I lace my fingers together. “Not exactly fair, I suppose.”
The microwave beeps. Riley gets up and takes the burrito out, putting it on a plate she pulls out after a second’s search. “Want half?”
I shake my head. “I might have salsa in the fridge.”
“I’m not a bad student, you know.” She retrieves the salsa and sits down again across from me, wrinkling her nose. “This expired last year.”
“Expiration dates are relative.” I sniff at it. Still smells like salsa. No mold. It’s all those preservatives. I throw it away to appease her. “What’s your favorite subject?”
She takes a bite of the burrito, careful of its heat, and does not speak until she is through chewing. “Art.”
“Art. That’s nice.” I’ll have to put her in Dara’s class. If she stays long enough to enroll. But what else am I going to do with her, even if I have her just three weeks? She can’t sit here alone. “Science is where it’s at for girls, though. This country needs more female scientists. Heck, more scientists in general.”
She chews, her bored expression speaking volumes.
“Come on. You can be good at whatever you want to be.” My standard rah-rah teacher speech, mostly aimed at girls whose scientific and mathematical aims got squashed someplace south of the sixth grade, when they didn’t get to be on the Lego robotics team.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t good at science. I said art was my favorite.” She has finished her burrito.
“You’ll have to meet my friend Dara. Miss Westley. She’s the art teacher.”
“I probably won’t take art, though.” She swipes her mouth with the napkin, leaving a swath of darkness.
I wait for her to continue and she doesn’t. “Miss Westley is an excellent teacher.”
“They always make you do the art like they want it to be done, and then I get marked down for doing it my way.”
I’m not entirely sure what she’s talking about. I haven’t attempted a real piece of art since I threw out my Crayolas in second grade. My rose sketches hardly count. “I’m sure Miss Westley wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Yeah. Never mind.” She gets up and puts her plate in the sink. “I suppose you don’t have a dishwasher, either?”
I decide not to press her about the art. I’m a biology teacher, not a guidance counselor. I point to the dishwasher. “I do like some technology.”
She puts the dish in the appliance. “I’m going to hang out in my room.”
Good idea. There are purple bags under her eyes that are not a result of the otherwise heavy cosmetics. “Better wash off that makeup first. And you know you can’t wear it to school.”
“I figured.” She slumps off into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on. I hope she doesn’t use my towel. I can’t have other people’s germs rubbing off on me. It’s hard enough avoiding them at St. Mark’s.
I sit back in my chair, feeling tired even though it’s supposed to be one of my good days. I should probably call my mother on her cell phone in France and discuss what to do with Riley and my sister, but the thought of that makes me feel like I need to go to bed for the next thousand years.
Besides, I don’t want to disturb my parents. I know, even if I tell my mother not to, she will cut her vacation short. No one has perished. No one is even ill. This is a momentary bump.
I can handle this.
I have to go out and see if a rose I prepared a few days ago is ready to give me its pollen. It’s not something I can skip, nor do I want to. The thought of the greenhouse reinvigorates me. “I’ll be out in the yard!” I call to Riley’s closed door, and get a muffled response.
I pull on a sweater and go outside. Immediately, the air and the scent of grass and roses and pollen makes me feel better. I count my blessings that I don’t have allergies.
My neighborhood is covered in shade trees of varying heights, spreading out as far as I can see, which is not very far, considering the tall houses blocking the view in my suburb. The greenhouse air is balmy and dense, tropical compared to the dry California air. I pull up my stool, turn on my worklight, and consider the anthers in the plastic cup I’ve pulled out a few days earlier. The pollen has built up and looks like orange dust on the anthers.
Meanwhile, the mother plant’s stigmas have gotten sticky, ready to receive the pollen. I transfer the pollen to the stigma. Now all I can do is hope for the best.
I go look at the plants I’ve grafted onto rootstock. These are the plants I’ve hybridized successfully and am now propagating. Propagating is different from breeding. It’s creating more specimens of the rose you want to keep. To propagate, you could also cut off a six-inch stem of the parent at a forty-five degree angle and dip it into some rooting powder. Then you stick it into soil and hope it roots.
There are about twenty-five of the propagated plants in plastic pots, set up on wooden benches. All of these have buds. These are also wait-and-see. Most other regions in the country don’t have blooms until June; in California, the outdoor roses start blooming around April, sometimes earlier.
I remember Byron’s question. I’ll go ahead and send him my answer. For best results, he needs to go back two generations maternally, and use the mother he had then instead of the mother he’s using now. I think.
• • •
THE GREENHOUSE DOOR OPENS, and I jump a little. I hadn’t heard anyone coming. Dara stands there, looking concerned. “What on earth happened to you? Dr. O’Malley showed up and took over. He wouldn’t say anything. Just said you and your family were ‘physically’ all right.”
“I am.” I write “G101” on a paper tag and tie it around the new rose I’ve pollinated. “It’s my niece. She’s here.”
“Riley is here?” Dara knows all about Riley and Becky. Dara shakes her head. “Is your sister here, too?”
“Becky is not. Becky’s on her way to Hong Kong for her job, apparently.” I put the rose back in its proper place, the best seat in the house. “She sent Riley here.”
