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Isadora checked her wallet. She did this knowing exactly what she would find, but she checked it anyway. The same way you or I might check the mail repeatedly, even though our long distance pen pal just sent their care package of home-cooked goods, and there is no possible way it could have arrived already. Or how we check our oven even though we know for absolute certain that we did in fact turn it off and we remember very clearly doing so and already double-checked it a minute prior, but did we really remember to shut it off?
Sure enough, the last of Isadora’s birthday money was gone. It had been replaced by a bag full of secondhand books, a stomach full of mall kiosk ice cream and soft pretzels, as well as a lingering sense of disappoint from falling to win the giant panther at the arcade’s claw machine game.
Isadora turned away from the shirt in her size that had an image of the ceiling of the Church of the Gesù in Rome and the words ‘If it’s not Baroque, don’t fix it.’
“Quuuiiiglley,” she whined. Her brother looked up from the pile of jeans he was idly sorting through.
“Yes?” he asked. She pointed at the shirt hanging on the rack. He smiled. “That’s pretty funny.”
“Right?” Isadora said. “And it’s only fifteen dollars, it’s on sale.”
“Not bad.” He went back to his jeans.
There was a pause. “Can I borrow fifteen dollars?”
Her brother looked up and sighed. “Did you already spend all your money?” She nodded. “You know, Duncan told you that you weren’t going to win that panther, those things are a scam.”
“Yes well, that does leave me in a pitiable position, doesn't it?” Isadora countered. “I’m in need of an act of charity.”
Quigley rolled his eyes. “I’m saving the money grandma gave us, unlike you two. Hardcover atlases aren’t cheap, and I want to finish my collection on East Asia.”
Isadora frowned, and let him go back to his jeans. She was in a pitiable position, and she needed kindness, not a lecture. She decided to try her luck with her other triplet.
Isadora wasn’t sure where he had wandered off to in the store, but she thought she had seen him head towards the accessories.
“Duncan?” she called, looking down an aisle laden with purses and backpacks.
“What do you think?” he responded, popping out from behind the sunglasses rack, wearing a pair of comically oversized shades that were in the shape of two stars.
Isadora gave him a laugh and a nod of appraisal. “Are you going to buy them?” she asked. Duncan shook his head and put them back on the rack.
“No, I spent the last of my money on more film for my camera.”
Isadora sighed. “Well that makes my question obsolete.” Instinctively, she added, “I must leave the store in defeat.”
“You spent everything already?” he asked, a tone of surprise, as if he weren’t in the same boat. Isadora opened her wallet to show him the scattered change and crumpled receipts. He opened his as well, showing her a similar sight.
Isadora touched her wallet against his, and said a soft, sad “boop,” of solidarity.
“Well, if we’re both broke again, should we see if Quigley’s ready to leave?” Duncan asked, pocketing his wallet.
Isadora did the same. “He’s ready, he told me he wasn’t going to buy anything. He’s planning to save up for an atlas.” Isadora wondered if her brother had the right idea of spending their money a little more carefully.
“Well, then let’s go find Hector and tell him we’re ready to go,” Duncan responded.
Hector! How could Isadora have forgotten him? Her loving, adoptive guardian, who was an adult with a job and a checking account.
“What store did he say he was going to be in?” Isadora asked.
“The hardware store, he said something about getting items to try and stop the bathroom sink from leaking.”
Isadora was off. The mall was big, but she had been going here since she was a little girl, so getting lost wasn’t an issue. She could clearly see in her mind the path to the hardware store that was across the parking lot from the mall’s north exit. Getting distracted however, that was another matter entirely.
Isadora willed herself not to take another browse through the reptile store, or pay a brief visit to the Candle Emporium. She was successful in avoiding detours for the most part, and only stopped for a minute to visit the one-eyed persian cat at the shelter across the street that she had nicknamed Hafiz, the Sufi Master.
Isadora found Hector quickly, already finished with shopping and checking out. Isadora also had apparently not been as efficient in getting to the store as she had thought, because both her brothers were in line with their guardian.
Hector smiled upon seeing her. “Hello, Isadora. Are you ready to go home?”
“Almost,” Isadora told him. “I was wondering if you would be willing to buy me something? A late present to celebrate me turning fifteen?”
Hector frowned. “Didn’t my ma give you kids some birthday money?”
Duncan gave a tragic sigh. “We spent it all.”
“Not all of us,” Quigley corrected.
Hector shook his head. As the cashier rang up his items, their guardian told them a story about the importance of being careful with your money. Isadora tried to listen, but when she really thought about it, head pressed up against the glass car window because it was her turn to ride shotgun, it was really the dumb panther in the vending machine’s fault.
*
The rumor mill ran fast Ophelia Public High School. The Baudelaires had only transferred just days before the start of winter vacation, and Isadora had come back from break to find an onslaught of new gossip.
Only this much was known for sure about the children; Violet was the eldest, sixteen, and in 10th grade. Her brother Klaus was two years younger, and in 9th. Their baby sister was whatever age children were when they were too young for kindergarten but old enough for preschool. The children’s parents had died in a fire, and they had been adopted been an older man named Hal, who worked at the school library.
Isadora was glad she the school didn’t know about her family history. It had been hard enough to lose her parents, but it would have been even harder if the whole town knew about it and were spreading nasty rumors.
People were saying the Baudelaire fire had been started by an evil Count, because the Baudelaires were an extremely wealthy family with an enormous fortune he wanted to steal. Others said the Baudelaire parents had been part of a secret organization, and had defected from the ranks so the organization made an example of them. Even worse, some vicious people said that the children were criminals on the run, and that they themselves had started the fire.
Isadora wished everyone would stop talking about it. There was nothing fun or interesting about losing your home, all your belongings, and your parents. She had almost lost her brother, Quigley, too.
Isadora would never forget what it had felt like, to be all alone in the world with Duncan, not knowing whether or not she was going to lose a third family member, waiting outside the intensive care ward. Isadora still had nightmares. She woke up drenched in sweat, and would have to run her head under cold water before her brain would calm down and remember her she wasn’t trapped in a smoke-filled room.
Of course, there were other rumors about the new students.
