by Stacey Lee
Through the library windows, I make out Ms. DiCarlo standing on a ladder, using a ruler to position the books into straight lines on the shelves. She glimpses me watching her and waves.
I halfheartedly wave back. If she only knew how my carelessness robbed her of a soul mate, she wouldn’t be smiling like that. How can a nice librarian compete with an ex-model with money and a vivacious personality? If Mr. Frederics has any romantic interest in Alice, the elixir will send those feelings into orbit, eclipsing the ones he has for Ms. DiCarlo.
A fresh zing of anxiety courses through me, making my heart pound in time with my head. After the cake incident, it’s imperative to keep Alice and Mr. Frederics apart until I can unfix her. If only there was a way to keep them busy, one or the other.
I pace in a circle and stop. Court could keep his mother busy, too busy to see Mr. Frederics. Maybe he could convince her to go on vacation, or sign her up for some classes. He’ll want to keep his mom out of trouble as much as I do. Technically, aromateurs “may not solicit nor accept the assistance of nonaromateurs in the creation of elixirs,” but Kali helps us with the gardening. Surely, asking Court to run interference counts less than that.
Briskly, I walk toward the last lunch table, where the soccer players hang out, trying not to worry about how angry Court will be when he finds out what I’ve done, especially after confiding to me about his mom. The seeds of his admiration for me will wither and die, assuming there were seeds at all.
Whit Wu, Court’s best friend, sprawls out in the space Court usually occupies, mowing down a slice of pizza. As everyone falls quiet and the mothball scent of suspicion spreads like poison gas, Whit finally notices me. His head jerks back and his black eyes go wide.
“Hi,” I say. “I was just wondering if you knew where Court was?”
Whispering starts up, and I catch the words “candy grams.”
Whit’s throat bunches as food travels down the pipe. “Why do you want to know?” Casually, he flips back his black hair. It falls in waves around his broad shoulders. Despite his cool, I can smell his alarm at being accosted by the love witch. It smells like freezer burn.
“Maybe she wants to put a spell on him,” someone cracks.
I ignore the jokers and address Whit. “I just need to talk to him. It’s important.”
“Why? Is there a love emergency?”
Everyone laughs. A slip of a girl scoots farther down her bench away from me, and a curtain of hair with purple highlights falls into her face. I recognize her as one of Vicky’s friends and mentally kick myself for approaching this crowd. Half of Court’s friends are Vicky’s as well. If Vicky didn’t already have enough reasons to dislike me, I think I just found her a new one. The girl casts me a suspicious eye, and moves her Tupperware farther from me, too.
Better to just make a quick and, hopefully, forgettable exit. Jaw clenched, I hurry away.
Court could be anywhere. Maybe he stayed after class. Or maybe . . .
I pull the brim of my bucket hat farther down to shade my eyes and hurry to the field. A lone figure sits with his back against the mulberry tree.
As I tread across the grass, a light breeze fills my nose with the chive-y smell of Jupiter grass. I will need to harvest some for Alice’s elixir. At least that one won’t require a field trip.
Number ten watches me slog toward him. I don’t detect burning tires, or any of the other negative emotions. In fact, the happy smell of orange blossoms caresses my nostrils, carried by a southern breeze. He must not have heard about his mother’s odd behavior yet. I’ll just have to serve the truth, straight up, then move quickly to solutions.
The sleeves of his jersey are pushed up to his shoulders, showing the trace of a tan line on his bronzed biceps. “Was hoping to find you here. Guess you found me.” The corners of his mouth budge upward.
“Guess so,” I say, feigning cheer. Awkwardly, I settle beside him, still hugging my bag.
“Thanks for bringing those flowers to my rude sister on Saturday. My mom, too. It made her day.” He flashes me that grin that stirs my pulse to a trot. “Power of the flower, even after my dad . . .”
