The Secret of a Heart Note

by Stacey Lee

  A million things to do today, starting with a change of clothes. I’ll have to skip school again. I’ll probably be suspended before Mother can pull me out. What a waste, made even worse because there is no one to blame but myself.

  I eye the phone. I need to talk to Kali, sort things out with her so she can sort things out for me. Yet, why should I call her? I’m the one who nearly died yesterday. She should be calling me.

  Pettiness aside, would it kill her to be concerned or at least curious about my state of emergency? Not to mention, I really need to tell her that I kissed Court, an event that, though admittedly ambrosial, will probably come back to bite me one day.

  Sniffing, I wipe away hot, indulgent tears. Kali must care. Haven’t we plowed through our share of dirt together? I knew her back when she ate rival gangsters for lunch. She stuck by my side during those awful first weeks of school when people ran from me.

  I dial. The sound of her cell phone ringing jangles my ear, and after several rings, her phone goes to voicemail. I can’t help wondering if she saw it was me calling, and switched her phone off. I don’t leave a message.

  Still thinking about Kali, I scamper to the house for a quick bite, shielding my eyes in the bright glare. In the kitchen, I remove one of Mother’s homemade raspberry granola bars from a canister. Instead of Brazil nuts and pumpkin seeds, the bar tastes wooden, almost as if I’ve bitten a chunk off the wall. Even the raspberry bits barely register on my taste buds. Strange. Maybe they went bad.

  Something slick and queasy loops through me. I grimly head back into the garden, anxious more than ever to start on Alice’s elixir. Several papayas dropped off the tree and lie squashed, black seeds oozing out like guts. I forgot all about harvesting them. Once they fall, the seeds are useless for elixirs.

  I brake so abruptly, I nearly knock my knee out of joint. Why did I have to see the papayas before I knew they were rotten? Why didn’t I smell them first? I point my nose toward the tree and inhale. I definitely smell the rotting papayas, like stinky socks, but only because I’m searching for it. My hand flies to my nose. It feels stuffed up, like I caught a cold.

  My skin breaks out in goose bumps. I race to the workshop.

  Another bud has started growing out of the center stalk of Layla’s Sacrifice. A sister bud means the plant should be twice as fragrant. I line the floors with thick towels in case I faint. The glass lid rattles as I close my trembling fingers around the knob. It occurs to me, the habañero scent of panic dribbling off me should be a lot stronger, given my current levels of stress, but I will know soon enough. I brace myself. If my nose is fine, I’ll definitely pass out once I lift the lid. One, two . . .

  I lift off the cover.

  The juicy sour scents of marmalade waft up to my nostrils and cheerfully hum. But I’m still standing, at least, kneeling. I’m not even dizzy.

  I replace the cover and crumple over my knees. My eyes fill with hot tears, and Mother’s words ring in my head. Her ability to smell faded away like summer sweet peas.

  Pushing open the workshop door, I run around the garden, smelling plant after plant. I step onto a stool and inhale the blue star juniper tentacling out of a hanging container. It’s an unmistakable scent, like a baby Christmas tree, but today I can barely distinguish it from the skyrocket juniper growing beside it.

  I jump off the stool and crouch by the common herbs rosemary, tarragon, oregano, sage—notes that are notorious for bossing other scents around. Tearing off handfuls of the plants more carelessly than I should, I crush them under my nose.

  It’s useless. They’re a bunch of shrinking wallflowers, all of them. I collapse onto a patch of dwarf grass and put my head in my arms.

  I tempted fate by going to school. I lied to Mother, defied the rules, and gave Larkspur the finger. No wonder my nose is becoming ordinary.

  Mother would understand that I needed to save Court’s life, but not why I lied to her. For that matter, did I have to kiss him? A little spit on his bee sting—that might’ve done the trick. Why didn’t I think of that?

  I didn’t think of that because I wanted to kiss him. That was my undoing. My stomach roils at the thought that I may never smell again. I wouldn’t be able to help Mother with the elixirs. I’d only be able to clear branches and weed like Kali, but unlike Kali, I don’t have anything else to aspire to, no other talents to build on. Plus, I’d have to face Mother’s disappointment in me, day after tedious day.

  I drag myself back to the kitchen where Mother left the number to the cell phone she carries in case of emergency. I pick up the receiver of our old kitchen telephone with the curly wire and begin to punch in the numbers. Before the call connects, I hang up. I need some Kali therapy, first. She would know what to do. At the very least, she could recite a last poem of solace before I march to the gallows.

  But before Kali’s phone rings, I replace the receiver. She can see that I called not even an hour ago. She must not want to talk to me. A hot colony of misery blooms inside me.

  I dial Mother’s emergency number. As I wait for the line to be connected, I knead my knuckles into my temple. Mother, you might want to sit down. No. If I say that, she’ll think someone died. That’s what they always say when someone dies.

  The phone rings. Once, twice.

  Mother, I blew it. No, too much too soon. Ease into it. Make small talk first, ask how the palm trees are.

  Three rings, four. Finally, an answer. I squeeze the phone to my ear. “We’re sorry, all circuits are busy right now. Please hang up and try your call later.”

  Busy? This is an emergency! I hang up and dial again.

  Same message. After trying for a third time and getting nowhere, I suddenly worry about her safety. I hurry to the workshop where we keep our only computer.

  The old PC whirrs to life. Egypt’s latest headline: record-breaking heat of 108 degrees. Nothing newsworthy is happening in the Middle East either besides the usual oil-price acrobatics.

  I try calling again, but no luck. Even if I did reach her, the most she could do is scold me. It’ll take her at least a day to return, maybe two, and that’s assuming she gets the jet. By then, Alice could be baking Mr. Frederics a wedding cake.

  I pace the length of the workshop, forcing myself not to panic. Maybe it’s a cold. It’s flu season, isn’t it? My ears are ringing, too, and my head feels like someone stuffed it with Styrofoam peanuts. I am a human being after all, and I did nearly drown yesterday.

  Ten. I was ten the only time I had a cold. I could hardly smell my breakfast, and the loss immobilized me as much as if I had suddenly gone blind. Mother wiped my tears and tucked me into bed with The Complete Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen. By the time I finished the last one—The Steadfast Tin Soldier—I was good as new.

  Only time will tell. Meanwhile, I’m wasting daylight wearing down the floorboards. I need to get on that elixir. If my nose is on the way out, I have to make it before it fades completely.

  Staring through the fist-size indentation in the floorboard, I review the plants I will need for Alice’s elixir. Moss oak, protea majora, Jupiter grass . . . I groan. I still need to collect that one from the school field. Jupiter grass needs to be harvested when the sun’s shining and its oil’s at full potency. Of course, it’s just my luck that the day is overcast.

  Grimly, I head back to the house. Guess I’ll be going to school after all. At least I won’t arrive until after Cardio, which might be the only good thing I can squeeze out of this day.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “TWO HEARTS IN SYNCHRONICITY HAVE

  LITTLE USE FOR OUR MAGIC.”

  —Wisteria, Aromateur, 1935

  THE SUN STILL ducks behind a gloomy curtain of clouds by the time I roll into the parking lot of SGHS. The clouds usually burn off by noon, but what if they don’t? Lady Luck and I haven’t been on speaking terms lately.

  Overnight, the homecoming fairies visited, leaving streamers and signs everywhere, like Go Panthers! and Eat Our Shorts, Bu
lldogs. I even spot one that reads Warrior Sawyer Kicks Ass, with a picture of a donkey, checkered white and black like a soccer ball.

  An image of Court’s easy smile slips into my head, but I try my best to banish it. If there’s any chance of recovering my nose, then I will have to be on my best behavior. There is no PUF for aromateurs, no shortcut around heartbreak to make me forget that exquisite sparkle of joy at his touch, the warm safety in his arms—not that I want to. But if being in love is causing me to lose my nose, maybe falling out of love will make it return.

  Kali’s bike is missing, once again. She’s becoming as delinquent as I am. Maybe she is sick. Or maybe she’s avoiding Cardio, or worse, me. I swallow the sour taste in my mouth. I might be able to cross the tightrope of my error eventually, but it will be twice as hard without my six-foot safety net. Maybe this is the problem with having so few people in my life. The ones I have count more than they should.

  Then again, maybe they shouldn’t count at all.