Klaus wore glasses and looked intelligent. The school gossiped that he was intelligent. He knew more than all the teachers, he carried around books heavy enough to bowl with, and there were rumors he had an IQ in the 300s. One girl braved up and asked him if the IQ rumor were true, to which he had replied, “I don’t think IQ is a credible way to measure intelligence. It’s an inherently abeslist and classist system.” That made everyone think he was even smarter.
No one had much to say about Sunny. She was a cute, excitable baby and sometimes students would see her walking home with her family. That was, until she bit a second grader and sent him to the nurse’s office. Then the speculations came out with a vengeance. Sunny had teeth sharper than swords. Sunny had once sent a woman to the ER with a torn jugular. Sunny was half-wolf and had been arrested for biting a man to death.
Violet, more than the other two, garnered the most attention. They said she was brilliant, with an IQ also in the 300s. They said she had fixed Mr. Remora’s faulty projector with a paperclip and a piece of gum. Fiona in biology told Isadora she swore she had seen it herself, and Duncan admitted that the projector did smoke less these days. The students said she was named after a woman in a secret organization. The students also talked a lot about how beautiful Violet was.
That one wasn’t a rumor.
Isadora could see that one for herself.
*
It was too early for P.E. It had been too early for P.E. last semester, but now it was winter and the sun rose later and it was definitely too early for P.E.
Granted, it was west-coast winter so there was no snow, but that knowledge didn’t make the frosty air much more manageable.
The school was progressive enough they had Isadora marked in the system with her actual name, instead of her legal one, a fact Isadora was incredibly grateful for. The only downside of this, was Isadora was given the girl’s gym uniform, which was unnersecairly and quite obnoxiously form-fitting.
Isadora stumbled out of the changing rooms, squinting at the change from bright fluorescent lights to the hazy twilight of pre-sunrise. Most of the students were sitting on the damp grass of the track field, some were standing and shivering. A few lucky kids were playing their Gameboy systems they had received over winter break. Isadora frowned, jealous. Even if she hadn’t blown all her Hanukkah and birthday money, she wouldn’t have been able to afford the expensive new console.
Only about three students were doing the actual pre-run exercises the coach had told them to. Violet was among them. Isadora had heard a lot about the new student, but this was her first time seeing her up close. Her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail and her uniform shirt was tucked into her gym shorts, showing off a slender, athletic frame.
She could put her palms flat on the ground. Isadora frowned. Isadora could touch her knees on a good day.
The sun was continuing to slowly crawl up onto the horizon, adding a lovely light pink to the dark blue sky. The sun's light softly framed Violet, making her features glow. Isadora’s hand twitched, feeling the urge to get out her notebook and write down something that rhymed with ethereal.
It was at this moment that Violet looked up, her bangs curtaining her face. Their eyes met, and she offered Isadora a pleasant smile. Isadora quickly found herself looking down at her scuffed Vans that she had poorly spray-painted green with her brothers one boring Sunday afternoon.
A shrill whistle blew. The coach finally arrived to the field, carrying a clipboard and a cup of coffee, wearing sweatpants and a whistle to show off he had the luxury of not running and getting to boss around teenagers.
As the coach ordered them to run their mile before returning for a game of dodgeball, Isadora gave the girl one last glance. Now Violet was staring sadly at her own shoes.
*
Three periods later Isadora found herself bored in chemistry, doodling in the margin of her notebook. She willed herself not to keep glancing at the clock, because next period was lunch and she would be free for a glorious thirty minutes to sit with her friends and not have to do equations. But that last three minutes were just going to keep dragging on longer if she dared to look at the clock. Everyone knew looking at the clock added an extra minute to the wait.
The time crawled by until the bell eventually rang. The class quickly sprang into action, throwing books into bags and tearing out the door. Isadora took her time, not wanting to push through the crowd into the lunch room. By the time she had her bag slung onto her shoulder, there was only her and a boy left in the room.
He began walking towards her. “Hey, you’re that nerdy girl who write poetry. Right?”
Isadora crossed her arms. “Why?” she asked. “Are you going to beat me up?”
The guy laughed. “No, I just uh…” he scratched at the back of his neck. “My girlfriend’s birthday in next week.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Ok?”
“Well, she really likes poetry. I was wondering if you could help me write something for her?”
Isadora mulled over the proposition. It seemed harmless enough. “Sure, why not?”
The boy’s face lit up, “Thank you! I’m really no good at that kind of artsy stuff. How much do you want?”
“Want what?”
“Money.”
Isadora nearly did a spit-take.
“Money?!”
*
“So he started with ‘Roses are reds, violets are blue,’” Isadora said, laying on Duncan’s bed, ignoring the textbook open in front of her.
Duncan swiveled in his chair from his desk to look at her. “Did he really?”
Isadora scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, but that was as far as he got.” She rolled over onto her back, looking up at the ceiling. “In the end I just offered to write it for him, but I think that’s what he wanted all along. I think he was worried it would be an insincere gift if he didn’t at least pretend he wanted to write it first.”
Duncan laughed. “Yeah, but a lot of people commission poets. That's how some artists made a living.”
Isadora grinned. “Yep, and that’s how I’m going to make mine!” She pulled the crumpled five dollar bill out of her pocket and waved it in the air. “Legal tender!”
Her brother clapped his hands together. “Wow!”
“How does my heart beat for you, Emberly? As loud as the cheering of an assembly,” Isadora recited.
Duncan raised an eyebrow.
“Apparently, this girl really likes school assemblies.”
“Is she the one who brought an air horn to the anti-drug seminar, and clapped everytime the speaker said something?” Duncan asked.
Isadora nodded. He shrugged. “Well, happy birthday to air horn girl, I guess.”
The door opened, and the triplets looked up to see Quigley walking into the room.
“Are you two studying for chemistry?” he asked. Duncan nodded, Isadora gestured to her textbook on the bed.
“Me too,” Quigley held up his own textbook. “I can’t believe we’re getting assigned so much homework right after break.”
He walked across the room and sat down on Isadora’s stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She quickly retaliated by grabbing one of Duncan’s pillows and hitting Quigley across the face with it.
