Splash of Color with Cherry Blossom

By Sharrie Neumann

Enter the world of Berry Sweets where oddly colorful folk much like yourself reside, leading ordinary, sometimes extraordinary lives. And in the busy little town of Sugar Valley, the Chiffon family seems to be leading a sugary sweet life.

All Cherry Blossom Chiffon ever wanted was to feel part of the family. Growing up with pink-and-white brothers, sisters, and parents, purple Cherry is constantly reminded of how different she is from the rest of the pink-and-white perfection of her family. Des

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628385526

Book preview

0.75x0.75.jpg

Splash of Color

with Cherry Blossom

By Berry

0.75x0.75.jpg

Copyright © 2014 Berry

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2014

ISBN 978-1-62838-551-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-62838-552-6 (digital)

ISBN 978-1-62838-553-3 (hardcover)

Printed in the United States of America

0.75x0.75.jpg

Splash of Color

symbol.jpg

Berry Sweets by definition are inarguably sweet; like sugary bits of snickerdoodle dancing on your taste buds or the drop of nectar escaping the melon before it drips down your chin. Without a doubt, we are the sweetest of the sweet, but do not mistake us for colorful sprites in oversized shoes and hats who live in cupcake houses with frosting roofs. Our colorful exteriors and oddly delicious names would cause us to stand out, but we carry more similarities than differences. We are like you, traveling through life experiencing incredible joys, tearful sorrows, insurmountable hardships, and glorious triumphs. Our heritage rich and stories unique.

Where do we come from? It is hard to say. Our world secretly coexists with Earth, spinning continuously on its axis, far far away. You may not see us, but we are there, living ordinary—sometimes extraordinary— lives. Some even believe it is not impossible for our two worlds to meet; star-crossed paths guided by destiny. A secret world revealed, unlike any you have seen. Sounds impossible? Perhaps, but oh wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were true? Care to hear more? Come! Join me as we enter the world of Berry Sweets.

0.75x0.75.jpg

An Introduction of Sorts

symbol.jpg

How does one chronicle a life? Do you start at birth and end with death? Think for a moment. How long would a book like that be? A lifetime of memories could take a lifetime to read. Some splicing would definitely be required, omissions and extractions purely at the discretion of the author, but how do you decide? What should stay? What should go? Would something meaningful to the writer even register as a blip on someone else’s radar of significance? And the bigger, scarier question, would the life in question be interesting enough for readers to open the cover?

I hope you understand how hard this is for me to take a step back and watch a life lived as it plays out in my mind time and time again. Hopefully, I have made the right choices, chosen the right selections. Only time will tell. I do hope you enjoy the stories contained within these pages; they sort of mean the world to me.

—Me

0.75x0.75.jpg

His Name Was Pinot Noir

symbol.jpg

Different is a word we all regrettably use. At one time or another, we’ve lowered the hammer of variance on someone or something we don’t fully understand. For some, its meaning is nothing more than an identifier, a way to distinguish between two or more contrasting items. For others, it carries much more tenor. Take me, for example: Cherry Blossom Chiffon. If one were to go by Berry Sweet standards, I should be pink, and lots of it. Yes, pink just as my name describes. When I think of cherry blossoms, I envision a timeworn garden where a lone cherry blossom tree watches over a pond. A school of mochi koi swims serenely at its heart while exquisite pink blooms dusted with white float airily through the breeze before falling into a thicket of pale blush on the ground.

Pink and beautiful, that should have been me. Cotton candy tufts of hair that billow over a pair of creamy white shoulders or perhaps a bit more exotic; a rose-skinned beauty with hair as white as snow. Both would have been possibilities for my genetic makeup. My mother Lacey’s milky-white tresses and porcelain skin could’ve easily combined with my father Bubbie’s rosette hair and pink complexion to create such a creature. Which they did, four times before I was born—two brothers and two sisters: Roz, Carmine, Tea Rose, and Misty Rose. Pink-and-white children, four very different combinations. Then it was my turn. I was to be the final addition; the cherry on top of our family sundae.

Unfortunately, my mother carried with her a terrible secret; one that threatened to destroy everything.

That secret was me.

If you have seen one Sugar Valley afternoon, then you’ve seen them all. The temperature never dipped below seventy-five degrees and never extended above eighty-five, which made for tepid and comfortable afternoons most days. Folks in town called our weather the perfect combination. Honestly, I could take it or leave it. Even at the young age of ten, I was shaping up to be the odd child in the family. I much preferred cool, wet weather over sunshine. Wet weather meant more time inside where I could stay bundled up on the couch with my favorite blanket and sketch pad. Sadly that happened maybe twice a year in our sunny seaside town. The rest of the time it was pure Sugar Valley sunshine all day, every day.

