Magnolia's Violet Read online

  Reina smirked playfully, cocked her head to the side as if deep and thought, then smoothly replied, “If you mess up Regina Matley? Like I said before, the kid’s brutal. You mess it up with her, well then I’d say your career’s pretty much finished.”

  Reina must have instantly recognized the absolute look of shock and dismay on my face, because she added, “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad. They’re always hiring at studios that take photos of kids on elementary school picture day. You’ll be almost over-qualified—and they’d be happy to have you.” Her attention returned right back to that computer screen and her fingers danced across the keyboard.

  Click, click, click, click…

  I think she honestly meant for that last part to alleviate my worries.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Farrah

  “Ready? Okay, on three. One… two… three… PULLLL!!!!!!!!!”

  Allison growled with surprising ferocity as the two of us tugged and pulled on a vintage monstrosity of a headboard with all our might. She had found the darn thing stuck in a dumpster behind a random apartment building in Chinatown’s Mott Street earlier that morning, and would not rest until making it her own.

  I clenched my teeth until my head hurt, silently willing for the hunk of wood to somehow loosen up, just enough, so that we could free it without further struggle. Allison and I had been at it for a good twenty minutes by that point, and I was losing stamina—fast!

  “I don’t think it’s going to budge,” I grunted through gritted teeth. “Not unless we start digging some of this other junk out of the way.”

  Please, please, please don’t ask me to go deeper into this dumpster-diving excursion, I thought to myself. The last thing I wanted was to spend that morning—or any morning, for the matter—knee deep in days’ old trash. It was bad enough that Allison made me pick up some old ottoman we’d found tossed by the subway platform, the other day. Foraging for treasure in garbage really was asking too much.

  “Oh, come on, Farrah! We have to get this piece!” Allison declared, undeterred and completely unwilling to consider anything that resembled a reasonable thought or word. “Can’t you see how gorgeous it is? It amazes me that someone actually threw it out—like common trash! I can tell by looking at it that it’s at least one hundred years old… maybe more? So with just the right varnish, we can sell it for a grand, easily. Perhaps two!”

  This is where Shauna’s invaluable PR guidance—her whole appear more real and approachable angle—had gotten me: knee deep in garbage, clawing away through who-only-knows-what, so that Allison could turn around and sell this… massive block of wood… to some rich imbecile. The worst part was that Al hadn’t given me any warning, prior. I was wearing brand new skinny jeans and my favorite sienna suede knee-high boots. And she refused to let me go back to my apartment and change!

  “Is this headboard really worth that much?” I asked, already full knowing the answer. As long as we slapped a tag with Allison’s name on it, there’d be plenty of fools willing to buy it. For some silly reason, though, I had hoped that questioning Allison’s professional judgment might persuade her to have second thoughts and nix the whole thing.

  “You bet it is!” she exclaimed—to which a little piece of me died inside. “You are looking at a prime vintage masterpiece right now. Come on, Farrah, we got this! One more time. On three. One… two… THREE!!!”

  There’s a deafening and obnoxious guttural sound that some athletes make—like tennis players—whenever they hit the ball, or puck, or whatever they’re going after. Well, that was the exact noise that came out of my mouth, I would argue perhaps longer, as Allison and I made that one final, extenuating effort to free her prime vintage masterpiece from the dumpster’s deep, dark clutches.

  By some small miracle of every world religion, we succeeded.

  “Who the heck slept in this thing? Queen Victoria?” I wondered aloud. Tapping the headboard lightly with my foot, I was pretty surprised by how sturdy it was. They weren’t kidding when they said things aren’t made like they used to.

  “We did it!” Allison leaped high off the ground and cheered, her face beaming with delight. “I can’t wait to get to work on this. Help me carry it over to the truck, will ya? Aren’t you glad we drove around in that thing today? Imagine trying to lug a beauty like this on the subway!”

