“I—um—” Her eyes burned as she pushed through a forest of bodies.
“Laurel!”
Rose’s voice was behind her, and she heard Mina call too, but tears already streaked her face. No one could see her like this. She ran outside and collapsed behind a wide tree to gulp the cooling darkness and wait for the pain to weaken.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wild Orchid
Saturday morning passed in a fog, but that afternoon Laurel crisscrossed the gardens in search of the feathery plant that somebody had included in her mystery bouquet. She had no luck there but was determined to resolve this once and for all. Finding an illustrated guide to herbs in the library, she narrowed it down to two: dill and fennel. She was pretty sure she’d recognize the smell of dill—like in pickles. Fennel, the flower book said, meant “worthy of all praise . . . strength.”
“Hope, excellence, praise and strength.” Laurel closed her eyes, but she couldn’t barricade herself against the tidal wave of disappointment. Absolutely no one would choose those flowers for a luv bouquet. She blew out the last glimmer of hope she was still carrying for a secret admirer. All day long a tiny piece of her kept hoping Justin would get in touch with her—to check up on her—but he didn’t. I have too much baggage for anyone, she thought that night.
The next morning she was so wrapped up in her own misery that it wasn’t until chapel was almost over that she noticed Ms. Suarez sitting in the pew next to Miss Spenser and the professor. Staring at the backs of the teachers’ heads, she determined one thing: Ms. Suarez had to tell her more about her mom.
After dismissal from chapel Laurel waited by a large holly tree near the back door, but then she saw Ms. Suarez’s golf cart already heading toward the garden. I’ll look like a dork if I run after her, she thought. Miss Spenser’s laugh rang out nearby. The professor was standing close to her, almost whispering in her ear, and her lips seemed about to smile.
My tulips rock, Laurel thought. Her favorite lines from the E.E. Cummings poem Miss Spenser had read bubbled into her mind:
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
What would that feel like? Laurel wondered. To be opened “petal by petal”? Miss Spenser was definitely blooming under the professor’s attentions.
“Looks like their romance is—uh—budding.” Kate gave Laurel a knowing look.
“I think geezer public displays should be banned,” Tara whispered behind them. “Who’d want to kiss someone that ancient? And if I have to listen to another one of her stupid luv poems—”
Laurel spun around on Tara. “I love her love poems,” she said. “They’re sweet.”
Tara smirked. “Like anyone cares what you think. You’re psycho.”
Nicole laughed, but Kate cleared her throat. “I like the love poems, too. It’s not like we all have to like the same thing all the time.” Kate went on. “That’d be lame.”
All trace of triumph had vanished from Tara’s pale face. “Whatever. Are you coming already, Nicole?” Nicole was trying not to smile, but followed her anyway.
Laurel met Kate’s eyes. “Thanks,” she mouthed.
Kate took a step forward. “I am not her puppet.”
“I know,” said Laurel. “Are you hungry?”
“Always,” said Kate.
After brunch they walked back to the dorm together, and so Kate was standing at her side when Laurel found a note taped on her door:
Laurel:
Please come to the conservatory for dinner tomorrow after soccer.
—G. Suarez
“G.?” said Laurel, unlocking her door.
“Geneva Suarez,” said Kate. “Must be nice. No teacher’s ever invited me to dinner.”
“She knew my mom,” said Laurel. And she’s going to tell me all about her.
“Really?” Kate followed Laurel into her room. “But you’re not gonna eat inside the conservatory, are you?”
Laurel slipped off her uniform skirt and pulled on a pair of jeans. “Why not?”
Kate frowned. “’Cause there’s this rumor it’s haunted.”
“The conservatory? You’re kidding.”
Kate shook her head solemnly. “Tons of people think so. Just get out before dark.”
Every winter after the lights and warmth of Christmas had dimmed, Laurel’s mom would stare out at the browns and beiges dominating her garden and throw up her hands.
“I can’t take it!” her mom would cry. “I need colors! I need scents!” As soon as possible, she and Laurel would head to a conservatory. Their color-starved eyes would feast on shades of pink, red, lavender, and green on their “winter pilgrimage,” as her mom called their road trips.
