by Heron, Farah
Addison’s posture changed instantly. She stood straighter and stopped glaring at me. “Oh, cool! I was on the fashion show committee at school!” She smiled at me. “Welcome to Bakewell. You meet Flower Power yet?”
“She’s talking about Rowan,” Juniper told me.
I raised a brow. Had this girl been negging Rowan, too? “Briefly. In his backyard.”
“Ah, in his natural habitat. Let me guess—his clothes were caked in mud and his eyes were on the flowers instead of you. Don’t feel the need to spend more time with him—he’s just as dull with longer exposure.”
This girl was so irritating she almost made me want to defend Rowan Johnston, and that made her even more annoying. It was time to lose Addison; plus, we were close to the front of the coffee line. “Well, it was lovely to chat. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Alison, wasn’t it?”
“Addison.” She beamed. “We should chill. I can show you the cool side of Bakewell. We’ll talk later, Junebug. I still have time to convince you!”
As we headed back to Lilybuds, Juniper pulled a reusable folding straw out of her bag and plunged it into her frappé. “I should probably tell you,” she said, “Rowan dated Addison.”
Now that was unexpected, although it did explain her warning me off him. Why did she deem the plant nerd worthy of her, anyway? They were both annoying, but their snobbishness seemed to be aimed in different directions. He hated superficial people, and she was as superficial as they came. I was weirdly disappointed in him that he hadn’t seen through Addison’s phoniness.
“I can’t see it,” I said.
“They were together awhile, but she’s changed. You going to hang out with her?”
I snorted. “Unlikely. What is it she wants from you?”
“To help her and her friends get ready for the Bloom. I’m pretty sure she wants me to do all the work, and they’ll take the credit.”
“What? That sounds . . . wait, this is that contest?”
“Yeah, the floral sculpture one. Addison was on a team with Rowan last year, and they came in second. But this year the grand prize is a trip to New York, thanks to all the money they raised at the Snowbloom Ball. Addison realized they don’t have a chance without Row.”
“Why is she asking you, then?”
Juniper shrugged. “I mean, I’m not Rowan, but I know my way around flowers. I worked with my grandma all the time. Row and I have been gardening and flower arranging since before we could walk.”
“Then why won’t Addison actually let you on her team?”
Juniper laughed, shaking her head. “You can only have three or four people, and she doesn’t want to displace any of her squad. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do it. Addison McLaughlin doesn’t have anything on me.” She paused, biting her lip briefly. “Hey, what’s your Insta? I want to see your designs.”
I narrowed my eyes. My senses were tingling that Addison once had something on Juniper, but Juniper didn’t want to share that with me. I had no intention of getting involved in the drama here, but I made a mental note to watch out for this mean girl and make sure she left Juniper alone.
We exchanged Instagram handles, and I took a look at her feed while she held the tray of coffees. Her pictures were nice, but just books. I made a second mental note to give her some camera pointers to reduce the glare. In fact, with a bit of help, I bet I could get Juniper’s follower count high enough to make Addison show her some respect. This was a game I knew, and I knew how to win it.
7
WAY HARSH, PLANT-BOY
After we had some of Shar’s amazing chicken curry with chapati for dinner, I washed dishes while Gia went back to the tiny house to call her parents. When I was done, I found Gia lying on one of the lounge chairs in front of our place with her eyes closed. Although I supposed they were a little bit open, because as I approached, she said, “Sup, T.”
I chuckled. “Whatcha doing, Gia?”
“Need to maintain this color to pull off the boho look.”
I cringed. “You’re not really going to keep with this flower-child vibe all summer, are you? Plus, it’s evening.”
Her eyebrows shot up high. “There’s enough sun—I tan easily. And yeah. Of course I am. I told you, cottagecore is huge this season. I’m embracing it. You hanging out for a bit?” She pointed to the empty lounge chair next to her.
“Can’t. I want to pull all my notes and sketches together tonight and show Shar tomorrow.”
“Ugh, Tahira. You can’t be all work and nothing else this summer. We’re supposed to chill.”