  The scary part was that Allison was dead serious. Had we not driven over to Chinatown in search of antiques and other collectibles, Allison might have very well expected me to help her haul the headboard onto the subway. For the first time in history, I felt incredibly thankful to ride shotgun in someone’s twenty-year-old, beat up pickup truck.

  “Heh, imagine that,” I replied, sadly looking down at the new stains that had made a home on my boots.

  “Wait until we get her back at the shop. I’m going to show you how to sand her down a bit, polish her up, so she’ll look just the way her original owner found her!” Allison patted me on the back. “Now lift and heave!” she commanded.

  Sanding and varnishing. Could the day get any better? I thought bitterly.

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  “Ready? On three! One… two…”

  *

  Only a few hours—very long hours—had passed at Break Through Blocks, when Shauna began blowing up my phone with texts like wildfire:

  Hello? Where are you?

  Farrah? Did you seriously forget?

  No, seriously. Did you forget?

  Tell me that you DID NOT FORGET we have a photo-op on Bleeker. The soup kitchen thing!

  Farrah?

  Farrah???

  FARRAH!?!?!?!!?!

  This was all followed by a bunch of ticked-off and surprised looking emojis that were colorfully thrown into the mix as well.

  Crap.

  I didn’t have enough time to change into a clean outfit, and the one I wore WREAKED from dumpster-diving. But when similar, equally frantic, texts from my mother began to pour in as well, I knew that I didn’t have much of a choice. With a few quick taps on my phone, I scheduled a rideshare to pick me up from Break Through Blocks and drive me straight to the event on Bleeker—Food 4 Ur Soul, a fight-city-hunger soup kitchen for which my father was making a special appearance in order to call public attention to New York City’s working poor.

  The good thing about Allison was that she at least understood I had this other role in my life to fill. In fact, she even offered to volunteer at the drive and give me a lift in the pickup. Although, admittedly, it was a sweet gesture, I’d had enough of her unyielding cheeriness for one afternoon, and desperately needed the break.

  “Oops, I already scheduled a rideshare to come get me. Besides, we’re the only ones working today. Shouldn’t someone stay here at the shop?” I shrugged as if it were humanly impossible to cancel a car service at a moment’s notice. Allison seemed a little disappointed but quickly agreed that, yes, someone needed to hold down the fort—which was a good thing. A ride with Allison to Bleeker might be quicker, but that was a risk I was willing to take.

  The rideshare, thankfully, pulled up in no time, raced against the odds, and left me right at the curb in front of a frantic Shauna—who paced up and down the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, all the while muttering what I was sure were the most colorful of expletives under her breath. When she saw me, Shauna’s eyes went from relief to panic, to outright disgust.

  “What the hell are you wearing and why do you smell like the New York City dump?!?!” Shauna demanded, digging her crimson-colored acrylics into both of my arms and practically dragging me into the alleyway adjacent to Food 4 Ur Soul. “Haven’t you ever heard of something called a little black dress?”

  “I thought you wanted me to appear more personable,” I replied, soothingly rubbing my arms where Shauna’s claws had gotten me.

  “Personable? Personable? Yes. As in relatable. Relatable to the city’s downtrodden. No one told you to show up in public looking like one of them!”

  Now
Shauna was never one to mince words, but that had to have been one of the most insensitive remarks that I ever heard come out of her mouth—and I’d heard her say some pretty nasty things. Completely taken aback, I nervously replied, “Shauna… that’s mean. If we’re helping people, we shouldn’t make fun of them.”

  Shauna rolled her eyes and took another long drag from her cigarette. “Oh grow up, princess. Hold there just a sec.” She texted frantically on her phone, swiping away at the screen like a mad woman on a mission. “Hugo and Seven will be out in a minute to fix… this. You’re a real hot mess this time, Farrah. This, I did not see coming.”

  Hugo was my mother’s stylist; Seven, her makeup artist. Shauna was undoubtedly pulling out the big guns for this one.