“Off me, you beast!”
Quigley laughed, and scooted off to sit on the bed next to her. “So, heard you wrote Emberly a birthday poem.”
“How do you know about that?” Duncan asked.
Quigley shrugged. “I think I heard about it from someone in gym.”
“Since when has Ophelia had anything interesting to gossip about?” Isadora asked, rolling her eyes.
“Well, they’ve had the Baudelaires, I guess,” Duncan said. A quiet fell over the three siblings. After a moment, Duncan quietly added, “I wish they wouldn’t though.”
“People stare at them like they’re zoo animals,” Isadora grumbled.
“I feel bad for them, what they’ve been through is difficult enough without people loudly whispering about it in the hallways,” Quigley added.
“The boy, Klaus, seems really nice.” Duncan smiled. “He sits next to me in English.”
“Isn’t he a ninth grader?” Quigley asked.
Duncan shrugged. “He said he already read everything on the freshman class reading list, so they moved him to the sophomore class.” Duncan gave a chuckle at that. “But he admitted to me he’s already read everything on the sophomore list too.”
Isadora thought to add Violet was in her gym class, but realized she didn’t have anything of note to say about that. All she had done was stare at the eldest Baudelaire like all the other rumor-spreading students. Isadora sighed.
“Maybe we should actually start studying?” Duncan suggested.
Isadora sighed again.
*
Isadora regretted putting off the mile run. It was bad enough the rest of the clase all got to watch and judge her, so she kept putting it off again and again as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. Now the field was more visible than ever and she felt the sun trying to burn a hole in the back of her head as she wheezed around the track field.
Her lungs burned, her feet hurt, her back felt damp with sweat and her throat ached from her harsh gulps of air. She was in the last stretch, coming closer to the crowd of students. Most of them milling about, bored. A few procrastinators wrung their hands nervously, realizing it would soon be their turn next. A few more feet and-
“Time!” yelled the coach. Isadora doubled over and tries catch her breath. “Eighteen minutes and forty five seconds!”
A few students laughed. Isadora’s face burned. She slumped down next to the chain link fence surrounding the field. She rested her chin on her knees and shut her eyes, trying to go back to her nap she was having earlier while waiting for her name to be called. It was no use though, the sun was too bright and she was uncomfortable sweaty mess. Instead she just sat there and panted.
“How concerned are you about germs?” a voice asked above her.
Isadora squinted up to see an amused face framed by dark hair and the glow of the sun. It was Violet Baudelaire, holding out a half-empty water bottle.
It took Isadora a second to register what Violet meant. “Concerned enough to waterfall.”
Violet smiled, and handed her the bottle. “That would suit my level of comfort as well.”
Isadora held the bottle a charitable height above her and poured. She would have been embarrassed she spilled a decent amount on her face and shirt, but she was already soaked.
“Not so concerned with germs to be ungrateful, though,” Isadora commented, handing the water back. “Thank you.”
Violet grinned again and crouched down next to her. Isadora became hyper-aware of how badly she must stink.
Violet was staring off into the distance, a daydreaming expression in her face. Despite her total uninterest in looking at Isadora, Isadora still was all too conscious of how tangled and frizzy her hair probably was at that moment.
Isadora usually wasn’t the most talkative of people. She supposed having extroverts for brothers made her socially relient, happy to listen instead of talk. However, she suddenly felt a strong need to start a conversation before she could focus too heavily on every detail she didn’t like about herself.
“I should take a page out of your book,” Isadora began. Violet glanced over. “I didn’t understand why anyone would volunteer for the mile run first thing, but it was clever to do so before it got so hot out.”
Violet smiled. Isadora was surprised to see it was a bit shy. “Also before the sunlight. So everybody isn’t able to stare."
Isadora said nothing. The obvious response was that she was surprised Violet was self-conscious about people watching her run when Violet was so athletic and graceful. But Isadora didn’t want to say that, so Isadora said nothing.
Instead, Violet spoke up. “I hope this isn’t too prying, but I’ve really wanted to ask.” Isadora looked over, and after a split second of eye contact Violet’s gaze instantly shot downwards.
She was quiet a moment, then continued, somewhat meek, “My brother was talking to a boy in his English class who looked remarkably similar to you.”
“Oh, yeah. That was probably Duncan,” Isadora said.
“Are you twins?”
Isadora grinned. “Nope, triplets.”
As usual, a look of surprise and interest sparked on Violet’s face. Isadora knew exactly what was coming next and could have said the words right along with her, “Really? What’s that like?”
“I mean,” Isadora heistated. Her usual response to this annoying question was quite rude, and she did not want to be rude to Violet Baudelaire. “I don’t know. Just normal, for me.”
“Ah,” some pink came to Violet’s cheeks. “That was silly of me. I bet you get inane questions like that all the time. I’m sorry.”
“Not really,” Isadora lied.
Violet raised an eyebrow.
“Well, fine I do. But at least you didn’t ask if I had physic twin powers.”
Violet grinned. “Do you have physic twin powers?”
Isadora felt herself smiling as well. “I can’t tell you that, the government would track me down to experiment on me.”
“I promise I won’t tell the government.”
Isadora pressed her lips together and shook her head. Violet laughed. It was a nice sound, deeper than Isadora expected.
The conversation waned and silence crept back in. Usually Isadora liked sharing silence with company, but rarely was she in the company of people she did not know well. This was a painful silence, that Isadora spent hoping her sweaty back wasn’t noticeable, and agonizing over the fact that Violet smelled good and life was unfair.
“Why do they time the students individually?” Violet asked, eyes out on the field.
“Oh, the PTA said it was too competitive otherwise,” Isadora answered.
“What? But we are still having our time recorded, compared, and judged,” she said. “How is that any less competitive?”
Isadora shrugged. The PTA had a lot of strange ideas. It was mostly filled with onry grandparents who kept trying to add birdwatching to the curriculum.
Isadora didn’t have any more input, so instead she said, “The school invented a sick game no one could win. They added some uniforms, and called it gym.”
Violet laughed again, and it sounded just as nice the second time. “That’s fantastic, who said that?”
“Me, just now.”
