violets are blue, p.1
Violets Are Blue, page 1
Praise for Violets Are Blue
“Violets Are Blue will break your heart and then piece it back together with infinite care. Barbara Dee expertly captures the struggle to be known and loved within a narrative that presents the complicated reality of addiction. Both Wren and her mother will stay with you long after this story is done.”
—Jamie Sumner, author of Roll with It and Tune It Out
“Barbara Dee tunes into issues that impact middle schoolers and writes about them with compassion, insight, and just plain excellent storytelling. I loved this absorbing, accessible novel, which explores the heartbreaking effects of opioid addiction while also celebrating the joys of discovering a passion and finding people who understand you.”
—Laurie Morrison, author of Up for Air and Saint Ivy
“Barbara Dee has done it again! Violets Are Blue is an emotionally rich story that masterfully weaves life’s messy feelings while gently and thoughtfully tackling the difficult subject of opioid addiction. Beautiful. Complicated.
And full of heart. A must read!”
—Elly Swartz, author of Smart Cookie and Give and Take
“Told realistically and with compassion, Violets Are Blue provides a fascinating look into the world of special effects makeup, budding friendships, family, and the secrets we keep.”
—Melanie Sumrow, author of The Inside Battle and The Prophet Calls
“Violets Are Blue tackles the subject of addiction with hope and compassion. Readers will cheer for Wren in this story about family bonds broken and redefined, learning to trust, and being true to yourself. I loved it!”
—Lynne Kelly, author of Song for a Whale
Praise for My Life in the Fish Tank
“I loved My Life in the Fish Tank. Once again, Barbara Dee writes about important topics with intelligence, nuance, and grace. She earned all the accolades for Maybe He Just Likes You and will earn them for My Life in the Fish Tank too.”
—Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, author of Newbery Honor Books Fighting Words and The War That Saved My Life
“I felt every beat of Zinny Manning’s heart in this authentic and affecting story. Barbara Dee consistently has her finger on the pulse of her middle-grade audience. Outstanding!”
—Leslie Connor, author of A Home for Goddesses and Dogs and National Book Award finalist The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle
“My Life in the Fish Tank is a powerful portrayal of a twelve-year-old dealing with her sibling’s newly discovered mental illness. Author Barbara Dee deftly weaves in themes of friendship, family, and secrets, while also reminding us all to accept what we can’t control. I truly loved every moment of this emotional and gripping novel, with its notes of hope that linger long after the last page.”
—Lindsay Currie, author of The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street and Scritch Scratch
“My Life in the Fish Tank rings true for its humor, insight, and honesty. Zinny is an appealing narrator, and her friendships with supporting characters are beautifully drawn.”
—Laura Shovan, author of Takedown and A Place at the Table
“Barbara Dee offers a deeply compassionate look at life for twelve-year-old Zinny, whose older brother faces mental health challenges. This touching novel will go a long way in providing understanding and empathy for young readers. Highly recommended.”
—Donna Gephart, award-winning author of Lily and Dunkin and The Paris Project
Praise for Maybe He Just Likes You
“Mila is a finely drawn, sympathetic character dealing with a problem all too common in middle school. Readers will be cheering when she takes control! An important topic addressed in an age-appropriate way.”
—Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, author of Newbery Honor Books Fighting Words and The War That Saved My Life
“In Maybe He Just Likes You, Barbara Dee sensitively breaks down the nuances of a situation all too common in our culture—a girl not only being harassed, but not being listened to as she tries to ask for help. This well-crafted story validates Mila’s anger, confusion, and fear, but also illuminates a pathway towards speaking up and speaking out. A vital read for both girls and boys.”
—Veera Hiranandani, author of Newbery Honor Book The Night Diary
“Mila’s journey will resonate with many readers, exploring a formative and common experience of early adolescence that has too often been ignored. Important and empowering.”
—Ashley Herring Blake, author of Stonewall Children’s & Young Adult Honor Book Ivy Aberdeen’s Letter to the World
“Maybe He Just Likes You is an important, timeless story with funny, believable characters. Mila’s situation is one that many readers will connect with. This book is sure to spark many productive conversations.”
—Dusti Bowling, author of Insignificant Events in the Life of a Cactus
“In this masterful, relatable, and wholly unique story, Dee shows how one girl named Mila finds empowerment, strength, and courage within. I loved this book.”
—Elly Swartz, author of Smart Cookie and Give and Take
“Maybe He Just Likes You is the perfect way to jump-start dialogue between boy and girl readers about respect and boundaries. This book is so good. So needed! I loved it!”
—Paula Chase, author of So Done and Dough Boys
A Washington Post Best Children’s Book
An ALA Notable Children’s Book
A Project LIT Book Club selection
A Bank Street Best Children’s Book
An ALA Rise: A Feminist Book Project selection
This one is for Ripley,
and for all our furry family members,
past and present, near and far
Click
Hey, guys, Cat FX here. Sorry if my voice sounds funny—my allergies are going full blast this morning.
Also, I couldn’t sleep. So I spent the night thinking what I wanted to say to you, and here it is: It’s really important not to overdo stuff, okay? Yes, I know it’s exciting when you have all these shiny new products to play with, and you want to use everything all at once. But trust me on this, it’s better to go slowly, adding layer on top of layer, building your character from the inside out. Know what I mean?
Also—and guys, I can’t stress this enough—try not to be too obvious. Have fun with these techniques. Experiment, take risks, but always leave room for a bit of mystery.
* * *
Tonight my face was Seafoam Blue.
Not my whole face. Just a light swish across my forehead, the tops of my cheekbones, and around my chin.
The trick was to go slowly, like Cat FX said, applying layer on top of layer. Better to add than to subtract. Build the character from the inside out.
And to be who I imagined—my mental mermaid—I couldn’t just slather on a ton of blue pigment. My mermaid’s superpower was a kind of camouflage: blending into her surroundings. Slipping undetected through sunken ships. Escaping deadly sea monsters. Coming up for air when necessary.
The other thing I’d decided was that she was a collector. So when she won a battle, or discovered buried treasure, she would always decorate herself with souvenirs. To never forget what she’d been through, what she’d seen. To make it part of herself forever.
Which was why I was gluing a plastic pearl to my eyebrow when I heard the GRRRRUUUNNNCCCHHH.
My stomach clenched.
We’d been living here for almost three months, and I still couldn’t get used to the awful grinding sound of the garage door.
But at least it gave me warning. Before Mom could get all the way upstairs, I tossed the jar of Seafoam Blue face pigment, the eye shadow in Cyber Purple, the waterproof eyebrow pencil in Medium Brown, and the spidery false eyelashes into my secret makeup kit. Then I slid it under my bed, all the way to the farthest corner, tossing in an old sneaker to hide it.
The shoebox marked M stayed on my desk. Visible.
I checked the clock. Only 8:35.
Mom clomped up the stairs in her thick-soled Jungle Mocs, which I’m pretty sure is the official footwear of ER nurses when they aren’t wearing sneakers. Just in time, I beat her to the door of my bedroom.
“Hey, honeybee,” she called as she reached the top step. In her wrinkled spearmint-green scrubs, she looked droopy, like a plant you forgot to water.
When she smiled, you could see how hard her face was working. “Is that the mermaid?” she asked, lightly touching my cheek.
“Yeah,” I said. Mom could always tell the effect I was going for, even when I was in the middle of a character. “Although I’m not totally sure about the color.”
“You’re not? What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know. The Seafoam Blue seems wrong. Too greenish, maybe? And I’m not getting that shimmery underwater effect. I followed all the directions, but…” I shrugged. “It’s not how I thought.”
“Well, I think it looks really great so far. And I love that eyebrow pearl.” She pushed her too-long bangs out of her eyes. “You finished your homework, Wren?”
“Yep. An hour ago.”
She looked past me, into my room. Could she see the makeup kit under my bed? No, that was impossible. But of course she could see the shoebox marked M—on my desk, like usual.
“And did your friend Poppy come over after school?” Mom always called her “your friend Poppy,” like she thought she needed to remind me that everything was different now: I had a real friend.
“Mom, Poppy has soccer. Remember I told you?” At least twice. No, more than that. “And why are yo u home so early?” Again.
“Another mix-up with scheduling. My supervisor keeps overstaffing.” Mom leaned against my door and shut her eyes.
For a few seconds I just watched her. With all the changes in her schedule, I knew she hadn’t been sleeping well. Not during the night, anyway.
So it didn’t shock me to see her so tired. Still, it was a little awkward, both of us just standing there, not talking. Not moving.
“Mom,” I said.
Her eyes fluttered open. When she took a step, her knee buckled, or something. She grabbed the doorknob to keep from falling.
“You okay?” I said quickly.
“I’m fine.” A small wince. “Just my stupid knee acting up again. Don’t worry about it, Wren. I have an early shift tomorrow, so I think I’ll just take some Advil and get into bed. Will you please walk Lulu so she can pee?”
Lulu was our three-legged French bulldog. She peed sixteen times a day, and that’s no exaggeration.
“Sure,” I told her. “Go rest, Mom. And put a pillow under your knee.”
“Hey, I’ll be the nurse around here, not you.” She threw me a little smile as she disappeared into her bedroom.
I waited, and then I heard it: Click.
One day while I was at school, Mom had a lock put on her door. To keep the cat off her bed, she’d explained. Although, really, that made no sense, because our one-eyed cat, Cyrus, was too old to jump that high anyway.
And now, every time I heard that sound—click—my heart flipped over, but I couldn’t say why.
I returned to the mirror propped up on my desk, in front of the shoebox. The mermaid looked blurry now, out of focus, the Seafoam fading into boring pink skin.
And the funny thing about makeup effects? They were all just technique, Cat FX said, not magic. But sometimes if you stopped in the middle, it was like you were breaking a spell—and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get it back.
I wiped my face and went downstairs to get Lulu’s leash.
