Tahira in Bloom

by Heron, Farah

  Ugh. How, even? I called Mom.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said. “I need to come home.”

  “Tahira . . . what happened? Are you crying?”

  “Shar hated my proposal.”

  Telling Mom should have helped. It normally felt like a weight being lifted when I told my parents my problems. But I’d told them only disappointing news lately.

  “Do you want me to talk to Sharmin?” Mom asked. “I can try to convince her to let you do your plan.”

  I exhaled. “I . . . I don’t know.” I’d rather not get what I wanted because my mommy stepped in—although that was how I’d gotten this job in the first place. “I mean, if she thinks she’ll lose business, I have to deal, right?” The store was her livelihood—and she knew what her customers wanted. “Painting the walls isn’t going to get me into FIT, though. Should I just come home?”

  “And do what? We looked. There are no other suitable positions on short notice. No, you must stay and make this work. FIT is the most prestigious fashion school in the world. You know how competitive it’s going to be to get in. And even once you’re at the school, you’ll be competing against all your classmates for every opportunity there. You can’t just leave when it gets hard.”

  But what if I’m not good enough to compete at FIT? In New York? I didn’t dare say that to Mom. She wouldn’t allow it. I was a Janmohammad. I needed to succeed.

  “It’s about how you sell it, Tahira,” Mom said. “Do this smaller project for Sharmin. Get a great reference letter. And use your spare time to build up your portfolio so that it stands out in your application. Design something that goes viral.”

  It was what I loved the most—designing. I turned onto Shar’s driveway. “Mom, I’ve been trying. I post new designs weekly, and none of them go anywhere. I might not be cut out for this.”

  “Tahira, none of this. What do Janmohammads do?”

  I sighed. “Succeed.”

  “Right. Succeed. We’re always cut out for this because we work for it. You are incredibly talented, but talent alone isn’t enough. Maybe you need to do some more creative thinking. Why don’t you call that fashion designer of yours?”

  “I can’t call Nilusha now. We’re supposed to FaceTime on Thursdays for our mentorship.” Today was only Tuesday.

  “Tahira! You need to be more proactive! She said she would mentor you; this is what mentors do!”

  I was in the backyard by then. I dropped my bag on one of the lounge chairs outside the tiny house and flopped on the other one. Mom was right, of course. Even though she was kind of famous, or at least getting there, Nilusha had been incredibly kind the few times we’d talked. It was she who’d insisted on weekly calls. I felt awkward phoning her now, but I was desperate.

  “Fine. I’ll text her,” I said. “But if she tells me to go back to Toronto, I’m leaving this place.”

  “And take Gia with you, after convincing your aunt to hire her? You can’t abandon Sharmin like that; you made a commitment.”

  I sighed again. I was completely and utterly stuck. “All right, Mom. I’m texting Nilusha now.”

  “Good girl. You can do this, Tahira. All your hard work will pay off, I know it. Love you, beti. I’m praying for you.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.”

  After asking Siri the time in Paris right now (a respectable 8:30 p.m.), I sent a text, asking if Nilusha had a minute. A FaceTime call from her immediately showed up on my screen, and I turned my chair for a glare-free video before answering.

  “Tahira, darling!” Nilusha, as usual, looked fabulous. Black turtleneck, small purple glasses frames, hair in a perfect messy bun. Honestly, I could only dream of looking that flawless while recovering from surgery.

  My voice stuttered. “I h-hope . . . I mean, I’m sorry to bother you . . . I just . . . I need advice.”

  “It’s absolutely no bother. I feel terrible that we can’t work together this summer, so I’m always here for you. I’m so over being stuck here in France.”

  “Being stuck in Paris can’t be that bad.”

  Nilusha laughed. “True, true. I was able to go to Les Puces de Saint-Ouen yesterday. Didier pushed me in a wheelchair. Those little shops are not accessible, but it felt good to get out. You should see the antique brooch I found. Wait. Who is the young man digging behind you? Where are you?”

  I turned, and yup, it was Rowan. Wearing big headphones, so I doubted he could hear me. Also, terrible ripped denim cutoffs and a misshapen, pink T-shirt.