“A poet!” Violet grinned. “That format sounds familiar. Doesn't Ogden Nash write two rhymings stanzas?”
“You know Ogden Nash? Do you read a lot of poetry?” Isadora asked, excited. Violet shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I just know of him because of my brother,” she explained. Isadora tried not to look to disappointed.
“So, does your brother enjoy poetry?” Isadora continued, not wanting the conversation to lull.
“He likes a bit of everything,” Violet told her.
The whistle blew again, startling the two girls. They looked up to see the coach addressing the group of students gathered next to the track. He announced that they had ten minutes to hit the shower before next period, and her classmates cheered loudly.
“Well, I suppose we can talk more next time,” Violet told her. She stood up gracefully, dusting the grass off her knees. “Then you can tell me what your siblings special interests are.”
“Sounds pleasant,” Isadora replied. Violet smiled, and then joined into the crowd.
As Isadora made her way to the changing rooms, she was shocked by a startling revelation. For the first time in her life, Isadora Quagmire was sad gym class had ended.
*
“I think Ophiocordyceps unilateralis is far more interesting than the migration patterns of the American Crow,” Fiona hissed from over her open textbook.
“I understand you feel that way but I just can’t bring myself to agree,” Quigley whispered back.
The near-silent argument had been going on in the library for nearly an hour. Isadora rubbed at her temples.
“I respect wanting to tailor the project to your interest, but at this rate we will never be finished,” Isadora told the quarreling two. It wasn’t a perfect rhyme, but they were giving her a headache.
Quigley sighed. “You’re right, we’ll just have to find something we all find interesting. Although considering Fiona’s narrow field of passion, I don’t think it will be easy.”
Fiona grimaced. “All you’re passionate about is maps. I can’t think of anything more dull.”
“I can,” Isadora stood up from the table. The two stopped glaring to look at her. “Sitting around and watching my friends argue.”
Frustrated, Isadora walked briskly out of the non-fiction section.
Isadora walked with her hands clenched past the foreign languages, but by the time she was in front of the children’s section, she felt a pang of regret. Perhaps, she shouldn’t have been so short with her companions.
Isadora was about to turn back when a familiar laugh caught her. She turned, seeing a group of people sitting on the bright bean bag chairs around the small tables in the children’s section.
A boy with messy hair and glasses was reading from a book with gusto and a wide grin. Next to him sat Violet Baudelaire with a young girl on her lap. Violet’s hands were wrapped around the child, and Violet had her chin resting on her head, smiling wide and laughing at whatever the boy was saying.
Isadora watched, a warm feeling in her chest. She was enthralled with the moment, so it was needless to say she was quite startled when someone behind her tapped her on the shoulder.
Isadora whirled around, and was face to face with a boy with braces she didn’t recognize.
“Are you Isadora Quagmire?” the boy asked.
Isadora nodded, trying to overcome her surprise.
“So you wrote that poem for my friend’s girlfriend?”
Isadora nodded again.
“Oh! Well, I thought it was really cool-
“Thank-”
“-And you see there’s this girl, I,” the boy’s voice went an octave higher and he broke eye contact. “Well there’s this girl in my biology class whose really beautiful and I was wondering if you could write something for me to tell her how I feel?”
Isadora looked over her shoulder, thinking of her own biology classmates she had so abruptly abandoned. She took a step in their direction.
“Sorry, now isn’t a very good time-”
“I’ll pay you!”
Isadora stopped in her tracks.
When she did return to group’s in the non-fiction section, it was with a nervous air and a wallet six dollars fuller.
Quigley and Fiona smiled at her return.
“I’m sorry I was so short with you two,” she told them.
Her brother shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Isadora.”
“Yes, that was our bad,” Fiona agreed. “The two of us argue enough to drive anyone up the wall.”
“Or to the other side of the library,” Quigley joked.
Isadora grinned. “Well, not to worry. It was a profitable journey.”
The two looked at her curiously.
“I got paid for another poem,” she told them. “I rarely pay attention to the lectures in biology, for I find your beauty such a novelty.” Isadora sat back down at her seat. “Speaking of, have you decided on topic for our group project?”
Fionna nodded. “We decided to write about badgers habitats, studying the layout of their dens is pretty fascinating.”
“And their diets are so varied, I think how they eat types fungi is rather interesting,” Quigley added.
Isadora thought for a moment, then said, “While badgers are an interesting topic to comprehend, I am more glad you two are still friends.”
The two laughed.
*
Isadora scanned the cafeteria for her brothers, tray in hand. She was forever grateful their lunch periods overlapped, braving the mess hall alone had been a nightmare last year. High School was too unpleasantly overcrowded, and too many of those crowds were overly unpleasant.
Though lost in her thoughts, Isadora managed to catch a glimpse of the identical boys in the mingling crowd. With a grin, she walked over to join them.
“Well, if isn’t our profitable poet prodigy progeny,” Duncan said, smiling.
“I appreciate the alliteration, but progeny would mean you’re my parent, not my sibling,” Isadora informed him, placing her tray down next to his.
Duncan sighed. “Yeah, I know. It was the only ‘p’ letter for family I could think of, though.”
“Puh-elative?” Quigley offered.
“I haven’t heard that word before,” Isadora admitted, sitting between the two. “What is it?”
Quigley shrugged. “Relative pronounced wrong.”
Isadora rolled her eyes. “That’s puh-tupid.”
Duncan laughed.
“So you’re on your what, third commission?” Quigley asked.
Isadora shook her head. “No, I’ve only written two poems for other people so far.”
“Oh, there was a boy from the football team asking for you earlier,” Duncan told her. “I assumed he had found you.”
Isadora grinned. “Really? That’s great! Four more dollars and I can get that Baroque sweatshirt!” She stood up from their lunch table, looking around. “Do you know who he is? Is he in the cafeteria?”
“Probably somewhere with the other jocks,” Duncan told her through a mouthful of lasagna.
Eager, Isadora stood up, informing her brothers she would be right back. She navigated the room, looking for the gaggle of boys who always sat together in their letterman jackets. While she was at it, she also scanned the cafeteria for any other familiar faces, curious if anyone else she knew had lunch at this hour.
