Living Violet by Jaime Reed Read Free Book Online Page B

had some rust on it.
    Turning to Mia, I presented two pairs of shorts. “Which ones—the red, or the white ones?”
    Leaning against the doorjamb, she scrutinized each item, assessing the style, the cut, and the age of the textile worker who wove the fabric. “The white ones. They make you look more ... virginal .”
    I moved to the dresser drawers. “Keep on with the jokes.”
    â€œI’m just saying. I think it’s cute that you have a crush. You know, it’s the summer of love.”
    â€œBlasphemy! You dare speak such guile under thy kinsmen’s roof.”
    â€œI love it when you get all medieval on me. That means I’ve hit a nerve.” Mia plopped on my mom’s bed. “So, what are you gonna do with your hair?”
    â€œYou’re looking at it.”
    She grimaced. “How does it naturally stand up like that?”
    â€œPhysics,” I answered, knowing exactly what she meant. As the sworn enemy of the humid Virginian summer, my funky riot of curls would not be denied. Today, my hair was pulled back in a huge Sistah Soldier afro puff on the top of my head. A red and white streak on the right side stood out against jet-black curls, resembling the Bride of Frankenstein with a candy stripe.
    I slid on the white shorts, moved to the full-length mirror, and took inventory of the one known as Samara Nicole Marshall.
    Dad called me “baby girl” for a legitimate reason. I had a baby-doll face. A great deal of cheeks and forehead catered to small features bunched in the center with barely a chin to anchor it. My wide eyes were so dark they looked like two big pupils. There’s something to be said about biracial kids: they all have great skin, a rich caramel complexion that defies the gods of dermatology. I had to smile at that, my one crowning glory.
    Mia stepped beside me and struck a pose, her brown ponytail slapping me in the face. Right on cue, she cataloged her microscopic flaws: claiming to be the only Filipino in history who couldn’t tan, plotting to remove the light bump on the bridge of her nose, and debating whether to inject fat into her thin upper lip.
    She stood two inches taller than my five and a half feet, sporting a sleek, fat-free physique that I secretly envied. I looked down at my boyish figure, which carried all its weight in the midriff, leaving scrawny limbs swinging in the breeze. It could be just baby fat or the inability to put the fork down, but my Treasure Troll beer gut would not go away. These were not the enduring qualities of a hottie, but rather a starved orphan in need of a child sponsor.
    â€œSo if you don’t like this guy, then why are you going to Europia Park with him?” Mia asked, combing her hair with her fingers.
    â€œHe said he knew what happened to that girl in the parking lot, and it’s a free ticket.”
    â€œYou think he was involved? Maybe he’s a drug dealer and he gave her some bad stuff.”
    â€œI don’t think it’s that. There’s something odd about him.”
    Mia’s look was incredulous. “And you wanna go off with him? Good thinking, Sam.”
    â€œThat’s why you’re here. I need you to come with me.”
    She leapt back in surprise. “What?”
    â€œI need a buffer and witness to any possible homicide. My cell phone has a GPS, so in case we split up, at least someone can find my body.”
    â€œWhat if he takes the phone?”
    I rushed to Mom’s nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out the razor she kept under her Bible. “Then I’ll have to cut him.”
    â€œYou can’t take that into the park.”
    â€œI can put it in my shoe.”
    Mia sighed. “In that case, Dougie’s got some brass knuckles.”
    I scoffed. “Too bad he can’t hit worth a damn.”
    During my scavenger hunt for the perfect ensemble, Mia caught me up on the fallout at Virginia Beach. Dougie had gotten