The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns

by Margaret Dilloway

  She looks at me. “Is Samantha going to hate me?”

  I tell her the truth. “At first, yes.” I hug her to me. “Not in the end, love.”

  • • •

  I CALL DARA before I get out of the lot. No answer.

  Dr. O’Malley is visiting his daughter in Oregon. No help there.

  I go to George’s house. I need to talk to an adult. A teacher. “Be home, be home,” I chant softly.

  He is. He’s out back, building his chicken coop. It’s a multistory affair, already chicken-wired over the frame. He is on top of it, hammering on an asphalt roof.

  “George!” I wave up at him.

  He clambers down, covered in so much sweat I’m afraid he’ll slip. Today he’s shirtless, with a hat on and shorts. It occurs to me he sure does a lot of physical work for someone so into science.

  “We have a dilemma.”

  He listens carefully, his hand on his hip. I avoid looking below his chin.

  “So there’s just Riley versus Samantha and Brad?”

  I nod miserably.

  “And she didn’t actually see any of it.”

  “She wasn’t in their biology class, either.”

  He takes a breath and sits at a white vinyl picnic table. “This is how all the white-collar criminals are made.”

  “So. What can we do? Rescind his graduation? Call his college?” I understand now, I think, why Brad cut it off so quickly with me. George wipes at his brow with a rag he picks up off the table. “Nope. We can’t do anything.”

  I blink.

  “There’s no proof,” he says gently. “All you have is Riley saying what Samantha told her. And I believe it. That kid did too much for one person. Work, sports, full load of classes.”

  “But that means he doesn’t deserve that scholarship.” I pace around the yard. “Some other kid got beaten out unfairly.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not right.” My voice rises.

  “No, it’s not.” He gets up and takes me by the shoulders so I stop moving. I’m eye level with his chest. I look up at him.

  “Gal. You are a good teacher. This has nothing to do with you not catching it.”

  “I know that.” I step back, annoyed. “Do you think I could have caught it? I am on those kids like white on rice during tests. There’s nothing else I could have done.”

  “Sometimes there’s not.”

  “What would you have done?” I challenge him.

  He spreads his hands. “I had a student report on another student for cheating while it happened. Maybe my students trust me more.”

  I twist my mouth. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

  “No. Not at all. Only that,” he hedges, “perhaps no one felt comfortable coming to you.”

  My judgment of people had turned upside down. What else had I missed? Perhaps Old Mrs. Allen was not a crotchety kook at all but an archangel. “Oh, Lord. What a mess.”

  “It is.” He picks up his hammer. “Want to hit something?”

  I glance at his coop. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

  “Not that.” He points beyond, to a dilapidated shed. “I’m tearing that thing down. Care to join me?”

  I hold out my hand for the hammer. “I’ll need safety glasses.”

  Winslow Blythe’s Complete Rose Guide

  (SoCal Edition)

  August

  Last call for summer pruning! If you want to see some big fat fine blooms in the fall, you will undertake this only marginally painful (to gardeners who hate to cut, not to the bushes) cut-down. Right now, your rose is trying to grow tall toward the sun. Cut off just one-third of your bush’s height. Do not prune off the leaves! Just the height.

  36

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK IS RILEY’S BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 5. I GET up early to assemble her gift: a sterling silver charm bracelet. To start her off, I’ve chosen a tiny silver palette charm, with crystals standing in for paint; a Minnie Mouse with moving legs; and a miniature silver microscope. The idea is for her to add to it as she develops new interests or visits new places.

  I use the magnifying glass in the greenhouse and a pair of needle-nose pliers to attach the charms. It was a family tradition to give the girls a charm bracelet for their sixteenth birthday. Becky’s bracelet had an enameled slice of pepperoni pizza and a movie-scene clapper, because she used to say she wanted to be an actress.

  “Pizza?” Becky said incredulously to me in private. I was in her room, watching her look at the gifts from her party.

  I picked up her charm bracelet and examined the pizza slice. It looked real, a fine brown glaze over the cheese. My stomach rumbled in response. “It’s an excellent pizza representation.”

  She cast me a disdainful glance.

  “Well, what did you expect them to give you?” I said.

  “Something that has to do with my hobbies.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Like what? They gave you a movie charm, and you won’t even audition for the school play. How are you going to be an actress?”

  She snatched the bracelet back, her long hair hitting me in the face and her fingernails scratching my wrist. “You don’t understand, Gal.”

  I held up my wrist. Red scrapes appeared on my skin, delicate from all the dialysis. “Watch those claw fingers of yours.”

  She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

  “It’ll heal.”