She knew Fiona unfortunately did not, but maybe some other students she knew did. Maybe Violet Baudelaire did.
Isadora, despite her search as she walked, did not find any other familiar faces, or any Baudelaires. She did find the table where the football players sat, and she tried to let that victory quell her disappointment.
Isadora approached the group. “I heard one of you were looking for me?” She asked.
“Are you the poetry girl?” Asked a gangly boy with freckles.
Isadora nodded, and the group burst into uproarious laughter.
“It’s your chance, loverboy,” the freckled boy declared, elbowing his friend next to him. A boy with messy red hair.
The red haired boy stood up, rolling his eyes and rubbing at his elbowed side.
Isadora stood patiently, waiting for him to get up. Figuring he wanted some privacy from his rambunctious friends, she stepped further back, away from the table and towards the windows overlooking the campus.
“So, are you the one who wrote that poem about Violet Baudelaire?” the boy asked.
Isadora spluttered, caught off guard. “I’ve never written a poem about Violet Baudelaire,” she protested.
At least, never publicly. Isadora had only ever thought to herself poems about Violet. Such as, ‘This early in the day I expect to eat cereal,Not be enchanted by imagery so ethereal,’ during that first period gym class.
“So you didn’t write that poem about biology class for that braces kid?” The boy asked.
“No I did write that,” Isadora paused. “Wait! Was that poem for Violet Baudelaire?!”
The boy nodded. “Apparently, she liked it.”
“Did she like the boy who gave it to her?” Isadora asked, her heart beating frantically.
The red headed student scoffed. “That guy? No, he was a nerd.” He laughed. “Of course she turned him down. But she liked the poem, so maybe if she got one from someone cooler, she’d go out with them.”
Isadora bit at the inside of her cheek. “I’ve written a lot lately, I think I’m all poem-ed out.”
“Please?” He asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ll pay you!”
Isadora hesitated. She was strapped for cash, and could always use the money. She didn’t get an allowance like other kids her age. But she shook her head again. This boy was rude and she didn’t want to encourage him to pursue Violet.
“Fifteen dollars!” He said.
“Okay,” she sighed.
Isadora’s resolve was apparently as flimsy as her wallet.
*
As the weeks went on, Isadora wouldn’t say she was ungrateful to share a class with Violet Baudelaire. However, she did wish with all her might that class could have been anything but gym.
It was getting closer to the end of January, but no warmer. Isadora stood in her uniform, her exposed knees knocking together as she tried to stop her teeth from chattering.
“Good morning,” Violet told her, stepping over to join the shivering girl. “Do you know what we’re doing today?”
“Dodgeball.” Isadora would have sighed through a shudder if she could.
“Hm,” Violet hummed, not seeming pleased at the prospect either.
Isadora looked out at the dim field. The students were milling about, waiting for their chronically late coach.
“So-”
“So-”
The two girls stopped and started at the same time.
Isadora laughed nervously. “You go.”
Violet smiled. “So, what are you interested in besides poetry?”
Isadora grinned. “Art history! I love history in general, but art history especially. It really shows what the cultures valued at the time, you know?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, I suppose,” Violet admitted. “Do you have an interesting art history fact for me?”
Isadora thought for a moment. “Did you know the Italian artist Caravaggio had a terrible temper? He once threw a plate of artichokes at a waiter who had annoyed him, because the waiter didn’t tell him which of the artichokes were butterted.”
“That’s terrible!” Violet gasped. “But it is amazing that such a small fact about an artist from the 1600s survived so long.”
“He did all sorts of things like that, I read it in a book about ancient Roman police reports. We think of historical figures as so dignified, but people have always been people, haven’t they?”
Violet considered this. “So, which do you like more, the art the artists created or the strange things they did in life?”
“Oof! Don’t make me choose,” Isadora groaned. Violet laughed.
“I suppose it would be a hard choice,” Violet agreed. “So, what did you want to ask me?”
Isadora smiled. “What do you like to do with your free time?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Violet told her. “I love to make things.”
“What sort of things?”
“I like to invent things that serve a function, usually to make someone’s life easier,” Violet told her. Her face was glowing, clearly thrilled to speak about something she loved so much.
Isadora’s heart painfully slammed into her ribcage at full force.
“What’s the thing you’ve made that you’re most proud of?” Isadora asked, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.
Violet’s face lit up. She clasped her hands together, a starry look in her eyes. But before she could even open her mouth to begin, a shrill whistle sounded throughout the field. The coach approached the field, and a chorus of groans from students followed in his wake.
Isadora groaned along with them.
*
Isadora sat in the library, across the table from her most recent customer. He was the sixth to have approached her, and the fourth to be interested in Violet Baudelaire.
“So, what do you like about her?” Isadora asked, gnawing on the edge of her pen and trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of annoyance at who she was writing the poem for.
The boy shrugged. “She’s pretty.”
“Alright, pretty,” Isadora wrote down the word in her journal. “Is there anything else about her you want me to mention in your poem?”
“Uh… she’s quiet?”
Isadora raised an eyebrow. “You like the fact she’s...quiet?”
The boy shrugged again.
“So you like her because she’s pretty, and quiet?” He nodded. Isadora tried not to roll her eyes. “With a type like that, are you sure you wouldn’t rather pursue an actual violet?”
He didn’t react, the comment seemed to go right over his head. Isadora bit at the inside of her cheek. Was this really worth eight dollars?
“No, I like Violet,” he told her, after a moment of thinking on her words. “That’s why I want to write her a poem.”
“About how quiet and pretty she is?” Isadora asked. He nodded. “That could be about anyone, though. Why not add some personal details in it?”
“Like her name?” he asked.
Isadora tried not to roll her eyes.
“No, something specific you like about her. Her smile, her laugh, her interests.” Isadora smiled, thinking of Violet’s laugh. “Something that shows you know her, and admire her. Like how you like how her bangs frame her face, or how you like the way she lights up when she talks about her hobbies.”
The boy shook his head. “No, I think it’s more personal to add her name. That way she knows it’s for her.”
