By Calissa Treat “I like the taste of my own blood.” This was the first thing Violet Lejeune said to me the first time I ever laid eyes on her. She flew through the classroom door, twenty minutes late, and threw her purple purse on the table. Her keys clashed against what sounded like a glass bottle in her bag. She smelled like day-old rum and Cokes, and her dark hair stood up straight, being pulled by the static from her shirt. Her dark, stubby bangs hung in her eyes and made mine start to water. Our Home Ec teacher glared at her and started walking toward our table, rolling pin under her arm, her hands white with flour. “See, I like the taste of my…