Over the years Laurel had visited so many conservatories on the East Coast that she wondered, as she walked to meet Ms. Suarez, why her mom had never mentioned Avondale’s. In fact, her mom hadn’t talked about the school much at all, other than to shake her head at the drug scandal that had made national headlines the year before Laurel arrived. They never once discussed her applying, maybe because both of them were clinging to hope for a cancer miracle that never came.
Outside the Avondale conservatory a tall woman dressed in shorts and hiking boots was cutting faded blooms off some bushes. Laurel’s shoes crunched across the gravel driveway. “Ms. Suarez?”
“Excellent,” Ms. Suarez said. She had a smudge of dirt across her cheekbone. “Thanks for coming.” Taking off her gardening gloves, the teacher pulled the conservatory door shut and locked it. She picked up a backpack and handed it to Laurel. “Let’s hurry so we have time to picnic.” Ms. Suarez slipped another pack over her shoulders and walked around the building toward a path into the woods.
Laurel hurried to catch up. “But I thought you were going to give me a tour.”
Ms. Suarez’s pace didn’t slacken. “It can wait. I want to show you something that can’t.”
“What?”
A smile flickered across the teacher’s lips. “You’ll see.”
The trail sloped upward through a meadow and into cool, shady woods. The surrounding silence was broken only by the snap of twigs underfoot and the twitter of birds scattering before them. Laurel’s legs were exhausted from soccer, and her stomach was tight with hunger, but Ms. Suarez’s excitement was catching.
At the crest of the hill the teacher finally stopped and took out a water bottle. Laurel did the same and gazed at the vista spread before them. The valley below and the hills beyond were greening with the rise of spring. Worn to smoothness by seasons of wind, rain, and snow, the Blue Ridge Mountains receded in shades of grayish purple. Strands of white clouds streaked the evening sky like unspun cotton candy.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” whispered Ms. Suarez.
Laurel nodded. A red-tailed hawk glided into view as it rode the warm air currents swirling up from the valley. Ms. Suarez bent to pull a leaf off a plant, crushed it between her fingers, and held it to Laurel’s nose.
Laurel sniffed. “Is it mint?”
Ms. Suarez nodded. “Some thoughtful person planted it years ago for refreshment. And over there’s your namesake. It’s evergreen, but it won’t bloom for a while.” She was pointing to a bank of shrubs covered with clusters of shiny, elliptical leaves.
Laurel walked over and cupped the waxy mountain laurel leaves in her hand. “My mom loved this plant,” she said. “We used to hike whenever it was blooming.”
“You should come back later this spring,” said Ms. Suarez. “It will be lovely then. Speaking of lovely, have you ever seen a wild orchid?”
Laurel let her hand drop. “I don’t think so.”
“Then come on.” Zipping her water bottle into her backpack, Ms. Suarez started down the slope below their feet, expertly zigzagging on a barely visible path. Loose stones rattled down as Laurel’s fe
et slid, but Ms. Suarez didn’t slow her descent. Like a grounded monkey, Laurel used both hands to grab one branch then another. Ms. Suarez was waiting for her halfway down the slope.
The damp ground sucked at their shoes as they walked across the hill, and Laurel breathed in a tangy, earthy scent. Suddenly the low sun slipped loose from a cloud, and the hillside was flooded with golden light. The sun cast its sheen onto every unfolding bud, every soft petal—enchanting the air. Laurel reached out to caress a fresh leaf on a curving branch.
Ms. Suarez turned around and smiled broadly. “Look.”
Laurel followed the direction of her hand. At the center of wide green leaves, a flower glowed white as a summer cloud. Its silky petals stretched up from a green stalk like fairy wings unfolding. Its lower lip pouted pinkly. It was like a miracle, pure and luminous against the heavy browns of the forest floor.
“Wow!” Laurel crouched before it.
“Yes, yes!” Ms. Suarez nearly sang the words as she knelt next to her. “She is a queen. Cypripedium reginae, a queen lady’s slipper.”