It was much cooler inside the house. I had been seeking refuge from the outside world all morning. Safe within the walls of the art room with my mother, our easels stood side by side near a large window overlooking the ocean. My mother always said natural light was best, and the windows in our art room brought that light in with abundance.

Dressed in her rainbow pants and a white satin camisole, my mother stood before a hot-pink easel with a bit of paint on her cheek. It appeared as if she had an oddly shaped purple birthmark. My mother’s odd shopping habit (Well, most Berry Sweets have the same habit) is to buy only clothes that matched her hair and skin. That meant her entire wardrobe was white, except for hints of pale pink found now and again in floral appliqués and lace trims.

I know what you’re thinking now, Yeah, okay, lots of white. Got it. But what are rainbow pants? Well, as you can imagine, keeping white jeans absolutely spotless would be near impossible when communing with paints all day, and one day it finally happened. A giant glob of red landed on her knee, potentially ruining her favorite pair of pants, but instead of throwing them out, she decided to use them whenever she painted. It wasn’t long till they were covered in every color of the rainbow plus a few more. Thus, the rainbow pants were born!

Rainbow pants and all, my mother worked diligently on her next masterpiece, gracefully smoothing splashes of paint across her canvas while I worked awkwardly on my next atrocity beside her. It mattered little what she and I did in that room. As long as we were together, I was perfectly content with painting horribly awful—okay, maybe not perfectly content, but it had been several months since I’d dropped desperately to my knees over horrible craftsmanship. My mother said I was too hard on myself. I’ll admit to being a little competitive, but to be fair, she was a bit biased. My darling mother was the only one who attempted to display my hideous works on the fridge. I know it had to be out of pity, but it was the thought that counts, right? That was just the kind of relationship we had. We were close, much closer than my sisters and I could have ever hoped to be. Though I never put much stock in Misty Rose and Tea Rose, we were too strikingly different to ever see eye to eye.

Tired of staring at the same ugly tree for an hour, I turned my attention to my mother’s easel. Her painting looked more like a still shot of photography, beautiful white-and-lavender garden, enclosed with antique picket fencing, and seemed to step off the canvas. Overgrown ivy, one leaf at a time, began to take shape underneath her brush. Simple, yet like all of my mother’s pieces, it was absolutely breathtaking.

Wow, Mom. I set my brush on the easel before moving to study her work more closely. I really like this one.

I do too, she said with a grin.

I watched for several minutes as magic was created before my eyes. In the bottom right, she painted a small flower of the deepest purple and around it two larger flowers: one purple and one white. Narrowing my eyes, I examined the small arrangement.

Is that me? I asked, studying the tiny purple flower.

Perhaps, replied my mother airily.

My attention then fell to the large white flower standing protectively behind the small purple one. So that must be you then.

She smiled softly but said nothing.

I looked to the third flower, a stunning dark purple much like the smaller bloom, only larger and more mature.

Who is this supposed to be? I asked.

It is a flower, she said.

Well, if that flower is me and that flower is you—

Just…a flower, she reiterated with unwavering patience.

Oh. I just thought—

Art is a funny thing, love. The way it is perceived will always be different. Perception and interpretation are as different as the eyes viewing it. One may see a family of flowers while another might only see a garden. It is what you want to see that matters.

I studied the painting again. Well, then I see an amazing mom with a paintbrush.

Oh you. A sweet smile spread across her face as she ruffled a hand through my wild purple mane.

Deciding it was time for a break, my mother set her brush down and headed for the doorway. We should make lunch for everyone. What do you say?

Sounds good, I said, following her out into the hallway. Can we make french toast?

The kitchen, just like all rooms in our home, displayed pink-and-white and only pink-and-white. The rose-pink cupboards matched my father’s hair almost perfectly and were decorated with tiny loops of white trimming at every corner. Atop the counters was swirled mock marble of white, pink, light pink, and orchid pink. (Orchid pink should never be confused with light pink.) Above the sink was an open single-pane window where a fresh breeze drifted in from the coast; patchwork curtains swayed gently on its framework.

Lunch passed by quietly that day and without incident, which for us was a bit surprising. With seven people in the house, there was bound to be at least one disruption. That day, there wasn’t. All family members, other than my mother and I, carried their plates elsewhere, continuing whatever it was they were doing before being called to the kitchen. This meant my mother and I could sit together chatting quietly at the table, enjoying our pleasant french toast brunch in peace.

