point of being not just friendly, but extra friendly, and Violet thinks that’s really cool, especially since Hayley is the new girl. She could just sit quietly and say nothing, and no one would think less of her.
Instead, Hayley chats and smiles and pushes her bag of jalapeño-cheddar potato chips to the center of the table, labeling them “up for grabs” for anyone who wants any. Not only that, but she makes an effort to connect with Milla and Yasaman and even Katie-Rose, who’s acting even more prickly than normal today.
And since Violet and Hayley have already connected (sort of, anyway), Violet is content to sit back and enjoy.
Hayley compliments Milla on her snazzy reusable lunch bag. “Kinda puts mine to shame, doesn’t it?” she says, lifting the corner of the bag her food was in. It’s not even a brown-paper lunch sack. It’s just a plastic bag from the grocery store, the kind Violet’s elderly neighbors use as “pooper scooper” bags for their Schnauzer.
“I wish my uncle would buy me a cute lunch bag,” Hayley goes on. “But yeah, right. Like that’s ever going to happen.” She indicates Milla’s tote. “Yours is fancy, isn’t it? Not just cute, but fancy fancy. Expensive fancy. Like the Prada of lunch bags or something.”
Milla can’t decide whether to be pleased or embarrassed, Violet can tell.
“It’s Dooney and Bourke,” Violet supplies, surprising herself. She’s not big on labels, mostly because her mom hates labels and brand names and the snottiness that so often accompanies them. Milla is the opposite of snotty, though. She has super-nice stuff, but she never brags about it.
“Sweet,” Hayley says. She takes a bite of her sandwich, which from the looks of it is bologna on white bread and nothing more. The circle-shaped slice of bologna sticks out beyond the straight line of the bread’s pale crust. It reminds Violet of her days in Atlanta, where people actually ate bologna and thought it was just as normal as turkey or ham. Here, in Thousand Oaks, California, Violet doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone eat bologna.
“Um, you could tell your uncle it would be good for the environment,” Milla says. “If you got an insulated lunch tote, I mean. Because you’d use it every day, and so you wouldn’t, you know, be adding plastic to the landfill.”
Hayley laughs. “Is that what it’s called? An ‘insulated lunch tote’?” Milla’s cheeks pinken, and Hayley adds, “No, no, that’s awesome. It’s just, no one at Stanton Heights brought their lunches to school in insulated lunch totes.”
“Oh,” Milla says. She blinks, and Violet suspects she knows why. When everyone first sat down, Hayley shared bits and pieces of how she landed here at Rivendell, and Milla is probably still wrapping her head around the fact that Hayley came to Rivendell, which is a private school, from one of Southern California’s roughest public schools.
“Anyway, my uncle could give a rat’s heiney about the environment,” Hayley says. Violet isn’t sure how to interpret the way Hayley says “environment,” drawing it out in a mocking fashion. It could be that Hayley is making fun of her uncle, or it could be that she, Hayley, doesn’t give a rat’s heiney about the environment, either.
“A rat’s heiney,” Katie-Rose repeats. She says it in a moody way. “Ha. I’m going to use that expression. I’m going to use that expression on a very specific person who happens to be a very annoying boy. Awesome.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop saying ‘geez-o-criminy’?” Milla asks.
“No. Geez-o-criminy. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to.”
Hayley grins. “‘Geez-o-criminy.’ I like it. It’ll drive my uncle nuts.”
Milla lifts a spoonful of yogurt to her mouth as if she’s at a tea party. Her tone, when she speaks, is bland. “Hayley, you have to ask Katie-Rose’s permission to use ‘geez-o-criminy,’ because apparently, geez-o-criminy is under copyright protection.”
Katie-Rose shoots Milla a hurt look. Violet, too, is confused. First Milla got Katie-Rose kicked out of Mr. Emerson’s class, and now she’s rubbing salt into the wound by bringing up the very thing that led to Katie-Rose getting kicked out?
“It’s copyrighted?” Hayley says.