“She can’t do that.” Dara’s voice rises. “She can’t drop her kid off and expect you to pick up the pieces.”
“That would be expecting my sister to be reasonable. And you cannot expect that from Becky.” I stand. “Let’s go inside. You can meet her. She loves art, but she hates art class.”
“I’ll change her mind.” Dara follows me in. “Your class behaved well, if you were wondering.”
“Of course they did. They’re never bad. Just lazy.”
Dara laughs. “Spoken like someone on tenure.”
“You know I only speaketh the truth. I’m the Oracle of St. Mark’s.” I take a minute steak out of the freezer, suddenly ravenous. “Want one?”
“No thanks. You should eat leaner meat.”
“So they tell me.” I take out a frying pan.
“Why don’t you sit down and let me cook?”
“I’m fine.” Dara is sweet, but sometimes too overbearing. Like my mother. However, if it weren’t for Dara, my mother would have far more episodes where she decides to fly up in the middle of the night based on a hunch that I’m sick or needy.
“Anyway, there’s more news.” Dara sits up, her face lit. “Dr. O’Malley hired a chemistry teacher.”
“About time.” We’ve been interviewing candidates forever. At least, since last year. “Which one did he pick?”
“A new guy. Comes from a chemical company in San Luis Obispo.” She shrugs. “Everyone’s talking. Seems like a step down for someone like him. Step down in pay for sure. And it’s not like we live in a glamorous city.”
“That is interesting.” I flip the steak out onto a plate. Teachers at our school are underpaid, earning even less than public school teachers. “We’ll see how long he lasts. At least he can help coach the Science Olympiad team.”
; I had volunteered to coach Science Olympiad after my first year, because I didn’t like how the old coach had done things and our team had come in next to last place for three years in a row. Not a very good showing for a private school.
The team is supposed to have two coaches, one in life science and one in physical. Ms. Maseda, the physics teacher, dropped out this year. She’s close to retirement and suffers from a variety of physical ailments. Plus, she kept falling asleep during the after-school meetings. We made quite the decrepit motley pair, she and I, showing up to meets with one good kidney between the two of us. But we did place third last year.
Sometimes my mother worries about me taking on too many activities. The truth is, the more a patient like me does, the better. All of this keeps me going.
“You’re so cynical.”
I don’t think I’m cynical at all. If I were, I would have given up long ago. “I expect the worst, but hope for the best.”
Dara shifts and glances toward the closed bedroom door. “Riley must be exhausted.”
“She’s slept long enough. I should get her up. Otherwise she won’t be able to get to sleep tonight.”
“Teenagers sleep. Haven’t you seen them in your class?”
“Ha ha.”
Dara stands. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to stop in and see if you were all right. Let me know if you need more help.”
“Going on errands?” I hope she is, so she can get me a gallon of milk. I might even need to dust off my Costco membership if Riley’s going to be staying with me. Stock up on soda and chips.
“Nope. Got a date.”
A pang of jealousy stabs pitifully at me. I squash it. Just because I haven’t had a date in, oh, ever, doesn’t mean my friend can’t. I’d had more pressing things to worry about, like whether or not I’d survive my teens. “I hope it’s not the mechanic. He smells like brake fluid and cigarettes.” She has no steady, that Dara; none of them are right for her. Even the ones I’d settle for, she finds some fault with. Heck, any woman would settle for a lot of these guys, the ones who don’t drink, who have steady jobs and hold the door open for her and remember to give her roses on her birthday. Someone’s always not artistic enough, or not romantic enough, or likes watching sports a little too much. Or he talks too little or too much.
“Not seeing him anymore.” Dara winks at me, checks her hair in the white framed mirror by the door. “This is the accountant. Chad. He has excellent hygiene.”
“Good.” I brighten. “I need help with my taxes.”
“He works for a corporation. He’s not H&R Block.”
“Useless. Dump him.”
She doesn’t take me seriously. “Remember to feed Riley a vegetable at dinner. I know you don’t have many.”
“I’ve got some cans in the pantry.”
“Frozen are better than canned.”
“She will live.”
Dara leaves. I stand at Riley’s door, debating whether to knock. I am seized with the urge to peek inside, see whether she’s breathing, like a parent home with a newborn. No. Let her sleep.
The contents of her backpack are spread across the coffee table. A Neil Gaiman novel. Some comic books with wide-eyed Japanese characters. A black Moleskine sketchbook, like the kind Dara uses. I flip it open. I expect to see depictions of death, skulls and crossbones, and bottles of poison. Instead, there are dancing cupcakes. Big-eyed cartoon animals. Close-ups of flowers—daisies, a few roses. Very good.
The last is a pen-and-ink portrait. I recognize Becky immediately. It is drawn from above. She is on a pillow, asleep, her mouth open, her long hair spread out as though she is underwater. Fine lines crease at her eyes and between her brows in a frown. Her mouth is open and a trail of drool coming out onto the pillow. If it hadn’t been for the drool and the pillow, I would have thought she was drowning. I have to give it to Riley. It is realistic.
Riley leans against the doorjamb. “Are you looking through my stuff?”
