I open my mouth and close it, realizing it would probably ruin things even more if I asked him to get the manager.
“Sorry about my friend,” Grace says, coming over and wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “She’s just having an off day.”
Kelvin looks between us suspiciously, not sure what to do.
“I don’t know if I want to buy the gloves at full price,” I say.
“Mia,” Grace hisses.
“Grace,” I mimic her.
“I’ll buy the gloves. Okay?” she says, looking back and forth between us. “No biggie.” She pulls her backpack purse off her shoulders, and as her braids fall from behind her neck to form a curtain around her face, I catch Kelvin giving her the once-over.
“Loosen up, guys. The tension in here is so unnecessary,” Grace says, flashing Kelvin an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. I mean, if I could change the price myself, I would,” he says to her, accepting her debit card.
“I understand. It’s no big deal. It’s definitely not worth you getting in trouble,” Grace tells him.
“That’s nice of you,” he says, smiling back at her. Even though he smiled at me before, now I notice the way his eyes seem to glisten under the fluorescent lights. I also notice the way the fan is blowing Grace’s hair gently back from her face. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Do you?” Grace asks coyly.
He hands her my bag of stuff and shifts his weight to one side, leaning against the counter. “I feel like we were in a play together.”
“Oh my gosh,” Grace says, pretending to be surprised, like the actress she is. “Drama camp, two summers ago?”
“Yes!” His eyes get wide, and for a moment his mouth hangs open. “Oh my gosh, I remember you. Grace?”
“Yes, and you’re Kelvin,” she says, laughing, pointing to his name tag.
“It’s been forever since I’ve even thought about that play,” Kelvin admits.
Grace leans into the counter, my bag around her wrist. “I know. I still can’t believe they had us act out a donor’s play instead of a real one.”
“And it was such trash, too,” Kelvin reminisces.
I watch the way their eyes stay locked on each other, how naturally they’ve both managed to lean to the same side and with each sentence get closer. Elbows on the counter. Chins propped in the palms of their hands. Even though I know Grace is just being conversational, I feel frustrated watching Kelvin. This is what it looks like when a boy is interested. He leans in. He smiles uncontrollably. He laughs.
And here I am, some grumpy old lady haggling over the price of a pair of radish-print gloves. I slip out of the store without either of them noticing and make it as far as my car before the blister on my toe stops me from taking a therapeutic rage walk. What’s worse is that I can’t drive off, because I’m Grace’s ride home.
For a second I stare at my reflection in the window of my car. This is the face of the least-flirty girl on the planet.
As soon as I get into the driver’s seat, I kick off my shoes and text Grace that I’m waiting and ready to leave. I wait a few moments to see if she’ll read it immediately, but I have no such luck. No free Starbucks for her, and no date to the wedding for me.
CHAPTER SIX
On Friday after school, I drive home and try to get ahead on a couple of my assignments before it’s time to go to the community garden. Mom has her vinyasa yoga class from two thirty to three thirty, so I’m sitting in the kitchen wondering how much daylight we’re going to have left when she breezes through the back door, promising to be ready in ten minutes. I tell her to take her time, but she just smiles at me, pouring herself a quick cup of water at the kitchen sink before running upstairs to trade her yoga pants and stretchy long-sleeve top for a flannel and jeans. She and I end up looking alike because instead of the ridiculous coveralls Grace thought were garden-appropriate, I go for an old pair of jeans, my trainers, and a T-shirt. Mom laughs when she comes back through the kitchen, realizing we both have on our hats, with our knee pads in one hand and our gloves tucked into our pockets.
“Ready?” she asks, holding the door open for me.
“As I’ll ever be,” I tell her, thankful for owning one thick flannel to keep me warm in the fall chill.