Isadora pinched at the bridge of her nose and took a long, deep breath. She shut her eyes tight, counted to five, and then opened them again. “Alright, alright.”
She grabbed her journal and ripped out a page, and quickly scrawled out the words; Equal parts brilliant and quiet, There’s no sight lovelier than a violet.
When she finished she pushed it towards her customer. “How’s that?” She asked.
He scanned the page and frowned. “Her name should be capitalized. I learned that in English class,” he told her. “It’s a grammar thing.”
Isadora reached over the table to point at the sentence. “It’s a pun. A violet, as in a singular flower. Not capitalized Violet, as in the girl. Because flowers don’t talk.”
His brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t understand.”
“She will. Knowing her, I bet she’ll find it witty and charming.” Isadora shrugged. “I think she would rather enjoy a good-natured jab at her quiet nature that compares her to her namesake, rather than have her lack of speaking be considered an attractive quality.”
He stood up from the table and pocketed the paper. “If you say so.”
After handing Isadora the money, he left. Isadora watched him go, rubbing the crumpled bills between her hands. She wasn’t sure which she found more unpleasant. The fact the boy was giving Violet a poem he didn’t understand, or the fact Isadora wouldn’t get to see Violet’s laugh when receiving it.
*
The rumor mill at Ophelia Public High School span faster as January came to a close. February was on the way, and Valentine’s steady approach left most of the students in a tizzy.
It also left Isadora’s pockets brimming with bills. Poems were in higher demand than ever before, as the mill churned out embellished truths and downright lies about Isadora Quagmire’s poetry.
It was said a poem for Isadora Quagmire was magic, and could get any girl to fall for you. That it would make a girlfriend overlook any forgotten anniversary or birthday. It was said her poems were heartfelt, clever, and downright romantic. It was said Violet Baudelaire was receiving poems by the armful, and was enamored with every boy who gave her one.
It was true that Phoebe, a senior on the tennis team did forgive her boyfriend for standing her up on her birthday dinner after he gave her a poem, and that Violet was receiving at least five poems a week. Though, of course the poems were not magic, and Violet had yet to fall for anyone. At least, that’s what Duncan was told by a friend on the school newspaper.
Duncan said, that his friend had said, that he overhead a girl on the swim team overheard a girl in Violet Baudelaire’s Home Economics class overhead Violet talking to a boy in the library.
The conversation went, apparently as follows; A junior had just given Violet a poem, and asked if she was interested in dating him. She thanked him for the poem, and said that she was sorry, but she would have to politely decline. When the boy asked if she liked any of the suitors who were giving her poems, she told him that she enjoyed the poems, even if she was rather overwhelmed by all the attention. But that the person she was interested in dating was someone who hadn’t given her a poem yet.
Once that piece of information got out, Isadora’s business surprisingly tripled. While Violet’s comment had dashed the hopes of every boy who had given her a poem so far, it had only embellished the hopes of her admirers that hadn’t given her one yet.
This is why Isadora spent her Saturdays at the mall with her brothers, her hand cramping from writing so much, but her bags full of purchases.
Duncan leaned on the side of the claw machine, watching his sister from under oversized star-shaped sunglasses. In one hand he held the large garlic and cheese soft pretzel she had bought him, and in the other the new camera bag, that she had also bought him.
“Aren’t you tired of losing?” he asked.
Isadora rolled up the sleeves of her ‘If it’s not Baroque, don’t fix it’ sweatshirt, and pushed up her own oversized sunglasses, these ones heart-shaped, up out of her face. She put down the bag she was carrying, which held a new mug for Hector and a bundle of peach-scented incense for her grandmother.
“Believe with determination that today is the day, Many a victory has been achieved that way,” she told him.
She couldn’t tell if he was rolling his eyes, but he probably was.
Isadora ignored him, placing in her arcade tokens with confidence. She let the wave of electronic sound of all games wash over her, and cleared her mind. She let her focus fixate not on the blaring arcade music, or the sound of teenagers laughing and yelling, but on the big brown eyes of the large panther stuffed animal. They called to her, and today was hopefully the day she would answer that call.
Thirty minutes and ten dollars later, Duncan got bored and wandered off to go see if any of his friends from the school newspaper were around.
Another hour passed, and Isadora’s wallet was empty. The panther’s marble brown eyes shone, and it’s glossy black fur looked soft to the touch. It, however, still remained in the claw machine. In fact, the panther had barely moved. The toy had made in close to the exit, only to later get knocked back into its original spot.
Isadora sighed, gathering her bags she had put down.
“Hey!” A familiar voice called. Isadora looked up to see Quigley walking into the arcade.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he told her. He had a shopping bag on his arm and was holding the hardcover atlas of East Asian Rivers she had bought for him earlier in the day.
“I am, but I was just about to leave,” she told him.
“Sounds good, Hector said he wanted us back in the movie theater parking lot by three. Duncan and I were about to head over, unless you still have things to buy?”
Isadora turned out her pockets, revealing only lint. Quigley clicked his tongue.
“Did you really spend all your money on that claw machine again, Isadora?” He asked. She didn’t meet his gaze. “Come on, sis. That’s the fourth week in a row.”
“I know, I know.” She quickly changed the subject as they walked out of the arcade and back into main center of the mall. “So what did you buy?”
“This?” he asked, raising his bag. “Just some more books from the second-hand store.” His face brightened. “Oh! I found that old book you loved as a kid, with the submarines and sea monsters.”
Excitement washed over Isadora. She hadn’t thought about those books in years, but she remembered them instantly. She had spent many a middle school night with those books, curled up under her blankets and reading secretly by flashlight long past bedtime.
“No way!” she cried. She lunged forward, grabbing the bag. “Show me, show me!”
“Ack- give me a second!” Quigley groaned, pushing her off. He reached for the bag, but she was already pulling it off his arm. The only problem was it was the bag highest on his arm, so Isadora accidently pulled off two other bags with it. Both she and Quigley lunged at the same time so as not to let all his purchases scatter all over the mall, and collided with eachother quite painfully.
Isadora stumbled back, falling down onto her back. She had a lap full of books, and a throbbing pain in her head. She groaned, rubbing the spot where she had accidentally headbutted her triplet and stood up, surrounded by a chorus of concerned mumbles and giggles.
