The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond Read Free

stood still.
    â€œMeow!” I supposed it wanted cat food.
    â€œYou have to understand . . . I never, ever get things I wish for. Plus I just wished for you two days ago. So I don’t have any cat food or a litter box or any of that stuff.”
    I was thinking
what am I doing, talking to it like it understands English,
when the kitchen door swung open and Daisy burst inside, noisy and swirling, like a mini tornado. Daisy is tall and extremely pretty and, just like the flower she gets her name from, sunny and happy.
    â€œIt was
so
not supposed to rain today, was it?” she asked.
    â€œNope . . . but it did,” I replied.
    Her long, wet blond hair, plastered to her head, looked dark, and her eyes were black underneath like a raccoon from runny mascara. She’s a high school junior and supposed to be saving for college, but every cent she makes from her part-time job is spent on makeup and clothes.
    Daisy tripped over the bowl of milk, which spilled, and fell hard—right on her butt. Another thing about D is she’s one of the clumsiest people in the universe. Not even her yoga classes have helped.
    â€œCe que le diable!”
Daisy said in French, then immediately translated into English the way she has a habit of doing. “What the heck!” Daisy is into all things French. She’s even considering going to the Sorbonne after graduation. Even her boyfriend is part French.
    But even wet and clumsy, Daisy was still what her boyfriend, Wyatt, called her the other day—breathtaking—which I found out means “astonishingly beautiful.”
    Will I ever be breathtaking?
    I reached out my hand and helped her up off the floor. “You okay, D?” I asked.
    Her eyes landed on the bowl of milk. “Explain, please.”
    I grinned and pointed at the kitten, which had run to a corner of the room. “I got a wish, finally.”
    â€œ
Le chat mignon
 . . . cute cat, V!” She picked up the kitten, which was only a little bigger than the palm of her hand, and kissed its head. “What’s its name?”
    â€œI don’t know. It’s a stray. I found it on the way home from school.”
    My sister wrapped a wet arm around me and we huddled together, staring at the small spotted cat. “I got a wish, finally,” I repeated.
    Daisy and I may not look alike, but we are the same in some ways and different in others. Both of our fathers were medical doctors, but her father died of cancer when she was two years old and my father died in a car wreck two months before I was born, so neither of us has a dad. But my father adopted Daisy when he and my mom got married, so at least we have the same last name. We also both like traveling. One way we’re not the same is I like quiet—she likes loud. But the main difference is Daisy’s father was white and my father was African American. Mom, who calls her family a European conglomeration, has peachy skin and naturally blond hair, just like Daisy. So, my sister, Daisy, is white, but I am brown haired, brown eyed, brown skinned, biracial.
    In some bigger cities, like Seattle, there are lots of biracial kids. But Moon Lake is mostly white. And there are only two other biracial kids in my school, a girl and her younger brother whose dad is black and mom is white. They look just alike—light skinned with green eyes and light brown hair. Lucky for them, they have each other. As for me, I sometimes feel like a single fallen brown leaf atop a blanket of fresh snow. Alone.
    When some people meet my mom and me for the first time, they get that funny question-mark look in their eyes. Then their inner lightbulb goes on and I can tell that they’ve figured out that I’m biracial. Even when I’m with my mom’s parents, Poppy and Gam, people seem to understand. But for some reason, when Daisy’s along and introduced as my sister, it causes confusion. Poppy
usually