The Secret of a Heart Note

by Stacey Lee

  Of course, I already knew about both appointments. “Okay, no problem.”

  Mother pauses in her underwear rolling to squint at me. Her nose wiggles, and I realize I’ve started to smell boggy again. I lower my eyes and meekly ask, “Is there anything else I can do?”

  She sits beside me, and the mattress dips, rolling me toward her. “Just do the things you’re supposed to do and we’ll be fine.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  She pats my arm. “You could be a great aromateur, Mim. As great as your grandmother Narcissa.”

  Mother loves to tell me this, but today, it sounds like a warning.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “When I was pregnant, your nose became combined with mine; I could smell things happening twenty miles away. Like that fire in Pheasant Hill.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “If you want to become great like her, you’ll need to focus. Too many things going on in there right now.” She taps my head. “Algebra, jumping jacks, blah, blah, blah. I know there’s something else in there, too, something you’re not telling me.”

  I freeze and force my mind to go blank.

  Still focused on me, she begins coiling a leather belt while I impersonate a second suitcase. The belt buckle falls out of the middle and the whole thing unwinds, distracting her momentarily. She lets out a gasp of annoyance. “So what is it?”

  “I, uh, really, uh—”

  “You really what?”

  I see an opportunity, like a single red bloom in a field of golden poppies. Keeping my thoughts carefully neutral, I say, “I smelled this scent on someone the other day and I didn’t know what it was. It’s been bothering me.”

  Her eyes narrow, reminding me of a cat that’s unsure if it sees a mouse. “Go on.”

  “It had a dominant of miso soup, osha beats, a lick of buffalo weed, not too spicy, with a silvery finish. Do you know what it is?”

  She goes back to rolling her belt. “There must be two hundred botanicals that fit that description.”

  “I know.” I didn’t really think she could tell me. Words can only take us so far in describing a scent. The English language is notoriously lacking in scent terminology. Of course, aromateurs have evolved their own terminology, but that can only narrow the field, not pinpoint. At least Mother’s off the trail. I lead her further away. “What do you do if you can’t match a scent?” From her open crossword book, I pick up her favorite bookmark and pretend to study the laminated pressed violets.

  “Never happens anymore. It used to, when I was younger.”

  “So what did you do when it happened? When you were younger. It would be nice to know how to become . . . great.”

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Lipinsky’s easy. I met him once before. He’s mostly fruits.” She smiles. “It’s wonderful to see you finally taking such an interest.”

  I let the matter drop now that I’m safe. “I better let you finish packing.” I pass her the bookmark and haul myself up from the bed.

  “Mim?”

  I pause by the doorframe. Mother studies me with a curious expression. “Immerse yourself in the scent, then meditate on it. The notes will tell you where to go.”

  After dinner over a crossword puzzle with Mother, a challenging one I chose to keep both our minds occupied, I head to the workshop. I need to catalogue the scents to source on tomorrow’s trip to Meyer. I bring textbooks, just in case Mother drops in and wonders what I’m doing in there. At least one good thing came of failing to inventory: when she leaves, I can work on Alice’s elixir without fear of discovery.

  I insert our old iron key with the heart-shaped grip. It sticks, the way it sometimes does. When I’m a hundred years old, I’ll probably stick in a few places, too. I jiggle it a few times, until I hear the lock give way.

  A tendril of Layla’s Sacrifice pushes against the inside of its glass dome like it’s trying to escape, in strange parallel to its namesake. A sixteenth-century aromateur, Layla, had a daughter, Shayla, who mistakenly fixed a Turkish prince with the wrong princess. For her crime, she was sentenced to three days in a locked tomb, a slow and horrible way to die. But so great was Layla’s love for her daughter that she volunteered to stand in for the punishment. Layla stood with her back straight as a reed while they rolled a rock against the entrance of the tomb.

  When they returned three days later, they found only an orchid.

  “You have it easy in there. Three squirts of water a day, sunshine, peace of mind. It sure gets more complicated when you’re on the outside.”

  I grab a notebook and pen. Before beginning my work, I run my hand along the narcissuses the groundskeeper William had carved into the farm table, an old ritual for resetting my mind. The simple act thins the anxious cloud hanging over me, but it doesn’t evaporate altogether.

  I write down plants I could use for the remaining notes in Alice’s elixir. Her scentprint contains several exotics, which doesn’t surprise me given her age and gender. The miso soup heart note still bothers me. It’s the drum majorette in the woman’s parade of scents, and totally necessary.

  I turn on the computer and pull up our database of plants. Miso is made from soybean, and I run through all fifty-nine species, including four that I personally added to the list after a trip to Asia a few years ago.

  None of them match Alice’s miso scent. Then I pull up the Meyer website, which contains a list of all ten thousand species grown at the garden. As I read the names of each plant, I mentally call up their smells.

  Again, no matches.

  I drum a pencil against my temple. Meyer’s database isn’t regularly updated. They add new species all the time.

  Then again, what are the chances they would add a plant with that particular note?

  I fumble the pencil and it drops onto the desk, breaking the tip. If I can’t find it at Meyer, I will have to look elsewhere, and elsewhere is somewhere between not here and everywhere.

  TWELVE

  “HARVEST STINGING NETTLE FROM THE TOP, WHERE IT’S

  LEAST EXPECTING YOU.”

  —Tulipia, Aromateur, 1755

  THE ROOSTER’S CROWING jolts me awake. Mother’s gone. I smell only the fraying threads of her winter’s bark base notes. I wrestle on the nearest clothes—T-shirt, sundress, oversized sweater, and leggings—and then peer into my mirror. Dark circles bloomed overnight under my eyes, which look more snail brown than amber at the moment.

  I employ a battalion of bobby pins to keep my hair out of my face, jamming them in wherever I see a stray lock. My chin-length bob is begging for a real trim after that last hack job I gave it.

  I’m so jittery, I want to pedal to the train station right now, but Meyer doesn’t open until one on Tuesdays. And I have to go to school anyway, because Mr. Frederics might wonder why I’m not at algebra.

  Mother left a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with raisins on the kitchen table with a note.

  SEE YOU IN A WEEK. EMERGENCY CELL # ON FRIDGE.

  LOVE, M.

  P.S. CHECK ON MS. DICARLO.

  Did Mr. Frederics tell Mother about Alice’s odd behavior? Did something happen or not happen between him and Ms. DiCarlo? We always follow up on the targets to make sure they don’t adversely react to our potions. But Mother’s never had to remind me to do it.

  I choke down the oatmeal, grab a beret, and dash off to school.

  I whiz through the parking lot, past Court’s Jeep and Mr. Frederics’s bamboo-green hybrid, feeling every glance thrown my way like a pie in the face. No one cares about my problems any more than they didn’t yesterday, but I’m still self-conscious, as if everyone knows what I’ve done to Alice. I reassure myself that Court wouldn’t say anything, for his mother’s sake, if nothing else.

  Today’s Cardio Fitness leader, Vicky, stands in front of the class, fiddling with her phone. Kali stretches to one side, then the other. “Thought you were going to Meyer.”

  “I’m catching the 12:20 train.”

  The
bluesy sounds of a guitar blare from the speakers, making the air ducts vibrate. We exchange a look when we recognize the song, “There’s a Place for You and Me,” a slow ballad that’s not exactly cardio.

  Ms. Bobrov waves her wristbanded hands at Vicky. “Wait, wait.”

  Vicky cuts the music and asks, “Something wrong?”

  “This song ees not right.” The teacher snaps her fingers.

  “Oh, come on, Ms. B.” Vicky slides her eyes to Kali, who’s gone as still as an oak tree. “Some of us just move to a different beat.”

  Vicky jerks her head from side to side, cracking her neck, then pins me with her gaze. “It’s just the warm-up song.”

  Melanie says, “Please, Ms. B!” in support of her BFF and then more voices join in. Ms. Bobrov throws up her hands. “Oh, very well. After zis, then we need something more zippy.”

