The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  “What about Riley?” Dr. O’Malley asks mildly. “You help her and she’s still not getting a great grade.”

  “I help her a bit.” Riley hadn’t come to tutoring. I think for a moment. Who knows if she actually used the flash cards I’d told her to make? I was at dialysis, not sitting there making sure she studied. “Students have some responsibility for their own learning.”

  He nods. He gets up. “Think about the part-time offer, Gal. It could work out for the best.”

  He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

  22

  I SET RILEY UP WITH HER HOMEWORK BEFORE I LEAVE for dialysis. “Call me if you have any questions about biology,” I tell her.

  She nods, once. She has not talked about her grade, simply sitting there through the afternoon, paging through her biology textbook quickly, as though she has a photographic memory.

  “Or about math, or about life in general,” I continue. “But probably not about boys.”

  She doesn’t even crack a smile.

  “Riley?” I venture. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. What’s not to be fine about?” She shuts her biology textbook. “I’m fine.” She smiles only with her mouth.

  I frown, trying to decipher why she is so upset. “Is it the biology test? You can still pass the class.”

  “No. It’s not that, though, yeah, I did study for it.”

  “Did you really? Did you study while I was at dialysis?”

  She plays with her notebook binder, hot pink with orange flowers all over it. “I thought I studied enough.”

  “Maybe what you think is enough and what is actually enough are two different things. Heck, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You know how hard I had to study spelling? I still can’t spell to save my life.”

  She appears unpepped by my pep talk. I try to think of what else could be bugging her. I feel bad about leaving her alone again.

  Then I get an aha moment. Riley hasn’t seen Samantha—or anyone, for that matter—since that night she had a drink. She just goes to school, comes home, studies, hangs out with me. I personally don’t see a huge problem in this for a high school girl, having no social life. But I have to admit Riley is isolated.

  “If you want to go visit Sam, that’s fine. As long as you stay at her house.”

  She stretches ostentatiously. “Too tired. Besides, she’s not allowed to see me or anyone.” Then Riley crumples in on herself. “I haven’t made a single friend here.”

  My head thrums, the beginning of a headache. “That’s not true. I see plenty of kids saying hi to you in the hallways.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t do anything with them.” She holds a throw pillow under her arms, this one embroidered with a large rose by my mother during one of her sick-Gal visits.

  “You can invite kids to do stuff.”

  “Like what? Hang out here, in this tiny living room with their biology teacher breathing down their necks and telling them to take off their hats inside and they’re too stupid for her class?” Riley squeezes the pillow fiercely. “The kids around here like to party. Drink. Is that what you want me to do?”

  “Not everyone does that, do they?” I know she’d told me half the school was at that party, but I’d thought she was exaggerating. I try to reconcile my vision of these studious kids, well, mostly studious kids, or at least well-behaved kids, with what Riley is telling me.

  “All the ones I’ve met do. The other ones never talk to me.” Riley wipes tears off her cheekbones. “I just don’t fit in around here, I guess. I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”

  I think now of all of Riley’s almost costumelike clothing changes, her black eyeliner, her preppy clothes. I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Riley. You should just be who you are.”

  She shrugs me off. “Do you think my mother will be home this summer?”

  “I hope so.” I gaze at her, thinking of my own mother. Riley might be better off with my parents, where she wouldn’t have to spend even more time alone than she did with Becky. Raising herself, essentially. A sudden vise squeezes my heart so quickly that I gasp for air. It’s all in my head.

  “I better get to dialysis,” I say at last. She hasn’t noticed my physical distress. I’m awfully good at hiding things.

  Trish, a nurse who’s worked there longer than I’ve been a patient, sits behind the reception desk. She slides open the glass transom window, shoots me a grin that creases her well-smiled face, and crinkles her eyes into merry slits. “Checking in, sweetheart?” She’s one of those people who calls everyone sweetheart. It’s easier than remembering their names. She’s also my favorite nurse there, fast and efficient, her fingernails always clipped short on her strong hands.

  I nod.

  “Don’t worry. One day, you won’t have to look at my mug again. Bet you won’t miss that.” She gives a hearty laugh.

  I force a smile. She says that often. And it’s true. Either people get a kidney or, eventually, they die. They have heart attacks, get infections, or develop other problems. No one comes through unscathed.

  I turn away from the window, my stomach clenching.

  Mark Walters watches me. His expression reminds me of the dog we had when I was little, a black Lab with a white spot on her chest named Daisy. Daisy would lie at my door whenever I was sick, which was so often, her head on her paws and her eyes rarely leaving me. Whenever I stirred, Daisy raised her head, her black dog eyebrows working up and down as if trying to decipher my needs. If Daisy thought that someone was making too much noise, she’d go into the hallway and bark three short times. “She’s your guard dog,” Dad said. Daisy had been his dog, accompanying him to job sites in the truck. Somehow she took it upon herself to change into mine.

  My heart gives a little wrench of sadness. I hadn’t thought of Daisy in years.

  I meet Walters’s eyes for the first time. His are luminously blue under the briar patch of eyebrows casting shadows over them.

