Violet Fire

“Juliet,” my head snapped up as I realized that it wasn’t the first time Miss Stein had said my name. There were a couple of sniggers from the front of the room and I felt myself blush. “And what are you planning to study in college?”

This was number one on my list of most-dreaded questions. I glanced quickly around the room, taking in my classmates. There were the ones who always sat in the front, always had an answer, who seemed to have their entire lives already mapped out. Then there were the ones banking on a sports scholarship to carry them through college. A few aspiring actors, musicians, dancers, artists. There were the ones that would probably never go to college; and a couple in the back who looked as if rehab was in their future. And then there was me. Oh, I probably wasn’t the only one who had no idea what their future held. But unlike the others, I was completely un-extraordinary. I wasn’t one of the “smart kids,” I wasn’t a jock, not one of the artists, had absolutely no musical ability, and was about as graceful as a baboon. True, I had about a half dozen college acceptance letters sitting in my room, but exactly zero ideas as to what I wanted to do with them.

I thought through this in a matter of seconds, but it apparently wasn’t long enough for Miss Stein to decide that I wouldn’t answer. No, she just kept staring at me expectantly so I stammered out my usual answer: I was still considering my options. She sighed disappointedly and moved on to interrogate the next student. I exhaled quietly and went back to daydreaming about Tony.

Tony may not have been captain of the football team or incredibly popular, but I still got little butterflies when I thought about him asking me out. Or maybe my butterflies were just because we were going out that night. Sure, it had only taken him all of middle school and high school to ask me out, but hey, at least I was getting somewhere now.

The bell rang, signaling freedom from the monotony of Western High School. I said a quick good-bye to my friends before walking over to the bike rack. I had to go visit my Grandma before I went home. She had called out of the blue and Mom insisted that since she was gone for my birthday, I should see her in person. I hopped on my beach cruiser and rode the once familiar path toward my Grandma’s.

It was a typical Southern California day: clear, sunny skies with a light breeze from off the coast. I soaked up the pleasant feeling of sunlight warming my already tanned skin. I rode along the sidewalks past the park, waving to Mr. Smith as he walked his overweight Chihuahua.

My Grandma had the nicest-looking house on the street. It was a humble one-story with a manicured lawn and a few flower beds, all enclosed in a quaint white picket fence. I got off my bike and unlocked the gate before wheeling my bike up the path to lean against Grandma’s porch. Grandma came out as I was picking up my backpack.

“Juliet!” she cried in delight.

“Hey, Grandma,” I replied awkwardly as she ushered me in.

My Grandma was a dainty old woman with a long white braid and mischief in her eyes. She had tons of pictures of her and Grandpa on countless adventures. I was hit with the scents of peppermint and cookies as I entered. The house wasn’t as bright as I remembered, and the smell seemed sad to me.

I sat on the couch as Grandma walked into the back of the house to get something. I could hardly remember the last time I had been there. Grandma and Grandpa were always on some trip when Grandpa was alive, and Mom wasn’t very close to her parents anymore.

Grandma walked back into the room and we chatted for a few minutes. She asked me about school and if I was excited for summer to start in just a couple of weeks. I wasn’t quite sure what to talk to her about, so I let her ask me questions that I answered politely.

“This is for you,” she said after a few minutes.

She handed me a package wrapped in brown paper and secured by a wax seal. I looked up at Grandma and she nodded in encouragement, so I opened it. In the paper I found a leather bound journal.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a journal. I started my first journal when I was your age, and when I saw this one I thought of you,” Grandma said.

For lack of anything else to do, I smiled. We talked for a little while longer, but then I stood up to leave. Grandma walked me to the door, but she put her hand on my arm just before I could walk outside.

“Promise me you’ll keep the journal in a safe place,” she said somberly.

Her intensity surprised me. “I promise,” I whispered.

She smiled and released me. As I started down the sidewalk, I got the strangest feeling. Like someone was watching me.

I couldn’t shake the feeling during the ride home, and I was relieved when I walked my bike into the back yard. The hair on the back of my neck finally stopped prickling as I walked into the house. I breathed a small sigh of relief and made my way to my room, dropping my back pack into the chair by my window and turning on the radio.