I watch our neighborhood pass by outside the car window. We drive by Grace’s house, and I see her dad outside mowing the lawn. She told everyone about the meet-cute yesterday, and Sloane admitted she thought Grace was up to something with the gardening gloves. They were able to laugh it off as a funny memory that I’ll get to keep, but it wasn’t so easy for me to brush away. My first meet-cute was a disaster, to say the least. And I still have mixed feelings about the way Grace was able to casually carry on with Kelvin even though my moment with him had passed.
I try to push away thoughts about yesterday as we drive by the Yin house and I see their daughter sitting in the driveway with some of her friends. I used to give her swim lessons when she was in elementary school and I was still in middle school. Then we pass the community pool and I note all the cars outside, and feel thankful that it’s not very busy in the mornings.
It isn’t until we cut through town and start passing the arboretum that I realize the community garden has been under my nose this entire time. It’s sponsored by our town’s nature reserve, and past a patch of tall grass and a large row of apple trees, there’s a hidden driveway. There’s a small sign attached to a black fence post, and the gates are wide open.
We pull into the gravel parking lot, and there are a few people walking in the direction of a metal arch flanked by patches of sweet alyssum. Through the arch I can see chicken-wire fences and individual plots. From here it looks like one big wire wall. Some people have on hats; a few people carry individual knee pads or foam blocks with handles. And, like Mom said, most people seem to have their own gloves either hanging out of a tote or hanging out of their back pockets. I notice that most of them are like my mom, middle-aged with graying hair and a sense of urgency in their stride.
“I’m so excited for you to meet everyone,” Mom tells me when she turns off the car.
“So, this is where you come every day?” I ask, getting out of the car.
As we approach the arch, I look in the direction of the greenhouse. It sits at the back of the property, a wooden frame with glass windows. A few windows are broken, and the white paint is peeling off the wood, exposing gray and rot in different spots. Outside the greenhouse entrance are troughs and sections of goldenrod and Russian sage flanking a makeshift walkway that’s currently overgrown with grass.
“Inside the greenhouse is where the vegetable garden used to be,” Mom explains when she catches me staring. “But there was a tree to the side of the greenhouse, and a few years ago a branch fell off and broke some of the wooden beams in the roof and one of the beams inside the house. It wasn’t safe to work in there because at any second it was like the roof might cave in.” She watches the greenhouse ahead of us, staring up at it like some monument. “We tried planting vegetables out here, but the animals would just eat them before we could harvest anything. No matter what we tried—cayenne, natural pesticides—they didn’t stop.”
She goes on about how they were able to raise enough money over the summer from selling flowers in the neighborhood to have the beams repaired so that the greenhouse is safe again. I tune in and out, taking in my surroundings. The air smells like a concoction of things, a floral perfume mixed with wet dirt, fertilizer, and moss. I feel out of place when we approach the rest of the group. There are people already kneeling down, pulling weeds, dirt covering the shins of their jeans. A few more people are wheeling out fragrant manure from the supply shed, and others are digging spots for trees along the perimeter of the garden.
“Beth,” a woman says. She leaves her spot near an in-ground trough a few rows away, and makes a beeline for my mom. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She braces herself with a hand on my mom’s sh
oulder and barely looks at me before pointing in the direction of the greenhouse. There’s a boy, probably the youngest person here other than myself, standing on top of a ladder, hammering into one of the frame pieces. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with that greenhouse. It’s atrocious.”
“Oh, Gloria. It’s not atrocious,” Mom says. She squints up at the boy, and then her eyes travel down to the doorway, where the door has been gently set against the side of the house since it’s no longer attached at the hinges. “It seems like Gavin has a handle on things. If anything, it’s a genuine work in progress now that people can actually go inside.”
“He knows about plants. He’s not a carpenter,” Gloria says, ignoring my mom’s silver lining.
“I’m sure it’s fine. Plus…” Mom turns to me. Gloria notices me for the first time and turns her entire body to face me. “This is my daughter, Mia. She can help with the greenhouse!”
“Does she know anything about building a greenhouse?” Gloria asks my mom even though she’s looking at me.
“Do you know anything about building a greenhouse?” Mom challenges.
