Tahira in Bloom

by Heron, Farah

  He inched closer, his eyes full of intensity. “Only when you bring it out in me. I couldn’t have done anything like this without you.”

  “You taught me everything I know about flowers, remember?” I put my hands behind his neck, pulling him closer. “We’re a team.”

  I kissed him.

  And kissing Rowan Johnston was perfect. My skin erupted in goose bumps like it always had. He immediately put his hands around my waist and pulled me even closer. His mouth was soft, but needy. He missed me as much as I missed him.

  I managed to get even closer. If I could somehow meld us together forever right now, I would’ve been all over that idea.

  Finally, we pulled away, but I kept my hands on the back of his neck to keep him close.

  His eyes were dark. Lips pursed. Jaw twitching. He leaned forward, catching my lips in one more tiny kiss. “What now?” he whispered.

  “I’d love to invite you to the tiny house, but my sister is sleeping in there.”

  He chuckled, leaning forward and resting his forehead on mine.

  “That would have been great,” he said. “But that’s not what I’m asking.”

  I knew what he was asking. What was going to happen in the future? Would we stay together? When he started university in a week and I was back in high school in two? Was this connection even possible outside this garden? Outside Bakewell?

  “Let’s get through the Bloom,” I said. “Can we wait and have this conversation after the competition?”

  He nodded, then caught my lips for another little kiss. “Okay. I can live with that.”

  “Want to look at the stars?” I asked. “I can tell you why I left Toronto.”

  So that’s what we did. Lay back on the grass talking, with my head on his chest, looking at millions of stars in the sky.

  29

  BUILDING OUR BLOOM

  Even though Rowan and I were up so late, I was showered, dressed, and ready before eight for the Bloom. I left the tiny house quietly, since Samaya was still sleeping. She’d be coming to the festival later with Mom and Dad. Rowan was already at the workbench, packing up the flowers and moss. I smiled, heading toward him.

  But before I reached him, June and Leanne came out of the greenhouse wearing matching T-shirts with some floral design on them.

  “There you are,” June said, her hands on her hips. “I knew you had to be the one behind this.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the sculpture frame Rowan and I had made last night.

  “Hi, Juniper!” I said. Leanne was frowning behind her. I bit my lip. I probably should have told Leanne privately that I’d returned.

  Rowan grinned at me. “My sister was just laying into me for not telling her you came back.”

  Juniper slapped her brother on the chest. “Of course I was laying into you! I mean, it’s not like I don’t love this new design, because holy crap, it’s spectacular, and we’re fine with changing our entry to this. But you can’t just hog her for yourself because y’all are playing tonsil hockey these days! We’re a team!”

  “You got home so late. I didn’t want to bother you,” Rowan said, glancing at Leanne.

  “Where did you go?” I asked Leanne. She still seemed mighty irritated to see me. I didn’t blame her.

  “We were getting T-shirts,” Leanne said, pushing a white T-shirt at me. She looked at June. “Tell ’em how we got them, Junebug.”

  Juniper smiled proudly. “Leanne and I went for burgers yesterday while Rowan went to pick up the plants, and I had the idea to get shirts while we were eating. It was, like, super last minute to get custom tees, but then Leanne remembered there’s a twenty-four-hour Staples print shop in Saint Catharines. Her dad once had to get brochures printed in the middle of the night because the ones he ordered said BEE LAND LANGSTON, instead of Leeland Langston, which, I mean, c’mon, I would have changed the whole business name to Bee Land because it’s hilarious. Anyway, Leanne and I designed these on her phone, and they printed it on these iron-on sheets for us. But then we had to get the T-shirts to iron them onto. Do you know how hard it was to find blank T-shirts at midnight? These are from a grocery store, believe it or not. They’re men’s undershirts! They had books, too! Can you imagine being able to buy books in the middle of the night?”

  I was looking at Leanne while June was talking, and she was looking at Juniper with so much . . . liking. Like, serious affection. I raised a brow at Rowan. What else had happened in Saint Catharines?

  I held up the shirt to look at it. “Why’d you make me a shirt if you didn’t know I was here?”