I shwaw Emitth Muthffin yestherday, I told my mother with a mouthful of french toast.

Did you now?

With a nod, I swallowed down the syrupy goodness chipmunked in my cheek. Yup. He was riding his bike around the circle. It’s such a weird name, isn’t it? Emit. What does it mean? Is it a food?

My mother picked up her glass of milk and took a dainty sip. Some people prefer to name their children using more exotic names. The Muffins are pretty well known in Sugar Valley, and you know how famous people like to name their children. It’s always something weird like Michael or Alice.

I held up my index finger. Or Emit.

Yes, or Emit.

When I have kids, I am gonna name my daughter something exotic. Maybe Susannah or Claire. I dunno. Something weird like that.

My mother fidgeted with a pink-and-white checkered tablecloth, her fingers trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Those are definitely exotic.

Taking another large mouthful of french toast, I watched as she pushed away from the table with a half-eaten plate in her hands. I studied the plate with an air of concern. Done already? I asked.

My mother rubbed her nonexistent belly. It’s so rich. I don’t think I could eat another bite. I looked at my empty plate; there was only a small amount of syrup spread thinly around. It didn’t seem all that rich to me, but I was a growing girl. I could eat mountains of food and most of the time I did.

Rinsing off her plate and glass, she set them both in the sink. Will you be a dear and do the dishes, love?

A dismal sigh pushed me from the table. Okay.

No kid likes chores. I absolutely despised them, but I did them for my mother. She needed all the help she could get.

Thank you, love. Make sure you get everyone’s plates.

Yeah I will.

symbol2.jpg

One large round of dishes later:

After putting away the dishes, I had moved on to wiping down the counters and sink. In the middle of wiping down the last countertop, I heard Tea Rose call out from the bedroom.

Oh Cherry! she chirped. Can you come in here?!

The mischievous tone in her voice set me on edge instantly, so I pushed off answering for as long as possible before finally breaking down. Now what? I slapped the towel down on the counter and turned toward the bedroom all while remaining close to the sink. Yeah? I called out. What do you want?

Tea said nothing for several moments. She was definitely up to something.

Will you just come in here please? You could almost hear the foot stamp in her voice.

Fine, I grumbled, walking cautiously over white-and-rose checkered tiles. My white-and-purple heart socks padded softly over the glossy floor. My clothing and I were always in opposition of the family’s pink-and-white home. Pink never suited me.

Well, I knew I was in for something with two cheeky twelve-year-old sisters, and it couldn’t possibly be good. Gingerly opening the door, I found Tea Rose and Misty Rose seated in the middle of the carpet, a few boxes strewn about them, set up to look like miniature buildings.

With a simper, Tea threw her rosey ponytail over one shoulder. Hey there, sis.

My stomach flipped and then flopped. Tea never called me sis. Yup? What did you want? I waited by the doorframe cautiously.

Misty Rose smiled up at me sweetly, but I could tell it was only priming me for their final attack. We want you to play with us.

Poking my thumb to my chest in disbelief, I gaped at the pink Bobbsey Twins. Me? You actually want to play with me?

Well sure we do! Tea nodded, resetting one of the makeshift buildings after it had tipped over. We are playing space pirates! We totally need you!

All my concern flew out the window, and against my better judgment, I agreed. Okay, cool! That sounds fun. I took a seat next to Misty on the floor.

Misty Rose looked a lot like my mother, only with my father’s pink complexion. Her snow-white hair, which was always pulled back, sat high on the crown of her head in a long snowy ponytail, practically mirroring Tea’s pink ’ do.

I looked to Tea with a gleeful grin. What do I do?

The girls flashed each other a knowing grin before Misty picked up a pink headband from the bed. Two goggly eyeballs bobbing back and forth on springs stared back at me. I studied the headpiece warily. What is that?

Tea looked to the headband and then back to me. This? This is for you, she explained, sliding the band over my head. Misty tucked it carefully behind my ears. Coming to stand, I walked to our full-length mirror to have a better look. The headband was hardly visible, disappearing beneath my crazy, wavy purple locks, but the eyes wiggled wildly above my head. Did you make this, Mist?

Tea tried smoothing my hair a bit before flicking one of the eyeballs with her finger. We both did.

Cool. I whipped my head side to side, causing the eyes to bounce around frantically.

Misty clapped a hand on my shoulder. Yup, the perfect addition for our alien. That’s you.

