Zinnia and the Bees

by Danielle Davis

  Ace glides over to a neon-pink mini teeter-totter with a pink pineapple balanced on one end. He jumps on the long, empty side — clack! — and the pineapple flies off the plank. It arcs up, up, up, headed straight for the huge red balloon. The pineapple flies into it, through it, and lands with a thud on the sidewalk, then rolls away. Meanwhile, the balloon pops, erupting confetti all over Ace, the street, the people.

  Everyone on TV gasps at the confetti-pop and then applauds. Birch and I do the same. We’re clapping, right there in Lou’s kitchen.

  “What happened?” says Lou, breaking my trance.

  “Ace just happened,” says Birch.

  “Ah,” says Lou, retrieving a sports drink from the fridge, but never looking at the screen. He seems to enjoy listening to TV rather than watching it.

  When Lou leaves the kitchen, Birch gets up for a second and turns the volume to a normal level. Then he sits down again, and we watch Ace take in all the applause from the crowd, smiling his big, red-outlined smile.

  Then Ace bows. And that’s when I know.

  It’s a fancy bow, complete with hand twirling and gesturing and one leg out in front. It’s Adam’s bow.

  It’s Adam.

  It has to be.

  Suddenly I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out the first moment I saw this. It has Adam written all over it.

  “Adam,” I whisper. “It’s Adam.”

  I’m not floating like a balloon anymore. There’s a jarring cut to a commercial for cat food, and I zoom down to the ground. Way down.

  “That’s your brother?” asks Birch, but I can’t answer. I give a weak nod.

  This is what Adam was planning in his notebook all year without me. This was the big secret he was already keeping. Adam was planning to perform on a reality show. A show that Lou plays in his kitchen. That Birch knows about. That Adam’s girlfriend definitely knows about.

  And not only that, everyone who watches this show knows where Adam is. Or at least some eighteen-year-old face-painted street performer calling himself Ace. They’ve known since the show started. While I, his sister, didn’t know.

  I can’t believe I looked for him in our neighborhood — at the meadow, and Scoops, and Starving Artists Movers. This whole time he’s been who-knows-where, performing on some TV show in front of the entire country. Why didn’t he just tell me? I could’ve kept his secret the same way his girlfriend did. I could’ve been watching and rooting for him too.

  Shame runs hotly through my body, from my bee- ridden head to my feet. Adam’s betrayal feels so much worse than I ever could’ve imagined. It feels bigger, more public, more important. He didn’t just go off to art school or something; he went on national television. Who doesn’t tell their own sister when they do that?

  Well, forget it. I guess I don’t need to search for him anymore or even think about him anymore. Mission accomplished. He’s on TV! And I’m doomed to have bees on my head and no big brother or best friend forever.

  I feel like I’m going to explode. I jump up from the table and run for Lou’s door. Past that annoying poster in the hallway with that awful quote about challenges not having power over you. I hate that poster.

  Turning the knob, going under the pull-up bar, leaving the door open behind me. Running down the stairs, across the prickly yard, up my own stairs.

  I hear Birch calling after me, but I don’t stop.

  Finally, when I reach my front door, I turn. “Why didn’t you tell me about that show?” I yell at him. “I could’ve figured out Adam was on it sooner!”

  “I tried,” says Birch, standing in the middle of the yard between Lou’s place and mine. “I didn’t know that was your brother.”

  “I can’t believe Adam’s girlfriend knew and wouldn’t tell me. That she let me find out like that!”

  “I’m sorry, Zinnia,” says Birch, but I can barely hear him through my own hurt, bewildered fog.

  “And Adam. Adam’s the worst. He broke… everything.” My voice breaks too when I say that.

  “Maybe he was going to tell you. Maybe he just needed to do that on his own first. He’s got something special with that performance. I can sort of see why he would leave for that.”

  And that’s when I know. Adam hasn’t broken absolutely everything, because something else breaks inside me. My heart, my spirit, something that hurts really, really bad. Birch did that.