  “You’re one of us,” June said, smiling. “Even if you needed to leave for that fancy photo shoot, you’re still on the team.”

  The shirt was gleaming white, with a big rectangle in the middle filled with flowers of every color. Sunflowers, daisies, violets, cornflowers. In the middle, with white blocky letters, it said BFFS. Above those letters, with a smaller print, it said BFF.

  “Get it?” June squealed. “We’re the BFF BFFs. The Bakewell Flower Festival’s Best Friends Forever. I know flowers aren’t, like, what did you call it, your aesthetic, but for the Bloom, flowers are good, right? You only have to wear it today.”

  I grinned. “I love it. Seriously. It’s perfect. I’ll go change.” I went into the tiny house and texted Leanne right away.

  Tahira: I hope you trust me and we can work together today. And don’t worry—I worked it out. June’s still getting her signed book.

  Leanne: June and Row are happy, so I can’t be mad, as long as June gets the book. Don’t hurt them. Welcome back.

  I put on my flowered shirt, finally ready for the Bloom.

  The Bloom was being held on a big grass-covered field next to the main festival grounds. The festival itself wasn’t open to the public yet, but we had an hour to work alone before spectators were allowed to watch us. I was surprised to see how many people were already there. I rolled Ruby’s wheels over the grass toward our assigned spot. There were about thirty other teams scattered over the field, and a stage area set up in front. We weren’t near anyone I knew—but I could make out Addison and her team in the distance.

  Before the competition officially opened, a judge with an impressive handlebar mustache visited our station to make sure our frame followed the rules. It was approved, thankfully. Soon after, that judge, and a bunch more people, climbed the stage.

  A woman in a fifties-style pinup dress in a peony print said a little speech about the history of the Bloom (super long and auspicious, apparently) and the rules (super strict and unclear, if you asked me), then introduced another judge to officially open the competition—a sturdy woman in a floral button-up and unironic mom jeans. After a short inspirational speech, the judge pressed a button on a loudspeaker and proclaimed the Bakewell Bloom officially started.

  The judge in jeans waved and winked at our team as she walked off the field. Leanne grinned and waved back.

  I raised a brow. “What was that about?”

  “That’s Agnes Chiu,” Leanne said. “She was my Girl Guides leader, and she’s the one who got me into rabbit agility shows. She has three English lops—the sweetest things ever. They always trip over their ears when climbing the little ramps.”

  Ah. Hopefully, we had a small advantage thanks to the bunny-loving judge.

  Rowan wheeled over the wagon of moss. It was time to start building our Bloom sculpture.

  After making sure the skirt was well secured to the base, we started lining the chicken wire with moss. The moss could hold twenty times its weight in water, so we packed it very loosely to give it space to expand. With luck, once we wedged the plants in, it would look fuller.

  The frame was holding its shape pretty well. We had to be careful to stuff the breasts evenly so she wouldn’t be lopsided, and the narrow shoulder strap was a bit tricky. But overall, the sculpture was coming together. Not quite the magical gown of flowers she’d be later, but more solid at least.

  Leanne w
as securing moss with floral wire when she sighed. “This almost makes me want to put on a dress again. Rowan, wouldn’t a dress have been better for our prom pictures?”

  Rowan laughed. “You looked fine in the green pantsuit. Very Hillary Clinton. I haven’t seen you in a dress since—”

  “Grade-eight graduation,” Juniper interrupted. She covered her mouth, clearly mortified that she’d admitted to cataloging her brother’s best friend’s formal-wear history.

  I had no idea what exactly was going on between the two, but there was a different vibe between them today. June was a touch less awkward, and Leanne a bit more natural with June. I wanted to respect them, and respect Rowan when he said I shouldn’t pry, but I was dying to know. Had they had the heavy talk yet?

  I glanced at Rowan. We, of course, were also due for a heavy talk. We’d agreed to a kind of holding pattern today, even though last night had been so spectacular. I felt closer to him than I ever had. Emotionally, I mean. He’d been so great when I told him about my existential crisis in Toronto. He listened and understood why I had needed to go to that photo shoot. And he understood why I came back. We talked about my struggle to decide what to do about college, and he gave me some great insights without trying to influence my decision.

