Kate and her big mouth. “You need it now?”
Susan nodded. “Right now.”
Laurel frowned into her locker. After the history test she’d emptied the contents of her pocket onto the top shelf. The stems of rosemary were dry and browning.
She put one into Susan’s outstretched hand. “This is all I have, but it’s kind of dried up. I don’t know if—”
“I’ll take anything.” Susan stared into her cupped palms. “That’s it?”
“Wait.” Laurel held her hand over Susan’s and said the words to herself. “That’s it.”
“I totally owe you for this,” Susan said, and then ran down the hallway.
Fear flickered through Laurel. Nothing in her body had tingled.
Miss Spenser caught up with Laurel as the girls were filing out of her class. “Could you wait a minute, Laurel?” she said. “I have a favor to ask.”
Laurel smiled in anticipation. I’ll make you the perfect wedding bouquet, she thought.
“Have I told you that Luke and I’ve decided not to wait?” Miss Spenser asked. “I know it’s impulsive, but it’s so lovely out now. We’ll be married in two weeks and would be delighted if you could be our flower girl.”
Laurel choked back the “yes” that was poised on her tongue. That’s for little girls, she thought.
“I picture you strolling down the aisle strewing petals on the grass.” The teacher’s hand swept out to illustrate. “White and pink and red rose petals. I’m not having bridesmaids, but I am indulging myself with a flower girl. Luke says your bouquets drew him to me. I just never imag—” Her voice faltered as her eyes filled.
“Okay.” Laurel squeezed Miss Spenser’s hand. “Yes. I’ll be your flower girl. I—I’m honored.”
Rose flagged down Laurel and Kate outside the dorm. “Hey, I want to show you something I found,” she said. “Let’s go back to Laurel’s room.”
“I have a big quiz tomorrow,” Kate whispered to Laurel. “Do you have any more rosemary? Or something newer?”
“I have rosemary,” Laurel said, glancing at Rose, who was obviously listening.
“Hey, what about forget-me-nots?” said Kate as they filed into the room. “Could they help me remember, too?”
“Maybe.” Laurel pictured clusters of tiny blue blooms, one of her mom’s favorites.
“Forget-who-nots?” said Rose.
“Forget-me-nots,” said Kate. “I don’t want to forget my Spanish vocab words.”
Rose sat down on Laurel’s desk, grinning. “Okay, so forget-you-nots.”
“Forget-her-nots,” Laurel said. And I don’t want to be forgotten, either, she added to herself.
Rose’s eyebrow arched. “Flowers for quizzes, eh?”
Laurel tried to silence Kate with a look. “To help remember. Some girls have asked for some.”
“Older girls,” said Kate, bouncing on the bed. “Tashi wants some, too.”
“Older girls,” mimicked Rose. “That explains everything. I had no idea you were so pop-ular, floral Laurel.” She pulled out a paperback and flipped through it, looking for something.
“Tashi, as in the varsity center forward?” Laurel asked, sitting down next to Kate.
“Exactly.” Kate bounced again. “Floral Laurel. I like it.”
“What does Tashi want?” asked Laurel.
“She needs help with her evil Spanish teacher,” said Kate. “I promised her some flowers for friendship or something by tomorrow.”
“Ka-ate,” said Laurel. “Friendship flowers?”
“It’s got to be easier than luv flowers,” said Kate. “Or whatever Whitney wants.”
Laurel sighed, because Kate wasn’t easing up about Whitney. “I don’t even know which flowers are for friendship.”
“You’ll figure it out.” Kate waved her concerns away. “Hey, you’re goin’ to the wedding, aren’t you?”
“Stop bouncing,” Laurel said as she stood up. “Miss Spenser asked me to be the flower girl.” She could already see the wicked grin breaking out on Tara’s face.
“The flower girl?” said Kate.
Rose looked up from her book.
Laurel frowned. “It’s not like I could turn her down. She’s too . . . happy.”