  “We can’t do much about the smell,” Shauna continued, pursing her lips as if tasting something incredibly foul and bitter. “Stand still and hold your nose. I’ll spritz you with some of this.” Without allowing me a word in edgewise, Shauna produced a small bottle of frankincense essential oil from her leopard print purse and splashed it all over me. “There,” she seemed somewhat satisfied with herself, “you smell like church.”

  “I’m not really a practicing Christian.”

  “You most certainly are while your father’s running for office,” she snapped.

  “Seriously? I have to put on a show about that now, too?”

  “Don’t have time for this, princess!”

  Before I could say another word, Hugo and Seven seemingly materialized from the sky and into the alleyway, like two runway angels from heaven above—both aghast by my… earthy appearance. Neither even tried to hide his evident disgust.

  “Quick, drag her through the side door. Now! Before someone sees she’s here!” Shauna commanded.

  Obligingly, Hugo and Seven pulled me into Food 4 Ur Soul through an unlocked side entrance and began working on me, wordlessly, as Shauna barked orders like a stark raving mad lieutenant from one of those old war movies they played on the classic channel.

  “Seven, use the bronzer. Not too much. Make it look like she’s not wearing any… skip the brow pencil… skip the shadow… use a little eyeliner… no, not the black—too harsh, use mocha, it’ll look softer… no, no, NO LIPSTICK! DAMMIT! A little gloss… Hugo, not that dress—that one. Not this one. THAT ONE!”

  “Aren’t the dress and those shoes a bit much?” I asked, eyeing the plum colored wrap dress and matching heels, that Shauna had picked out, with skepticism. “Exactly how much work around the kitchen can I honestly do in an outfit like that? Don’t get me wrong; it’s gorgeous. But I can just as easily wear that top, over there on the rack, with those skinny jeans,” I offered, gesturing toward some of Hugo’s other, simpler selections with the hope of trying to quell the intense vibe Shauna was putting out there.

  “No, you cannot wear that. You are still the daughter of a Congressman-hopeful, and we need to knock a few Independents over to our side—you have to wear a dress. It will say, look at me, I am feminine and a winner. Don’t worry about it coming across as too elite; this dress is outlet. Last year’s fall selection. Regular people will love it. I can hear them now, ‘Oh! Did you see Ansari’s daughter’s dress? It’s outlet. Can you believe it? She’s like one of us!’”

  Shauna’s voice then lowered, she looked me dead in the eye, and with absolute conviction, she stated, “Farrah, we need people to see what they want to see.”

  A small part of me wanted to stand up to Shauna, and argue that I was just like everybody else—but then I thought about how no, I really wasn’t. Then I thought about my mother. I thought about how, although Shauna was the one barking orders at that moment, she was, in actuality, just the messenger.

  This was what my family wanted.

  After a few more minutes of Hugo and Seven transforming me into whatever vision they had all imagined, it finally stopped, and I could breathe.

  As a final maneuver, Shauna pulled a simple black hair elastic out of her purse and lifted and secured my hair into a loose-fitting ponytail. Gently, she tugged at a few strands to loosen them up a bit so they could frame my face; and she was finally satisfied.

  “There. The people in charge of this place are going to make you wear a kerchief or hair net, and cover all that beautiful hair up since you’re serving food. You know, health regulations. But this will give you a more relaxed look when you first walk in. You can thank me for my genius later. Go knock em’ dead.”

  Hugo and Seven nodded their heads adoringly, hanging on to Shauna’s every word. Handing me a mirror, I took it wordlessly from Shauna and observed her genius for myself. It was true. Seven’s makeup artistry looked nonexistent as if I’d naturally woken up that way. And the way the wrap dress defined my petite figure was both soft and approachable, while the choice of purple conveyed politics, law, even royalty.

  Wearing my hair pulled back gave me a fresh, poised look, but the light wisps of freed hair seemed like they had just naturally loosened up on their own—like I was on-the-go, getting important things done.

  People would take from it—as Shauna predicted—whatever they wanted to see.

  I felt like a giant fraud.

  *

  “Smile and say, ‘Ansari!’”

  “ANSARI!”

