Acts of Violet(10)
“Violet, you’re bleeding.” He pointed at his temple.
Still standing, Violet wiped at the trickle of blood running down the side of her face with her sleeve, saying she must’ve accidentally nicked herself. In the process of trying to clean up, she cut herself several additional times with those metal talons, until blood was pouring out of her head cartoonishly, staining the top of her dress red.
“Should we call you an ambulance?” Jackson lobbed the question as a joke, but there was genuine horror creeping into his face. “I’m starting to feel like we’re remaking Carrie here.”
At this point, the audience was shrieking. Every time Violet tried to wipe up the bleeding, she only did more damage until the blood was gushing out of her, soaking the rest of her dress, which was now entirely red.
Unsure of how to react, Jackson asked what he could do to help.
Violet smiled sweetly, tilted her head, and batted her eyelashes like a southern belle. “Do you have a handkerchief I could borrow? I think I have a little something…” She pointed at her face, which was covered in red smears.
Jackson slid over a box of tissues, but Violet waved them away, said, “Never mind. I just need to do something about these wet clothes.” She slashed at the lower part of her dress and exclaimed with delight when she found a box of matches at her feet, saying this would help speed things along.
The camera zoomed in close on her face for a moment, and she flashed the scariest and sexiest smile before setting her dress on fire.
“Oh no!” she screamed and spun around, trying to put herself out.
Somebody from offstage ran in with a fire extinguisher and aimed the nozzle at Violet. A cloud of white smoke enveloped the entire area around Jackson’s desk. A few seconds later, it began to clear. Violet was now perched on the desk wearing a skimpy red dress covered in sequins and fringe, not a drop of blood on her.
From my sickbed at home, I felt like I was watching a delirious dream. Within a year, everybody would know who Violet Volk was. And yet, to this day, I wonder if anyone can truthfully say they really knew her.
July 31, 1989
Dear Violet,
How are you? How is magic camp?
You’re not missing much in Brigantine. A bunch of crappy stuff happened. Our car was stolen right after we got here, Dad got food poisoning, and Mom yelled at me when she saw I wasn’t wearing my red string bracelet (five seconds after I tore it off behind her back). She kept going on about protecting me from the evil eye and tied more red string around my wrist with like a thousand knots. I said I didn’t know how a piece of string would protect me from car thieves or bad calamari, but she gave me that Scary Crazy Russian look so I shut up.
She still thinks this place is totally cursed! Then again … first Brigantine Castle closed, then the pier burned down, then you left me (sob) …
So what else is new? Uncle Slava’s girlfriend Julie moved in with her daughter Lisa, right before we got here and there are still boxes everywhere. I have to sleep in Lisa’s new room, which is covered with teenybopper posters and reeks of Electric Youth perfume. She’s ten and keeps asking me which of the New Kids on the Block is my favorite until I want to scream. She’s never even heard of the Beastie Boys or seen a Barbra Streisand movie! I practically had to twist her arm to watch The Lost Boys with me, and she cried because she found it too scary.
That’s not all. Lisa and I have to share a bed, and it takes forever to fall asleep because she won’t shut up about how she’s going to grow up to be a famous dancer and marry Joey McIntyre and be best friends with Debbie Gibson. It’s torture. She must snore or something, too, because I sometimes wake up on the living room sofa or patio lounger. When she gets up before me, she gets all pouty and says I don’t like her. What a baby!
Speaking of the Beastie Boys, did you get my care package with Paul’s Boutique? I was gonna wait until you got back from camp so we could get it together, but Dad kept calling me kislaya and got tired of my moping, so he took me to Tune City for new tapes. Do you hate the new Beasties as much as me? It’s weird and not nearly as good as License to Ill. I’ve been listening to Madonna more than anything. I wish you liked her more, I think she’s my favorite now.
Gotta go, Lisa is bugging me to take her to the beach. Have you learned how to cut people in half yet?
222,
Sasha
August 8, 1989
Violet,
What’s up? I got a favor to ask you: knock it off. It’s my own fault I got kicked out of magic camp. I was the one crying over those rabbits living in cages and it was my idea to free them, remember?? I unlocked the hatches and let them loose. You had no part in it. Stop feeling bad. My sleights sucked, anyway. Yours are a million times better. “The future of magic is in good hands,” as Moses Deprince told us every single day, but it’s better in your hands than mine.
I’d rather spend more time practicing rhymes, anyway. I came up with this one for you:
She’s crafty, she gets around/Her card manip is the best in town.
(Fine, I borrowed the first part of that from the Beastie Boys.)
Are you still driving your bunkmates crazy listening to Paul’s Boutique over and over? Mom is so sick of me blasting it, we get into fights about it every day. She says the Beasties sound like “loud boys with very bad manners,” which cracks me up. Dad promised to get me a Walkman for my birthday if I stay on her good side. When it’s him and me in the car, he cranks the music like he’s Mr. Cool Guy. It’s not the same thing when it’s the Eagles, but I’d be a dick if I told him that.