  “You know what, Birch?” I yell. It’s not the yelling-over-the-TV kind of yelling like back at Lou’s. This yelling is louder and growlier and as ugly as I can make it. “You don’t get anything. You’re too open. Too trusting. Naive. It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends back in Redwood City. You’re just an uncoordinated…”

  I don’t know what terrible name to call him. So instead I let the whoosh of the front door finish my sentence. Then I open it again, just a crack, to ugly-yell through.

  “And I bet you’ll never make the soccer team!”

  I slam the door so fast and loud that it doesn’t even whoosh.

  I wait on the inside of the door, staring at it like my stare can melt it. Then, finally, I hear Lou’s door close. But it doesn’t slam like mine did. It shuts with a tiny click that sounds louder than my slam did, at least to me. It sounds final, like after everything, I’ve finally gone too far.

  22

  DR. FLOSSDROP

  I turn around to see Dr. Flossdrop at the kitchen table sending neighborhood action emails on her laptop. “What was that about?” she asks.

  It turns out my mom actually does pay attention every once in a while. Apparently at the worst possible moments.

  “Nothing.”

  “Does this have to do with why you weren’t there to collect Milkshake for his walk today? I was disappointed you never showed up at the office.”

  “Maybe there are more important things going on than walking perfect little Milkshake!” I snap.

  “What’s gotten into you, Zinnia? Do you have another ear infection?”

  “Mom, there’s not a medical explanation for everything. Ugh.”

  “What is it then?” Dr. Flossdrop pushes her chair away from the kitchen table and smooths her bun. Then she stares at me.

  Everything in me wants to keep being mean to anyone in my path. Especially Dr. Flossdrop, who only cares about neighborhood action and Milkshake, who’s the whole reason Adam left and kept this big secret. The wheel of my mind spins, looking for the cruelest possible place to stop.

  “Adam’s on television,” I say.

  Dr. Flossdrop can’t stand television.

  “He’s on a show called Crowd Pleasers.”

  Dr. Flossdrop can’t stand anything artistic and useless and fun.

  “Oh,” I add. “And he has a secret girlfriend too.”

  “That can’t be true,” says Dr. Flossdrop. Her back straightens in her chair. “Someone would have told me. My patients must know about this show.”

  “Why would they talk to you about a TV show? You’re the last person anyone would talk to about TV. And besides, Adam’s wearing face paint and going by the name Ace. He’s pretty unrecognizable. Nobody would know it’s him.”

  Red blotches bloom on Dr. Flossdrop’s cheeks, then on her chin and forehead. If her bun could flush, it would be turning red too. She looks so angry I’m not sure what she’s going to do. Scream. Flail. Destroy the kitchen by way of those metal, beak-shaped, tooth-scraper things. I wonder if she might literally blast off from her chair like a rocket.

  That’s my cue to turn around and retreat. I head for cover in my room.

  She doesn’t even yell after me to come back.

  I sit on my bed, alone except for the bees, their tickly itch a constant reminder that everything is wonky and wrong, including how mean I was to Birch a couple of minutes ago.

  I grab one end of my super-giant, mul
ticolored never-ending scarf. I knit. Loop after loop after loop. But for once, knitting doesn’t even help.

  That’s when I hear something.

  I put down my never-ending scarf and slowly turn the knob to peek out the door. I can see my mom out there in the dim living room.

  Instead of having blasted off like a rocket, Dr. Flossdrop’s body is soft and slumped in her chair.

  She looks like an empty, crumpled-up black shirt. Elbows collapsed on knees, face collapsed on hands. Strands of hair have fallen loose from her bun. Her back shakes.

  The sound I heard is sobbing. And I’ve barely heard Dr. Flossdrop sniffle before.

  I’m astonished.

  Shocked.

  Guilty.

  Sad.

  When she finally stops crying, Dr. Flossdrop looks up at me where I stand. Milkshake wobbles into the room and nudges Dr. Flossdrop’s clogs. I walk closer and swipe my mom’s back in circles, the way Mildred would. When I stop swiping, she starts talking.