  I settled back in the chair. “I’m in the garden at my aunt’s house. This is where I’m staying for the summer. Don’t mind him; he’s just the garden dude next door,” I said to Nilusha, lowering my voice, just in case.

  “The gardener? How very bougie.”

  Her expression when she said “bougie” made me laugh. I really liked Nilusha. “No, no. Not the gardener. He’s eighteen. He lives next door, he’s just . . . garden oriented.”

  “Oriented?”

  “Interested in gardens, obsessed with plants. He basically lives out here—he’s like a grumpy garden gnome or something. Except, you know. Taller.”

  Nilusha laughed. “Well, it looks like you’re as fortuitous as me this summer. I have Didier the handsome French nurse, and you have the garden-oriented boy next door.”

  “The grumpy, judgy, garden-oriented boy. Anyway, I have a boyfriend back home.”

  She shrugged. “Situations evolve. Okay, sweetie, tell me your problem. Are you having issues in that teeny town of yours?”

  I told her about Lilybuds and the rejection of my rebranding proposal. Nilusha listened carefully, asking questions along the way. It felt weird at first telling her about my failure, but she was so easy to talk to and encouraging.

  “Sweetie, I understand why you’re upset. It sounds like you did an incredible amount of work for this project.”

  “I did. I hardly slept last night. It was all for nothing, though. If she’d only wanted a coat of paint and maybe bring in some T-shirts or something, why ask me to put together a proposal for a whole rehaul of the store? She could have gotten Addie McLaughlin to do it.”

  I think Nilusha could hear my disdain for Addison in my voice because she snorted. “Do I want to know who Addie McLaughlin is?”

  “No. I wish I didn’t.” I was sulking. I was angry. I needed to stop—I was talking to Nilusha Bhatt.

  “Look, Tahira, I get why you’re upset, honestly, but you need to see this from your aunt’s perspective. Rebranding is a massive endeavor. She must know her client base, and what they want, or she wouldn’t be afloat as a small business. This is the most important thing to remember as a designer—yes, we’re artists. But we’re also in the business of making customers happy. Without them, we have nothing.” She smiled, tilting her head. “Finding the balance between art and customer satisfaction was the hardest lesson I learned when I was starting out. Push the envelope, be innovative. But don’t forget to know your market.”

  “Yeah.” She was right. I didn’t want to be one of those artists with my head so far up my own butt that I thought my vision was 100 percent flawless. But still. This stung.

  “What about this small capsule collection?” Nilusha asked. “That sounds like an opportunity. You can do all the market research, buying, and merchandising from scratch.”

  We talked about the potential experience from building this trendier line, and she even offered to look through the wholesalers to help me pick pieces.

  “I would love to see the sketches you did,” Nilusha said. “Is your sketchbook handy?”

  “You want to see them now?”

  “Yeah. I’m not doing anything else. I want to see these ideas of yours.”

  I pulled out the sketchbook and laid it open on the chair. Flipping through the pages while holding the phone camera over the book, I explained my vision to her. Her warm praise felt so good.

  “This is excellent work,” Nilusha said. “I can see some of this workin
g in Toronto or something.”

  “But not here.”

  “I don’t know the market there. Hey, what’s that? There’s a flower festival?”

  The flyer for the Bakewell Festival of Flowers was still between the pages. I cringed, turning the camera back to me to tell her about the festival, and how obsessed everyone was with it.

  “It sounds darling. I love those country farm places. Last year my girlfriends and I went up to one of those flower farms to take pictures in the lavender fields. You wouldn’t believe how amazing it smelled.”

  “Could be around here. It’s all very picturesque, if you’re into that kind of thing.” Obviously, she couldn’t have gone to Wynter’s—Rowan and Leanne would have chased them out with pitchforks for daring to take a picture. I opened the brochure to show Nilusha some of the pictures of the flowers inside.

  “OMG . . . Tahira, zoom closer, will you? I see something interesting.”

  I did.

