I don’t like calling myself an enigma. I am one, despite my attempts to disprove the theory. If you looked at my life through a telescope, you’d see an abundance of disorganized constellations that don’t correlate at all. I am quite a confusing puzzle and am still learning where all the pieces fit. But, I’m getting ahead of myself here. If you don’t understand what I mean by this, I’ll supply a little backstory.
I found out about my complicated heritage when I was 8 years old. Picture a young Olivia aimlessly waltzing around the confines of her room with her best friends, Maddie and Kyla following the steps cautiously.
“My mommy told me I got a dancing gene from her,” Kyla remarked as she stepped on Maddie’s heel and she let out a slight squeal. I sighed in discontent. Whenever the girls talked about their family history it made me uneasy for some unknown reason. I knew from a young age that I was not aware of my biological background due to the infamous amount of foster homes I had been in prior to my permanent resident. After countless abusive “parents”, I never thought I’d be blessed with the family that adopted me.
After this incident, I wanted to know more about where I originated causing much dismay in my adoptive mother, Heather. She dreaded the phases I had that related to my obsession with finding my parents. I wish I wasn’t so inquisitive; maybe it would’ve prevented the events I let occur in my life. Although I questioned my place often, my mother was always comforting and open about my worries. Heather is the purest form of a woman if I’ve ever seen one. Her motherly nature was so potent the moment I walked into the Scott’s apple-cinnamon scented abode. My child services director, Melissa, brought me to meet my newest “foster failure” as I like to call them now, on my 6th birthday. Under my extenuating circumstances, I was a quiet child, kicking my feet ever so lightly, as I sat on their suede coated couch. Heather was ecstatic I was there and so was her husband, Daniel, although he came off a bit apprehensive.
Ruffling her short blonde curls to the side, Heather’s cherry stained lips exclaimed, “Olivia, I’d love to show you where you’ll be staying with us,” as she motioned towards the door at the end of the hall. I nodded, not making eye contact. She rushed to the door and as it swung open I could immediately see the light pink shade surrounding the walls, as well as the abundance of toys laid out perfectly on the circular rug.
“Well?” She inquired, as she tilted her head and waited for my response. No foster parent had put this much effort into appeasing me, the only thing I could do was cry. For the first time, my icy blue eyes were matched with hers and I mumbled a “thank you” as I ran up to her and hugged her. I opened my eyes in her shoulder for a split second and a single silver star caught my eye as it hung right above a pair of ballet slippers.
I pulled away from Heather and pointed to it. “What’s that for” I inquired. Her pearly white smile flashed again as she lowered back down to my height and said, “When I was a few years older than you, maybe 10 or 11, I spent hours in my bedroom looking up to the stars when I didn’t know what to believe in. So if you’re ever unsure of where to turn, look among the stars.”
The following year I was adopted.
After Maddie and Kyra left, I sat at the dinner table while my mom sewed up the rip in my tights and felt the need to bring up what Kyra said.
“Mommy,” I tapped her shoulder to get her attention since I basically spoke in a whisper.
“Yes, dear?” She mumbled as she held the needle in between her teeth, leaning behind her to grab a strand of thread.
“Can you tell me where I was born?” She sighed and met her eyes with mine. Putting the needle and thread down, she asked “Is this because of what Kyra said?”
“Well, the agency didn’t tell me much, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. You were born in a small clinic for women in Hawaii during a really bad fight. Your birth mom and dad were on vacation and were caught in the middle of this bad fight and were hurt pretty bad. They had to have you really soon so that you would be okay. But, your birth mom got really sick and was sent to heaven. So was your dad.”
I didn’t ask much after that.
Instead, I remembered what Heather said about the stars and every night after I hung my ballet slippers on the wall, I spoke to the star directly above it and asked it a bunch of questions: “What were my parents like? Will I be like them? Did my mommy like dancing too?” And it spoke back to me. At least I pretended it did.
Writing this in my compact, yet cozy, room at the National Ballet School in England, I realize how many gaps I have in my story. Well, my life, really. I miss Florida, where my mom and dad are and I wish I never put them in the danger I unintentionally caused. I dropped my pen and stared at the silver star I brought with me as I left my old life behind. “Is Violet a good person?” I asked, looking down, letting out a slight laugh. Violet. The FBI Director, Dr. Andrew, insisted I change my name. As if packing up my life and moving to England by myself wasn’t enough. I didn’t even know if it was my fault I was being hunted, or my biological disposition for this fate.
I never knew much about my birth parents aside from what my mom told me when I was very young, mostly because I stopped asking. Dr. Andrew was nice enough to inform me that the fight they were caught in the middle of, was actually an attack on them by an Italian organized crime group. Sarah and Charlie, my birth parents real names, were part of an organization to stop this mafia from its invasion in Hawaii. Unfortunately, they weren’t so lucky and passed away. This group knew of Sarah being pregnant prior and were looking for me ever since, in case I were in some way supposed to gun them down as a young ballerina. Some people are nuts.
The minute I put my family in danger, the stars told me what I had to do. This group of men came to my home in south Florida in search of me and found my mom and dad instead. Luckily enough, Dr. Andrew knew this group was coming and has been aware of me for quite some time, which I would find creepy but he did save their lives. He sent in a SWAT group to scare the group away from my home, but that meant I couldn’t stay. Now here we are.
“Violet! Can you hand me my slippers?” My roommate, Cassidy, asked me as she flung open our door in a bit of a hurry. After I didn’t respond she called my “name” again causing me to realize I hadn’t responded to that “name”.
“Uh, yeah sure,” I answered hastily. She rolled her eyes as usual and left without another word.
I put my pen down in defeat and decided on taking a nap instead of forcing my mind to think of my past any longer. The tossing and turning consisted for about 20 minutes until the key fob to my dorm was opened by who I assumed was Cassidy. I was wrong.