Forget-Her-Nots

by Amy Brecount White

  “Thank you,” Laurel said automatically. She’d heard a million condolences, but they never changed a thing.

  Miss Spenser laid her hand on Laurel’s arm. “Ms. Suarez was impressed with that lovely bouquet you gave me. She’s quite intrigued by that flower language.”

  “Really?” Laurel looked at the teacher again.

  “Yes. I’ve heard of it,” Ms. Suarez said. “Did your mom teach it to you?”

  Laurel hesitated. Her mom hadn’t taught her anything, not directly, but her mom had left clues she was tracking. She could feel both teachers watching her. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, kind of. She—we—used to make bouquets all the time.”

  Ms. Suarez nodded. “How old are you now?”

  “Fourteen.” Laurel glanced up at the clock. “I’m sorry, but I need stuff for my next class.”

  “I have to run, too.” Ms. Suarez stood up. “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the conservatory sometime, if you’d like.”

  “Conservatory?” Laurel said, taken aback. “There’s a conservatory here?”

  Ms. Suarez nodded. “Behind a row of cedars off the main path to the gardens. It’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, or if you don’t know it’s there.”

  Ms. Suarez was out the door when Laurel thought of something else. “Ms. Suarez?” she said. “Since you know about flowers . . . I went to the garden and found a red one on an evergreen bush, and it had bloomed even though the weather was freezing. Do you know which one I mean? With a yellow center?”

  Ms. Suarez seemed to study Laurel’s face before replying. “It’s probably a camellia. Many of them bloom early and can withstand the cold.”

  “Camellia,” Laurel repeated carefully. “Thanks.”

  At the lunch break she grabbed a few granola bars, ran back to her room, and flipped through her flower book. Camellias stood for “unpretending excellence.” So far the mystery message was “hope and true excellence.” Nothing about love—so far. The bizarre part was that when she’d sniffed the bouquet outside her door that morning, when she’d traipsed through the garden, and then dissed Everett, she’d felt unusually hopeful and confident. And Miss Spenser had given her an A for “Excellent!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rosemary to Remember

  Friday afternoon, Laurel’s fingers clutched the grass as Coach Peters read the team list.

  “ . . . Kate Samuelson, Gabrielle Tulum, Laurel Whelan, Ally Wilkins.” The coach closed her notebook, and Laurel exhaled in a rush. She loosened her grip but didn’t dare look around. Tara’s name hadn’t been called, along with those of several other girls. Coach was explaining how difficult the decision had been, but Laurel felt like doing a cartwheel. She low-fived Ally and hoped to walk back to campus with her new teammates.

  It was Laurel’s turn, however, to help Coach with the equipment. Kate, her arm around a weeping Tara, was long gone by the time Laurel set the last stack of orange cones in the coach’s trunk. She slammed the door shut, grabbed her sweatshirt from the grass, and took off toward campus. She glanced at Miss Spenser’s cottage as she passed, but the porch was empty.

  The Avondale grapevine was failing Laurel. No one seemed to know anything about the budding romance. All anyone had talked about all day was pizza and movies tonight at Willowlawn. Laurel was positive that Kate, Tara, Nicole, and probably Ally would be going, but no one had invited her along.

  Rubbing her goose-bumped arms, she yanked the dorm door open and trudged up four flights of stairs to Rose’s lofty room. She rapped on the door, but there was no answer. She jogged down to the basement and peeked into the silent study room. Tall and pale with short brown hair, Rose was hunched over a book.

  “Geek,” Laurel whispered.

  Rose smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You hungry?”

  Rose’s left eyebrow lifted. “Do I have to sit with the jocks?”

  “Hardly.” Laurel pushed Rose’s backpack out of the way and sat on the table. “I made the JV team.”

  “Awesome,” said Rose, lifting her right palm.

  Laurel slapped it. “Everyone’s going to Willowlawn for movie night, aren’t they?”

  “Everyone who’s anyone,” Rose said sarcastically. She marked her place and set aside her book. “You should go, too, and meet people.”

  “Are you?”

  Rose shook her head. “I already know everyone I want to.”

  I’m not going solo, Laurel thought. “What are you working on?” She turned Rose’s papers around to face her. “Fi-toh-ree-med-tion. Huh?”

  “Phytoremediation. It means using plants to clean up the environment,” Rose explained. “There are these cool ferns that absorb arsenic out of contaminated soil. This science competition is coming up, and the winner gets an internship at the Smithsonian. I’m looking for ideas.”

  Laurel touched the picture of the fern; it reminded her of the feathery plant she still hadn’t identified. She’d hung the mystery bouquet upside down in her wardrobe to dry.

  Rose glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting Mina for dinner. Want to come?”

  “Maybe, but I need to ask you something.” Her name was Laurel, her mom was Lily, Rose was her cousin, and Rose’s mom was Iris. Other than her mom’s mom, Cicely, all the women of their family were named after plants and flowers. Laurel had once drawn their family tree for a project and traced the custom back generations. “I know it’s tradition and all, but why are we really named after flowers?”

  Rose smiled too sweetly and batted her lashes. “Because we are fair and tender young things. And we smell good, too.”

  Laurel felt a wave of impatience. “Will you be serious for once? I need to know, and it’s not like I can ask my mom about it.” Silence reigned as she ignored “the Probe,” the piercing stare of people—her dad, teachers, the dorm mother, and now Rose—trying to figure out whether or not Laurel was “recovering” from her mom’s death.

  “Sorry,” Rose said contritely. “I can ask my mom. If you want.”

  Laurel knew her mom might have entrusted the birthday letters to Aunt Iris. “Ask her, but I want to know what you think, too.”

  Rose shrugged. “Somebody started it way back when, and it kept on going.” She stuffed her book into her backpack. “But I’ve never felt like a Rose. They’re too prissy and persnickety—”

  “So be a wild Rose,” Laurel said with a grin.

  Rose nearly snorted. “Puh-leeeze. Any other burning questions?”

  Laurel nodded. “Have you ever heard of the language of flowers? It’s symbolic.”

  “Of flowers?”

  “Each flower or herb stands for an emotion. It was big in the Victorian period.”

  “Which explains why I know nothing about it.” Rose stood and swung her heavy backpack over one shoulder. “Not a fan of the Victorians.”

  Laurel hopped off the table and followed her cousin outside.

  “You know, Grandma would know more about the flower names,” Rose said quietly.

  “So?” said Laurel. “When was the last time she picked up her phone or answered an e-mail?” Grandma had endured her daughter’s funeral with stony and unrelenting silence, and Laurel hadn’t heard from her since. Not a word.

  “A valid point,” said Rose. “You could talk to Mina. She likes flowers.”

  “Does she?” Laurel said as they reached an intersection of sidewalks.

  “May Day is the only time people here pay attention to flowers, and that’s over the top,” said Rose. “People wear flowers in their hair and do this medieval skippy dance with ribbons around a big pole. I’m hoping they make it optional by the time I’m a senior.”

  May Day, thought Laurel. But it’s not even April yet.

  Rose bumped her arm. “Come with me. It’s pizza night here, too.”

  Laurel was sick of people thinking pizza made everything all better. She wished she was on her way to Willowlawn chatting with Kate and Ally . . . keeping an eye out
for Justin. A cool breeze lifted the hair off her neck and wafted a sweet scent to her. The sweetness spun gently through her head—just a hint of the tinglyness she’d felt around flowers lately. Somewhere an owl hooted, and she looked toward the garden.

  Rose tugged on Laurel’s arm. “C’mon. Don’t be such a loner.”

  Laurel yanked back. She didn’t feel like trying to fit in—yammering about nothing with Rose’s friends on the fringe. “Next time. I’m really tired.” She faked a yawn.

  “I’m meeting Robbie for Sunday brunch at Willowlawn. Want to come?”

  “I can’t,” said Laurel. “I’m at Westfall’s table this week.” Each Sunday after chapel the principal invited eleven girls from various grades to eat with her. Besides, Laurel would soon be spending spring break with Rose’s annoying little brother—her dad was out of the country on business—and that was all the Robbie she could take. Still, visiting him might be the only way she’d get to see guys on a regular basis. Some girls bounced back and forth between the two campuses, but Laurel felt like she didn’t have the secret password. Not yet.

  “Rosie!”

  They both turned to see Mina coming out of the dorm. The pink jewel in her pierced nose glittered against her mahogany skin.

  “Hi, Laurel,” said Mina.

  “Hey.” Laurel turned back toward the garden, where a radiant moon was rising above shadowy treetops.

  “I adore full moons.” Mina giggled. “Makes you want to howl . . . or something.”

  Rose held up her hand. “Be my guest.”

  Mina shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow night. You coming with?” she asked Laurel.

  Laurel shook her head. “I don’t feel like being inside.” She lifted her face to the sky as Mina followed Rose. A translucent cloud blanketed the moon and divided its glow like a prism. A rainbow moon, she thought. Where’s its treasure?

  The garden lay beyond the lit sidewalks of campus, beyond the rounds of the night security guard, but Laurel walked toward it. Moonlight silvered the path at her feet. Like a nocturnal creature, she treaded lightly, her senses straining to make sense of the shadows. The owl hooted again, and her heart beat more urgently: a-LIVE, a-LIVE, a-LIVE, it seemed to say.

  As she rounded a bend, her nose caught a sudden strong scent. It was fresh and invigorating, and she looked for its source. She rubbed the stiff branch of a low bush and lifted her hand to her nose. That’s it, she thought. Crouching, she found a small marker spiked into the ground and read it by moonlight. “Rosemary.”

  A rosemary bush had grown by the back door of her old house, and Laurel could picture its tiny, purple blooms. Her mom had cooked with the herb and dried it for sachets. Laurel grabbed a branch but jumped back immediately. Something—or someone—had hummed. The low sound had vibrated through her body the moment she touched the rosemary. She looked around, but she was still alone.

  “Mom?” she whispered to the sky. “What’s going on? Help me. Please.” She quickly broke off a branch and felt the hummy tingling start again.

  Laurel took a deep breath and raised the rosemary with both hands. “Bright cut flowers, leaves of green, bring about what I have seen.” Her fingertips seemed to spark with an energy she felt pouring into her, spinning her senses. “Yessss,” she said as the fragrance transported her into . . .

  Daylight. She was standing in her mom’s garden. Her mom’s hat was like a straw halo as she worked among velvety blossoms. Nearby, Laurel—a little-girl Laurel—dug in the dirt, hardly listening to what her mom chanted. She jumped up and filled her mom’s outstretched hand with a shovelful of dirt. Her mom smoothed the soil between her fingers. Her smile was like a kiss, and her voice seemed to caress the air.

  “Rosemary to remember,

  With sage I esteem,

  Thyme to be active . . .”

  Thyme to . . . Thyme to be . . . Thyme to . . .

  Time. Laurel’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Mom!” she screamed, but she was all alone in the dark garden. She stared down at the rosemary she’d crushed in her hands.

  “‘Rosemary to remember,’” Laurel repeated. She’d remembered something she didn’t even know she knew. She threw aside the branch in her hand and broke off a fresh one. Pressing it to her nose, she whispered her words, but nothing happened.

  “Please,” Laurel pleaded. “I need to remember.” Her eyes scanned the moon-drenched foliage around her as she breathed in more rosemary. When she was little, she’d trailed her mom through countless gardens. She knew the soft fuzz of lamb’s ears, the tang of mint leaves, and the stab of thorns. Her mom used to say the names of the plants and make Laurel repeat them.

  “These are asters,” her mom said.

  “Astwews.”

  “Hydrangeas.”

  “Hydwanjus.”

  Her mother had sung and said rhymes about flowers all the time. Why can’t I remember them now? Laurel thought. A rapid flapping above her head startled her, and she saw the silhouette of wings—the owl—flying away. She bent off several sprigs of rosemary and ran out of the garden.

  As she hurried past a row of tall swaying evergreens, a high light seemed to wink at her. Laurel pushed aside the branches and stepped into a clearing, where a Gothic tower rose above an expanse of glass. The conservatory, she thought with a shiver.