All excitement drained from my body; those two little sentences plunged deep into my heart. I’m the alien? I held my gaze on the mirror doing my best to conceal my disappointment.

Yup! I mean, you already are an alien, so it works, right?

I knew it was too good to be true. I’m not an alien.

Slowly removing the headband, I caught sight of my blatantly flushed cheeks in the reflection.

You sure about that? teased Misty coolly.

Yes. I am sure about that.

No, I’m pretty sure you are an alien. Tea let loose a loud snort from her nose. I mean, just look at you. Do you see any other purple people in this house? Some freaky alien must have dropped you on our doorstep—

Stop it!

And Mom felt so bad, she decided to keep you—

Just stop it! I covered my ears with my hands in a feeble attempt to block out Tea’s hateful words; the headband slipped from my head, falling silently to the floor. It couldn’t be true. My mother loved me; we spent hours together, every single day. She would have told me if I was an alien, wouldn’t she?

Misty patted my head with artificial pity. Okay, okay, maybe not an alien but totally adopted.

I shoved off Misty’s hand, looking to the mirror again. Deep purple hair and eyes seemed to jump out at me from my disquieted reflection. No! My sister’s words picked at me, one syllable at a time. I wasn’t adopted or an alien. I was just different. Right? They would have told me a long time ago if I was adopted, wouldn’t they? The longer I stared at the mirror, the more I doubted myself. Well, where does it come from then? What if I was adopted? The thought horrified me. Oh my berry, they were right. It all became so clear. I was a freaky adopted alien.

Looks like it just sank in. Tea giggled triumphantly.

Misty jutted out her bottom lip looking pouty.Aww…poor baby.

I wanted to cry, but it hurt too much for tears. Get out. I bawled up my fists menacingly.

Both girls entertained expressions dropped. Why? This is our room too. You can’t just kick us out.

GET OUT! With both hands, I charged my older sisters and shoved Tea out of the room. GET OUT! GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE!

Out of pure shock and of her own accord, Misty quickly trailed behind Tea. Once both were out in the kitchen, I slammed the door and locked it. A giant puff of air blew back a few stray hairs from their surprised faces as it latched shut.

Tea stalked away grumbling under her breath.Well, that was rude.

Yeah! said Misty, following behind.

On the other side of the door, I stood affronted. My emotions toyed with me, playing an internal game of cat and mouse, unsure if I was supposed to be angry or heartbroken. I turned from the door to survey the room around me, my hand still firmly on the handle. Pink-and-white walls encompassed me, not in wallpaper like the art room. No, our room had been hand-painted by my mother—each wall and its design significantly different from the other three. The wall above Tea’s bed had been painted like a rose, unfurling with giant petals of pale pink, encircled by smaller roses of the same color. Lower on the wall written in my mother’s beautiful calligraphy was the name Tea Rose. No surprise, her bedding was also covered in roses, pink and white of course.

Then there was Misty’s wall. A visionary garden similar to the one in my mother’s current painting only constructed out of pink, white, and a little green for contrast. The whimsical setting was topped off with a delicate Misty Rose painted below it. Her bedding was similar to Tea’s, only more white than pink.

Then came my wall. In the middle of pure white was a sizable pink heart shape with smaller pink hearts in varying shades surrounding it. Below it was my name, Cherry Blossom, painted in the same calligraphy, same color, as my sisters. A purple-and-white plaid comforter with coordinating purple-and-white striped pillows clashing beneath. I pushed from the door and over to my side of the room. Climbing up on the mattress, I sat on my knees. I inspected the wall searchingly; tracing each letter with the tips of my fingers. I cocked my head to the side. My name was in pink just like theirs. I had to belong. So why then was everything else purple?

Knock, knock.

Cher? came a voice from the other side of the door. Cher, can I come in?

To my relief, it wasn’t my sisters. It was my brother, Carmine. I traced the outline of one of the hearts with my finger, my back still facing away from the bedroom door. I don’t want to talk right now.

Cherry, please. Misty told me what happened. Unlock the door.

Getting up from my bed, I walked the small expanse of our room. With arms crossed, I leaned against the door with one shoulder. I just want to be alone right now. Okay?

I promise you’re not an alien, Carmine said faintly.

Whatever, I growled venomously through the crack.

Well, I’m here if you need to talk. Okay?

Good-bye, Carmine, I said in a singsong voice.

Bye, Cherry...