“You knew I was coming here for a purpose. I’m not sure why you expected it to be a party summer.”
“I know, but sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses, or something.”
I snorted. “I’m allergic to roses. And you’re starting to sound like a true Bakewell-ite.” I frowned. Bakewell-er? Bakewell-onian? “Anyway, the sooner I get it done, the more time I’ll have to chill with you later.” I was headed for the door when Gia stopped me.
“Hey, why didn’t you tell me sheep-manure guy was so hot?”
I cringed. I shouldn’t have told her about the whole manure incident. “You met Rowan? My condolences.”
Gia nodded. “He and Juniper were just here to bring over a sewing table. We now have thirty percent less floor space. And ten percent more pine. I don’t think the guy liked me, either.”
I didn’t doubt it. If Rowan thought I was superficial, Gia came across as ten times shallower. But anyone who knew her—like, really knew her—knew there was more to her than that.
Gia had her own type of kindness—a way of putting people at ease around her, no matter what. Like when she reassured Juniper she was pretty when we were walking to the store. She was also one of the most generous people I knew. She used to let me share her lunch money all the time back before I had a job, because I used to spend all my spare money on fabric. And she never went on vacation without buying gifts for all her friends. She was always so positive. Honestly, sometimes I kind of wished I was more like Gia—not in the whole “expecting life to be a party all the time” way, but more like . . . she made life seem so easy. Effortless. She made friends quickly and always trusted herself. I had no doubt Gia would one day be the style influencer with a huge platform and the rom-com star she wanted to be.
The part of Gia people saw first, her attitude . . . her shallowness . . . was mostly fake. It was a persona—she put it on because she wanted people to think she was fun, lighthearted, and influential. But someone like Rowan wouldn’t even try to get to know her and see the real Gia. He was the very definition of a “judge first, get to know later” guy.
“You going to make a move on him?” I asked. I really hoped she wouldn’t. I’d already decided to pretend Rowan didn’t exist all summer, and it’d be awkward if my best friend was dating an invisible guy.
She snorted. “I thought about it, but nah. I’m no masochist. He did nothing but grunt when he met me. Oh wait, he sneered, too—when Juniper told him I took pictures for your page. I’m positive there are guys in this town who will worship me the way I deserve. He’s a looker, though. Too bad about the personality. He’s nothing like his sister.”
“I know. Juniper is—”
“She’s too much.” Gia shook her head, chuckling. “She told me the full plot of two books in the time it took to bring a table in.”
I laughed. “Only two?”
“She’s just so wholesome. Giving us flowers, going on and on about that county festival. She’d be eaten alive in the city. Seriously. Bully magnet.”
I shrugged. “I suspect she may be dealing with that here.” I told Gia about the run-in with Addison.
“Holy shit—that’s some nerve to ask for help without actually letting her on the team. The Bakewell locals sound terrible. I know—let’s adopt Juniper. We can even do a makeover montage. That’ll show them.”
I snorted. “Gia, this isn’t a teen movie plot! Juniper seems to hav
e a real issue here.”
“It is a movie plot! We’ve got mean girls, the plucky book nerd with a heart of gold, even a Hallmark-esque small-town setting.” Gia put her sunglasses on and lay back. “We can help her. We can pretend it’s Clueless, and she’s our Tai.”
I laughed. Gia was low-key obsessed with the nineties teen classic Clueless. “I suppose you are as lily white and blonde as Cher.”
Gia shrugged. “My blonde comes from a bottle, though.” She stood. “That reminds me: it’s getting late and I still need to wash my hair. You do your work, T, because then? We need to make some fun happen this summer. There’s got to be a beach nearby. Heck, I’d settle for the kiddie pool you promised.”
I kind of wanted to just chill and maybe watch a show or something after the long first day at work, but instead I set up my sketchbook on the new sewing table and started redrawing the rough sketches I’d made in the store. After about twenty minutes, I realized this wouldn’t work.
“The light is crap here,” I muttered.