Changes
There are two kinds of makeup effects: the kind that conceal and the kind that reveal.
As a makeup artist, I’m not about concealing. And I truly believe there’s no such thing as a facial flaw or imperfection.
What I’m about—what I’m all about—is revealing something true. Something deep inside, that maybe you didn’t even know existed. But that you need to share with the world.
* * *
The day Dad left us, just a little over nine months ago, it all happened fast. One gray Saturday morning in February, when we were still living in the house in Abingdon, I woke up to the sound of loud arguing in the kitchen. Yelling, actually, which happened a lot those days, followed by a car zooming out of our driveway.
At breakfast Mom was drinking coffee in her favorite red mug and reading her phone. Just like she did every regular morning.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Taking a Lyft to the airport,” Mom said, still reading. “I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he can.”
Were her hands shaking? Her face looked pale. Although she was looking down at her phone, so it was hard to be sure.
“What’s going on?” My voice sounded like a five-year-old’s, like a squeaky little mouse.
Mom looked up to give me a small, pinched smile. “We’ll talk about it, Rennie. But later, because…” Her voice trailed off.
“You had a fight? With Dad?”
She didn’t answer that specific question. Instead she stood and kissed my forehead. “I don’t want you to worry, sweetheart, okay? Everything will be fine, I promise.”
Then she put her mug in the sink and left the kitchen.
I waited at the table, but she didn’t come back. In fact, I could hear her upstairs in her bedroom, opening and shutting dresser drawers, like she was searching for something, or maybe throwing things away. Pretty soon I figured out that she wanted to be alone, and that I shouldn’t knock on her door to ask more questions.
I told myself that if something really serious or important had happened, Mom would just come right out and tell me—wouldn’t she? And wouldn’t Dad, too? Besides, Dad traveled a lot for his job selling software to companies, so it wasn’t completely strange that he’d taken a plane on a weekend morning. Although it was strange that he hadn’t said goodbye; he’d never left without an early morning hug at the very least.
A few hours later my phone rang. And that was when my stomach knotted, because if my sort-of-friend Annika wanted to talk, she always texted. Mom did too, when she was at the hospital. So for a second I didn’t even recognize my ringtone. That it belonged to me, I mean.
But it was Dad; he’d just landed at JFK, and was in a taxi on the way to Brooklyn.
“So Mom told you?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I think she’s too upset. Dad, what’s going on?”
He paused. “It’s not something we should discuss over the phone.”
Now my heart was banging. “Okay. So when exactly will we—”
“Rennie, Mom will talk to you and so will I, but in person. And I’ll see you very, very soon. We both can’t wait for you to visit, jellybean. We’ll show you around the city and have lots of fun.”
He was using so many strange words that bounced off my brain like hailstones: “Visit.” “Soon.” “City.” “Fun.” But I picked just one.
“Who’s ‘we’?” I asked.
“Me and Vanessa.” The bad cell service made his voice sound whooshy, like he was going through a fun-house tunnel. Maybe he was. “The woman I met at that software convention in October. I think I mentioned we did a panel together…?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sure I did, jellybean.” Now I heard a sound like bubble wrap popping. And then: “We’ll talk more later, in person. I love you very much. Always have and always will.”
I was too shocked to answer. Had Dad ever told me about any Vanessa? I was pretty sure if he’d said something like, Hey, jellybean, I’ve been hanging out with a woman WHO IS NOT MOM, I’d have processed that information. Although maybe he’d said it in a way I didn’t get. Or maybe I wasn’t really listening.
“All right, gotta go now,” Dad said. “I love you, Rennie.”
“I love you too,” I said. There was more crackling on the line, so I couldn’t tell if he’d even heard it. But then my phone beeped, which meant the conversation was dropped anyway.
* * *
Mom was normalish for around a week. I say ish because how normal is it to not talk about a missing husband? But she didn’t need to specifically tell me that she and Dad had broken up, because by now it was pretty obvious. One time I even said “when you get divorced”—just tossed the word “divorced” into the middle of a sentence, like a firecracker—and she didn’t correct me, or even blink.
So I thought: Okay, that’s it, then. Divorce.
After that first week she started marathon sleeping.
Being an ER nurse meant Mom had weird schedules that were constantly changing, so at first I didn’t notice all the napping. But one day I left for school with her still in bed, and when I got home, she was fast asleep on the sofa, cuddled up with Cyrus, wearing pajamas from the night before. On our old kitchen phone were two messages from her supervisor: Kelly, how’s that flu? We need to know when you’re coming back to work. And: Kelly, I tried your cell twice, but you aren’t answering. I also left you three texts. Please return this call immediately—
I poked Mom’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” I asked. My voice was loud enough to startle Cyrus, who jumped off the sofa to sit on my foot. “You have the flu?”
“No, just resting.” Mom’s voice sounded funny. Foggy or something.
“But you told your boss you had the flu? How come?”
Mom ignored that question. “Did your father call you?”
Sometime lately—I couldn’t remember when—she’d stopped saying “Dad” and had started saying “your father.”
I shook my head.