  Nilusha laughed in surprise. “Ha! This is amazing! Did you even read the prize for this sculpture competition?”

  “Yeah, it’s a trip to New York. That’s why everyone wants to win.”

  “Tahira, the prize is a trip to New York to enter the AHA Grand Floral Cup.”

  I picked up the flyer and took a look. “What’s that?”

  “Hang on, I’m googling this,” Nilusha said. “Your little garden competition feeds into the American Horticultural Association’s biggest annual event.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

  “Yes, yes, you are. The Grand Floral Cup is a massive televised floral competition that happens in New York every year. Even people that aren’t into flowers pay attention to it. It’s like the Westminster dog show for flowers. Plus, Christopher Chan.”

  That got my attention. Christopher Chan, one of the hottest designers in New York right now, had a background as a posh florist or something, but these days he was doing really cool stuff with streetwear. Matteo was always going on about his menswear line. The designer was also an instructor at FIT—and honestly one of the reasons I wanted to go there. “What does Christopher Chan have to do with any of this? I mean, he uses a lot of botanical prints, but—”

  “Tahira, he’s a judge in this.”

  “Wow. Does that mean . . . ?”

  “Whoever wins this little competition will get to go to New York and meet Christopher Chan. You are aware he’s also on the selection committee for FIT, aren’t you? Hell, even if you don’t win, entering would be amazing. This would stand out, if he saw it on your application.”

  “But I’m applying for fashion design, not floral design.”

  “Tahira, lesson two for today—design is design. Line, color, form . . . the principles aren’t that different. Christopher Chan used to be a floral designer, and now he’s one of the top streetwear designers in the world. You need to enter this. I overheard him talking about it during Fashion Week, back when I could still walk. I’d stepped into this teeny tea shop because they had the most beautiful madeleines in the window, and who should be there but Christopher Chan, talking to Eda Meurisse from Vogue. I quickly put on my Fashion Week lanyard and sat at the table next to them, but alas, I’m a nobody to Christopher Chan. He wouldn’t stop talking about this flower competition, though—he sounded obsessed. Oh, I’m still dreaming of the madeleines. I’m going to ask Didier if they’ll deliver.”

  I didn’t even know what a madeleine was. “There’s no way I can enter a garden thing. I don’t know a thing about flowers, and I’m extremely allergic to them. My aesthetic isn’t really naturals, you know? I’m not into flowers or foliage—”

  “Adapt, Tahira. Take an antihistamine. Ask your garden-oriented hottie next door to teach you. Design is design. This could be the break you were looking for. Actually, not ‘could be.’ This is Christopher Chan. You must reach for this connection.”

  I exhaled. “Okay.”

  Flowers. It always came back to bloody flowers around here.

  9

  A DREAM TEAM IS BORN!

  Every instinct in my body told me that entering the Bakewell Bloom flower sculpture competition was a bad idea, but I couldn’t exactly claim Nilusha Bhatt was my mentor if I ignored the first big piece of advice she gave me.

  Holding in a sneeze from just thinking about it, I opened the Bakewell Festival of Flowers website on my phone and found the page for the competition. After scrolling through pictures of last year’s winners, I realized two things. One: Rowan’s gift with floral design wasn’t unique around here. Many of the large architectural entries were amazing. But the second thing? The dried-out flower rabbit on the Johnstons’ front lawn was Rowan’s Bloom entry from last year, and it was spectacular—when it was fresh. Filled with vibrant flowers in so many colors. It was lush, interesting, and . . . alive. The lines, the color gradients—it didn’t look like a rabbit but like some sort of magical forest god.

  I frowned.

  It was slightly annoying that the guy was a wicked talented artist. His work stood out even among the rest of the serious flower skills people had around here.

  And yup, the Bloom grand prize was a trip to New York and entry into this Floral Cup in late October. The New York competition was huge—they averaged over three hundred entries—and it would take serious hustle to catch the attention of Christopher Chan there. That wasn’t a problem for me: Hustle was practically my middle name. (Actually it was Huma, but close enough.)