  I knew more than ever that I couldn’t let this summer fling end when the season changed. And I was 90 percent sure he felt the same way.

  But it was that last 10 percent that was freaking me out whenever I let myself think too much.

  So I focused on the Bloom. I might not have had that much to gain by winning, but Rowan did. I planned to give everything to this competition, because that’s what I did.

  I pushed out some of the wire that had collapsed on the skirt and added more moss.

  “Wow,” June said. “It’s finally looking like a dress. I love this thing.”

  About half an hour into the competition, we were ready to add the most important element of our Bloom sculpture—the flowers. We started with the darkest-magenta begonias at the bottom.

  “What do you think?” I asked Rowan when I was halfway around the skirt. There were a few gaps between the flowers, but we could fill them in with clumps of sod or more moss. I thought the ombré effect was working.

  He nodded. “She looks good.”

  “She looks like a headless nymph floating through the garden,” Leanne added, which made Juniper give her a curious glance.

  I studied the sculpture through narrowed eyes. “It’s probably too late to give her a head, right?”

  Rowan laughed. “She’s fine. It’s a sculpture of a dress, not a person. Like a dress on a dress form.”

  I nodded. With it on Ruby’s base, it looked pretty much like a dress in a designer’s studio.

  We kept adding flowers. So far, the heavy metal base and the sturdy wire we’d used were holding the weight fine. I was feeling seriously optimistic about winning. Even with flowers only one-quarter of the way up the skirt, this gown was dazzling.

  I was sitting on the ground, adjusting a coreopsis that wasn’t sitting right, when the woman in the fifties dress approached. All I could see were her pink satin pumps.

  “Stop. The prop on this entry is illegal.”

  Damn it. Everything had been going too well today. The woman loomed over me. Her dress looked like an authentic vintage piece up close. “Who authorized you to use this prop for your entry?” she asked me.

  I blinked. She’d sounded nice in her welcome speech. Now? Not so nice. Also, she was with Mrs. McLaughlin, Addison’s mother. Extra not nice.

  “What exactly is the problem?” Leanne asked, coming around the sculpture to face the women. I stood.

  “Leanne, I just asked your friend who authorized the use of this . . . prop?” She flipped through the pages in a clipboard. “Props are against rule twenty-four. Didn’t you read the rule booklet?”

  “They probably don’t even have one,” Mrs. McLaughlin added.

  “We don’t have a prop,” I said. “Our frame was approved by a judge.”

  Vintage Dress Lady kicked the cast-iron base with her satin pumps. “This is a prop. It’s used to enhance the sculpture instead of being a part of the frame.”

  “I have the booklet right here,” Rowan said, pulling a brochure out of his back pocket. “Props are accessories. Like an umbrella or a hat. This isn’t an accessory; it’s part of the frame.”

  Vintage Dress tilted her head in a patronizing gesture. “The judges should be the one to decide that. Come, Melanie. Who knows what these kids told Albert when he inspected the frame? Let’s speak to him ourselves. I’m sure this isn’t—”

  “Are we allowed to defend ourselves?” Leanne interrupted. “Or, just because the Bakewell desperate housewives have it in for us, we have to roll over and cower.”

  “Leanne!” the woman said. “The disrespect! I don’t understand why anyone calls you one of Bakewell’s brightest young students.”

  Mrs. McLaughlin tutted past her partner-in-privilege and waved a finger at me instead of Leanne. “I’ll have you know that the Bloom is a long-standing tradition in Bakewell. Long before you arrived. If it was up to me, outsiders wouldn’t even be allowed to enter.”

  Rowan’s jaw twitched. “There is no residency requirement for the Bloom. There never has been. And all of us, other than Tahira, have lived here our whole lives.”

  Mrs. McLaughlin just glared. Why did she have it in for me? Was this because her daughter saw me as competition? Or because I was dating Rowan?

  I pointed to one of the other entries. “That team’s rabbit sculpture has a whole chair in it. Your own daughter is using a . . .” I glanced over to Addison’s and Cameron’s . . . “What is that exactly?”

