by Stacey Lee
“Are you an aromateur now?”
“Yes. I do a pretty good business out there. Wish I had a daughter like you to help me.” She combs her fingers through my hair and I suddenly remember Mother doing the same when I was still small enough to sit in her lap.
I yawn again. “Did you put something in the soup?”
“I put in a whole lot of things. And a few extra winks of sleep every night will help you recover your nose sooner.”
Valerian root, probably.
“But I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I want to hear about your life,” I murmur.
“All right. Where should I start?”
“At the beginning.”
THIRTY-THREE
“UNLIKE MORNING GLORIES, LOVE CAN BLOOM
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY.”
—Lavender, Aromateur, 1949
I MISS THE rooster crowing, and sleep until past noon. I take my time dressing, feeling more at peace than I have in a long time. My aunt’s presence calms me like chamomile tea. Mother is more like triple espresso. Mirror-image gray streaks. Identical, yet opposite.
Once outfitted in my favorite gypsy skirt and oversize sweatshirt, I hunt for Aunt Bryony. Overnight, order has been restored to the garden, leaves swept, branches trimmed, dead flowers picked off. She must have worked all night and all morning.
I find her in the workshop, vigorously shaking a fist-size mixing flask. Spider plants have been placed at strategic locations, one near the lavender stain and a few on the worktable. A line of test tubes stand in traditional arc formation at the table.
She wipes the sweat from her brow onto her apron and smiles. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. Thanks for cleaning up. You should’ve let me help.”
“Oh, we saved the mud tubers for you. Neither Kali nor I wanted to get our nails dirty.”
“Kali was here?” Something bright and effervescent bubbles up inside me.
“I like her. She smells wholesome.”
Aunt Bryony smiles at me, probably detecting the bright mandarin I must be giving off—the childhood scent of hope. If Kali came to help with the garden, maybe she’s over being disappointed in me. Maybe things can go back to the way they were. “Why didn’t she stay?” We always have lunch together on Sunday.
“She said she had things to do.”
“Oh.” The mandarin must be fading. It’s strange not to smell my own emotions anymore.
“I see your mother never joined the twenty-first century.” Aunt Bryony nods to Mother’s antique beam scale. “Still doing everything the long way. They even have machines that will shake the vials for you, did you know?”
“She doesn’t trust them.”
“Naturally.” She holds the mixing flask up to the light and swirls the liquid, which is the same dark amber of her eyes. She unstoppers the flask and sniffs. “Perfect, as always.”
“Thanks.”
She fills the sink with soapy water. I collect glass vials in a tub and bring them to her. “Actually, the last batch didn’t work so well.”
She hoists an eyebrow at me and an owl-like seriousness descends upon her features. “Neutralizing mist always works.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Now, tell your Mother her spurge weed’s going mushy.”
I nearly drop one of the vials. “Wait, you’re not going to see her?”
“No, honey.”
“It was so long ago. I’m sure if you explain to Mother what you wrote in the letter, she’ll understand.”
“We drifted too far apart on our own boats. And you know swimming was never our strong suit.” Aunt Bryony returns Mother’s apron to its hook. “Come, walk me to my car.”
Thanks to Aunt Bryony and Kali, the main garden and the house are up to Mother’s standard of cleanliness. Still, I can’t help but frown.
Aunt Bryony takes my cold hand in her hot one. “Cheer up, honey. Your mother will always be on your side. You know, between the two of us, your mother is actually the nicer twin.”
“Mother?”
“Whenever we argued, Dahli was the one who gave in. Even that time with Edward.”
“Who is Edward?”
“The boy who was sweet on Dahli.” She cuts her eyes to me, gaping as I walk alongside her. “We heard him bragging about his ‘parts’ and so we spied on him and his friends by the creek. Dahli goes, ‘Zucchini, my foot. More like zuke-teenie.’” Aunt Bryony grins, and her cheekbones bunch up like crab apples. “Anyway, the boys chased us to the road, but couldn’t go farther because they weren’t wearing clothes. Next day, Edward’s bringing her violets.”
Her grin fades. “I didn’t realize she was pressing the violets in the telephone book, and I used it to whack in a nail. The flowers were fine, but we still got into it.”
Mother’s favorite bookmark has violets in it.
“The groundskeeper, William, locked us into the workshop and wouldn’t let us out until we settled our differences.”
“Did you?”
“First, we tried to escape out of the skylight. Nearly killed myself when the chair fell off the table.”
“So that’s what caused that dent in the hardwood.” Grandmother didn’t fix it because she wanted to remind her daughters not to play on chairs.
“Yes. Dahli gave in that time, too, or we would still be in there.” She bends to pick up a fallen leaf and drops it in the nearest composter. “Maybe she was just tired of giving in.”
The Mother I know rarely gives in, at least to me. Maybe losing her sister hardened her in ways I never knew. “It’s been nearly twenty years. Surely she’s ready to talk to you.”
She snorts. I don’t even sound convincing. “What happened to Edward?” I ask.
“Our mother found out and forbade Dahli from seeing him.” She stares ahead of her, eyes unfocused. “Last I heard, he’d become a mathematician.”
The winds of chance blow a chilly breath down my back. That would explain Mother’s aversion to algebra. “So Mother caught her falling heart.”
She stops walking and gives me half a smile. “Though cowslips line thy mapled cart, the wise will catch a falling heart. That’s another one of those Last Words that’s subject to interpretation.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, our ancestor Carmelita was a poet, not a historian.” The black rental stands in the driveway. Aunt Bryony opens the driver side, setting off a warning chime.
“But, I’m not ready for you to leave.”
She hands me a business card from her purse. It simply says “Bryony, Aromateur,” followed by an address and phone number. “Call me anytime.”
My nose begins to run, and I frown to keep my emotions in check.
The car door continues to chime annoyingly. I want to slam it closed, as if that could prevent her from leaving. “Maybe if Mother saw you, she’d realize how much she misses you. I mean, people might disappoint each other, but that doesn’t mean it’s over.” At least, I hope so.
A pained expression crosses her face, and she touches my cheek. “Oh, Mimsy. You and your mother are going to be okay. And if you ever need an escape, you will always be welcome at my home.” With that, she scoots into the rental and blows away with the wind.
I stand there long after she has gone, breathing in exhaust fumes and missing her already.
I wonder how much Mother argued with Grandmother Narcissa over Edward, and how much it had hurt to let him go. Probably a lot. Love is never easy, even for people like us. All this time, I thought she knew the tail end of the chicken from the head, but turns out there were a whole lot of feathers in between for her, too.
What did Aunt Bryony mean about Carmelita’s Last Word? Cowslip, or primrose, grows in clusters and was a key ingredient in medieval love spells. Mother interpreted the Last Word to mean our matchmaking required us to keep our own hearts tightly cloistered, but maybe there is another way to read it. Cowslip can symbolize many things, like pensiveness, womanly grace.
The faint ring of the telephone sends me rushing back into the house.
“Good morning, dear,” says Mother’s voice. “I’m at Muscat International. Traffic was horrible, now they’re calling us. How are you?”
My tongue stalls, and my brain stretches taut as a rope between equally matched emotions of relief and anxiety. I cover the mouthpiece and exhale before answering. “Fine. The emergency line doesn’t work.”
“Really? Is there an emergency?”
Should I tell her now? If I do, she’ll just stew on the way home. If I don’t, she might be even madder when she learns I lied. But after all the other lies, maybe this one won’t even register. “Emergency solved.” For now.
“Mim?” she asks sternly.
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get home.”
“Okay. Well, see you tomorrow after school.”
“Good-bye, Mother.”
I dial Kali. I no longer expect her to pick up, but the act of calling her is strangely soothing. Maybe when she sees my call come in, she’ll remember that someone cares. This time, her phone goes straight to voicemail.