Irritation flashes across Milla’s face, only to be immediatly erased. “According to Katie-Rose, yes. According to Katie-Rose, she is the only person allowed to say it, which means that you, Hayley, would be penalized for copyright infringement.”
“Omigod, you’re so full of it,” Hayley says to Milla.
Milla ducks her head. Violet can’t be sure, but she seems ashamed.
Hayley turns to Katie-Rose. “That’s funny, copyright protection. But she’s kidding, right? You don’t honestly think you can copyright an expression?”
“I …,” Katie-Rose says. “I …”
“Omigod, you do!” Hayley crows, and she leans across the table and holds up her hand to give Katie-Rose a high five. Katie-Rose wrinkles her forehead, but tentatively touches her palm to Hayley’s.
“Dude, you’re hysterical,” Hayley says to her. “Copyright infringement, omigod. You know what you should copyright is that, the right to copyright your expressions! You could make a killing!”
Katie-Rose’s smile, which was wobbly for a second, firms up. “Well, first of all, I am hysterical. I agree.” She makes a face at Milla, who pretends she can’t be bothered by it. “And second of all, if I’m the one who comes up with a particular expression, then I should get to say who can use it or not. So thank you, Hayley, and I applaud your good taste. And as a reward, yes, you can use ‘geez-o-criminy.’”
Hayley dips her head. “Why, thank you.”
Milla clears her throat.
“Yes?” Katie-Rose says.
“Just to clarify … and Katie-Rose, thank you so much for sharing all this excellent knowledge … but ‘geez-o-criminy’ is an expression you came up with, right?” Milla asks.
Katie-Rose narrows her eyes. “That’s private information. Classified. And speaking of classified information, Milla, is this really the time to spill people’s secrets? Do we—and by we, I mean you—really want to go there?”
“I do,” Hayley says. She scans the faces of the flower friends. “I love secrets. Katie-Rose, do you have a secret?”
Katie-Rose playacts a scarily innocent smile. “No, no secrets for me.”
“Milla?” Hayley says, focusing on the next most likely candidate.
Milla is bright red. “No.”
“Everyone has secrets,” Yasaman says, and Violet realizes that this is the first remark Yaz has made during all of lunch.
“Well, let’s hear them!” Hayley exclaims.
Violet doesn’t know what Yaz is referring to. What does she mean, “everyone has secrets”? Does Yaz have a secret?
For a moment, possibilities seem to flicker over Yaz’s expression. For a moment, it seems as if Yaz has something to share. Then the moment passes, and she says, “If we told our secrets, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore.”
Hayley’s shoulders slump. “Oh, poo. But fine. What should we talk about instead, then?”
The flower friends are silent. Violet wonders if the lunch is going as well as she thought it was after all. To fix things, she picks the most harmless topic she can think of, harmless and yet fun.
“Candy,” she says. “Everyone go around and say your favorite candy bar.”
“Candy!” Katie-Rose says, brightening up. “I love candy. What if my favorite kind of candy isn’t a candy bar, though?”
“That’s fine,” Violet says, and off Katie-Rose goes, launching into a monologue comparing Junior Mints to Mike and Ike Hot Tamales.
“What about green apple sour loops?” Yaz says. “I thought they were your favorite.”
“Only on Saturdays,” Katie-Rose proclaims, making everyone laugh.
“What?” Katie-Rose says. “On Saturdays, my taste buds are different. Is that a hard concept to understand?”
“Um, yes,” Milla says.
Violet’s chest loosens.
She pops another one of Hayley’s chips into her mouth. It’s spicy and makes her eyes water.
Later, like almost seven hours later, she IMs Katie-Rose. She wants to make sure that what she was feeling was what Katie-Rose was feeling, too. Because Katie-Rose, when it comes to new friends … well, Violet knows that Katie-Rose will be the hardest nut to crack in terms of getting her to let someone new into their circle.
But certain conversations are easier to have in written words instead of spoken words, so she fires up her computer and starts typing:
