Tahira in Bloom

by Heron, Farah

  Matteo, on the other hand, wasn’t taking the breakup as well. Or so I’d heard—I still had him blocked everywhere. But apparently, he told Gia to tell me he wasn’t seeing Alyssa anymore, and that he wanted to talk to me. She told him no. Repeatedly. Then she blocked him from being able to contact her anywhere except for the family WhatsApp, and he knew better than to set off his aunts and grandmother again.

  I took Rowan’s advice and stayed as busy as possible to keep my mind off Matteo. I worked a lot. Shar took me to Friday-night prayers at the jamatkhana in Niagara Falls while Gia and Juniper watched the store. But mostly, I absolutely killed it with my Bloom preparation. After cramming all week, I’d consumed pretty much all the reputable information on the web about floral design and sculpture. I knew which plants were best as focals and fillers in an arrangement. I knew when most flowers bloomed, and which ones would survive being shoved into chicken wire. I even watched this reality show about floral installations three times through. I’d filled my sketchbooks and the art app on my iPad with hypothetical designs for the competition, using everything I’d learned about form, line, space, and color. I was hoping we’d settle on our design soon so we could start building the frame, but Rowan insisted that we needed to make some prototypes first.

  I had a ton of questions as I inhaled all this information, but I had excellent teachers. We had a group chat set up for our team, and every time something stumped me—like if an African violet would work with marigolds, or if we had access to Japanese forest grass, Rowan and Juniper would hop on with answers immediately. We talked in the group chat for a while about the Bloom rules, too. The internal framework for the sculpture could be something we made or bought, and could be practically anything at all, as long as it was covered with flowers. We were allowed to build the frame ahead of time, but all the plantings had to be added on the day of the competition at the festival itself, so people could watch us make it. The judging would be focused on those principles of floral design I’d been learning about—line, color, space, scale, depth, and so forth, as well as diversity of plants. Basically, they wanted a lot of plants and flowers covering a thing in a unique and pleasing manner.

  Gia was helping out, too, in her own way. While she wasn’t as concerned with rules and the technicalities of the competition, she had a great eye for color, and she had some ideas for what we could make for the actual sculpture. Rowan shot down those ideas, though. Too bad—I thought a sneaker or a Birkin bag could be cool.

  Monday morning, I had my appointment with Dr. Johnston, Rowan and Juniper’s mom, at her clinic on Main Street. She had a million questions for me: whether I’d had an allergy test before (I had), whether I had asthma (also yes, but I’d pretty much grown out of it), and how often I took over-the-counter antihistamines (pretty much daily since getting to Bakewell). She told me about a new, stronger prescription drug, then prescribed it.

  “I should apologize for not introducing myself to you yet. I’ve seen you in the yard with Juniper and Rowan, but I’ve stayed back. Juniper says I embarrass her.” She smiled warmly.

  I liked Dr. Johnston. She was friendly and listened, and she looked like a grown-up June.

  “It’s cool,” I said.

  “Well, I’m happy to be meeting you now, Tahira. Lord knows I feel like I already know you, what with how much the kids talk about you.”

  “June’s talkative.”

  “Not just June—Rowan, too. He’s been telling me about your sculpture designs. He’s in complete awe of you. I should thank you for getting him excited about the Bloom again.”

  “What? He was already excited about it.”

  Dr. Johnston shook her head. “No. He was going through the motions of entering again, but he wasn’t excited like he was last year. He wanted to win, of course, but the passion for the process was missing. But now he’s got his spark back. I’m glad you’ve made his last summer before university so memorable!”

  It was weird of his mother to tell me this. Even weirder to think Rowan once had a “spark” in the first place. Or that he told his mom that he liked my designs. I was flattered, of course. Mostly surprised, though. Then again, Rowan surprised me a lot as I was getting to know him better.

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here this summer.” She patted my arm. “You’re good for both my kids. Let me know how the new pills work for you.”

  The next afternoon at work, I was leaning on the counter, scrolling through the winners of last year’s Grand Floral Cup in New York. The entries were awesome. Seriously, mind-blowing art. I had to win the Bloom so I could go to this thing. “Do you think I could learn to weld in four weeks?” I asked Shar.

  She chuckled. “Maybe. But is it necessary? Most of the Bloom entries last year used chicken wire for the frames.”

  She was probably right. I sighed. But we needed to be more unique. Maybe I could learn basket weaving? Would straw and reeds be strong enough to hold plants?

  The bell over the door rang, and a large purple plastic crate walked into the store. Presumably a person was connected to the crate, but I couldn’t see them. The beat-up Chucks on the feet gave it away, though. Rowan.

  Shar rushed up to help him in. “Rowan! Wonderful. You’re here! Just set up to paint exactly where I showed you yesterday.”

  “Oh, hi,” I said. I hadn’t realized he was painting the mural today.

  When he put the crate down, I saw something that literally made me gasp. His shirt. It wasn’t brightly colored and had no plant meme in sight. In fact, today’s shirt was . . . hot. A perfectly faded, and lightly paint-splattered, slim charcoal Henley. Holy hell. If that’s what he was going to look like on campus in Toronto next year, he was going to have a devoted fan club before frosh week even ended. Again, I was positively itching to photograph this guy.

  He barely looked at me and walked toward the back wall. “I’ll start moving things out of the way, okay, Shar?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Tahira can help you move the fixtures. The store is slow; she can be your assistant today.”

  I didn’t mind helping. I kind of wanted to see him up close in that shirt, anyway. I went over, and we moved the fixtures near the back wall to the front of the store so the clothes on them wouldn’t get paint on them.

  He spread some drop cloths on the carpet and started taking painting supplies out of the plastic bin. He was being pretty quiet, and the silence felt awkward. “So,” I said, “the triangles . . . do you tape them off before you paint them?” It was a stupid question. I understood how painting worked.

  “I used tape for the big one at the barn, but I had to wait for each color to dry before adding the next. Shar wants it done today, so I’m freehanding the lines for this.” He pulled out a printed photograph of the barn mural as reference and put it next to the containers of paint.

  “Ah,” I said. “The design is so great. It’s perfect for the Lily collection. Like a modern juxtaposition against all the florals in the store.”

  He suddenly turned to me, a handful of long, narrow brushes in his hand. “What are you talking about? This is a floral.”

  “What? No.” I pointed to the photo. “You’re doing this one, right? It’s an abstract geometric design.”

  “It’s abstract hydrangeas. It’s literally a painting of flowers.”

  “No, it’s just . . . abstract.”

  He laughed, eyes twinkling with humor. At my expense.

  I cringed, looking back at the picture. “Did I seriously pick a floral design as the signature backdrop for my modern, not-supposed-to-be-flowery clothing line?”

  He nodded.

  I leaned against the wall. “You probably thought I was so uptight that day we first met at the barn.”

  Using a ruler, he started drawing pencil lines that were apparently flower petals on the wall. “You were a bit precious.”

  “Yeah, well, spilling manure all over myself kind of ruined my day. And my boots.”

  “I was kind of an ass, too. I’m sorry.
I guess I should’ve been flattered that you liked my painting that much,” he said.

  “I did. Just like I’ve liked your floral designs.”

  He turned to me, smiling almost shyly, but with real joy. His mood had completely changed again. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the spark Dr. Johnston had talked about. “You have another ruler and pencil?” I asked. “I can help.”

  We worked together to finish penciling in the triangles and then started painting some of them in the lightest blue, using Rowan’s picture as a guide. Now that I knew what it was supposed to be, I totally saw hydrangeas. Specifically, blue hydrangeas in the fall, when the cornflower-blue clusters of petals darkened to a dusty purple. But of course, two weeks ago I didn’t know what hydrangeas were.

  “Do you paint flowers a lot?” I asked, carefully filling in a triangle with a slim brush. This was kind of soothing. My school offered amazing painting classes, but I hadn’t taken them. My schedule was all math, sciences, photography, and fashion design. And figure drawing, which was where I’d learned to draw the people wearing the clothes I designed.

  “Nah, this was just for my grade-twelve art project. We were supposed to do a large-scale installation that matched its surroundings. Flowers for the nursery made sense to me. I didn’t anticipate that it would become a magnet for selfie-starved tourists, though.”

  “I wasn’t the first Instagrammer who admired your work?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  “So, what do you have against influencers, anyway?” I probably should have asked this question before now.

  He didn’t look away from the painting. “They wreak havoc on the nursery, using it for their own purposes with no appreciation for the plants themselves. I’ve had to pick up wine cans and water bottles from the fields so many times. Once a group used these colored smoke bomb things for their pictures. The lawn mower was bright pink for weeks. And they always have super-entitled demands, like they want free stuff for exposure.”

  “Not all influencers are so self-absorbed.”

  “C’mon. It’s in the definition. They want to influence people. They want to personally be relevant. Influencers are self-absorbed by design.”

  It was hard to disagree with him because plenty of influencers were just like what he was describing. Hell, my own ex-boyfriend was so desperate to be in that club that he cheated on me. And I myself had wreaked havoc at the nursery while trying to get a picture for my Instagram.

  “But don’t you want influence, too?” I asked, dipping my brush into the small yogurt cup of paint. “Why paint murals, or enter flower design competitions, or even go to school for . . . what was it . . . landscape architecture, if you don’t want to influence people?”

  Rowan kept painting, but he seemed to consider what I was saying. “I guess I want to influence people with my creations,” he said, “not for me personally. Influencers want recognition for themselves, for who they are, not for what they make.”

  I shrugged, smiling. “Yeah, but whatever they create, or the pictures they post, or even what they choose to wear, is a reflection of themselves. Art reflects the artist, so why separate them? I mean, now that I’ve seen how much I love your painting, I see you differently.”

  He smiled and actually blushed a little. “Trying to butter me up for something, Thirst Trap?”

  I wasn’t, but I couldn’t deny that smile was its own reward.

  “Anyway,” I said, “in my field, fashion design, the artist is as important as the art. A bunch of emerging designers I follow on YouTube talk about how important platform and connections are. They put a lot of effort into curating their social media presence. Even Nilusha Bhatt—she’s my mentor—her Instagram feed is as much about her life as her clothes. She literally sells sweatshirts that say BHATT across them, so people know who she is personally.”

  “But what part of you do you really want out there? The art or the artist? Do you want people excited about your actual creations, or do you just want everyone wearing clothes because your name is plastered across them?”

  “Well, not my last name. Janmohammad is too long.” I tilted my head. “I’m thinking of calling my line House of Tahira—and even made up some pieces with the acronym HOT appliquéd on them.”

  “Ah. That’s why you were wearing that shirt the second time I saw you. It wasn’t just to broadcast your attractiveness.”

  What? Did Rowan just call me hot? I shook my head. “The point is, the artist sells the art as much as the medium or the quality these days. You can’t separate them. Influencers have learned that.”

  “Not always. Everyone loves their gardens but no one knows the names of the top garden designers in the world. Except other landscape architects.”

  “Well, that’s how it is in fashion. Whether I like it or not is irrelevant.”

  He blew out a puff of air. “I guess I’m not cut out for fashion, then. But you have to admit, a lot of influencers are terrible.”

  I nodded. “Horrendously terrible. Starting with a certain Italian ex-boyfriend. Also, those people beheading roses and leaving garbage everywhere? They’re not terrible because they’re influencers; they’re terrible and they’re influencers. Truly great multitasking.”

  Rowan laughed as he swirled his brush in a pot of water.

  After a short break, we moved to the darker-blue triangles. The store got busy a few times, so I had to stop painting and help Shar with customers. At seven, when it was time to close, the painting was only about halfway done. I offered to Rowan that I could stay to help him finish it, figuring we could also use the time alone with no customer interruption to discuss our design for the Bloom.

  But first, we stepped out to get some pizza slices from the shop down the street after Shar left. We ate standing at the counter in the store.

  “So, are you ready to take pictures of us at the nursery for the Lily line?” I asked, wiping pizza grease from my fingers.

  “I’m not sure why you’d want me. I’m not much of a photographer.”

  “You don’t have to be. Gia and I will set up the shots. We’ll make it easy—point and shoot. Your sister is desperate to model, and since I haven’t made any new clothes in a while, this might be her only chance.”

  “She wants to model?”

  “She asked me to model my stuff when I first got here.” Although, now that I thought about it, she didn’t seem very enthusiastic about modeling the Lily collection when Gia suggested this photo shoot. “Hey, is something bothering June lately? She seemed kinda quiet that day we were working with the succulents.”

  “You see her more than I do. You tell me.”

  I honestly wasn’t sure. She was chatty like normal at work, but sometimes she went quiet when we were in the garden.

  “Addison isn’t bothering her, is she?” Rowan asked.

  I shook my head. “If she is, I’m not seeing it. What was it that Addison did to June, anyway?”

  He exhaled slowly before putting his pizza down. “June never told you?”

  I shook my head.

  “June used to have this YouTube channel where she did book reviews and gossip about books and stuff. Last fall she got these anonymous comments on her videos. Nothing you would automatically identify as bullying or anything, but kinda . . . off. Things about the way she looked, or her clothes, instead of her content. Passive-aggressive stuff about the maturity of the books she was reviewing, or about the fact that they were mostly fantasy. Really, if you saw any of these comments on their own, you’d think nothing of it. But together . . . it became a pattern.”

  “Addison was doing this?”

  He nodded. “It was several people doing it. One or two would start, and it would open the floodgates and others would join in. It was so subtle. I told June to delete the comments, but she left them. Honestly, they were gaslighting her so well she didn’t even realize it was abuse. But it took a toll on her. Like, she had her hair in braids once, and a few people made comments about them. No
t negative, but still. So she had Mom take them out. Stuff like that.”

  I frowned. “Addison’s a bitch.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while. Finally he spoke. “She wasn’t, at first. We’ve known each other a long time, and she was one of the only people around here who really made an effort to get to know me. I’ve always been quiet, so I kind of blended into the background when we were kids. But she noticed me, you know? She was always kind of judgy, but kinder in private. Anyway, for the last few months before we broke up, she started getting more wrapped up in these social media personalities. You know, like, teen YouTubers? She kept bugging me to help her start her own channel. But I didn’t have the time. We were all at Bell’s Pond one night, and I happened to catch her on her phone making a comment on June’s latest video. I had no idea she even knew about June’s YouTube before that. Addie tried to reassure me that these comments weren’t harassment, and they were actually helping Juniper. That all the attention on the videos was making June more popular, because of followers or something. She didn’t tell us before then that it was her and her friends commenting, because she wanted to surprise us when a video went viral thanks to her ‘algorithm manipulation,’ as she put it. Then she said I should be commenting, too, and we could launch a spin-off show on June’s channel, leveraging off her popularity. Meanwhile, my sister’s self-esteem was taking a serious beating. Anyway, I broke up with Addison on the spot. I knew she could be a bit superficial, but I had no idea she was that bad. She honestly thought June’s fame was more important than her self-esteem.”