  “It’s my fault,” she says. “I drove Adam away.”

  I don’t know what to say. She’s finally saying what I’ve been thinking for weeks. But now that she’s the one admitting it — and crying about it — it doesn’t feel so great. Plus, it’s right then that I notice she’s been drinking coffee out of the mug I yarn bombed.

  “It’s all my fault,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have nagged him. More than nagged. Pressured. Yelled. Pestered. I should’ve trusted him. If I’d supported him, he wouldn’t have had to keep all this a secret. We wouldn’t all have suffered. You wouldn’t have had to suffer so much.”

  Dr. Flossdrop gestures at her laptop, and that’s when I see she’s looked up a clip of Ace online. That’s what made her start crying — watching a video of Adam perform on Crowd Pleasers.

  “He’s really talented,” says Dr. Flossdrop.

  “That’s Adam,” I say. “A true artist.”

  Saying it out loud makes me understand him a little better. It maybe even changes how I see the show. Less like deception. More like destiny.

  “So why did you then? Pester him and fight and all that?”

  “Can I tell you something?” she asks.

  I feel dizzy from this roller-coaster of an afternoon, but I say yes anyway. My mom never tells me anything, so I’m all ears.

  “I’ve been so worried about him since he left. I didn’t know where he was, and I knew he’d gone for some reason he couldn’t tell me. I felt like I’d failed. I felt powerless.”

  “Me too.”

  “I thought I could take my mind off it if I threw myself into whatever else would fill my time and thoughts. Because that’s what I do.”

  “You mean being useful?”

  First Dr. Flossdrop looks surprised, but then she shakes her head a little. “I guess I’m pretty predictable. Yes, useful. Exactly.” She keeps talking. “I’ve never really explained what it was like when your dad got sick. I felt powerless then, too. Disoriented. Useless. I had to watch him deteriorate, and there was nothing I could do. After I lost him… I just didn’t want to feel that way again. I thought if I made myself useful — to my patients, to the neighborhood — I wouldn’t.”

  I look down at Milkshake then, something Mom could save.

  “Seeing Adam become an adult… well, I guess I felt like I was losing him a little bit too. He’s so much like your dad. Good at card tricks. Didn’t mind attention. Your dad was an artist too. Your knitting and Adam’s, well, whatever you call it, reminds me of him. When I realized Adam was really growing up, becoming his own person in a way I couldn’t predict or control, I felt helpless again. I thought if I could somehow make him practical, like me, I could protect him. Keep him safe. I focused my energy on something other than how I really felt. Which is, a lot of the time, scared.”

  Hearing my mother talk, I feel disoriented. I’ve never thought of her as having feelings — let alone being afraid. What’s even more disorienting is that what Dr. Flossdrop is saying makes me think of myself. The way I’ve tried to protect myself from getting hurt by pretending I don’t care — about NML, about Birch. By knitting in order to distract myself from everything else.

  Is it possible that despite how she acts, Dr. Flossdrop actually cares about me?

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I regret not being there for you. I should’ve been.”

  Dr. Flossdrop looks exhausted. She reaches up and rubs her forehead. Then she plucks some strange clip from her bun. It unravels until there she is before me, Dr. Philomena Flossdrop, D.D.S., my mother, luminary of usefulness, with her hair down.

  And what’s pretty weird is that it looks a lot like mine.

  Dr. Flossdrop’s slicked-back bun has been concealing a thick bouquet of curls. Just like her usefulness has been concealing her fear. Fear of losing what she cares about. The way she lost Dad.

  I’m not mad at her about Adam leaving anymore. I’m not really mad at her about anything — at least not too mad. Instead, it’s like Dr. Flossdrop makes more sense. An X-ray I can finally read.