  But I needed to win the Bakewell competition first, and as I saw it, there were three roadblocks in my way. One: this was a team competition, and I had no team. Two: I knew nothing about flowers, floral design, or flower sculptures, and I was sure YouTube could only take me so far. And three: the whole allergy problem. I sneezed again. The antihistamines I took daily wouldn’t cut it. I wondered about the feasibility of flower arranging from inside a big plastic bubble. But honestly, problems one and two were the biggest. I needed a new Plan.

  Rowan was still across the yard wearing headphones. He had said he was entering the competition with Leanne, so there was room on his team for me, even if June agreed to join, since teams could be three or four members. But . . . of course, no. I wouldn’t subject myself to being on a team with someone who hated me.

  I needed my own team. Who would I recruit to join me? Gia, of course. Too bad Matteo wasn’t here because he’d totally do it. Shar? Maybe. But her back problems would probably be an issue. Juniper was the obvious choice, but she herself had said she didn’t want to enter, and the last thing I wanted was to be yet another person begging Juniper to be on their Bloom team.

  But maybe Juniper would join with me? Maybe the reason she’d said no to Rowan and Addison wasn’t that she didn’t want to do the Bloom, but that she didn’t want to play second fiddle to her flower-genius brother or be anywhere near Addison “Wannabe Regina George Mean Girl” McLaughlin. I mean, I didn’t want to be on a team with either of them.

  I texted her and invited her for tea after dinner, since I’d learned that was something she loved when we’d gone to Hyacinth’s together.

  Yes! Want me to make the tea? I have some of Hyacinth’s chai blend. Or maybe the lavender chamomile tea bags they sell at the nursery? What time? Where should we meet? In the backyard, I assume. OMG one day I’m going to have to take you to the fields behind the nursery—although that’s better for a picnic, not just tea.

  I chuckled. Juniper texting was just like Juniper talking. I wrote back with a time and told her I’d take care of the tea.

  I headed to the tiny house to call Matteo to eliminate any possibility of Rowan possibly eavesdropping. My mood was already monumentally improved after talking to Nilusha, but Matteo made me feel even better. He was supportive and kind and comforted me about what had happened at Lilybuds. He said I’d definitely done the right thing by getting advice from Nilusha, and he loved my idea of entering the flower competition.

  After the call, I did a quick Google search and se
ttled into my bed on the loft to read everything I could about floral sculpture. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it like a Janmohammad. I was going to give it everything I had.

  A few hours later, Gia got home.

  “T, come down here so I can hug you,” she called up.

  “Why do you want to hug me?” I called back, confused. My brain was mush from all the floral design theory I’d just binged.

  “Your beautiful dreams were crushed today! Destroyed! Your future was squashed like an ant on a sidewalk! You must be devastated!”

  I’d been feeling okay since I had a new plan, but when she put it that way, I felt kind of sucky again.

  “I’ve been so distraught all afternoon!” Gia continued, her voice so melodramatic that I fully expected her to have a weak wrist on her forehead. “Tell me, my sweet, unfortunate friend, how can I support you in this difficult time?”

  “First of all, you can stop calling me your ‘unfortunate friend.’” I poked my head over the railing of the loft. “G, what are you wearing?”

  She stood there in purple tie-dyed overalls.

  “I bought them from the store.” She grinned, looking down at herself. “You said you liked the overalls there.”

  “Okay, but the ones I liked were black linen. Not . . .” I tried to identify the fabric. “Rayon batik. Purple, at that.”

  “I’m trying a new look, remember? This is the kind of thing country people wear, right?”

  I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t really want to get into that right now. I nodded. “Sure. Totally rocking the rural-chic vibe. Look, I’m okay. I’m totally not giving up on FIT. I have an idea to salvage my application. We’re meeting Juniper for tea after dinner to discuss it.”

  Gia beamed, clapping her hands together. “Yay! Yay, yay, yay! That’s my Tahira! Always a solution for every setback. Seriously, you’re an inspiration.” She reached up to pat my cheek, which wasn’t something I remembered my friend ever doing. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked. “I’m completely on board, whatever it is.”