  Too late, I begin to understand why our ancestor Carmelita cautioned in her Last Word to catch a heart before it falls. Attachments, whether romantic or filial, just lead to disappointment and pain, emotions that distract us from our life’s work.

  Though I try not to look, my gaze travels through the library windows to Ms. DiCarlo, hunched over her desk. Towers of books form a wall in front of her, but I can see her in profile. She puts her head in her hands, as if it’s too heavy to support. The wistful wisteria notes lay heavy and talc-like all around her. Oh, for peat moss’ sake, I need to start parking my bike somewhere else. She spots me through the window and gives me a smile so tight, it might shatter.

  With a sigh, I head into the library.

  “Good morning, Ms. DiCarlo.” I peek over the skyline of books. Her eyes are bloodshot and begin to water.

  “Oh, hello,” she says in a falsely bright voice. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “I’m late today. Is everything okay?”

  She sniffs loudly. “Yes, everything is fine.” She takes a book off her pile and runs it through a bar code scanner. Beep. “Something must be in the air.”

  I scratch under my straw hat, trying to decide if the situation requires more conversation. Suddenly, she sneezes three times in a row, slinging her red curls around her shoulders. She tugs a tissue from a box.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.” I inch away.

  She dabs her watery eyes, and says in a conspiratorial whisper. “I sent out twenty queries.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I say hesitantly.

  “It’s hard to know what anyone’s looking for nowadays, but I’m hoping the right one comes along. If all twenty reject me, I might need a long vacation.” She dabs at her eyes.

  She must be using an online dating service. I can’t help feeling guilty about that, even though online dating services are perfectly viable tools. Elixirs are just more organic.

  She misreads my queasy expression. “Oh, you think twenty is too many? Maybe I should’ve started small.”

  “No,” I quickly say. “I’m happy for you. Mother likes to say, the bees don’t land on unopened flowers.”

  Ms. DiCarlo looks at me like I have aluminum foil antennae in my hair. Another sneeze comes between us and she holds her tissue to her nose. “Thank you, Mim.” The tissue waves up and down, telling me to leave already.

  I arrive several minutes late to algebra. The sight of another pink pastry box sitting cheerfully on Mr. Frederics’s desk strikes fear in my heart the same as if it were a bomb. Alice struck again, despite the yard sales.

  As quietly as I can, I slip into my desk. Mr. Frederics raises an eyebrow at my tardiness, but doesn’t say anything. Vicky, at her desk in the center of the room, lets the shiny necklace she’s chewing fall from her mouth when she sees me. The elixir must be working by now. But will she fall in love before she publishes Kali’s journal? She shifts back around.

  “Very good.” Mr. Frederics beams as Val Valedictorian completes a problem on the board in her neat block letters. Though her answer requires the entire board to complete, I have to sniff hard to pick up the marker fumes.

  Mr. Frederics taps the board. “This is exactly the kind of problem you might find on the final.”

  “What?” cries someone. “That’s stupid hard.”

  He gives the kid a hard eyeball, then chuckles. “Math is like love, isn’t it? Simple, yet, so complicated.”

  A few people laugh, but not Melanie, who grimaces. She catches me watching her, and I shift my gaze to the window. Still overcast.

  “Who will do problem number five from your homework?” Mr. Frederics’s gaze sweeps over the classroom and lands on me, the tardy one. I freeze for a moment. Not only do I not know the answer, I don’t know the question. I shuffle through my folder for the homework pages when Drew’s chair squeaks behind me. Oh, sweet relief. It’s not me.

  As Drew completes the problem, everyone copies it down. Everyone but Vicky, who’s watching Drew’s derriere shake as he flourishes his numbers with flags and scrolls.

  She rouses herself from her daze, and a flush creeps up her face.

  Oh my, she’s definitely coming down with something, either the common cold, or the love bug. Symptoms can be similar: hot and cold flashes, nausea, difficulty breathing. Maybe that will teach you to pick on someone your own size, and by size, I mean ego-wise.

  At last, the bell sounds. “Great work today everybody,” says Mr. Frederics over the noise of people scrambling to leave.

  Drew stuffs his notebook into his frayed backpack. “Hey, Mim?”

  “Yes?”