Pushing my ear against the cool wood, I waited for Carmine to leave. He wasted no time before heavy footsteps led away from the door. Alone again, I let out a deep breath, releasing all the tension built up in my shoulders. I felt bad for being so short with my brother. I loved Carmine with all my heart; he and I had a close relationship, similar to the one I shared with my mother. Surely he understood I needed time to think. Time to—my foot bumped the goggly eyed headband as I made my way back to my bed. I looked to the floor. The item responsible for the commotion stared up at me from the shaggy rose carpet. Picking up the alien transformation device, I shook it unsympathetically before tossing the thing across the room. Confusion flooded me a second time, and I ran to my bed falling face-first into one of my pillows. I shut my eyelids tight, trying to block out the awful thoughts threatening to enter my mind, but there was no stopping them. Notions with every possible conclusion bombarded me until I could no longer hold them off. Tears began to roll down my cheeks, landing in wet audible drops on my pillow. There I stayed, alone in my room, crying deeply into my pillow until sleep finally overcame me, and I drifted off into a dreamless nap.

I remained there peacefully until another soft knock at the door woke me. This time the sweet voice of my mother floated into the room.

Sweetheart? It’s me. Can we come in?

Under heavy lidded lashes, I stared intently at the door but said nothing.

Please, love. We really need to talk to you. It’s important, explained my mother with more urgency.

Rolling from the mattress, I walked across the room a second time and then unlocked the door. The lock made a loud click before I retook my place on the bed. My mother and father both entered to find me buried facedown in my pillow, still refusing to acknowledge anyone. There was a gentle touch on my shoulder. Sweetheart? What happened?

Am I adopted? I asked. My face was buried deep into the pillow so neither my mother nor my father understood me.

What, love? she asked.

I pushed up from my pillow, sitting a little straighter; my head continued drooping heavily. Am I adopted?

No. My mother’s brows furrowed deeply. Why in Berry’s name would you think that?

So I am an alien. I grimaced, preparing to accept the truth.

No, you’re not an alien either. What exactly did the girls say to you?

My tears had long dried up during my nap, but I could feel them threatening to return as I repeated what my sisters had said. They said I must be an alien or adopted because I have purple hair. No one else in the family is purple, so it must be true. Huh?

My mother’s face fell, an actual frown rested on her lips. I felt my insides jumble; my mother never frowned, not ever. Sweetheart, there is something you should know. My mother paused for a painfully long time. I wanted to wait until you were older, but I think waiting is only going to make it harder.

Tell me what? Slightly nervous, I looked to my dad and then to my mother, both of their faces completely stoic.

Well—my mother sighed deeply— the reason your hair is purple, well—

You have another daddy, my dad interjected tersely.

The words slammed into me like a car driving a hundred miles an hour. What? I studied the man before me closely. You’re not my daddy?

At those words, my mother’s shoulders slumped.

Yes and no, sweetheart. I am technically not your father, but I’m still your dad, and I love you just as much as I always have. Does that make sense?

Did it make sense? I wasn’t exactly sure. The man who had been my father for my entire life wasn’t my father, but he was my dad? How is a child supposed to understand that? I watched my mother fidget at the end of my bed; she refused to make eye contact with me or him. I tried to make sense of all the information battering me. Countless questions swirled in my mind. One seemed to resonate above all others. So who is my father?

His name is Merlot, answered my mother.

Merlot, I repeated his name softly.

Merlot Pinot Noir, added my dad a second later.

So how did I—

That’s not important right now. My mother pushed abruptly from the bed. All you need to know is that you are not adopted, and you are most certainly not an alien.

I could sense this conversation caused both my parents distress, and there were far more questions than answers. No way would I get them all. Not yet. I should have stopped there, but I couldn’t bring myself to drop it. Who is he, Momma?

My mother nodded numbly before walking out of the room; my dad watched her the entire way. Once she had disappeared, he shook his head woefully. This was too weird for words. I had to be dreaming, I thought. Nothing around me felt real. I willed myself to wake, but reality held me accountable. I wasn’t asleep. I wanted to comfort him but felt somehow partly responsible for his anguish, so I sat silently waiting for my mother to return instead.

A few moments later, my mother did return with a small photograph in hand; she looked at it briefly before holding it out for me to take. I received the photo from her unsteady hand and studied it carefully. It was an old photograph; the edges were worn and the surface appeared to be stained with some sort of liquid. A very handsome man about thirty smiled brightly at the camera; his hair the same deep purple as my own, his skin a lighter purple, almost lavender in shade. Scruffy dark facial hair surrounded his jaw and framed his face. The shape