“I’ve never seen one,” Laurel said.
“They’re rare in the wild.” Ms. Suarez put her hand on Laurel’s forearm. “But I’m bringing her back. I’ve colonized queen ladies in several places and protected them over the winter with a mini-greenhouse. This ecosystem just might work.”
Laurel couldn’t pull her eyes from the exquisite blossom, not even when Ms. Suarez started humming a lilting tune.
“She’s blooming early this first year, but if she’s discovered, she could be dug up by amateurs,” whispered Ms. Suarez. “Promise to keep her a secret.”
“I promise,” Laurel whispered.
Ms. Suarez’s fingers grazed a petal. “Unfortunately, she has no scent. The pollinators are already eager, so she doesn’t need to exert herself to attract them.”
Something this beautiful has to have a scent. Impulsively, Laurel leaned forward and sniffed a delicate fragrance. She closed her eyes and pictured a wisteria vine that had twisted through a trellis in her mom’s garden. Purple flowers hung from it like airy grapes, and a delicious scent descended like rain.
“Mmm.” Laurel’s nose touched the orchid as she inhaled deeply.
“No!” Ms. Suarez’s hand was on her shoulder, pulling her back. “Not too much.”
The fragrance had somehow transformed. Its sweetness was cloying, like overripe fruit on the point of decay. Laurel stood up, but her body felt extraordinarily light. The hillside swam before her eyes. She staggered and grabbed the trunk of a small tree.
Not la-la land. Not now. “What’s happening? I feel so weird.”
“Oh, Laurel. I—” Ms. Suarez’s hand covered her mouth, but Laurel could tell from her eyes that she was smiling—widely. “Wow.”
Wiggles and flashes of light danced before Laurel’s eyes, but a hand took hold of her arm to steady her.
“Let’s sit over there,” said Ms. Suarez. “Farther away.”
Laurel took a tentative step forward, because the ground was coming at her in waves. “Whoa.” She bent her knees like she was surfing.
“This way.” Ms. Suarez led her to a wide log. “Okay. Now sit down and breathe slowly.” She pulled off Laurel’s backpack and handed her the water bottle.
Ms. Suarez’s face hovered above her, single then double. She spread a large cloth near Laurel’s feet. “She’s powerful, isn’t she?”
“Wha-at?” Laurel’s own voice sounded distant.
“The orchid—the queen lady’s slipper.” Ms. Suarez shook her head and laughed. “I think you’re high on her perfume.”
“High? Is this what it feels like?”
Ms. Suarez handed her a sandwich. “Here. You’ll feel much better if you eat something. Now where’s that orange?”
Laurel’s mouth watered at the scent of food, and she bit into the sandwich eagerly. Ms. Suarez squeezed a piece of orange skin so that its zest squirted into the air.
“Perhaps I should have waited.” Ms. Suarez passed an orange section to Laurel. “But the queen is with us such a short time.”
The queen. Laurel squinted back at the glowing bloom, but she could smell only orange now. “But why did you say it doesn’t have a scent?”
“It doesn’t. Not for most people.”
Laurel took a deep breath to clear her head. “What do you mean?”
“Not everyone can smell that orchid. I wanted to know whether or not you could.”
“Why?”
Ms. Suarez met her eyes as they ate. “Because that tells me something—something important—about your nose. Yours is very sensitive.”
Laurel rubbed the tip of her nose. “It is? Is that weird?”
“It’s . . . unusual,” said Ms. Suarez. “It’s a real gift to be able to smell such a fragrance when most of the world can’t. Now eat up.”
A real gift. Laurel dutifully took another bite. Her mom had told her to nurture her gifts. Only then will you bloom fully, the letter said.
“Orchids are fascinating flowers.” Ms. Suarez’s dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Did you know that in Victorian times, professional orchid hunters would travel to the farthest, most dangerous corners of the world in search of exotic new species? The hunters were paid by wealthy collectors who wanted the prize orchids for their personal conservatories. Occasionally the hunters even died on their quests.”
Laurel swallowed. “They died for a flower?”
