Magnolia's Violet

  Magnolia’s Violet

  Rachael K. Hannah

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Text copyright © 2019 Rachael K. Hannah

  For my cousin, Christina.

  May you forever dance with butterflies.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Sage

  Chapter Two

  Sage

  Chapter Three

  Kat

  Chapter Four

  Farrah

  Chapter Five

  Sage

  Chapter Six

  Sage

  Chapter Seven

  Kat

  Chapter Eight

  Sage

  Chapter Nine

  Farrah

  Chapter Ten

  Kat

  Chapter Eleven

  Kat

  Chapter Twelve

  Sage

  Chapter Thirteen

  Farrah

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sage

  Chapter Fifteen

  Farrah

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sage

  Chapter One

  Sage

  “STOP! HOLD THAT BUS! WAIT FOR ME!!!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I pounded my legs furiously against the city’s pavement as fast as I could, propelling my body forward. Back and forth. Back and forth. The inner music of my breathing danced recklessly, relentlessly, throughout the corridors of my mind.

  With heavy, onerous plods, my black messenger bag whacked against my side in a musical series of slapping THUDS; so I tried to bear down against it with my left arm. Though cumbersome, I somehow managed to secure the bag tightly against me, a rushed attempt to end those aggravating smacks right in their tracks.

  In my right fist, I clenched a cup of coffee. It was the ridiculously overpriced kind, purchased earlier from an obscure, yet trendy, hole-in-the-wall cookie dough shop that had sprung up on Houston Street overnight. My friend, Farrah, had managed to wrangle me inside the damn place, and I quickly found myself regretting every second of it.

  With each motion made as I sprinted down the street, tiny droplets of liquid spurted out from the lid’s teeny opening, like lopsided spots of cocoa-colored confetti, dotting the pavement below.

  New York City’s indomitable rush hour hadn’t quite reached full pitch, but there were still so many people. Swarms of them. And they had me surrounded. Determined and set on their destinations, the crowds somehow merged into a single, impenetrable force—the seemingly endless dance called pedestrian traffic.

  I dodged, ducked, and even shoved strangers aside as I whipped across the sidewalk in hot pursuit of the crosstown bus that I had missed by a few seconds.

  I cried out for the bus to stop, my arm desperately reaching. But, eliciting only a few stares (some puzzled, others annoyed—mostly from tourists not familiar with the crazed rantings one might witness in the city), I sadly watched as the bus drifted farther and farther away from my grasp.

  “SAGE!” Farrah shouted after me as she struggled to keep up. But with my gaze still fixated on that bus, I only willed my legs to move even faster. I wasn’t about to give up. Not yet.

  “SAGE!” Farrah screamed a second time.

  I kept going.

  “You realize this is New York City, don’t you?” She was almost out of breath. “There’s going to be another bus pulling up any second now!” Farrah finally caught up and kept a steady pace at my side. “Where did you learn to run like this? I go for a run nearly every morning, and I can barely keep up with you! You’re like some girl-power superhero!”

  Girl-power superhero. I didn’t feel like one, though.

  Defeated, I watched as the bus zipped farther and farther away, disappearing from my field of vision entirely. Slowing down to a gradual jog and then final stop, I uttered a few choice expletives under my breath. Overtaken by a sudden surge of impulsivity, I swung my leg to the right, kicking the nearest sidewalk corner trash can. All I could see were stars, white hot with anger.

  “Woah! Sage! Chill!” Farrah’s eyes widened, and I instantly knew that kicking the trash can was a bit rash and unnecessary—even for me.

  “Sorry,” I apologized quickly, staring down at my feet. “I’ve been a runner since middle school. Remember? I thought I could catch up with it. The bus.”

  Catch up. I had a lot of catching up to do.

  Since graduating from St. Luke’s College that previous spring, floating shift after countless shift at the campus dining hall grill, and navigating my granted-through-sheer-nepotism-thus-probably-highly-unethical internship at one of the most promising social media sites in Manhattan, I felt utterly lost.

  Only four months had passed since I gazed out into the world’s vast unknown, spread my novice wings, and fallen flat on my metaphorical bottom.

  Oh yeah. And then there was the whole part about dealing with bipolar I disorder and managing that on a daily basis.

  Yes. My name is Sage Sloane, and I am many things. When I was fifteen years old, I learned that one of those things would be living with bipolar disorder. I am managing bipolar disorder. But don’t call me bipolar. Because to use bipolar as an adjective to describe someone—a person— isn’t right. Bipolar doesn’t define who I am. It’s not what makes me, well, me.

  People who don’t know me too well will sometimes make stupid comments, like, “But you don’t act bipolar.”

  Well, first of all, I’m taking medication for it; hence, managing my illness. Whenever someone makes an ignorant comment about it, every fiber of my being wants to scream. I mean, I would hope that meds and therapy would alleviate most, if not all, of the symptoms! It’s like people are surprised that I’m not this depressed and broken shrinking violet all the time.

  My current therapist (and I’ve been through many) seems to think that my depressive episodes tend to manifest themselves more through a thin veil of anger, anyway.