“Just this.” I shut the notebook. Was I not supposed to look at art? Is that like looking through a journal? I’ll have to ask Dara. “Don’t leave it out if you don’t want people to see it.”
She harrumphs and slinks forward to grab her backpack. She’s one of those kids who walks along with a slouch, her eyes trained to the floor as though she expects land mines.
I try a compliment. “You’re an excellent artist, Riley. You must get it from Grandma.”
She rubs sleep out of her eye, smearing eyeliner.
I cluck. “Didn’t you wash that off in the shower?”
“I need makeup wipes.” She wipes her finger on her sweat pants. “Don’t worry. It’s hypoallergenic.”
“I was more concerned about mascara stains on my pillowcases.” I fish a pot of cold cream out of my dresser drawer and hand it to her.
She stares at it like it’s a rattlesnake.
I place it on the dresser top. “St. Mark’s only allows lip gloss. And I agree.”
“I like to express myself. I suppose you’ve never tried it.” Riley picks up the cold cream.
“Everything I need is up here.” I tap my temple. “Not on the outside.”
“My appearance is a manifestation of my personality.” Riley heads into the bathroom. “I thought you, with your roses, could understand that.”
I’m kind of impressed by her use of the word “manifestation.” “I suppose I do understand. But roses can’t help how they look.”
“Because you make them look how you want.” She shuts the door.
• • •
I HEAD OUTSIDE, intending to lock up the greenhouse. The air is cooling. A gnat buzzes by my face. As I walk to the greenhouse, my clogs crunching on the path, I hear a noise from the roses. To my surprise, Brad is in the garden, pulling weeds on his hands and knees. I’m more surprised to see how many weeds I’d missed. “Hey, Miss Garner.” He isn’t surprised to see me, on the other hand. He pushes his floppy hair out of his face. The boy hasn’t broken a sweat though his wheelbarrow is full.
“Brad. I didn’t know it was your day to come. Were you here earlier? I was just outside.” How had I missed him, squatting in the bushes?
“Just got here.”
I accept this. “Have you heard from any colleges yet?” Brad plays football and baseball, but our school is too small for scouts to bother. Instead, I’ve advised him to apply for science scholarships, ones for children of veterans and first-generation college students, and whatever else I’ve ever seen cross my path.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. Ms. Garner? I can’t come tomorrow. Practice. So I came tonight to work.”
“I have dialysis tomorrow night. Who’s going to water the greenhouse?” Tomorrow is their day for watering.
Most people would suggest watering today instead, but Brad knows better. These roses need water when they need it, not sooner and not later. Otherwise you can kill them. “I can get my dad to come.”
I think of Brad’s dad, the school janitor, heading here after his long hours of cleaning up after the private school kids, some of whose weekly allowances are more than his pay. Mine too. I don’t want Brad’s dad to do it. “I’ll think of something else.” Dara, maybe. Or Riley. Of course. Riley’s here.
“Riley!” I bellow toward the house. I have a really loud voice for someone so small. It’s the kind of voice that cuts through all other noise and chatter. Dara says when I try to whisper, it’s louder than most people’s regular volume. Never try to gossip with me quietly in public. Everyone will hear.
Riley comes out, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, her dyed hair bound in a neat ponytail. Wearing her Abercrombie sweats with a pink Abercrombie T-shirt, at last she looks more like the niece I remember, more like a little girl, the opposite of what she wants. “Giving that company plenty of free adv
ertising, I see.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She nods at Brad, who finally gets up from his weeding.
“This is your niece?” Brad wipes his hand on his jeans. “I’m Brad.” He smiles in a friendly way, but she kind of looks off to the side again and offers her hand back, floppy as a fish.
“Did the kids talk about it today?”
“You better believe it.”
Kids always know more than the adults do when it comes to gossip. “Riley, come here. I’m going to show you how to water the roses tomorrow night.”
She nods once, reluctantly. “Um, yeah. Don’t I just turn on the hose?”
“They have to be watered the right amount. And they’ll need food, so we have to use the sump pump.” I consult my rose book, Winslow Blythe’s Complete Rose Guide. Blythe is an octogenarian rose grower who’s written volumes of works. Sometimes I modify what he does, but he often has some good detail. If it weren’t for him, I would have used pesticide at full strength on my new blooms, burning them.
“Wait a second.” She disappears into the house.
Brad raises his eyebrow at me. “Guess you have your hands full.”
It’s such an adult thing to say, but typical from Brad. “Do me a favor tomorrow. Help her find her way around.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
She hasn’t reappeared. “Riley!” I yell.
“I needed my shoes. Sheesh.” She has put on a jacket. The sky is darkening.
Brad follows us into the greenhouse. I could tell him to run along home, but I figure he’ll have something helpful to say. Riley barely deigns to acknowledge either of us.
I get out the measuring pitchers and show her the rose food. I show her how to use the sump pump, sticking one hose into the rose-food mixture and the expelling end out over the roses. “Don’t forget to plug it in.”
Riley crosses her arms over her. Her stomach grumbles audibly. It’s been hours since that burrito. I’ve got to get her dinner. “So. Is that it? Each plant gets water? What a revelation.”
The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns Page 6