The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond by Brenda Woods Page A

thirsty?”
    I rubbed my still very full tummy. “After that ginormous lunch, no way.”
    We went to the den and she turned on the TV with the remote. “You mind the Cooking Channel?” she asked. “Might give us some ideas for tomorrow’s dinner.”
    â€œOkay,” I replied, then glanced at the computer. “But is it okay if I send my mom and Daisy an e-mail?” I asked.
    â€œOf course.” Bibi turned on the computer and logged on. “There you go, sweetie.”
    Sweetie?
    I sent a short e-mail to my mom and Daisy, letting them know everything was okay, and in no time at all they replied with happy faces. “Done,” I said, and turned off the laptop.
    Bibi settled down in the recliner, put her feet up, and motioned for me to sit in the other chair. “Been a very long week,” she sighed.
    We watched the Cooking Channel for a while before Bibi nodded off and snored. Outside, the wind began to blow and an orchestra of chimes clanged.
    I like it here.
    But as she napped, I caught myself wondering if Bibi would sneak into my room at night and check on me, the way Gam does when I spend the night at her house. I hadn’t even been gone a day, but I already missed my comfy bed, Mom, Daisy, Gam, and Poppy, the same everyday mostly boring stuff that goes on in Moon Lake, my kitty, Hazel, motormouth Athena, Yaz, shouting orders on the ice.
    Violet Diamond is a little homesick.

28
A MILLION MILES FROM HOME
    A bout a half hour later, Bibi woke up and we headed to the market to buy food for tomorrow’s dinner.
    The grocery store wasn’t too far from her house, and inside, almost everyone was African American. There were a few people who I knew were from Mexico or someplace like that because I heard them speaking Spanish, but I didn’t see one single white person. It was nothing like Moon Lake, where I’m usually the only black person in the store, or even Seattle, where there are all kinds of people, and being in a place where nearly everyone was African American for the first time felt different. Even though I was still in America, it felt like I’d traveled a million miles from home.
    â€œI’m in the mood for a soul food feast. What do you think, V?”
    I shrugged. “I suppose.”
    â€œEver had grits pie?” Bibi asked.
    â€œI’ve had grits, but never in a pie. Doesn’t sound delicious.”
    â€œWell, it’s a family favorite, V. My grandmother from Louisiana used to make it. Thought you and I should give it a try. I know her recipe by heart . . . think the only thing I don’t have at home is vanilla extract and buttermilk.”
    It was as if Bibi had memorized the store and she knew right where everything was.
    â€œAnd for the lemon icebox pie . . . I’ll need some condensed milk.”
    â€œThat sounds good,” I said as I tagged along beside her.
    â€œIt is and it’s easy,” Bibi told me.
    Then, like she was writing a menu inside her head, she rattled off, “And short ribs, salmon croquettes, fried okra, jambalaya, and corn bread.”
    By the time we finished shopping, the cart was filled almost to the top, and it was almost dark when we loaded up the car and headed back to her house.
    â€œYou getting hungry, V?” she asked.
    â€œYou must be reading my mind,” I told her.
    â€œTaco Bell okay with you?”
    I told her yes and in a flash she’d changed lanes. Minutes later we pulled into the drive-through and ordered.
    I’m not sure why, but being with Bibi felt different from being with Gam. Not better, just different. It was like one was mint chip ice cream and the other was cookies ’n’ cream: I like them both and both are sweet.
    That night, I showered and washed my hair in Bibi’s pretty bathroom that had black and yellow tiles. While my hair was still wet, she rubbed in something called Moroccan argan oil. It made my hair