  Depression can sometimes look like that. Angry. Ugly. Everyone’s experience with it is different.

  But yeah. Probably shouldn’t have kicked the trash can.

  Farrah slowly shook her head from side to side in disbelief. She then gave me one of those looks. It involved a tightening of her lips in conjunction with a perfectly executed eyebrow-raise, both conveying the message: What are we ever going to do with you, Sage?

  Nope. Farrah didn’t have to utter a single word—just shoot that look, and I read her loud and clear.

  “What?” I asked, shrugging my shoulders defensively while feigning complete ignorance.

  Placing her hands on her hips and transitioning into full-on-mother-mode (which was somewhat ironic considering that for as long as I’d known Farrah, Mrs. Ansari was usually MIA unless a political function was at stake), she said, “Sage. We can walk there at this point. I don’t think your dad, or anyone from the office, is going to get upset with you. You said it yourself. They’re busy with all kinds of meetings, especially today. So what if we’re a few minutes late? It’s Friday afternoon. Everyone at FEADURHEDZ is probably dying to go home anyway if they haven’t already.”

  Her tone then took on a sudden corny turn. “We c
an do this! Girl-power superheroes!” she exclaimed, raising her hand for a high-five—not ironically.

  Ugh. That was regrettable. I stared blankly in return.

  What Farrah had neglected to include in her impromptu motivational speech (even though I knew she was thinking it) was that my granted-through-sheer-nepotism-thus-probably-highly-unethical internship was also an unpaid internship. I wasn’t in danger of getting canned regardless of how late I showed up.

  Unless I did something super outrageous, like pull the fire alarm or toss the remainder of my fancy-pants coffee on the CEO’s laptop, I’d be just fine.

  The problem was, I wanted the internship to become more, much more. Even if the end goal wasn’t necessarily gaining full-time employment at FEADURHEDZ itself, (which wouldn’t happen anyway as long as my father worked there), I could learn so much more about photography, and the social media world in general, there than at any campus dining hall grill.

  Photography was my life, and I needed HEDZ in my corner!

  Somehow.

  “You don’t get it, Farrah. Dane is going to chop my head off if we don’t get there on time! It’s bad enough they’re already cutting down my hours, my free hours, at the photography department. I don’t need Dad’s pit bull of a personal assistant nipping at my heels as well.”

  “Really, Sage? Pit bull? Dane’s awesome.”

  “Not when he’s in personal assistant mode!” I argued. “You don’t see that side of Dane—I do! He’s like this wacked-out force of nature not to be reckoned with. I do not want to end up on his bad side.”

  “But he’s our friend. You’re making him sound like the co-worker from hell.”

  “In the work world, friends can turn on you in a second.”

  “Girl, stop exaggerating. Dane would never turn on you.” Farrah cocked her head a little bit to the side, like a curious yet befuddled young puppy trying to decipher people-talk. Unable to quite grasp the full weight of my words, Farrah stood there silently, awaiting further explanation. And honestly, when I stepped back and recognized that she was, at her core, a sheltered political debutante, Farrah’s I am the one-percent reaction didn’t surprise me.

  Although quite knowledgeable and worldly, the realm of common sense didn’t exactly fall within Farrah’s party girl grasp. Enrolled in graduate school for art history (of all things—ART HISTORY!?!?!), and without an ounce of student loan debt or real-world bills to impede her, Farrah didn’t have to worry about real-world problems. So, on occasion, I’d have to break down various facts of life for her—in terms she might understand.

  “Farrah, it’s like a social ladder. And I’m here,” I gestured all the way down to the pavement below. “I’m zero. I’m lucky to even have an opportunity to show up and use their Wi-Fi. But I want to move up here,” I motioned somewhere between the ground and my hip. “In photography. Consistently. With pay. It doesn’t even have to be a lot of money. Just enough to pay rent and eat lunch every day. And if I want to get to that level, even though it’s not a very high level to begin with, I can’t show up late. Not now. Not ever.”

  “But your dad—”

  “Even though my dad is here,” I interrupted, motioning higher, about shoulder level, “there are people here,” I stood on my tip-toes and reached way over my head, “who will never, ever let me move up the ladder if they think I’m slacking… or if I get on their bad side.”

  It all had the potential to get Machiavellian, fast!

  Farrah nodded her head instantly, her eyes beaming as if to excitedly declare: I got it! Only she could manage to present first-world ignorance in a way that was almost endearing.

  Almost.

  “Okay, I get it!” she finally said.

  Success!

  “Are we meeting my roommates for dinner and drinks after this? Shaina’s cousin knows the bartender.”

  Cue the record scratch. Annnnnnd, we were back to La-La-Farrah-Land.

  “I don’t know…” I began to protest.

  “Oh come onnnnnnn, Sage. New Peruvian restaurant. Just opened on Houston. I overheard some classmates talking about it the other day.”

  “We were just on Houston, Farrah,” I said. “You even… coerced me into buying this ridiculously expensive coffee from that weirdo cookie place.”

  “Cookie dough.”

  “Cookie whatever! This didn’t even taste fancier than the normal stuff.” I held the cup at eye level and lightly shook it back and forth as evidence.