“Well.” Kate bit her lip. “I have this great light purple dress—”
Rose waved her hands. “Stop. Cease. Girl talk later. I found the passage, and I only have a few minutes.”
Kate tilted her head to read the cover of Rose’s book. “Shakespeare?”
Laurel took a step closer to Rose. Her mom had adored Shakespeare.
Rose nodded. “We’re reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Honors English. Listen to these lines.
“Fetch me that flower; the herb I showed thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.”
“Huh?” Kate shook her hair. “Read it again.”
Rose read more slowly.
Laurel sat up. “If you dote, you love that person like you’re obsessed, right?”
“Exactly,” said Rose.
“Wow. So, Shakespeare’s talking about a flower juice that makes people fall in love,” said Laurel. “Who says those lines in the play?”
“Oberon, king of the fairies,” said Rose.
“Fairies?” Kate’s face lit up. “You think Laurel is part fairy?”
“Kate, puh-leeeze,” said Rose. “Lay off the fantasy novels and live in this world. This is Shakespeare, and these lines seemed relevant.”
Kate scowled at her.
“So Shakespeare believed in flower magic?” said Laurel.
“At least in fairyland,” said Rose. “Oberon has the fairy Puck squeeze the flower juice into Titania’s eyes—she’s his queen—while she’s sleeping. When she wakes up, she sees this mortal who has a jackass’s head. She falls in love with him and makes a total fool of herself until Oberon gives her the antidote.”
The antidote, Laurel repeated to herself. Like basil.
“Wait. The mortal has a jackass’s head?” asked Kate.
Rose nodded. “He’s under a spell, and his name is Bottom.”
“Bottom?” Kate laughed.
“And in another scene,” Rose went on, “Puck—he’s like Oberon’s head fairy—is supposed to put the love juice on this guy Demetrius’s eyes so he falls for Helena. But he also accidentally puts it on another guy’s eyes. So then they both act like they’re in love with Helena, and the other girl’s out in the cold. It’s total chaos.”
“Then everyone’s in love with the wrong girl?” asked Laurel.
“Yeah, but it gets straightened out in the end.” Rose closed the book. “I’m not saying this is proof of anything, but it’s interesting.”
“Very,” Laurel said. Greek mythology, the Victorians, and now Shakespeare. Flowerspeaking was woven throughout human history.
Kate turned to Laurel. “That’s kinda like what happened on May Day, isn’t it? With all those guys hangin’ around me?”
Laurel didn’t want to be reminded. She hadn’t managed to talk to Justin since then.
Rose hopped off the desk. “But all this messing around with people’s emotions seems kind of risky. And now quizzes?”
Laurel held up her hand. “Don’t tell anyone else about this, okay?”
“But we all need some special flowers for the wedding,” said Kate. “Rose, too. I’m sure Miss Spenser’s invited Willowlawn guys.”
Rose shook her head. “Uh, no, thanks.”
Kate’s foot nudged Rose’s leg. “C’mon, you could use a spicy romance.”
Laurel pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. “Rose has too many equations to solve, too many diseases to cure, too many—”
“Shut up,” said Rose. “Just because I have a master plan for my life doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.”
“So have some,” said Kate
.
“I will.” Rose slung her pack over her shoulder. “I do. And I don’t need any of your forget-her-nots.”
Laurel shrugged at Kate as Rose closed the door behind herself. Is my genius cousin actually jealous? she wondered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Scents and Sensibility
Just before the bell rang on Friday, Miss Spenser called Laurel to her desk. After all the other girls had left, the teacher shut her door and turned around with her arms folded. Her face was strangely grave.
“Earlier this morning I intercepted a note that’s troubling me, Laurel. It mentioned ‘Miss Spenser’s magic flowers.’ Have you heard anything about this?”
Laurel’s mind raced. “I—uh—I think people noticed how quickly you and the professor fell in love, and then they saw that you had flowers with you. And you two just seem like magic together, you know?” She tried to smile convincingly.
Miss Spenser shook her head. “That’s not what the note’s implying. Maybe people assume I need nothing short of magic at my age.”