I had a pretty good drafting light in my room back home, but the tiny house had only a ceiling fixture with one bulb.
“Tell me about it. I can flat-iron my hair blindfolded, though, so I’m good,” Gia said.
Gia was sitting on the sofa-daybed thing, a mirror balanced on her lap and a flat iron in her hand. I’d tried to get her to do her hair in the bathroom, but she claimed there wasn’t enough elbow room.
“Sketching is impossible in here.” I could see the rough sketches on my iPad, of course, but I’d wanted to make better pencil-and-paper ones to show my aunt.
The smell of burning hair wasn’t ideal to get my creative juices flowing, either.
“Go to Shar’s,” Gia said.
At dinner Shar had said she planned to marathon a show after we finished cleaning the kitchen.
“She’s watching that show with the vigilante priest. I need quiet.”
“You’re such a princess, Tahira. Go outside. It’s brighter out there than in here.”
True. And natural light was better than anything else. I packed my sketchbook and iPad into my backpack and went outside.
The sun was still bright, and the antihistamine I’d taken earlier was still in full effect. I set my things on the patio table, propped my sketchbook on my lap, and resumed working.
I had a basic three-part plan to improve Lilybuds. Part one: reduce the amount of stock in the store so the good stuff could be seen. Two: replace a large portion of the floral prints with new pieces. I knew this was the flower capital of whatever, but you could buy flowery crap anywhere in this town—Lilybuds needed a different vibe to stand out. And that brought me to step three: change the damn name. Because Lilybuds? No.
I was a realist, though—I wasn’t going to throw out the name altogether. Definitely needed to get the word “buds” out of there. Honestly, I was amazed the store wasn’t overrun with potheads with that name. Just “Lily” might work. It was still a flower, but it was also a name, right? I played around with modern lettering and came up with a quick prototype: LILY. Just like that. The word alone with a period after it. Black lettering on a white background. No wood-carved sign. No flowers.
I made some more sketches of the outside of the store with the new name and logo. The store was going to be so . . . arrestive. People everywhere would talk about it. I was so getting into FIT.
I started a new sketch of the store’s back wall, imagining it with designer wallpaper. Maybe even Arabic-tile style as a nod to the Muslim owner of the store? We could put a few waterfall-style clothes hangers to display key pieces for the season, but the wall itself would be the focal point, with the new logo in the middle.
After twenty minutes or so outside, my hand was cramping. I wasn’t done, but a ten-minute break would make all the difference. I stood and stretched.
The sun was setting, and the dimming light cast an almost otherworldly orange glow over the garden. A soft hum filled the air, blending with the slow trickle of the fountain Mom had bought. It was in the back of the yard, near a bed of wispy white and deep-pink flowers. I headed over to take a closer look.
The fountain was basically a big concrete block with a clear glass bowl in the center. Inside the bowl sat a black sphere with water cascading from the top. The low sun reflected in the dribbling water, making it look like gemstones cascading over the sphere. I took some pictures with my phone. I didn’t even need a filter to get that warm ethereal vibe. Too bad Gia was in no state for pictures now—her new boho look was perfectly suited for this mood.
But a good photographer didn’t waste light like this. Since there were no flowery-dress or scarf-in-hair-type people around, it would have to be me. I peeked behind the fountain and held my phone out in front of me, checking to make sure the sun’s rays illuminated only half my face. The whole look was so compelling, even though I was normally selfie averse. It wasn’t that I didn’t like having my face on camera or anything. I mean, I modeled my clothes all the time—I was clearly not camera shy. It was just . . . selfies were so cliché. I was trying to project a professional image—and having someone else take my pictures added to that. Plus, selfies weren’t great for outfit shots. It was supposed to be about the clothes, not my face.
But taking pictures and not sharing them on social media was fine—it was good photography practice. I had snapped only a few shots when a voice nearly made me drop my phone in the fountain.
“Great. Thirst Trap is at it again.”