  Most Avondale buildings were symmetrical redbrick structures with white columns and trimmed pairs of boxwoods outside every door. The administration building had a white dome that copied Thomas Jefferson’s nearby home, Monticello. In contrast, the conservatory seemed to be lifted out of a fairy tale. Moonlight gleamed on the copper roof and reflected off the glass surfaces. Gargoyles with fanciful animal faces stretched their mouths wide, as if awaiting a downpour.

  Laurel looked back through the trees and could still see the path to campus. Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed to the front stoop to peer inside. The huge room brimmed with plants, so there had to be flowers. Laurel jiggled the knob, but the door was locked. Knocking loudly, she pressed her nose to the glass but saw no one. She’d waved to Ms. Suarez in the hallways, but the teacher hadn’t mentioned a tour again.

  Conservatories had always seemed like magical places to her. The outside world could be cold and dead, but whenever Laurel stepped inside the glass, the world burst into bloom. I need to be inside, she thought. She walked around the building looking for another entrance, until a gleam of reflected moonlight caught her eye. An engraved plaque was set high in the wall.

  For dearest Gladys,

  May the rooms of your life be full of bright blossoms and sweet scents, even in winter.

  Yours always,

  Edmund

  “Rooms of bright blossoms and sweet scents,” Laurel echoed. “I like that.” But she had no clue who Gladys and Edmund were. Clutching her rosemary, she jogged toward the artificial glow of main campus.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Translations

  The next Tuesday Laurel was ready and waiting. Every time anyone walked by her, she pretended to look for something in her backpack, but the landing where she stood had a perfect view of the sidewalk below. She’d see Justin before he saw her, jog down the stairs, and step right into his path.

  But her plan was failing dismally, because he hadn’t materialized. Her next class was on the other side of the quad and started in three minutes. Stifling a cry of exasperation, she grabbed her backpack and took off. The grassy quad was draining of students, and she heard a shout just as she reached the door of her building.

  “Wait up, man!”

  Justin and the guy with curly hair were dodging girls as they ran toward the spot she’d vacated moments ago. His hair flew back from his shoulders, and he was laughing, taking long, steady strides. Laurel’s heart beat as if she were running at his side.

  The bell rang just above her head, and she covered her ears. “Merde.” Excessive crushing wasn’t an accepted excuse for tardiness.

  After class Laurel’s Latin teacher asked to see her,
and then she had to switch books at her locker. At every chance her eyes darted to the door Justin would use and down the sidewalk he’d come along, but she didn’t see him again that day.

  Nothing was going smoothly this week. Kate was the only person Laurel felt comfortable talking to about the flowers, but whenever she approached her, Tara or Nicole instantly appeared to whisk Kate off for some “emergency.”

  Laurel’s rosemary experiments were failing, too. Since that evening in the garden, she’d tried to resurrect more memories of her mom. She tried rosemary with her special words, rosemary without her words, rosemary in the morning, rosemary at midnight, wet rosemary and dry, but she couldn’t replicate the tingling or humming. Her paperback didn’t list any other flowers for memory. Surfing online, Laurel had found long lists of flower meanings and sites about the language, but none mentioned tingling or humming or poetic words.

  When she’d researched her English presentation, she’d had time only to glance through an antique flower book she’d found at the last minute. That book in the library tower was much larger and more detailed than her paperback and definitely deserved another look.

  Soccer practice was canceled the Friday before spring break, so after class Laurel headed up the spiral steps of the library tower. Standing still in the quiet, turret-like room, she could almost feel her mother’s sweet smile. Her mom had collected first editions of books, which were now prominently displayed at her dad’s town house. The collection was one of the few relics of his former life that any stranger could see.

  Setting her backpack on a desk at a narrow window, Laurel removed the heavy leather-bound book—The Language of Flowers—from its place. It was shelved in the reference section, so she wasn’t allowed to check it out. Strips of ribbon, like the bookmarks found in the Bible, protruded from its bottom. Randomly she lifted one of the ribbons, turned to the marked page, and skimmed the list of floral meanings.