I pour myself into a chair, suddenly weary, though I haven’t done so much as pull a weed all day. It’s as if all the people I’ve let down in the past week are standing on my shoulders. Mr. Frederics. Alice. Ms. DiCarlo. Kali. Drew. Mother. And of course, the one who smells like campfire, Court.
THIRTY-FOUR
“THE MARIGOLDS ARE HARDY SOULS. IN RAIN,
DROUGHT, EVEN SNOWFALL, THEY FLOURISH, POKING
THEIR HEADS OUT, LIKE TINY TORCHES OF TRUTH.”
—Privet, Aromateur, 1703
THE NEXT MORNING, I pedal to school, filled with an acute awareness that this might be the last time I make this trek. Mother will be home in a matter of hours. I try to appreciate the sights rushing by—a screen of Texas privet with its tiny, dark berries, a wooden gate that Frankensteins into an iron one, then chain link, then back to wood again. The iris I wrapped in silk hops in my basket when I roll over a speed bump.
Today, the ever-changing signage on the school facade says, “Cheeseburger Monday! Today at Noon!” Another homecoming tradition. If somebody buys you a burger, that’s an invitation to the dance. Eat it and accept the invitation.
A crowd collects around a bulletin board outside the school office. Beside pictures of the SS Argonaut, the venue for the homecoming dance, are photos of court nominees. I give the board a cursory glance from under my fedora as I stroll by with my bike. Not surprisingly, Court and Whit are up there, along with Vicky and Melanie and other A-listers. What causes me to nearly crash into a trash can is the sight of Kali’s brown face, smiling right alongside Vicky’s.
Kali’s nominated for homecoming queen.
“I’m so voting for Kali,” one girl says to her friend. “It’s about time someone besides a mean girl won.”
The friend’s head pumps up and down. “It’s about time a Latina won.”
“Vicky is Latina, stupid,” says the first girl. “Kali’s black.”
“Actually, she’s Samoan,” I inform them.
I can’t help worrying about what will happen if Kali beats the odds and wins. That will be another pin in Vicky’s cushion. Then again, what more can Vicky do? She’s done her best, and Kali’s still standing. No, she’s outstanding.
Ms. DiCarlo, sitting behind her computer monitor, sneezes as I enter the library.
“Good morning. I was thinking about your allergies.” I take out the Post-it on which I had written the name and office number for Dr. Lipinsky, the junior. “He’s an otolaryngologist.”
She studies the paper, her nose draped by a tissue. “That’s kind of you. But I’m beginning to think I know what I’m allergic to.”
“What?”
“Actually, you.”
My mouth opens and closes.
She chuckles. “It must be all those flowers you work with.”
I grab the edges of my hat, as if that will contain the pollen. “I’m sorry. I should stop coming in.”
“It’s okay. I enjoy our visits. And anyway, I might be moving soon.”
“Moving?”
“Yes, one of the inquiries worked out.”
“But it’s only been a few days.”
“I know, isn’t it great? The University of Oxford’s library was very excited to get my résumé. They’ve been looking for a medieval collections specialist.” She smiles, lowering her eyes modestly to her keyboard.
Her résumé. Here I had thought she was on a manhunt, not a job hunt. “That’s great.” I rock forward on my toes and back again, marveling at how just when you think you’ve found the answer, it turns out you were asking the wrong question. Whether Ms. DiCarlo finds love, or moves into an English castle hemmed in with coralbells, I hope she enjoys her journey. Isn’t that why I went to high school, despite knowing I’d be an aromateur in the end? To experience everyday life on the other side of the briar. I didn’t realize I could foul it up so completely. But if I could do it all over, I might not change a thing. Mostly.
In algebra, the sight of a substitute teacher at Mr. Frederics’s desk launches new worries in my head. Is Mr. Frederics’s absence due to Alice? My pencil draws zigzags in my notebook. Maybe it’s good that he’s absent, as I still haven’t figured out the best way to tell him about the elixir-gone-wrong.
The substitute teacher knits while we do independent study, which for Drew and Vicky means passing each other folded-up pieces of paper—probably love notes.
I pass Drew a note of my own. “Meet me by the drinking fountain.”