“I said give me a second,” Quigley groaned, also from where he had been knocked onto the ground.
“Sorry,” she smiled sheepishly.
Isadora stood up, paying no mind to the people who had stop or slowed their walking to look at the two. She began gathering the books that had fallen, but stopped when she heard something.
It was a quiet noise, but a familiar one. Isadora looked around. Most of the people who had stopped had gotten their laughs out or deemed that the two were okay, and were beginning to return to their own business. As the crowd dispersed, Isadora saw her.
A few dozen yards in front of the two was the little square of snack kiosks. She may have been standing behind the smoothie stand counter, wearing a uniform apron and hat, her hair in a bun instead of it’s usual style, but Isadora quickly recognized Violet Baudelaire.
Her expression was amused, face hidden behind her hand. But Isadora knew Violet had laughed, she had heard it.
The two made eye contact, and Violet suddenly looked nervous. Her eyes grew wide and she jerked her hand down, knocking over a blender in the process. It clatterted to the counter, spilling over her apron.
Isadora quickly gathered the rest of the things and then began walking over to the smoothie kiosk. Violet was frantically grabbing paper towels and wiping up the mess, obviously trying not to make eye contact.
“Hey, Violet,” Isadora mumbled.
Violet’s eyes snapped up before quickly looking back down. “Oh goodness, uh, hello, Isadora.”
“Need a hand?” Isadora offered.
Violet shook her head. “No I’ve got this, sorry-” she bowed her head down. “How embarrassing.”
Isadora gave a nervous laugh. “Well I guess we both just humiliated ourselves then.”
A smile crept on Violet’s lips. “I’m sorry to have laughed at you, I didn’t mean to be unkind,” she admitted. “I really just thought it was endearing you wanted to read a book so badly you tackled your brother.”
Isadora’s face flushed. Not only had Violet seen the tumble, she had overheard them as well.
“Oh. Y-yeah w-well-” Isadora stuttered out incomprehensibly.
Violet looked up properly for the first time, her grin a little mischievous.
“I take it that it’s a good book?” she asked.
Isadora scratched at the back of her neck with her free hand, her face heating up. “Uhm, I mean I really liked it as a kid at least.”
“I don’t think there’s anything amiss with enjoying children’s books,” Violet told her. “I still get some of my elementary school favorites from the library. If anyone gives me peculiar looks, I just say they’re for my little sister.”
Isadora grinned. “I wish I had that excuse. Duncan is younger, but only by a couple minutes.”
Violet looked amused. “You keep track of that?”
“Yes, Quigley’s the eldest.” Isadora pointed at herself. “I’m the middle. Second’s the best, as they say.”
Violet looked up from her blender with a glint in her eyes. “In this case, I think I’d have to agree.”
Isadora felt her face flush bright red. With immense gratitude for her brother, he took that moment to step in and place his hand on her shoulder.
“We should probably be heading out, right, sis?”
Isadora nodded, still too flustered to speak. Quigley offered his name and his hand to Violet, who returned it with an introduction and a shake.
“It was nice to see you,” Violet told Isadora. “Even you saw me spill a smoothie on myself.”
“It was nice to see you too,” Isadora replied. “Smoothie-covered and all.” Violet laughed again, that lovely sound.
The siblings left, walking to the mall exit.
“So, that’s your Violet Baudelaire? From the poems?” Quigley asked. It was innocent enough a question, but the phrasing and look he gave her was anything but innocent.
“Don’t make me headbutt you again,” Isadora grumbled.
*
Valentine’s day was a week away, and the weather was finally beginning to heat up. Isadora had prayed for more sunshine in early morning gym, but now she was playing for a little cloud coverage. She should have been more specific in her prayers. She didn’t want it to be this hot out.
“So your brother was able to get his article published in the city newspaper?” Violet asked, jogging at a steady pace.
Isadora nodded, feeling a little breathless running to keep up with Violet. “Yeah, my parents were really proud. They hung it on the fridge and everything.”
“Well I would be proud too, that’s amazing! And he was only eight.”
“He’s always had a knack for writing,” Isadora panted.
Violet grinned. “Just like you.”
“No, I just write couplets…”Isadora trailed off. “How do you know what my writing is like?”
Violet looked down. She must have started to feel winded, because her face was getting pink. “I suppose I don’t, knowing you I just assumed it would be brilliant.”
Before Isadora got a chance to respond, she realized Violet wasn’t winded at all. The girl must have been slowing her pace to talk to Isadora, because she seemed to speed up without even realizing it, and was soon a lap ahead of her.
*
“Busy, busy, busy,” Isadora mutterted, glue stick in hand. Between taking notes for chemistry and all the poems she did today, her fingers had begun cramping. Fiona had graciously stepped in for her friend and took over cutting out the pictures of badgers from magazines, and instead given Isadora the easiest job of pasting them to them to their poster board.
“At least tomorrow’s saturday?” Fiona offered. They were in the library, but it was the nice librarian, Ms. Strauss working today, so they spoke at a normal volume.
Isadora groaned in response.
“No, saturday’s the problem,” Quigley looked up from writing their report. “It’s Valentine’s day.”
“Oh,” Fiona clicked her tongue. “So even if you’re not busy with school, you’re busy with poems.”
Quigley nodded. “She’s working triple time.”
“Couldn’t you just say no?” Fiona said. “I feel like this poem business is starting to take a toll on you.”
Isadora capped the glue stick so to not let it dry out while she waited for Fiona to hand her the next badger. She had gotten so caught up in writing all these poems, she hadn’t stopped to consider the idea of taking some time off. Maybe it would do her some good, she could always start up again if she needed the cash.
But… the panther. Isadora sighed. She needed that money to try and win her. Isadora gave her head a small shake. It, not her.
Then again, if she kept writing poems for boys at this rate, soon her hands would be too cramped to even try and use the claw machine. Fiona was right. She needed a break.
“You’re right, Fiona.” Isadora gave a confident nod. “As of today, until further notice, Isadora Quagmire is not longer a poet for hire!”
“Really? What a shame,” said a voice behind her.