A whiff of friar plums itches my nose, the bluesy note of sadness. Mood scents are often ephemeral, like sweaters we pull on and off. He chews on a hangnail, then drops his hand back into his lap.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He stares at his Converse All Stars, face darkening. “Melanie used to like making pottery, though she wasn’t very good at it. When she was ten, she made this vase. It looked more like a . . . shoe.” A smile flits across his face. “But Mom said she loved it, and so Melanie made her another one every year.
“Last weekend when Dad came to the house, Mom had moved that vase to the backyard for Melanie’s birthday party.” A dent appears in his smooth forehead and he lets out a held breath.
“The one he broke?”
Court nods. “Mom forgave him. Why? Beats the heck out of me. He’s always breaking things. I just want him to leave us alone. Stop promising stuff he can’t deliver. Mel got all dressed up when he said he was going to take her out for her birthday. I told her he wouldn’t show up. I knew he would disappoint her.” Scowling, he plucks up a handful of grass, then scatters it.
“Hope and disappointment are brothers,” I hear myself saying.
Court’s smooth forehead crinkles, and I explain, “Hope smells like pink hydrangea, but if you add a bit of acid to the soil—coffee grounds or eggshells work well—the petals turn blue, and the smell changes to something wetter and foggier, which is how disappointment smells.”
“Disappointment smells like . . . fog?”
“It smells like blue hydrangea, which sort of smells like fog.”
The confusion doesn’t budge from his expression.
“What I’m saying is, without hope, there could not be disappointment.”
The plum scent spikes noticeably, and he gathers his knees to him. “So I should stop hoping.”
“No, it’s human to hope. But you could stop adding acid to the soil. You can stop letting him hurt you.” I can’t help thinking about my own mom, who will be giving off a lot of blue hydrangea if she ever learns what I did. “As my mother says, forgiveness is a gift you give to yourself. At least that’s what she tells me every time I’m mad at her.”
“Yeah. I’m still working on that one.” He gives me a rueful grin.
“It’s nice that you’re close to your sister.”
“We used to be closer. Ever since Dad left, Mel thinks she’s an actress. She used to be a tomboy. Used to surf with us on the weekends. Now she hardly talks to me.” He squints as if trying to make out something on the field, but there’s no one practicing there. “So that’s my messed-up family.”
I crease the cotton of my skirt with my fingernail. Now how am I supposed to tell him about his mom? Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. But without his help, I might not PUF his mom in time.
“Hey, thanks for listening,” he says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to dump. I’m not usually so mopey.”
“It’s okay, I like listening. Feel free to dump—I mean share—anytime.”
“Thanks, and the same goes for you.”
Oh great, way to sharpen the shears even more. Now we’re confidantes. Better get it over with as soon as possible.
I straighten up and look him in the eye. “Actually, I do have something to tell you. I screwed up.”
He goes very still, and the only noise is the breeze rustling the mulberry leaves above us. In as few words as possible, I tell him what I did. As he listens, his face is inscrutable, a placid palate of fair skin.
“Holy crap.”
“I’m sorry.” I dig my fingernails into my palms.
“I mean, I don’t even—” His hand makes circles in the air then stops. “Are you messing with me?”
“No.” I cringe that he could think that. My hat overheats my head. “I wouldn’t do that.�
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The angry scent of burning tires soaks the air around us. “You know the crap she’s been through this year?” His muscles tense, and he scoots onto his knees, like he’s about to leave.
“I have a guess, and I am sorry. I have no excuse, except that I was . . .”
“You were what?” He wraps his hands around his head as if preparing for a crash, then lets go, and his hands ball into fists.
I swallow hard. “I wasn’t paying attention.” A trickle of sweat inches down my neck. “I’ll fix this. At least, I’ll do everything I can to fix it.”
He scowls. “How are you going to do that?”
I take a deep breath then explain about the PUF and why I need to go to Meyer. A large cloud of apple scab—one of the thirteen notes of horror—rushes at me, but I press on. “I just need you to keep her from coming to school, long enough for me to make the PUF. Maybe you could pick out her library books for her, or—”
“I don’t believe this.” His expression is too carefully neutral. “I mean, I thought it was cool you liked to garden, but this is seriously screwed up.” He gets to his feet and hikes up his backpack.
He can’t leave, and especially not smelling of rage. I jump to my feet. “I know, it’s screwed up. But please don’t go yet.” Please see reason. “I’m only asking for a few days. Does she like movies? Maybe you can take her to a movie?” I sound desperate. He glances at my hands, stretched in the space between us, and I quickly clasp them together.
A gust of frustration blows from his lips. “What gives you the right to play with people’s lives?”
“We don’t play with their lives, we try to make them . . . happy.” I wilt under his gaze, feeling the loose threads of our friendship untie. I had no right to expect his help anyway. “I’m sorry.”
ELEVEN
“LOVE IS REVEALED THROUGH SACRIFICE.”
—Shayla, Aromateur, 1633
AT LEAST I learned one thing today in school. It’s not possible to die of mortification. After the final bell rings, I numbly haul books out of my locker even though I won’t have time to study.
“Hey, Nose!” Kali floats like a neon-hoodied lifesaver toward me. The sight of my best friend’s smiling face, like aloe vera, instantly takes some of the burn out of my misery. Sometimes one friend is just enough.
“You’re not going to believe what happened,” I tell her.
“I believed it when you said you’d never eaten a Dorito.”
As we tread toward the library, I fill her in.
A string of painted metal benches run along one side of the courtyard. Vicky and her posse perch atop one with their feet on the seat. They’re engulfed in a cloud of perfumed beauty products.
The girls go quiet, and as we approach, Vicky smirks. Kali slows and the sour sap scent of fear mingles with the burnt tires of her anger. I grab the crook of her arm and hurry her along.
“She’s been giving me those snooty looks all day,” Kali mutters.
“I can fix that.”
Kali’s eyes snap to mine. “You’re not still thinking about fixing her with Drew?”
“Leave the guilt to me.”
“Seems like you have more than you can handle right now.” When I don’t answer, she pokes me with her elbow. “I’m serious. Don’t do it. Just worry about Alice. Want me to ask Mukmuk if he’ll drive you to that garden?”
“Will he tell your parents?”
“Maybe. He’s such a choir boy.”
Even though Kali’s brother is usually reliable, the Apulus are friendly with Mother. I can’t risk a leak. “Thanks, but that’s okay. I’ll take the train.” Assuming I’m not in Oman.
“You need me to come?”
It would be nice to have Kali’s company, but I can’t justify spending money on two train tickets, or breaking her perfect attendance record. The garden closes at five every night, and I can’t wait until school lets out. “That’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She can’t smell it, but I wonder if she can hear my lie.
I set off for home. The autumn wind wrestles with my hat and the toggle bead strains against the hollow under my chin. When I hit a pothole, my bag of candy grams nearly goes flying out of my basket. I’m tempted to dump them all into the next trash bin. In the time it will take me to scent them all and match them to their authors, I could probably spray every one of the five hundred boys that attend SGHS. Of course, then I would need to make several more bottles of the very expensive BBG.
Or maybe I’ll just do nothing and wait for the mob to throw me into the ocean.
I ride around the block one more time to rid myself of the swampy stench of anxiety. When I pedal up the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Mother behind the turret window.
On the kitchen table sits a new crate of Creamsicle tulip bulbs, which smell of oranges and cream. A grower in Holland delivers these to us every year in October. Despite the pleasant fragrance, a scowl tugs at my face. The bulbs will be stressed from their flight and Mother will make me plant them today.
I trudge upstairs, mentally rehearsing the speech I prepared about why I should not go to Oman. In her room, an open suitcase lies on the bed. Mother is in her closet, sifting through her blue clothes.
We’re leaving already? I open my mouth to speak, but my rehearsed words flee my head, and all that comes out is “The seniors need to be fixed.”
“What?”