Somehow this is enough to satisfy Gloria. She adjusts her bucket hat and tightens the drawstring below her chin before taking my mom by the hand and leading her in the direction of a trough.
So, I guess this means I’m helping Gavin.
Upon closer inspection, I see that there are weeds lining the base of the greenhouse along the sides, and vines reaching toward the roof. Inside, sunlight slants through the windows, and rays filter in where the windows either have holes or are completely broken. There are a few faded signs for different veggies, like kale and carrots. For the most part, the inside of the greenhouse is old dry dirt with weeds festering in the different plots where plants used to be.
I figure it’ll be easier to start weeding outside, so I find a spot of weeds with tiny white flowers, set down my knee pads, and get to work. I’m actually thankful to have the gloves because they protect my hands from some thorny plants that I find. It’s a shame that even though the flowers are kind of cute, they’re destroying the other life around them.
I’m not sure how long I’m working before Gavin comes down from the ladder. The metal creaks under his weight as he carefully places his feet on each rung. I use the hem of my flannel to wipe the dirt I feel on my cheek, and turn to Gavin as he approaches me. He’s kind of short, but I can tell that he’s muscular by the fit of his army-green long-sleeve shirt. He’s wearing cargo pants and a pair of work boots that make him look like a mix between a park ranger and someone who spends his time hunting gators. I think his bucket hat, which matches Gloria’s, definitely makes him lean more toward gator hunter.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, um,” he starts. He strokes his beard, looking down at the patch of weeds that I’ve pulled. I look down at my own work and feel a small amount of pride. The dirt that comes up with the roots is darker and richer than the dirt on the surface. Once I get a rake and shovel from the shed, we’ll have a patch that we could plant something new in.
“I feel like I’ve done a lot, but also I’ve barely accomplished anything,” I admit, gazing past the length of the greenhouse.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Gavin says, crouching down next to me.
“I’m Mia, Beth’s daughter.”
“Beth’s daughter,” Gavin says, smiling. He looks off in the direction of where our moms are. I glance over too, but I don’t see them by the troughs anymore.
“And you’re Gloria’s son?”
“Grandson,” he corrects. “But, Beth’s daughter—Mia, I—how do I put this? You’re pulling baby’s breath.”
“What’s that?” I ask, reaching for the pile of weeds next to me.
“It’s a type of flower. Not actually a weed. And this particular patch that we’ve been growing on this side of the greenhouse is actually reserved for a wedding,” he explains.
“No,” I gasp. “No, you’re joking. You’re just messing with me,” I say, even though it sounds more like a question. I watch his face, hopeful as he breaks into a laugh. But he shakes his head.
“I’m not joking.” Gavin tries to stop laughing, but can’t, which makes me feel even more embarrassed.
“Oh dear,” I grumble, trying to hide my face—which is most definitely turning red—from Gavin.
I get up and brush the dirt and baby’s breath petals off my jeans. The supply shed is on the other side of the greenhouse, and inside it stinks strongly of mulch. They keep a huge pile in the back of the shed. I gather a small shovel, a rake, and a watering tin, and make my way over to the wheelbarrows. I can just replant the flowers and pretend this never happened, and beg my mom not to bring me back here. Obviously I’m a danger to their whole project, not a helping hand.
“Mia!”
I startle. I turn on my heel and slip on some water. I quickly try to regain my footing, only to step on the handle of a shovel, which slips right out from under me, taking my foot with it. I try to reach for a shelf but find that it’s just a piece of wood propped onto nails in the wall, and I flip over a bunch of small pots. I fall backward, helpless, and land in the soft, damp mulch.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, horrified. I look at the pieces of broken pots scattered in front of me, and see that my shoes are covered in mulch. I can feel it on the backs of my arms inside the sleeves of my flannel, and along the back of my neck. It’s probably in my hair! “Ugh!”
Even though my mind is racing, the sound of Gavin laughing cuts right through all my thoughts.