  Vicky switches on the music again and the class starts following her lame moves. Kali follows, too, but at half her usual speed. I’m close enough to see that she’s shaking.

  The singer belts the chorus:

  Just because we both wear heels, don’t mean our love’s not real.

  One day, the world will see, there’s a place for you and me.

  Kali throws me a dark look then picks her way toward the exit, leaving a queasy trail of frogbit in her wake. She says something to Ms. Bobrov, who nods curtly, then disappears out the door.

  As Vicky executes the lamest jumping jack in the history of jack jumping, I’m resolved. I can’t stand by while Vicky ruins Kali’s life, one cruel prank at a time. Operation Fix Vicky officially begins.

  On the way to algebra, I stop by the brick planters, though this time I’m not looking for aloe. Instead, I reach for a plant with straw-like flowers, otherwise known as sneezeweed, which likes to grow wherever it can find a layer of dirt to stand in. Nasal secretions can substitute for saliva in a pinch.

  I pull off my beret and begin crumbling the flowers into my hair. Unlike the rest of the population, I’m immune to sneezeweed allergies.

  Vicky is discussing the hotness of the pop star Tyson Badland with Melanie when I enter the classroom with my beret at a jaunty angle. Her gaze stretches toward an exposed pipe in the ceiling as if looking at that surely beats noticing what’s coming through the door. Mr. Frederics is writing an equation in his neat block letters. He pauses midequation, stares up at the clock, and smiles. What’s he thinking about? Or, more important, who?

  I shake myself out of my thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Drew’s doodling in his notebook again, this time with a calligraphy pen. He wrote, “‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’—Nietzsche.”

  He notices my interest.

  “Nice calligraphy,” I say, slipping into my chair. “Carolingian, right?”

  His smile pulls his chin into a point. “Yeah, Carolingian. I’m branching out from Gothic. You know calligraphy?”

  “Yes. You ever try parchment? It’ll give you cleaner lines.”

  His head bobs up and down, and his red-rimmed glasses slip down his nose. “Cool.”

  I turn back around, and guilt nags me. Drew’s a good egg. Would I be ruining his life forever by doing this?

  No. He likes Vicky. This would be a dream come true for him. This would send his popularity soaring.

  But what if he doesn’t want that?

  Before I change my mind, I pull off my beret, and shake out my hair. I count two seconds before Drew sneezes right into the back of my dress.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  “It’s okay. It’s allergy season.”

  After algebra, I use my hand clippers to snip a piece of contaminated fabric off my dress. I tuck the piece into one of the many canvas sacks I brought for the trip to Meyer. Next, I file an excuse with the school secretary. Upperclassmen don’t need notes to come and go for appointments and the like. If I hurry, I can make the 12:20 train. As I push through the heavy door of the office, I pick up a scent that makes my heart jump.

  Court is perched against a cement planter surrounding a loquat tree, a few paces away. I consider retreating into the office, but Court already sees me.

  He hurries toward me, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Saw you go in. I’ve been looking for you all morning.” He squints and blinks, like his contacts bother him, and there are circles under his eyes. “Mom didn’t play her uke in B minor last night. She played a happy song, ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.’” He pushes the sleeve of his gray cashmere pullover up to his elbow, showing his golden arms. There’s a pen stain on his finger. There’s also a tear in the knee of his jeans that looks earned, not like the preripped jeans that cost a fortune.

  I hug my bag to me. “She’s in love.”

  He cusses and sweeps aside a fallen loquat with his foot. “Melanie’s freaking out.”

  “Does she know?” I try not to panic.

  “I had to tell her, or she’d call Mom’s shrink.”

  Wonderful. Another leak in the boat.

  “She thinks you did it on purpose, setting up Mom with a”—he frowns and looks away—“a teacher. Anyway, sometimes Mel doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  From across the courtyard, Coach Juarez calls out, “Hey, Sawyer! Extra practice at four. Don’t be late.”

  Court acknowledges his coach by holding up his thumbs.

  “Will she tell your mom?”

  “We decided not to. Mom’s been through enough.”