Laurel shook her head. “No. You deserve happiness.”
“Do I?” Miss Spenser said. “Falling in love is a kind of magic, but that’s not what these rumors mean, is it? And I’ve seen girls carrying flowers around campus lately.”
“Really?” Laurel said, trying to think quick. Who? “Maybe it’s all part of a prank. Avondale girls love pranks.”
Miss Spenser took a step closer. “Laurel, I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for all your lovely bouquets, and I know you’ve been through a very painful experience. I can understand how you might wish for something extraordinary to happen. But flowers are just flowers; there’s nothing magical about them.”
Laurel frowned. “But you’re always saying that poetry can ‘stir the soul.’ Can’t flowers, too?”
“Of course,” said Miss Spenser. “Just as a Mozart symphony or a Cézanne painting does—because of artistry or beauty. That has nothing to do with magic. Promise me you’ll discourage any talk of magic on this campus. It’s silly.”
Someone knocked insistently, and an upset student burst in. Avoiding Miss Spenser’s eyes, Laurel escaped without another word. She couldn’t believe her teacher didn’t believe. The irony was stunning.
After practice Laurel split off from her teammates and headed to the conservatory. Kate was on her way to Willowlawn’s movie night with Tara. Laurel had given them both purple lilac and said her words, but she couldn’t get Miss Spenser’s comments out of her head.
“Ms. Suarez?” Laurel called out as she pushed the door open, but no one answered. Tucking the key back under her shirt, her eyes scanned the dense greenery. She recognized some leafy plants in little black containers on a table: basil. Laurel lifted one of the plants to her nose. Basil for Whitney.
There were lots of other herbs, too: lemon balm, oregano, fennel, and dill. Laurel walked the length of several tables and then paused. In the corner of the building, there was an odd metal enclosure she hadn’t noticed before. There wasn’t any glass in the frame, so it looked like the skeleton of a room within the larger, airy space. Lush leaves and rich colors seemed to beckon to her from inside. She stepped to its edge, marveling at several sprays of exotic blooms.
“You should still avoid the orchids,” said a voice behind her.
Laurel pivoted. “Oh! You scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Suarez said. “Did you use your key to get in?”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t, but you left the door ajar. You need to lock it even when you’re inside. I have rare and valuable blooms, and sometimes Mrs. Westfall allows gardening groups to tour the grounds. Orchids, especially, have been known to disappear at flower shows.”
“Really? I’m sorry.” Laurel’s heart still thumped from the fright, but she sensed something else, too: the beginnings of a long and delicious vibration. It was this promise of tingling, of spinning, that turned her body back to the orchids, toward their soft petals, which were so bold, so alluring . . . .
She felt Ms. Suarez’s hands grip her shoulders. “Not yet,” the teacher said. “You need more control.” She steered Laurel away from the enclosure.
“I—I didn’t know they were orchids,” Laurel protested. “They aren’t labeled.”
Ms. Suarez rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I’d love to chat, but I’m swamped. I’m making centerpieces for a donor brunch tomorrow, and I can feel a migraine coming on. Did you need something?”
Laurel shook her head reluctantly. “I just wanted to be with the flowers.” And you, she added to herself. “Can I help out with the brunch?”
Ms. Suarez hesitated. “I’m tempted, but these arrangements are subtle. I’m afraid I’d spend too much time teaching you and not get them done.”
“So, what are you trying to do? Make people donate more money?” Laurel said.
The teacher almost smiled. “Let’s just say I can put them in a generous mood.”
“Cool,” said Laurel. “Money power.”
“Yes, but with that power comes responsibility, right?” The teacher pressed her fingertips to her temples. “There’s one more thing, Laurel. I wish the rumors about Sheila’s bouquets hadn’t spread so quickly.”
“Why?”
“People who hear about your flowers—Avondale girls—will ask you to do things you’re not ready for,” said Ms. Suarez. “Please don’t demand too much of your gift. It’s fine to make a bouquet or two for Sheila, but you can’t give flowers to every girl who asks. And you certainly shouldn’t be playing around with basil in crowds.”
