Miller pauses the video on a grainy image of a much-younger Violet. “You sure you want to watch this with everyone here?”
“It’s fine.” I should know from Miller’s repeated questions that it’s not fine. But I keep telling myself it can’t be that bad, and they’re blowing it out of proportion. Violet can be dramatic at times.
“All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He hits play again.
The camera pans in on Violet. Her face is softer, rounder. Her long hair is pulled up into an intricate ponytail, and curled tendrils frame her face. I totally would have wanted to date her in high school. I bet all the guys had boners over her. I’m conflicted by the reaction in my pants, because she’s way underage in this video. She’s wearing glasses. They’re purple with little rhinestone decorations on the side.
“Holy shit? Is that Vi?” Lance asks.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I gotta say, Butterson, I’m surprised you didn’t try to hit that. I mean, convenience factor aside, she was a hot nerd! And look at her boobs. Is it just me or are they bigger there?” Everyone turns to stare at him. “Uh, let’s pretend I didn’t say any of that.”
“Good call.”
“But I’m still surprised Butterson didn’t try to bone her. Or you.” He points at Randy.
“Do you have a death wish, Romero?” Darren asks.
“I didn’t meet Violet until this year,” Randy says.
“Violet was too busy being a Mathlete to hang out with me when our parents got married, and Randy was already in the minors getting his bunny on,” Miller says. “I was gonna set you up with her when she and Alex were on the outs back in May.”
I throw my hands up. “What the fuck, Miller?”
He shrugs. “You were being a dick and listening to your stupid agent. Violet was fucking miserable, moping around, eating dairy. I thought she might need a distraction.”
“So you thought hooking her up with Ballistic was a reasonable option?”
“Hey, I’m a good guy,” Randy says in his own defense.
“Calm your tits, Waters. She never went out with him, or anyone else, while you were on your break. She couldn’t even manage saying Randy’s name without thrusting.”
I have to say, I’m damn glad Violet never went out with Ballistic. He is a good guy, but from the stories Violet tells me, he and Lily have more sex than feral rabbits. I’d like to think my bedroom skills are better than his, but I’m very glad Violet has no firsthand knowledge as to whether or not that’s true.
“Oh! This is it.” Miller turns up the volume.
There’s a whispered conversation in which it sounds like Violet is arguing with her mom. She huffs and takes off her glasses, folding them neatly on the table before she pushes back her chair. She adjusts her dress—there’s a lot of cleavage—and stands.
“Jesus. How old is Violet here?” Lance asks.
“I think she was turning seventeen or something,” Miller replies.
“Man, I wish the chicks in my Mathletes club had looked like that.”
“Shut the fuck up, Romance, before Alex breaks your nose.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I grunt but say nothing because he’s right. I would’ve given my left nut to sit next to her in math class and pretend I didn’t know what the fuck was going on so I could look down her shirt while she explained things. Violet’s the kind of girl who would’ve been helpful like that in high school.
She’s wearing one of those super formfitting dresses, and it’s short—like, way too short for a bridesmaid’s dress, hitting her high on her thigh. It must be a guy on the camera because he zooms out so he can get her entire, smokin’ hot, highly illegal body to fit in the shot. There’s a long lace train thing hanging off the back of the dress that drags on the floor.
Violet’s wearing silver platform heels. She’s obviously unaccustomed to them. She teeters unsteadily and holds onto the back of the chair. Signature red blotches break out across her chest—her very ample, not-covered-enough chest. She brushes a fallen tendril out of her face and squints, because she can’t see very well without her glasses.
She takes a couple of shuffling steps before she squares her shoulders, jutting out her chest. The dress seems to be slipping down. She hikes it up again and stutter-steps across the stage. Those heels are way too high.
Miller is standing at the bottom of the steps to the left of the podium. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he waits for Violet to come down. On the second one, her heel catches the lace train, and she careens forward, head-butting Miller in the junk. He, in turn, stumbles back. He might’ve been able to recover if Violet hadn’t grabbed his tuxedo jacket and rammed her shoulder into his knee.
“Wow, she’s not very graceful, is she?” Randy mumbles.