  She took off the pizza charm. “Here. Take it.”

  “I don’t want it.” I pushed her hand away.

  “Please. Take it.” She pressed it onto me.

  “I think Mom and Dad will notice if I have your charm.”

  She wouldn’t budge, her green eyes trained on me in desperation.

  “Becky. I’ll heal. I don’t want your charm.”

  “Please,” she whispered, her voice strange. “I want you to have it.”

  I saved it for two years, until I got my charm bracelet. Since then, I’ve added dozens of charms, commemorating graduations, jobs, trips, and things I simply liked (I keep finding adorable rose charms of different types). The bracelet is so heavy my father has had to put on a new, heavier clasp.

  Becky still has only the one charm on hers.

  I finish putting Riley’s charms on and carefully put the bracelet into its velvet box. I put it into a gift bag, hot pink with hot pink tissue peeking out.

  I rub my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Thoughts of Brad cheating right under my nose wake me out of deep sleep. I still don’t know what to do. I can’t do nothing, surely.

  Maybe I ought to take Dr. O’Malley’s offer of teaching part-time after all. I’m sure he’ll let me. Then I won’t have to be exposed to germs, both the microscopic and teenaged kind.

  What I want to do about Brad is storm his university, write a letter to the dean, get the guidance counselor and math teachers to rescind their recommendation letters. But I know George is correct. There is only hearsay and a very real hunch.

  I went back and compared Samantha and Brad’s papers. I always keep a few A-grade papers, and theirs were the natural choices from AP Biology. Brad wrote about the long-term effects of food preservatives on the human body. Samantha wrote about the benefits of organic food. Similar, but not too similar. The sources were different. One seemed to be rewritten from the other.

  I am a chump.

  But today is Riley’s birthday. We head to the DMV, appointment made, Mom’s car inspected and registered in my name, and written test studied for.

  The clerk hands her the test materials, still a written one with pencils and bubbles, and Riley moves to a counter with tall privacy spacers. I wait for her to glance back so I can give her a thumbs-up. She does not.

 
Riley has already opened the booklet, begun filling in the bubbles. She has studied the DMV handbook on her own, and I’d paid for some practice tests. She should be well prepared.

  I continue to stand. I’m not sure why. I don’t expect her to turn and signal for help. Someone jostles me, and I realize I’m in the way.

  I sit down in a chair, each connected by metal bars so you’re too close to the person next to you. Now an older man with a bad cough sits knee to knee with me. I should have brought a mask. I decide to wait outside. Secondhand smoke is somewhat preferable to a virus.

  Riley pushes the smoked-glass door open a few minutes later, waving a slip of paper. “They told me to wait out here for the behind-the-wheel test.” She holds out her hand. “Keys?”

  They clink into her palm.

  A woman with a clipboard appears. “Riley?”

  I take a step back. She spins on her heel and walks firmly away.

  “Good luck!” I call, my voice nearly lost.

  She raises her hand, does not call back.

  I should be pleased. Not having to drive her everywhere will be nice. Won’t it?

  I sit on the bench and wait for Riley’s return.

  • • •

  DARA TAKES US out for hamburgers. Because it’s Dara and not me deciding, we go to an overpriced joint where you can choose from among dozens of different burger toppings by checking off the ingredients. “I could do this at home for less,” I point out.

  “Yes, but you would never buy Gorgonzola cheese or make shoestring fries,” Dara counters. I have made sure to wear my charm bracelet, its charms jangling comfortingly against my left wrist. Dara sports jeans with rolled cuffs and a plain white T-shirt, but she can’t resist wearing tall black-and-white spectator pumps. Riley and I both wear shorts. Riley is getting tan from her nursery job. I’ll need to remind her again about the damaging effects of the sun’s rays.

  We settle in at a booth with stainless tables and red vinyl upholstery, squishy to the touch. Overhead there’s exposed ductwork; the walls are exposed brick. It’s modern industrial meets fifties. Of course Dara loves it.

  “I like it.” Riley plays with the car keys. “Driving here was awesome.” She speaks extra loud, looking about to ensure everyone hears. “With my new driver’s license.”

  “Did you tell your mom?” Dara asks. I shake my head.

  “Not yet.” Riley slides her keys into her purse. Riley’s mother has not called today. Riley called her, and she didn’t answer. That her mood can hinge so much on whether her mother misses a call disturbs me. Her glow dims.

  Dara glances at me. “Open your gift.” She pushes a bright purple package across the table.

  Riley unwraps it carefully, unsticking the tape. “I want to save the paper,” she says. “For art.” It’s a set of artist-quality comic markers. “Thanks, Dara.” Riley skips to Dara, hugs her.