  My parents and I proclaimed our family name with an over-abundance of pride. As excessive flashes bombarded us till the point I felt nearly blinded, I struggled to keep my eyes open and relaxed—smiling bright. The press could never seem to get enough of these photo ops, but could turn on you in a heartbeat. One small grimace or poorly timed eye-roll, and they’d pounce on us in seconds.

  “Councilman, place your arms around wife and daughter,” directed one of the photographers. “Lovely. Farrah, hold up the ladle and smile. Relax your lips a bit. Perfect.”

  More and more little flashes went off until I was all but blinded by white light. I lifted the ladle and leaned over a heaping pot of chicken minestrone, trying the best I could to pose as naturally as possible.

  A growing crowd of people, from every part of the city, gathered all around us. Each adoringly watching my parents and me—especially my mother. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn that she was the one running for office. Although in terms of quantity, my father had done most of the schmoozing with reporters, press, and citizens alike, it was my mom’s well-timed witticisms and particular way of making each person in the audience think she was directly speaking to them, that truly stole the show.

  It was a hard act to keep up with and there was only so much I was willing to take. Leaning over to my mother, I whispered, “I’m thirsty.” I desperately needed a break.

  “A few more photos, dear,” she murmured through frozen teeth. “This will all be over soon enough.”

  Taking a deep breath, I sucked it up and posed for a couple more photos before finally deciding that I honestly had had enough. The moment a cluster of reporters closed in from the sidelines to interview my mom, I stealthily snuck my way across the room to a soda fountain and poured myself a tall paper cup of seltzer water with ice. At that point, neither of my parents seemed to notice or care anymore about what I did, and I finally found my few much needed moments of peace.

  As I people-watched from the sidelines, I couldn’t help but notice that within the larger crowd that had amassed before the press, there were people—actual men, women, and children—who were more occupied with having a chance to eat a warm, cooked meal. By looking at them, I could immediately tell that sitting down to a full lunch was not a luxury easily afforded.

  “Mommy,” I’m still hungry.

  I looked up from where I stood and instantly felt my heart sink. A little girl with a tight, curly ponytail shaped like a little rounded pompom, sadly looked down at the empty plate she had all but licked clean. The girl couldn’t have been much older than six, maybe seven. Even though she was just a child, her eyes were unmistakably lonely and sad, projecting the kind of pain many people could live a lifetime
without ever fully experiencing.

  “Here. Eat some of mine,” her mother offered. Lifting her own plate and fork, the mother carefully slid a small piece of what was left of her chicken breast, with a few sliced carrots on the side. Having not finished a full meal herself, the girl’s mother meekly folded her hands in front of her while her daughter gobbled the rest of the meal up. Not once did the lady complain or allow a single facial feature express discontent. Instead, she remained utterly composed and sat with quiet dignity.

  Had it been my own mother when I complained of hunger as a child, she would’ve chastised me for being unladylike for wanting to overeat.

  “You want to help them all, I know,” a voice whispered behind me. Turning around, I found a woman standing there, probably a few years older than me, of slight frame, wearing all black for the exception of a red kerchief covering her hair. A single strand of black hair had loosened and fell against her cheek. “What you see right there used to be me—a lifetime ago. Now I’m a volunteer; have been for five whole years now,” she shared, her voice flavored with pride.

  “You were homeless, too?” I asked, a bit stunned. The woman didn’t look like some of the homeless I’d occasionally see while walking down a New York City sidewalk.

  “Homeless? No. I was never homeless. Neither are most of the people here. You’re looking at the poor, honey. Working poor, mostly. Sure, a few of them get some help from the government. But this place, here? We’re mainly concerned with those trying just trying to make ends meet. Most of the area’s homeless go down to the shelter two blocks over, or the church.”

  “You look great.” I wasn’t sure what to say without offending.

  “Thank you. I’m doing better these days. Truth is, some months are harder than others. I can only do a little, not the whole thing, to pay for electric or heat so they won’t turn them off. But I’m doing alright for myself. Nothing like it used to be.”