“Not just any old flower.” Ms. Suarez’s eyes were dark and intense. “What if you discovered an amazing bloom that no one has ever seen before, whose scent no one has ever inhaled? Can you imagine the thrill of that?”
Laurel closed her eyes, but her head swirled. She threw her hands on the log to catch herself.
“Have some more.” Ms. Suarez handed her a section of orange and bit into one slowly. “We all need a great love in our lives. Something to arouse our deepest passions. Something we might be willing to die for.”
Laurel looked back at the luminous bloom. To die for?
“So,” said Ms. Suarez. “Tell me about that bouquet you made for Miss Spenser.”
Laurel sucked in her lips. “I didn’t exactly make it for her. I mean, it was for my presentation, but I—it just seemed like the tussie belonged to her, that she’d like it.”
“She did.” Ms. Suarez’s eyes lingered on Laurel’s face. “And your mom told you about this language of flowers, right?”
Laurel stuffed the last orange slice into her mouth. “Kind of. I found out about it because of her—something she wrote me. And then I did some research.”
“Has anyone else mentioned it?” Ms. Suarez asked. “Anyone in your family?”
Laurel shook her head. “It’s so old-fashioned. Nobody even knows about it.”
“True,” Ms. Suarez said, frowning at the ground.
Laurel asked the next question on a hunch. “But you know all about it, right?”
Ms. Suarez rolled her napkin into a ball. “I’m familiar with it. But we should head back; it will be dark soon. How do you feel? You’re still pale.”
“Okay, I guess.” Laurel could focus better now, on a slim distant tree, on the persistent tapping of a woodpecker high above their heads. She stood up but had to step back to keep her balance.
“You sit. I’ll clean up.” Ms. Suarez shook out the cloth and repacked their things.
Laurel turned for a last glimpse of the orchid. What’s the queen’s meaning in the language? she wondered.
On the trek back they spoke only to direct each other’s feet. Questions simmered in Laurel’s mind, and images of the queen lady’s slipper flashed before her, but she had to concentrate to navigate the darkness. If she twisted an ankle, soccer season was history.
When they finally reached the conservatory, Ms. Suarez put a hand on her shoulder. “Sure you’re all right?”
Laurel nodded, but she wanted to collapse into bed. Her head was pounding.
“Can you walk b
ack alone?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” said Ms. Suarez. “We’ll talk soon.”
Laurel was already underneath the evergreen branches when Ms. Suarez’s voice turned her around.
“Wait!” Ms. Suarez jogged toward Laurel. “I—I think it’s best for you to stay away from orchids. At least for now.”
“Why?” asked Laurel.
“They might make you feel dizzy, like the lady’s slipper did,” explained Ms. Suarez.
Like all the flowers. Laurel reached up to push a long-needled branch out of her face. “What kind of trees are these?”
“Cedars,” Ms. Suarez whispered. “Cedar for strength. Good night, Laurel.”
“G’night, Ms. Suarez.” Hidden by the cedars, Laurel watched the teacher hurry into the conservatory. She’s not afraid of any ghost, Laurel thought. The inside of the building lit up, until the tower shone like a lighthouse above the wind-tossed trees.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Certain Mystique
Holding the principal’s note that had unexpectedly summoned her out of class later that week, Laurel walked down the empty hallway. She heard voices in Mrs. Westfall’s office as she knocked.
“Come in,” called Mrs. Westfall.
Laurel’s mouth dropped open. Her dad, handsome in his navy blazer and a red-striped power tie, was standing beside the principal’s desk.
“Dad!” Laurel said. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a daddy surprise his little girl?” he said.
Laurel leaned into his open arms. His musky aftershave flooded her senses, but she hadn’t seen him since he’d moved her in, and she had no one to hug at Avondale. He kissed the top of her head.
Mrs. Westfall stepped around her desk. “Your father has business in Charlottesville this afternoon, so I’ve given him permission to take you out of classes. I’m sure you’ll make up the work promptly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Laurel speaks very highly of her teachers here,” said her dad.
She pursed her lips. He’s such a politician, she thought. What’s today’s agenda?
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