  “What about Melanie’s friends?” Like Vicky.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Mel won’t talk. You said Mom would forget about her feelings for Mr. Frederics after you—” He makes loops with his finger, trying to conjure the right word.

  “PUF her, yes.”

  “So it erases memories?”

  “No. She’ll remember what happened, but she won’t have any romantic feelings attached to those memories. I have to go, but thanks for the update.” I start toward the bike racks with a renewed sense of urgency. Despite his reassurance, I can’t help worrying that Melanie will tell Vicky, who will then use the information to blackmail something out of me, and, by association, Mother.

  He walks alongside me. “That’s crazy. I mean, this whole thing is”—he rubs his chin—“unreal.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “I called my aunt. She’s flying in for a visit. She’ll take Mom out, which should give us some time.”

  I choke back my surprise. “Us?”

  “I don’t want to see my mom hurt again.” He frowns.

  I dump my stuff in my bike basket. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” It’ll give me a needed safety cushion of time in case I don’t find all the plants at Meyer today. Every bit helps.

  Students drift in and out of the library, some of them staring at us. Court doesn’t seem to notice. Through the library windows, I make out the time on the library clock: 12:07. If I don’t leave, I’ll never make my train.

  I take up the handlebars. “Um, thanks again.”

  “You going somewhere?”

  “Meyer.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re biking?”

  “Just to the train station. I’m not crazy.”

  He pushes up his other sleeve so now both sides are even. “I’ll take you.”

  “That’s okay. It’s just a ten-minute ride.”

  “I meant, I’ll drive you to Meyer.”

  “You’ll have to miss practice—”

  “It’s my mom.” He works an arm into his backpack strap, glancing across the courtyard where his coach was standing. The man has disappeared. “I’ll need to sign out first and do a few things. Do you know which car is mine?”

  “Yes.” The word tumbles out too quickly as I remember the black Jeep with the surfboard sticking out the back. At least I could’ve pretended to think about it.

  He fishes his keys from his pocket and hands them to me. They’re still warm with his body heat. “I’ll meet you there in ten.”
<
br />   He doesn’t wait for answer, but strides back to the office. I’m so stunned, my nose stops working for a split second, and all I can think about is that the sun feels unbearably hot on my neck, even though it’s a foggy day.

  * * *

  Court parks his Jeep in the row farthest from the school, where the alpha males park.

  Females flock to this area of the parking lot to peruse the selection of mostly red, black or silver cars, some lowered, some raised, some with vestigial thingamabobs protruding off the sides with no real purpose, the way some cactus have leaves.

  A waist-high brick wall separates the concrete path on which I’m walking from the lek, i.e., mating ground. I cautiously approach the area, head down, arms crossed tightly across my chest. Hopefully no one will notice me. I should have told Court I’d meet him outside the school. Someone’s bound to see me get into his car. Tongues will wag and Vicky will hear of it. She might even publish Kali’s journal to spite me.

  Two teens with lettermen jackets challenge each other to a pushup contest on the other side of the wall. Court parked his Jeep in the opposite row.

  I stop in my tracks when I pick up Vicky’s scent somewhere nearby, celery and black elder. She’s leaning her miniskirted bottom against the back of a Mustang just two cars down from Court’s. A half dozen of her admirers, both female and male, vie for her attention.

  If I keep walking, Vicky will see me for sure. Time to backtrack. I’ll find Court—

  Something bounces hard off my shoulder. “Oof!”

  The object that hit me, a soccer ball, rebounds off the half wall, then rolls around by my feet. I pick it up.

  “Hola,” Vicky calls.

  Everyone’s looking at me. Instead of following my instincts to flee, I stand my ground, returning her saccharine grin with one of my own. Heart pounding, I square my shoulders and pass through the closest break in the wall, still clutching the ball. No one reaches for it.

  Vicky’s gravel-colored eyes glitter as we give each other the once-over. Her eyes fall to a stain on my dress I thought no one would notice. If she likes that, she’ll love the hole I just cut in the back. I stick out like a hobo at a wine tasting.