  I inhale to speak. No idea of what I’ll say.

  “Gal?” Trish comes out of the reception area. “Come on back now.”

  I follow Trish to my room. When I glance back at Walters, he is holding his reading device as if I was never there. It would be creepy if he were still watching me, I think, but I’m still oddly disappointed.

  • • •

  I ARRIVE HOME the next morning a bit later than usual. The irritating thing is, I shouldn’t be late. It is like I got sucked into a time warp. I looked at the clock in the car when I pulled in and it was twenty whole minutes later than I expected it should be.

  It must be the many small things adding up: extra traffic around town, the nurse coming in at a snail’s pace to remove my hookups, the molasses feeling of my tired muscles in the early morning. I stretch in the car, yawn. Blink at the red-orange dawn, so like a Hulthemia. It will be a warm day. I can tell already. The air feels heavy, more humid than usual.

  I need to wake up.

  I head for the roses before my car door shuts.

  The first thing to do is check under the roses outside for aphids and mites. Nothing there. The spray worked. The underside is sticky. A few petals are brown on the underside of the pink rose. Evidence of too much spray. I hadn’t used too much, had I? I always make sure to use exactly the correct amount.

  I examine the next bush. The blooms on this one are brown, too, even worse than the first. “Oh no,” I breathe. So is the next one, and so on down the whole row. These roses are done for this bloom cycle.

  A clattering sounds in the greenhouse. The hairs on my neck stand up. I walk as quickly as I can, huffing a little. “Riley? Is that you?”

  Riley straightens and turns toward me. I gasp. She has the poison can in her hand.

  “What are you doing?” I bellow. I have a voice that c
an rival a basketball coach’s, if I choose. “What did you spray in here?”

  She points to the one entire table of seedlings. “They have aphids all over them.”

  “Oh no.” I snatch the poison can out of her hands. “How did you mix this? How much did you put on?”

  “Calm down. I followed the directions.”

  “I have my own directions.” I gesture toward my notebook shelf. “I don’t agree with the manufacturer recommendations. It burns the roses.” I rush toward the G42, the rose I’m taking to Pasadena. “Did you touch this one?”

  “I didn’t know . . .”

  “Answer the question! Yes or no!” I am shouting again. It’s early and I’m probably waking up Old Mrs. Allen, but I do not care.

  “Stop yelling.” Riley’s eyes fill.

  “Then answer the question.” My voice is still loud, but not as shrill.

  “No. I didn’t do that one yet.”

  “Thank God.” I pick up G42, looking at it in the light. Yes, the underside has aphids all over it. I take it to the big laundry sink and rinse it gently, using a soft cloth to wipe away the aphids.

  Riley stands frozen to her spot. I replace G42 and take several deep breaths. “Did I not tell you to stay out of the roses? To do the chores inside?”

  She looks down.

  “Didn’t I?” I stamp my foot. Childish. But I’m so frustrated I’m afraid I’ll splinter into a hundred million fragments if I don’t do something. “Why didn’t you do as I asked?”

  She shrugs.

  “That is not an answer.” Oh, this is far worse than dealing with a student in school. At school I am generally calm. I don’t take misbehaving personally. This feels like a punch to the gut.

  “I don’t know, okay?” Riley wipes her nose. I notice, finally, that she is wearing her Polarfleece pajamas, my Crocs over her thick white tube socks, and an overcoat. Her hair, parted on one side, covers one eye.

  I put the poison pot back where it belongs. “Did you do your chores? Your homework? I hear you have a math quiz today.”

  She gulps so loudly I can hear it.

  I swivel back to her, slowly. “Riley. You did study, didn’t you?”

  Her mouth corkscrews. “I’m going inside.”

  I raise my hands into the air, hoping for divine intervention of some variety. Taking a breath, I am about to unleash another torrent of useless reprimands when I see Riley is trembling as if there’s an earthquake underfoot.

  I put my arms down by my sides. “Go ahead.”

  Dismissed, she heads for the house.

  I sink onto my rolling stool. What am I going to do with her?

  What will I do with me?

  23

  THE DAY DOES TURN OUT TO BE WARMER THAN NORMAL, making the kids want to ditch and go do something wildly physical. It’s almost as bad as a rainy day, which any teacher will tell you also turns students into restless beasts. My classes will not shut up, will not concentrate.

  Instead of forcing them, I give into the flow. I put on a video I have ready for such occasions, a BBC-produced romp about diseases, hand out worksheets asking them a few questions about the movie to encourage them to pay a bit of attention, and then I sit at my desk and look up roses all day.

  At least I’m not failing them for their muddle-headedness. That ought to please Dr. O’Malley. This worksheet will be worth ten measly points, but they will be able to take home a paper reading 100 percent to their doting parents, who will think, “At last! Miss Garner is recognizing my child’s superior intellect!”

  I giggle to myself.

  I hadn’t seen Dr. O’Malley except in passing since he made my classroom visit. He nodded to me in the hallway this morning, gravely. “Did you think about what I said?” he said.

  I nodded back. “You are going to have to use all the powers of the board to kick me out, and I will have to use all the powers of the law to stay in.” I smiled my sweetest smile at him.