Isadora spun around to look up at the speaker. Sure enough, her ears did not deceive her. It was Violet Baudelaire.
Isadora cleared her throat, trying to recover from her shock. “I-is it?”
“Yes,” Violet nodded. “Unfortunately, I was coming over to see if I could commission you. Duncan said I would find you here.”
Isadora was floored. Did this mean Violet knew she was the one writing all of those poems? With a shaking voice she asked, “How did you know I was selling them?”
Violet seemed to be suppressing a smile. “Well, I wasn’t sure. I’ve just noticed it seems giving someone a poem is the thing to do at Ophelia High if you’d like to ask someone out.” Violet tilted her head at Isadora. “And you’re a poet.”
“Oh!” Isadora gave a sigh of relief. So it seemed Violet hadn’t caught on Isadora had written all those poems. But the relief was short-lived. This meant Violet had someone she wanted to ask out. Isadora’s heart gave a painful thump in her chest. She shouldn’t be surprised. Violet was so lovely, and so many boys were interested. It was only natural she would return the interest of one in time.
Well, even if the thought of Violet asking someone out was painful, the idea of someone else writing the poem for her was even more so. After a moment of thought, Isadora made up her mind.
“Perhaps I could make an exception?”
Violet beamed. “Yes, I would appreciate that!”
Quigley gave a lough cough, and Fiona raised her eyebrows. Isadora shot them both a glare. She stood up from her chair.
“Let’s go somewhere more private, Violet,” she said.
This was apparently the wrong choice of words. Her biology partners began snickering. Isadora ignored them, gesturing Violet to follow her to another study table. Preferably, one out of sight from those two. With a polite wave, Violet followed.
“How much do you charge?” Violet asked.
Isadora thought about it. Really, she hadn’t set any prices. People had just come to her with offers. She had been surprised enough people wanted to pay her for her writing at all, she hadn’t even stopped to think of the actual value of her work.
Isadora also contemplated who was asking. Violet Baudelaire was unwittingly to thank for over half of her commissions, and she had been enabling all those suitors to drown the poor girl in poems. It didn’t seem right to charge her.
“It’s free for friends,” Isadora told her.
“That’s very kind,” Violet said. “Thank you.”
A few aisles down, and hidden conveniently behind a shelf so her friends couldn’t spy on her, Isadora found an empty table. She sat down, and pulled out her journal. Violet joined her, though unlike most of her customers, she sat in the seat right next to Isadora, instead of the one across from her.
“So… Uh,” Isadora cleared her throat, staring hard down at the page. “If you list some things you like about this boy, I can offer you some ideas of what we can put in the poem.”
“Alright,” Violet nodded. She placed her chin in her hands, looking at the wall in thought. “There’s a lot I like about this person, so it’s hard to know where to begin.”
Isadora snuck a quick glance at Violet. Her hands were long and slender, but they looked firm too, perfect for an inventor. Her lashes were long, and seemed to get lost in her dark bangs when she furrowed her brow in thought. Isadora looked back down at page.
“I can relate to that sentiment,” Isadora agreed.
Violet grinned. “Well, to begin with, I think this person is very witty.” Isadora wrote down the word witty.
“They love reading, and their whole face lights up when they talk about their favorite books.” Violet gasped, “Oh! And they have this amazing memory of silly historical facts. They always make me laugh.”
Isadora gripped her pencil a little tighter. She couldn’t help but feel jealous of this person. “What are some physical characteristics?” Isadora asked.
“Hmm,” Violet looked her over, and tapped a finger to her lips in thought. “They have cute curly hair, brown. They always wear this oversized green sweater, it’s very charming. And once I saw them wearing heart-shaped shades, and this sweatshirt of the Church of the Gesù. It was such an amazing look.”
Isadora froze in scribbling her notes. She looked up and down the page, just to be sure.
“Is this... me?” Isadora asked.
Violet laughed. “Yes, it is!” Her cheeks turned a little pink. “I’m sorry to tease you.”
Isadora blinked in surprise.
“Maybe I should have been more direct,” Violet said. “But I wanted to thank you for all those poems you wrote me.”
“Oh…” Isadora scratched at her cheek. “So you knew that was me?”
Violet nodded. “I wasn’t sure, but some of those poems said things about me those boys couldn’t have know. I don’t think I’ve talked to anyone else here about my inventions.”
Isadora flushed. Why hadn’t that occurred to her? What a dead give-away.
“So I suppose I was right, in thinking you wrote them.” Violet turned a few shades redder, and looked nervously down at her hands. “But am I also right, in thinking you’d like to go on a date with me to the mall tomorrow?”
“Me? Date?” Isadora squeaked. “Wait- tomorrow’s Valentine’s day!”
Violet nodded.
Isadora shook her head. “No, trust me- that’s not a good idea.” Violet immediately looked crestfallen. Isadora realized the implications of her words.
“I mean because the mall is such a zoo on valentine’s day! Couples fighting and yelling and kissing and the movie theater line wraps around the building,” Isadora quickly explained. “We should go on sunday instead.”
“Oh! You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that.” Violet smiled. “You’re right, sunday would probably be best.”
Isadora nodded. “Yes, and all the chocolate will be on sale. And the movie theater will be empty.”
Violet looked nervous again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you wanted to, I could try and help with the claw machine.”
Violet had surprise after surprise waiting for Isadora today, it seemed. “How’d you know about that?”
“The smoothie kiosk is right by the arcade, I’ve seen you struggling with it,” Violet admitted. Violet’s incredibly red, sweaty face was surely mirrored on Isadora. The idea of Violet watching her fail time and time again, even yelling at the machine a few times, was a rather embarrassing one.
“I actually looked at the model of the machine,” Violet told her. “I did some research on the blueprints, and I think I figured out the trick to getting the prizes out.”
Isadora felt like she was going to cry. Just when she thought Violet couldn’t get any more wonderful. But she didn’t. Instead she asked. “Do you still want this poem… or…?”
“I think I’ve gotten my point across,” Violet laughed. “But I think I should pay you for your trouble.” Before Isadora got a chance to protest that she didn’t need the money, Violet leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.