“I can’t go to Oman. We have seniors coming up. And the papayas are ready to drop—you’ve seen them yourself. Who’s going to look after things here?” I hold my breath.
“Relax. You don’t have to go.” Hangers squeak against wood.
“What? I mean, are you sure?” I lower myself next to her suitcase.
“We’ll save that vacation for when it won’t compromise love lives.”
Like that will ever happen.
“Alfie got me the jet for tomorrow. Oh, I assume you saw the Creamsicles?” She bustles out of the closet carrying a navy sweater and navy slacks.
“Yes. I’ll plant them tonight.”
Briskly, she begins to roll up the sweater. “No. There’s a problem with them. I’m sending them back.”
“What kind of problem?”
She stops rolling the sweater and raises her chin. “You tell me.”
A test. I begin to rise, intending to go to the kitchen, but she holds out a hand to stop me. “From here. I’ve babied you way too long.”
I sink back into the bed. Why does she always make it so hard? The Creamsicles barely whisper here on the second floor, let alone reveal to me their defect.
“Close your eyes. It’s easier to unlayer.”
Mother moves about the room, noisily opening and closing drawers. I can’t help wondering if she’s putting as many obstacles as she can in my path. Even her own scent impedes my progress, especially the heart note of tuberose, that overbearing floral reminiscent of a throbbing headache on a hot summer day. My nose rummages for the bitter telltale signs of mold—one of the main reasons for rejection—but I don’t find any more than normal levels coming from that direction.
Mother stops moving around. “Come on, Mim, don’t try so hard. You look like you’re going to pop a vein.”
More smells tiptoe by: ink, a roll of postage stamps, cornflower water, old lace curtains.
A band of sweat forms around my forehead. Finally, the barest thread of something sour—formic acid—seems to chase on the heels of the Creamsicle scent. Before I catch it, it ducks back into hiding. “It’s an insect.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
I wait for it to resurface so I can get a clearer picture.
“Mites?” I open my eyes, and stars float around the room.
Mother, in the closet doorframe holding a denim dress, shakes her head. It stings me to smell the blue hydrangea of her disappointment. “Not mites. Aphids. You need to let go. If you try to force your way through the scents, they’ll resist you.”
I huff out my frustration. “What happens when there
are no more aromateurs? Don’t you think we should spend our time figuring out that problem instead of smelling aphids?” I don’t think I could run the business all by myself, should something ever happen to Mother. Grandmother Narcissa was as vivacious as verbena, but still couldn’t avoid getting hit by the taxi in Senegal.
“What do you mean, ‘no more aromateurs’? One day, you’ll have a daughter or two.” She gives a tiny shrug and grins. “Or three.”
I clamp my lip. I don’t think I could ever inflict such a lonely life on anyone else.
Mother is hawking her eyes into mine, so I say, “Even if I did have kids, one family can’t carry an entire species.”
“Species,” she says the words as if it tasted sour. “Aromateurs have existed for thousands of years. We’re like the hostas; we’ll never quite die out.” She brushes past me with her dress and begins to roll it up. “I wore this when I was pregnant with you,” she says brightly, indicating the discussion is over. “All it needs is a belt.” After stuffing the roll into the suitcase, back into the closet she goes. Mother prides herself on her frugality. When the dress finally rots off her body, she’ll use it as a rag, and after that she’ll use it to line the chicken coop.
I trace my finger around the intertwining flowers that run the length of her quilt. Unlike their real-life counterparts, Mother’s flower, a dahlia, twines tightly around my aunt’s blue bryony.
She reemerges from the closet and tosses her belt into the suitcase, then starts rolling her underwear into neat bundles. “I’ll be gone until next Monday. While I’m away, you’ll need to finish Ms. Salzmann’s elixir. It’s done and all you’ll need to do is agitate and clarify. Fix her Wednesday before you go to school. On Thursday, Dr. Lipinsky’s coming in for a sniff analysis. Four p.m. Both senior specials.”