  I wanted to tell him that no matter what I’d thought of him, I’d never taken him for a weak man, like I did now, one who would bend to politics. But even I know when to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes.

  I steal a glance at my AP Biology class. They appear absorbed in the video. It’s a good one, with a guy from Monty Python narrating. I log into my Gmail.

  Byron is online.

  I type:

  Are you coming to Pasadena?

  Yes. U?

  Of course. Showing G42. What about you?

  Surprise.

  Do you have a breakthrough?

  Can’t talk about it.

  Oh.

  My fingers pause over the keyboard as I think. Then I type:

  Did you get fragrance?

  He ignores this.

  Have you selected which specimens you’ll breed next year? I have a mother to give you. Performed well last two years with growth, reblooming. All it needs is fragrance. Do you have a fragrant rose yet?

  I don’t answer. No.

  I think about the mother rose and get excited. We have not exchanged seedlings before. The truth is, we keep the best for ourselves.

  Both of us want to be the first to have the best Hulthemia ever. Why would we give away our greatest specimens to each other?

  Besides, Byron would always win. Always, with his larger operation. I am at a disadvantage so enormous it’s like a Mom and Pop hamburger stand competing against McDonald’s. But I happen to be a big believer in David over Goliath.

  The chat shows he’s typing, but nothing appears. Then there’s a pause and it shows typing again. He must have erased his thought. Then he types:

  Fragrance. That is the missing element, isn’t it?

  That and ease of growth. I’m going to give a bush to my friend Dara. If she can’t kill it, no one can.

  Good thought.

  He signs off.

  I sit back in my chair, thinking. What has he got up his sleeve? Why’s he being so secretive?

  I find Dara after school, not having been able to find her at lunch again. She’s in her classroom.

  I’ve barely seen her since she told me she wasn’t going to the rose show. Perhaps she is avoiding me. I admit, I have been avoiding her, a little bit. Waiting for her to make the first move. I say hello to her, but I haven’t sat with her and Mr. Morton in the lunchroom. Nor do I roam around searching for her after school. Really, outside of our friendship, there is little reason for our two departments to interact. And I am very busy.

  Dara’s room is a little wing of its own, with wide windows and natural light coming in on both sides. She has drafting tables that can be adjusted to various angles and tall stools. Easels stand folded and ready at the sides.

  She has a little yard for ceramics, with dirty canvas-covered tables under the patio awning and a brick kiln some long-ago donor funded. Clay pots and sculptures dry on wooden shelving. It is out here that I find her, surveying the ceramics and touching each. “Firing up the kiln today?” I cross the lawn and sit at one of the worktables in the shade.

  “You remembered. I’m impressed.”

  “I do pay attention, sometimes.” A hunk of wet clay sits before me.

  She takes the seat across. “Do you want to build something? I just kneaded the air bubbles out of it.”

  “Air bubbles?”

  “It’s like bread. I think of clay as a living thing.” She gestures to the gray clump. “Go ahead.”

  I pick up a piece. It’s slimy. I grimace. “I can’t figure out what to make.”

  “So make anything.” She crosses her arms on the table. Today she wears a big stained apron over jeans, rolled up to her calves, and an old T-shirt. Her hair is loose around her shoulders.

  I think about Mr. Morton and how I sh
ould broach the subject.

  Dara breaks off a piece of clay, rolls it between her palms into a ball. “How’s Riley?”

  “Fine.” I consider telling Dara about Riley almost killing my prize rose and tanking the others, and that odd feeling seizes me up inside again. “She’s just fine.”

  Dara nods. “Is she looking forward to the Science Olympiad?”

  I nod. What kind of lame small talk is this? I might as well be talking to a parent of a student.

  She clears her voice and I can tell she’s getting down to some nitty-gritty business. Dara always clears her throat beforehand. “I talked to Dr. O’Malley.”

  I keep moving the clay in my hands. It’s drying out. I dip my fingers into a plastic water bucket before Dara can tell me to. “He told you about the part-time ultimatum. I mean, offer.”

  She nods, holds up her hand. “Before you go off the deep end, let me say that I think it’s a good idea.”

  I slap down my clay. “Why does everyone think I’m always going off the deep end?”

  Her gaze is level. There’s a small streak of mascara under one eye. “Because you do.”

  “Well, I do not, nor do I think it’s a good idea. I don’t want to be relegated to some part-time position with no health or retirement benefits. Ever think of that?” I pick up the clay, my fingers moving without my notice.

  She leans forward. “Gal, if you don’t take this, you might get pushed out and then you’ll get nothing at all.”

  “I’m willing to risk that.” I stand up. “I thought you’d take my side, Dara.”

  “I want what’s best for you. We all do.”

  “No. You want what’s convenient. That’s the whole problem.” I plop down the piece of clay. I haven’t mentioned Mr. Morton. I don’t want to. Not anymore. If she wants to be high and mighty and right, then she can do that all by herself. “You don’t understand. You would rather pass a student than give them a bad grade. I bet you never give your students less than a C, do you?”