It always felt too quiet in the house until my parents got home, but that day it was even worse. So I tried to forget about that odd sensation and just let the music relax me. I dug into my back pack and grabbed the journal. I straightened and looked around my room, trying to think of somewhere to put it.

My room was a good size, but it seemed smaller because of how much stuff I had in it. The far wall had three shelves stuffed with the things Grandma and Grandpa brought back for me from their trips: shells, snow globes, arrowheads, and even a shark tooth. I glanced over at my large – and very full – bookshelf. I considered putting the journal there, but I didn’t have much room.

I ended up tossing the journal onto my bed, thinking that I would worry about it later. I went over to my closet and turned the radio up even louder, singing along quietly. I unpacked my backpack and set my books and homework on the desk that sat in the corner by my window. I considered starting on my homework, but instead started looking through my closet.

I reached into my closet and started pulling out some options and laying them on my bed. I was starting to try them on individually when I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Crap, Mom’s home. Mom always wanted to help me get ready for dates, and usually I let her. The fact that Tony was taking me to Los Angeles for our date wasn’t going to make Mom happy. I often joked with my friends about “the forbidden city,” but I didn’t feel like laughing about it right then.

“Going somewhere tonight?” Mom asked casually.

I thought that my Mom was the prettiest woman I had ever seen. She was tall and slender, with high cheek bones, full lips, and intelligent blue eyes. The only thing we had in common was our brown, curly hair.

“Tony asked me out,” I replied, turning back to my own reflection.

Mom came up behind me in the mirror, and our differences were even more apparent. I was short and petite, with much darker skin and less regal features.

“Where are you going?” the question I had been dreading broke into my thoughts.

I looked down, then turned to face her.

“Tony got us tickets to a concert.”

“Where?”

I took a deep breath, preparing to lie. Instead, I blurted out the truth. “Staples Center.”

“No,” Mom’s warm features turned stern.

“Why not?” I asked quietly. I knew that I was fighting a losing battle, but I wasn’t going to just roll over.

“I don’t want you to go into L. A. at night.” This response surprised me. I was completely prepared for the standard, “because I said so.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked. Mom was easy for me to read, and she was clearly agitated.

“Nothing,” I could tell that she was lying. “You know how I feel about L.A.”

“What’s so bad about L.A?” I don’t know how, but I just knew that her agitation had something to do with the feeling I had gotten earlier.

As usual, she ignored my question. “You are welcome to invite Tony here, but I don’t want you going anywhere tonight.”

I didn’t argue after that, much to Mom’s surprise. I put the clothes on my bed back in my closet and called Tony to explain what had happened. Sort of. I told him I had gotten grounded, which I guess is technically true, but it still felt like a lie. I don’t know why, but I felt…relieved. I didn’t notice until then that a knot of dread had been curling in the pit of my stomach – one that didn’t have anything to do with telling Mom where I was going.

I went across the hall into my bathroom and carefully removed my contacts. I put them away and glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror. I sighed, seeing my eyes back to their natural color. If you can call it natural. My eyes are bright purple, with a thin band of silver snaking around the pupil.

I used to scare people, especially the other kids in school. So my parents homeschooled me until I got into junior high, which is also when Grandma got me the contacts. With them, my eyes changed to a strange shade of brown, but it was still better than purple. I turned away from the mirror with another sigh.

I almost ran into Dad as I left the bathroom. He smiled absently, until he got a good look at me. He out-right grinned when he saw that I wasn’t wearing my contacts. He loved my freaky eyes, which I always thought was so weird.

“Hey, Dad,” I said.

“Hey, Sweetie,” he replied before heading to his office.

My tall, lanky, blond dad was a professor at Cypress College, the local community college. I often had to go to Cypress either before school or during lunch to drop off whatever he had forgotten that day. I smiled to myself before heading back into my room.

I sat down at my desk and pulled out my homework. Then I stared, and stared. I couldn’t focus, because in the quiet, my mind was starting to wander back to the mysterious journal. I walked over to my bed and picked the journal up gently. What was so special about this old book? I flipped through it carefully, but it was empty. I ran my fingers over it, probing gently for anything unusual. On the spine there was an odd little lump, but otherwise it was completely ordinary. I tossed it back on my bed and went back to my homework.