Then I take one of two hall passes and hurry around the corner to the designated place. Moments later, Drew appears. He peers through a curtain of his greasy blond locks, blue eyes bright with curiosity. “What’s up?”
“Do you, um, like Vicky?”
“Yeah, why?” He lowers his freshly scrubbed face closer to mine.
“Sometimes love isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” I rub my arms, which have gone rubbery.
“You brought me out of class to tell me that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thanks.” Unlike mine, his laugh sounds genuine. He cocks a blond eyebrow at me and leans in again. “Actually, it’s not like that between us. She doesn’t like me. Like a boyfriend, I mean. I asked her to the homecoming dance, and she said no.”
My jaw rolls open. “She did?”
“Yeah. And it’s okay, because I don’t like her that way either. I mean, I thought I did. But hanging out with her is just like, fun, you know?”
“It is?” Fun? Vicky?
“Yeah.”
But the elixir worked, I saw it with my own eyes. Everyone saw it. My aunt’s words echo in my head. We’re not as powerful as we think. Elixirs, after all, only open the eyes to the possibility of love. The individuals, both target and client, still have a choice on whether to act on those feelings. Sometimes romantic love isn’t the end point, only the beginning.
Drew’s still looking at me expectantly as he scratches his back with the hall pass. “You’re kinda weird, but I like you.”
“Thanks, I, er, I feel the same.”
The lunch bell rings an hour early to give everyone a chance to get his or her cheeseburgers, which are sold by an outside vendor. With the cafeteria closed today, Kali should be on the field with the rest of the school.
After I stuff my things into my locker, I remove the iris I stored there. Irises say, “Your friendship means so much.” Things might not be the same between us anymore, but I want Kali to know I will always be there for her.
I head into the cluster of students buying cheeseburgers in the parking lot from one of two Cowboy Cheeseburgers food trucks, each shaped like a cowboy hat with a brown awning for the brim.
Something’s different today. The sea doesn’t part when I walk through it. Either people are too excited about Cheeseburger Monday, or they’re getting used to me.
Cassandra’s sopra
no catches my attention. From somewhere nearby, she’s singing “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” Craning my neck, I spot her, sitting thirty feet away. As she sings her last note, she stretches her arm toward Kali, sporting her Twice Loved Vans, and munching a cheeseburger. Who bought her that?
Stunned, I think back to the drive home from Meyer. Court had said, Cass is just a friend, you know. I mean, obviously. At the time, I thought he meant, of course he wouldn’t have a girlfriend if he liked me. He meant something else. Something obvious to everyone but the love witch. If falling in love had a smell, Mother never mentioned it. It occurs to me that we can detect heartache, a crush, admiration, and a hundred other love-related scents, so why not falling in love? Perhaps the note of a heart in free fall is too fleeting to notice.
Cassandra pulls out a pickle from her burger, and Kali opens her own bun to receive it. Her expression is happy, relaxed, the way I will always remember her.
A group of passing girls yell, “We voted for you, Kali!”
I blink, wondering how and when Kali developed such a following. Though her surge in popularity cheers me, I can’t help feeling a little like bread crust—left behind. She nods at them. “Cool.”
Catching sight of me, she waves me over with her burger. I brighten by a factor of at least sixteen.
She hands Cassandra her burger, then climbs to her feet and meets me halfway. Her expression is even, almost wry, though my inability to pinpoint her exact mood without my nose unsettles me. She neatly rolled her sweats to midcalf. Her hair looks different, no longer in braids, but neatly tucked into a bun. “There’s gonna be a lot of heartburn here today,” she drops casually, as if nothing was ever amiss.
I grin. “Thanks for coming by yesterday.”
She nods. “Your aunt’s a trip. Almost fell over my slippers when I saw her. Thought she was your mom.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“She told me what happened with Alice. Too bad about poor Layla, but it was for a good cause.”
“Right.” Guilt starts to creep in, but I push it away, feeling Kali’s eyes upon me. “I meant what I said on your voicemail. You were amazing.”