  His pale skin makes his blue eyes pop. He glances at the paper on my desk. “Can I still sign up for Puddle Jumpers?”

  “Sure. Algebra?”

  He blinks. “Huh?”

  “You want extra credit for algebra, right?”

  “No, I just wanted to hang out with the kids.”

  My cheeks warm. “Oh, right.”

  “I like kids. My mom’s a kindergarten teacher.”

  “That’s cool. You must get killer bedtime stories.”

  “Yeah, we do ‘Wheels on the Bus’ every night, too.” He smiles, lifting me momentarily from my mushroom cloud of anxiety. He’s wearing clear braces. Once his teeth don’t stick out so much, he might find that more girls than Vicky are attracted to him.

  The itchy guilt makes me fidget. Maybe I don’t have the ethical backbone to be an aromateur after all, fixing a minor with an innocent party like Drew, even if he did have a crush on her. If I ever get my nose back, perhaps I should consider a career in drug detection, or truffle hunting.

  I shove those thoughts away. There’ll be plenty of time later to wallow in guilt. Right now, I need to get the Jupiter grass. I hurry outside and scan the skies. Still, not a single break in the gray blanket overhead.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “O HUMBLE GARDENIA! HIDDEN AMONG BASE-LYING BUSH.

  YOUR HEAD MAY BE SMALL, AND PALE BE YOUR FACE, BUT

  MY! HOW THE CREATURES ADORE YOU.”

  —Sorrelia, Aromateur, 1645

  FINALLY, THE LUNCH bell rings, and right on schedule, the clouds burn off. Time to collect the Jupiter grass, then check out early.

  I hurry to the field. The soccer players are drilling, which isn’t surprising, given the upcoming game. As I draw closer to the field, I spy Court’s familiar form, feet moving quicker than a sandpiper’s. He taps the ball left, then pivots to catch it again, throwing his opponent off balance. It’s mesmerizing. The cheerleaders scream his name, but he doesn’t even look up.

  Mother calls that kind of focus “the flow.” Once you’re in, you connect with your task so closely that doing it is almost an act of magic. It’s the same way with elixirs. When we focus on the scents, they sing to us in all their complex glory. Mixing a potion is just a matter of choosing the right singers for the chorus.

  Hopefully, Court’s so involved in his game he won’t notice
me.

  A patch of Jupiter grass grows where the cement ends. I drop down on still-wet lawn and comb through the hairy weed. A handful of students eye me suspiciously, but I ignore them.

  I pluck off a tendril and sniff. Jupiter grass always announces itself like a soprano hitting high C. But today, it’s just a background voice.

  Swiping my forehead with my sleeve, I pluck another, and another. They’re no stronger than the first. The sun is shining, strong enough to give me a tan, but everything is so weak, even weaker than the papaya this morning. Come on, nose, don’t go yet.

  Someone calls my name. In front of me, Whit Wu appears, giving me a grin and flipping his ponytail. I didn’t even smell him coming.

  “Hi there.” He shakes out his lanky legs, the kind that require an aisle seat. There’s a natural pout to his mouth, and his olive skin is blemish-free. I sniff by reflex, but only catch the synthetic fragrance of his deodorant.

  “Hi.” I silently implore him to leave so I can continue panicking in peace.

  He reaches into the front pocket of his sweatpants, but whatever he’s searching for isn’t forthcoming, so he tries the ones in the back. Not there, either.

  “Don’t you need to practice?”

  He cocks his head to one side, exposing a jawline straight enough to chart courses. “Nah. We got this. Coach is taking us to Spaghetti Station for carb upload tonight. So you coming?”

  “Spaghetti Station?”

  He chuckles. “No. The game.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Now he’s checking the inside pockets of his sweatpants. What’s he looking for? What does he want from me? And how many pockets do you need to play soccer?

  I know I couldn’t have infected him. I only see him when he’s on the field—except the last time when the soccer ball hit me in the parking lot. His soccer ball.

  I grimace. I must have contaminated Whit’s soccer ball with aromateur’s pollen. Voilà, infection.

  Whit finally finds what he wants. Chapstick. Cherry-flavored. He pops off the cap and draws it on his mouth in two quick circles. “You like miniature golf?”