  I leave her out here by herself, but only for a minute. I go back to my bedroom. I dig out those blue work boots from under my bed. I take one in each hand, holding on by the laces, frayed and dusty. I sweep Mom’s laptop out of the way and put the boots on the table. I sit down and even let Milkshake crawl into my lap. We stay like that. Me, Dr. Flossdrop, and the blue boots that Dad and Adam have worn. It’s almost like we’re all together as a family.

  “I think Adam is useful,” I say, thinking about everyone on TV smiling and crying at his performance. Thinking about all the times he’s been useful to me.

  Dr. Flossdrop nods, her eyes still misted. “You’re right. He is.”

  “I miss him,” I say.

  “Me too.” She pauses. “Zin, I want to make sure I don’t miss you, OK?”

  I pick up a pen and one of her FROM THE OFFICE OF PHILOMENA FLOSSDROP, D.D.S. sticky notes and write one word.

  OK.

  Dr. Flossdrop reaches out to take my hand, the one that was holding the pen, and squeezes it. I squeeze back.

  Who cares how we got here? All I care about is that we’ve already missed enough.

  Bees

  EXISTENCE

  We remembered what the stars looked like. How they used to twinkle above us at the end of a day spent bounding from flower to flower at an orchard. We remembered gazing up at those stars for a moment before gathering back at the wooden hive to dream of a future in which we were free.

  That future had eluded us, and we dared to imagine what must be written in those unseen stars for us now.

  It was difficult, but we began the process of accepting our fate, that the rest of our days on this Earth would be spent here, on the human’s head. We shared our feelings. We joined our antennae in solidarity. We decided to pass what time we had left by tickling one another’s microscopic hairs in order to connect, to feel something, to bring meaning to our remaining moments. To giggle our way into oblivion.

  23

  PEACE OFFERING

  The afternoon sun is hot and bright. So hot and bright, in fact, I wonder if I should just turn around and go back home for some shade.

  But I’m already here, standing in front of Lou’s ERGONOMICALLY CORRECT sign. Both of my hands are occupied with a heavy jar, so I consider knocking on the door with my forehead. But before I have to resort to that, it opens from inside. And there’s Lou.

  “Hey, Zinny! The hooded girl with her head down!”

  “Hi, Lou.”

  “When are you gonna call me Coach?”

  I ignore that. “Is Birch here?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the equipment room. But he’s not feeling too great.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “Nah. I don’t think so, but his sidesteps have been off, and he’s spending
a lot of time staring out the window at flying beetles the last couple of days. Kid’s just like his parents when it comes to creatures. You know anything about this funk he’s in?”

  He winks, and I look away.

  Lou keeps talking while ushering me through the door. “Kid needs humans in his life. You’ve done him a lot of good so far this summer, you know that? Birch likes you as much as I like good alignment.”

  I take a tentative step down the hallway, moving in the opposite direction of Lou’s loud, embarrassing voice.

  “Atta girl!” Lou slaps my shoulder so hard I lose my balance from the force and stumble. “I was just going to do some pull-ups,” he says.

  Big surprise.

  “I’ll be out here. Take your time.”

  I round the corner into Lou’s equipment room. The soles of Birch’s sneakers are all I can see of him, because he’s currently lying upside down on the inversion table.

  I come closer and can hear him breathing really deeply. I bend down to peek at his face, and his eyes are closed. He might be asleep.

  It would be a lot easier to just leave, but I know Lou would tell him I was here. So instead I say, “Hi.”

  Birch’s eyes spring open, and he quickly propels the table to vertical. I can now see his whole plaid self.

  “Hi,” he says, but he’s shaking his head a little, and his face is red. “I was experimenting with what it would be like to be a bat. You know, they sleep upside down.”

  “How was it?”

  “Actually, it was quite unpleasant. I feel lightheaded and hungry and like I might throw up.”

  “Birch.”

  “Yeah?” He unstraps himself from the table and groggily steps out.

  “I brought you these.” I practically throw my jar of Mildred’s cookies at him like they’re poison or hot coals and I can’t wait to be rid of them.