Rowan. Because of course. I’d tried to take selfies only twice in months, and he’d witnessed both times. He put a plastic tray filled with colorful flowers on the cluttered workbench near his greenhouse. I slipped my phone in my pocket and glared. “Is your only purpose this summer to annoy me?” I said.
He snorted as he grabbed this weird metal mesh thing and laid it in front of him. “You’re the one in my yard. I’m trying to get some work done here.”
He was wearing a ridiculous shirt again, pale blue with a weird cartoony-looking plant on it that said PLANTS ARE PEOPLE, TOO. With more cutoff shorts, and . . . holy crap—Crocs? Dude was being seen in public in plastic clogs? I guess this wasn’t really public, but still.
I shook my head. Supermodel good looks. A smoldering, swoon-worthy scowl. And dressed like a vegan preschooler.
I sighed. “You’re going to have to learn to share your yard this summer. Channel that inner kindergartener—shouldn’t be too hard, considering your outfit.”
I sat on the sofa, put my sketchbook back on my lap, and reached into my bag for my colored pencils to add some details to the sketch of the back wall, but they weren’t there.
“Damn it, I forgot I gave away my pencil crayons,” I said.
“You’re drawing?” he asked.
“I’m drafting plans. The tiny house wasn’t bright enough, so I came out here.” What was he doing, anyway? He appeared to be stuffing this green sludgy stuff into the wire mesh.
“Why’d you give away your pencil crayons?” he asked.
“A girl on my street needed them. Her brother lost all hers . . .” I shook my head. Why was I telling him this? “Don’t be nosy, Plant-Boy,” I said. I shut the book quickly. The sketches would have to be black and white. The point was to reduce the garish colorfulness of the store anyway. I’d started putting my charcoal pencils back in their tin when my phone rang, making me jump again. Two pencils dropped to the ground, rolling under the table. Ugh.
Maybe it was Matteo on the phone, though? I checked—it was my mother. I accepted the call.
“Tahira! I want to hear all about your first day at the store,” Mom said. I glanced over at Rowan, but he’d moved to the far end of his workbench and was focused on whatever he was doing there.
“Hey, Mom. Everything was good. I’m working on the rebranding plans right now.”
“Oh, that’s great! I’ll leave you to it. I know you’ll do a thorough job. We got a package in the mail for that scholarship I was telling
you about, the one for South Asians in the arts? I think it only works for Canadian universities, though. I’ll read through the documentation and see if it will work for FIT. Because—”
“I know, Mom, I know. FIT is the best, so that’s where we’ll start. No need to say it again.” I glanced over at Rowan. I didn’t like the idea of him hearing me sounding like a petulant child to my mother. But he didn’t seem to be paying attention to me. “I’ll call you tomorrow after I show all this to Shar . . . min Aunty.”
“Okay. Love you, Tahira. Good night.”
“Night, Mom.” I disconnected the call.
I leaned down to get my fallen pencils and then put all my stuff in my backpack.
“I like to draw out here in the evening, too,” Rowan said, suddenly, still standing over by the workbench. “The light is perfect.”
Okay, so that was weird to hear him say something with no venom in his voice at all.
I stood and turned to look at him, blinking. He was smiling, and wow, it changed his face. His jaw didn’t look so sharp. His eyes less intense. With that expression and the otherworldly glow of the evening, the guy looked soft. Still exquisite, but approachable. The colorful flowers on the bench seemed to glow around him. Framing him. Such a shame he cared more about photosynthesis than photography. It would have been a lovely shot—if he’d been wearing decent clothes.
“You draw?” I asked. “I’m impressed. Plant-Boy is full of surprises.”
With his eyes slightly downturned, he chuckled lightly. And his cheeks pinked a bit. The guy could do bashful-cute, too?
At this point, I didn’t care that he looked like he shopped at Dollarama and the Disney Store, or that he had the personality of a garden slug . . . I decided then that, one way or another, I had to get pictures of him on my page this summer. He would look so amazing in my clothes, and Matteo wasn’t around to model.
Rowan shook his head, that small smile still on his face. “I’m glad to keep you on your toes.”