  Farrah waved her hand dismissively. “No one made you buy that coffee. Please. Just think about going out tonight before you automatically pooh-pooh the idea.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Did you seriously say pooh-pooh? In a sentence? Where are we? 19th century Newport, Rhode Island?”

  “Sage! Anyway, let’s get moving. We’re just standing here. You can’t be late, right? Climbing up that cooperate/creative ladder, and you said so yourself. Got a way to go. Come on!”

  “Okay, okay,” I relented. There was no point in arguing over dinner plans and, well, how I just wasn’t in the mood for any of it… especially dealing with some of Farrah’s arrogant and annoying grad school friends. Meh. And I couldn’t very well afford to stand there on the sidewalk any longer. “Fine. Let’s walk. And I’ll think about dinner.”

  “Deal.”

  We continued our march up north for some time before swinging west to Madison, Fifth, then eventually reached Avenue of the Americas. As we struggled upstream against the obstinate current of the crowds, vehicles that audaciously defied red traffic lights, and the occasional bicycle rider that daringly weaved through it all, I couldn’t help but marvel at all that surrounded us, as if it were my first time seeing it.

  Even though I had practically lived and breathed the city almost my entire life, there was still something unmistakably alluring about its hum, rhythm, and unpredictable synergy that invoked this sense of pure, practically infinite happiness from deep within me. In those moments, we became a part of the noise, the chaos, the commotion, and all I felt was peace — one with the cacophony that belonged to New York City. There just wasn’t anywhere else like it in the entire world. I knew deep down that it was my truly perfect place.

  My home.

  Chapter Two

  Sage

  “Here we go,” I told Farrah as we approached our destination—one of many skyscrapers in a seemingly infinite row of steel and glass that reached as far as I could see. I swear those buildings looked like they were touching the tranquil September sky. When we entered, I led Farrah through the usual round of security clearance checks until we made it onto the elevator that would take us to the 31st floor.

  “Maybe you’ll end up at a place like this after all,” Farrah said, her voice filled with genuine—albeit naïve—encouragement as we walked throughout the hallway.

  Ever the pessimist, I replied with a dismissive, “We’ll see about that.”

  As we passed through the heavy glass doors that read FEADURHEDZ in oversized block print letters, I opened up a bit more. “The bosses sent Jeniyah to Philadelphia about three months ago. You met her before. She’s real chill and would let me help with all sorts of projects. But Jeniyah’s replacement, Adam, is full of himself and doesn’t want my amateur input polluting his brand,” I explained.

  Unfortunately, Adam wasn’t the only problem. The powers that be recently hired a whole mess of people from some major networks, including a few publications dinosaurs looking to stay relevant since print was essentially dead. Everyone at HEDZ had become super nit-picky about every little thing, making it virtually impossible to get anyone to take my work seriously.

  Farrah wasn’t listening to a single word, though. Instead, her attention wavered back and forth between her phone and the cute new guy from sales who paced back and forth in the hallway.

  Sales was too preoccupied with whatever it was that he was thinking about, and didn’t look up at her once. That was odd. Farrah usually had no issue attracting male attenti
on. It also didn’t hurt that her family’s photos were plastered all over the city in her father’s campaign ads.

  “Oh. That’s too bad,” Farrah murmured, her eyes glued to the oversized screen that barely fit in her grasp. “Allison just texted,” she said, loud enough for Sales to hear. “Her brother is deejaying tomorrow night at some club in Bushwick and can get us in. Are you coming? Oh, shoot. Al’s trying to video chat with me now. She always tries to video chat whenever there’s something she wants to show off. Such an attention seeker.”

  I groaned, knowing precisely who Farrah was talking about. Although we had only met once during our senior year at an off-campus party, Allison struck me as an over-privileged, Boston suburb brat who thought she was a big deal. I remembered how Allison had droned on and on about how she was some major social justice warrior, but somehow I doubted that she had ever even stepped foot in Southie.

  “I can’t go,” I replied, keeping my opinion cards close to the vest. “I have the all-day Saturday shift at the grill tomorrow. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, back-to-back.”

  “Cringe-worthy—that’s too bad. You know, you ought to try waitressing. It’ll pay way more, provided you don’t scare all the customers away with your sassy self,” Farrah teased.

  “Meh.” I replied, scowling at the very thought. “I’d probably spill something on someone—on purpose. Better keep me behind the scenes when it comes to the hospitality business. Anyway, Dad’s office is just at the end over there. You remember, right?” I redirected the conversation as we continued down the hallway.

  “It’s been a while, but yes, I remember. This place has changed quite a bit, hasn’t it?” Farrah waved at a couple of turned heads who clearly recognized her from those ads.

  “All of this,” I motioned with one exaggerated wave of the arm, “went through big time renovations.”

  Ever since its successful Chicago expansion, FEADURHEDZ grew momentum seemingly overnight. With two more offices popping up in LA and Philly, and talk of hitting up Nashville and Denver, HEDZ had executed a nearly flawless transition from being considered just another cute quiz-and-meme social media site, to big-time player.