Basil? Laurel dropped her eyes to the ground. How did she find out about that?
“I ran into Rose on May Day. She reeked of basil and told me you’d given it to her.” Ms. Suarez put her hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault, but your education is backward. Most Flowerspeakers have worked quietly and anonymously throughout history, but we are known because of one woman. She was one of us but used a pseudonym—Charlotte de Latour—to spread our secrets. Le langage des fleurs—The Language of Flowers— was first published in 1819. Some of us considered her a traitor. Her list was copied and translated into many languages as more and more people learned about our gift and tried to master it.”
Ms. Suarez’s hand hovered over the herbs on the table and pulled a leaf off. She held it to her nose. Laurel craned her neck to see which one, but the containers were so tightly clustered she couldn’t tell.
“But flowers don’t perform in ignorant, untrained hands,” said Ms. Suarez. “When people didn’t understand true meanings, they invented preposterous ones. The language became a game, and our book—our bible—was nothing more than an elegant coffee table decoration. That’s how we’re seen even now: as quaint relics of a bygone age. Not as women and men of insight and power, not as mistresses of an ancient and vital wisdom.”
Wisdom. Power. The words reverberated through Laurel’s head.
“Be careful not to treat this as a game, Laurel. You can memorize long lists; you can learn the powers in a bloom, but if you can’t sense the right or wrong time to use your gift, it will create only heartache.”
“But Miss Spenser’s getting married,” Laurel said. Stepping backward, she slipped on a damp spot and threw her hands out. A tall plant tottered, and Ms. Suarez lunged to catch it.
“Sorry,” said Laurel as she straightened.
“Careful,” Ms. Suarez pleaded. “Please be more careful.”
“I—I will,” said Laurel.
“There’s one more thing. Sheila has asked me to make her bridal bouquet.”
Laurel felt a sudden spasm of hollowness.
“Such an occasion requires the hand of an expert.” Ms. Suarez met Laurel’s eyes. “It’s not for fun.”
Laurel’s hands tightened into fists. “My flowers aren’t just for fun. My magic made this wedding happen.”
“You’re s
ure?”
“Yes,” said Laurel, holding the teacher’s gaze. “I’m sure.”
“Uh-huh.” Ms. Suarez crossed her arms. “So you’re the expert now? You know all about the language, all that it means to have this gift and exactly how to use it?”
Panic rocketed through Laurel’s body. Ms. Suarez was the only Flowerspeaker she knew, other than Grandma—the only one who could teach her more. “I mean no,” she said contritely. “I have tons to learn. I know that. I’m sorry.”
Ms. Suarez sighed heavily. “Socrates said that knowing you know nothing is the beginning of true knowledge.” Her fingertips lifted Laurel’s downturned chin. “You have so much to learn. Be patient with your gift.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try harder,” Ms. Suarez said. “In the meantime I could use your help with Sheila’s wedding bouquet.”
“Really?” Laurel blinked in disbelief. “I’d love to!”
Ms. Suarez pressed her palms together. “I don’t have a minute to think about it right now, but I’ll let you know as soon as I’m ready.”
“Awesome.” Laurel hesitated but then threw her arms around Ms. Suarez’s waist. The teacher took a step back to balance and then wrapped her arms around Laurel.
“Thank you,” Laurel whispered as she let go.
“It’s nothing,” said Ms. Suarez. “I’ll see you soon.”
Laurel walked toward the door and then turned to see where Ms. Suarez was. She was looking at some papers with her back to Laurel. Power, Laurel thought as she tiptoed back. Whitney needs the power of basil. Laurel was a little surprised that the senior never acknowledged her when they passed each other on the quad, but Laurel wasn’t about to ignore her request. She found the label she was looking for, quickly pinched off several leaves, and stuffed them into the side pocket of her duffel bag.
That night Laurel willed herself to dream about her mom. She rubbed rosemary and said her words, but her sleep was restless and shadowy.
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