“What’s so funny?” I growl, trying to figure out how to stand up without using the mulch to brace myself.
Gavin crosses the shed and holds out his hand to me. “Come on, that was hilarious. It looked like it could’ve been right out of Looney Tunes.”
Looney Tunes? Who is this guy? Now he doubles over with laughter, and I take the opportunity to throw a handful of mulch at his hair. When he doesn’t stop laughing, I grab more and throw it at his stupid shirt.
“The whole point of gardening clothes is getting them dirty,” he says when he regains himself. He holds out his hand again, and when I ignore it and try to reach forward to push myself up from the floor, he just grabs my arm and hoists me into the air with a surprising amount of strength.
“Sorry,” he says, even though he’s joking. He uses his foot to brush aside the pot pieces, and grabs the shovel that I tripped on. “I was just coming to help you replant the baby’s breath,” he tells me, starting to shovel mulch into one of the wheelbarrows. “I figured if I announced myself we could’ve avoided… that.”
“Well, mission not accomplished,” I say, before mumbling “Thanks” while I get as much of the mulch out of my hair as I can.
He reaches into the pile of mulch for the tools I’d been gathering and hands them to me. Without a word he takes the wheelbarrow by the handles and leads the way back to my desecrated side of the greenhouse. On our way out of the shed, I grab an extra rake and shovel.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says after a while. “I was laughing at the situation itself.”
“You were laughing at me falling into a pile of mulch. Therefore, you were laughing at me,” I tell him as he holds out his hand for one of the plants.
“No, I wasn’t. Honestly, if the roles were switched, tell me you wouldn’t have laughed,” he says as he puts the plant into one of the fresh holes.
“I would only laugh because now you deserve it,” I tell him, feeling some of my animosity dissipate as I imagine him twirling in a puddle, losing his footing on a shovel, reaching for a false shelf, and falling into mulch. “Although, it would be hilarious if you fell into the mulch face-first.”
“That’s just cruel,” he says, pretending to gasp.
“Honestly, if I fell face-first, you wouldn’t have laughed harder?” I mimic him.
“I can neither confirm nor deny what would’ve happened,” he says, holding up his right hand as if
to swear.
We work in silence, developing a rhythm between us. I rake the soil and make a hole; he plants the baby’s breath and adds mulch to prevent more weeds from growing. Then we repeat. We get through eight more plants before he breaks the silence.
Gavin asks, “So, what are you doing here? Clearly you’re not into gardening.”
“Volunteer hours,” I say. “How about you, Mr. Handyman? Is this, like, a hobby or something?”
“For my grandma, yes. Though, for me, being here wasn’t necessarily my choice either,” he admits, not looking up from the patch of dirt that he’s patting around the roots of a plant.
“Then, why are you here?”
“Punishment,” he says. When he doesn’t offer more, I take the hint and refocus on the task in front of us.
By the time Mom comes to tell me it’s time to leave, the only thing we accomplished is undoing the mess I created.
“Any fun Friday plans?” he asks as we return the supplies to the shed.
“Homework. You?”
“It’s Friday. You have all weekend to do your homework,” Gavin says. “Do something fun tonight. Promise me?”
“What’s it to you?” I ask, laughing a little. “Plus, you didn’t answer me. What are you doing?”
He pauses, dumping our leftover mulch into the pile. “Um, just some…” He mumbles something I can’t quite hear.
“Did you say what I think you just said?”
He smiles at me before saying, “Okay, so go do something fun for the both of us while I stay inside and do homework.”
“Why can’t you do something fun for the both of us?” I ask, taking the opportunity to replace the shelf I pulled off the wall.
“Because I’m grounded, and you’re not.”
“Right. Your punishment,” I say, watching for his reaction.
He doesn’t say anything. I look across the shed at the indent in the pile of mulch from where I fell. Then I look at him, wiping out the wheelbarrow and replacing it with the others.
The Meet-Cute Project Page 6