  “It’s a wrought iron headboard,” Mrs. McLaughlin said. “But those are their frames. This is a prop because it will be visible in your finished design.”

  Leanne, Mrs. McLaughlin, and Vintage Dress Lady continued arguing the semantics of a prop versus a frame while other contestants wandered over to see what the commotion was.

  I rubbed my temples, stepping away from the crowd. Rowan was by my side in seconds. He put his hand on my lower back.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded, looking into his eyes for strength. “This is my fault.”

  “No. They’re doing this because they’re intimidated by you. By us. Seeing us succeed makes them feel like we’re taking their spot.”

  I smiled. “You sound like your father.”

  “The design is spectacular, Tahira. Honestly, I don’t even care if they find some silly loophole to disqualify us. They’ll look closed minded, and we’ll look brilliant. We’re still the ones shining.”

  He was right. “We always shine,” I whispered.

  He wrapped me in a hug, and I sank into it.

  “And now look at those two!” Mrs. McLaughlin shrieked. Rowan and I pulled apart to see her pointing and frowning at us.

  “What now?” Rowan asked, rolling his eyes.

  “They’re not taking any of this seriously. I don’t know how we can allow these hormonal teenagers—”

  “Mom, just shut up.” Addison had arrived at our little three-ring circus.

  “Addie, go back to your station. This isn’t about you.”

  Addison blinked, looking at Rowan and me. “Mom, this is about me. You’re my mother, and you’re embarrassing me. All this is because part of their frame is visible?”

  Vintage Dress pointed to her clipboard again. “It’s against rule—”

  “Why don’t you just cover it up?” Addison said to our team but mostly to Rowan.

  “We could,” Rowan said slowly. He walked over and bent to inspect the stand. “It’s solid metal, though. How?”

  Addison shook her head. “It’s not rocket science. Cover it with sheet moss.”

  It could work.

  “We didn’t bring any sheet moss,” Rowan said. “Only the sphagnum moss we lined the frame with.”

  “Well,” Vint
age Dress Lady snapped. “You can make do with what you have, or you can go purchase what you need, but they’re not going to give you any extra time.”

  Mrs. McLaughlin crossed her arms and smiled smugly. “Those are your options. If you’d like to leave, then—”

  “We have a ton of sheet moss,” Addison said. “We’re covering our whole headboard with it. You can have some.”

  Addison’s mother turned sharply to her daughter. “Addison, if they aren’t following the rules—”

  “This is a dumb rule! We both know you’re just trying to sabotage them because you don’t want them to beat me! But it’s not going to work, because they’re going to beat me no matter what. This is Rowan! And his girlfriend is a real-life fashion designer! They worked harder and are just better at this than me. Stop being a stage mom and deal with it.”

  Wow. I had no idea Addison McLaughlin had that in her. I smiled at her, feeling a little overachieving-mother solidarity, even though my mother would never sabotage someone else to get me ahead. As much as my parents were intense sometimes, clearly I could’ve had it so much worse.

  “You’re being serious? We can have the moss?” Rowan asked, looking at Addison carefully.

  “Yeah, totally.” She indicated our sculpture. “This is gorgeous. It should stay in the competition. And . . . you’re an old friend.”

  Everyone dispersed at that. Even Mrs. McLaughlin and her mean-lady lackey left with their proverbial tails between their legs.

  Addison winced at me. “Sorry about my mother. It took me way too long to realize how toxic she is. Congrats on your sculpture—it’s really amazing.”

  I tilted my head. “Thanks.”

  “You and Rowan are cute together. Love the shirts. Come grab the moss whenever.” She turned to June. “Hey, Juniper, my mom gave me some advance copies for books coming out next year that she got from the library. I thought you might want them for your Instagram.”

  “Oh, wow,” Juniper said. “I’ve never had an advance copy before. I . . . what’s the catch?”

  Addison shrugged. “No catch. Call it an apology for that stuff before. I don’t even listen to my mother these days. And she doesn’t know about your Instagram. Byee!” She flipped her shiny hair over her shoulder and went back to her team.