  Our burgers arrive. Mine is piled too high with ingredients; I remove more than half.

  Riley chews silently. Dara and I look at each other.

  I hit my palm on the table. “Riley, we should have invited Zoe.”

  She nods around her burger. “That’s okay.”

  “You should invite her over to watch a movie.” I sound artificially perky. Exactly like my mother, always telling me to make friends. Riley nods again.

  I want to cheer her up. “Riley. Tell Dara about the driving test.”

  Riley grins, straightens. “You should have seen it. There was a huge accident on the road. Sirens and everything.”

  “Oh no. I failed my first driving test because of an ambulance.” Dara widens her eyes.

  “But not Riley.” I beam. “She didn’t buckle under pressure.”

  Our server appears, a sparkler candle atop a frothy chocolate cupcake. She has six employees with her and a microphone. “It’s someone’s birthday today!” she singsongs, putting down the cupcake. She begins clapping. The entire place claps along with her. “Happy happy birthday, to you!”

  It’s incredibly loud. Surprisingly, people sing along with enthusiasm. Clapping, I sing-shout at the top of my voice, half expecting the large windows to shatter at my sound.

  I steal a glance at Riley. Her face is rosy. She wrinkles her nose and furrows her brows, but her eyes dance. She can’t prevent a smile from spreading across her face. The sparkler sends disco fairylight across her face.

  “Make a wish,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath and blows. We applaud.

  • • •

  WE DISCOVER A WHITE FEDEX envelope stuck between the screen and front door when we arrive at our house. “My mom’s present!” Riley swoops.

  “I have one for you, too.” I jiggle the key in the lock. “It’s right inside.”

  “Great.” She shakes her mother’s gift. “I’ll open yours first.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I find myself anxious. Of course it doesn’t matter which one she opens first. But I want her to open mine.

  I get the gift bag from my bedroom. Riley has turned on only the small side-table lamp. I turn on the larger lamp. I want her to see the charms. “You’ll go blind in this light.” I hand her the present.

  She digs into the tissue, pulling out the velvet box. “Jewelry?” Riley grins and opens it up. “I love it!” she exclaims. “Thanks, Aunt Gal.” She jumps up and squeezes most of the air out of me.

  “You’re welcome,” I gasp. “Dang, that nursery work is making you strong.” I show her mine, explain how it works. “So when you graduate, I’ll get you a little silver cap.”

  She clasps it onto her wrist and holds it to the lamp.

  I have a thought. “I know what. I want to give you this rose.” I unclasp my bracelet, find one of my silver roses, and try to undo the hoop with my fingernails. “I need the pliers.”

  “Let me try.” Riley undoes it without trouble. She examines the rose. It is one my mother had made specially for me, a Hulthemia, its red heart represented by etching. “Are you sure you want me to have this one?”

  “You found that rose, Riley. I want you to remember it.”

  She clasps it onto her wrist. “Thanks.”

  I nod, sitting upright on the couch. I’ll have to tell my mother I did that, or else she will have a fit when she sees Riley with it. If I tell her, though, she won’t say a word.

  Riley opens her mother’s package. It jangles, metal against metal. She shakes it out. A piece of jewelry, shrink-wrapped, falls out. She rips it open.

  Another charm bracelet.

  “It’s a Juicy Couture,” Riley says. She sounds like she’s trying not to be excited. The charm bracelet is gold-colored, oversized, filled to the brim with large colorful charms: a parrot, a Scottie dog, an iced coffee with a mountain of whipped cream topped with crystals, and others I can’t see.

  One catches my eye. A sparkly pizza box. I open its hinged lid. An enameled pizza is inside, with multicolored toppings of black olives and green peppers and pepperoni. I swallow.

  “That’s really cool,” I say. “How clever.”

  “These charms cost like fifty dollars apiece,” Riley says matter-of-factly. She coils the bracelet into her palm.

  Holy smokes. There have to be at least fifteen charms on there. With effort, I make a neutral noise. “Maybe she got a deal in Hong Kong.”

  Her nostrils flare. “I would rather have had a plane ticket to visit her.” She leaves the Juicy bracelet on the table and goes to her room. I brace myself for a bang, but it never comes.

  37

  DARA AND GEORGE WILL GO TO BRAD’S PARTY WITH ME. “Don’t make a big scene,” Dara warns me. “Not there.”

  “Why not?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “You want it to be exactly like a John Hughes movie. Big speech and a big au
dience listening in.”

  I smile a little. “I like John Hughes movies.”

  It’s a lunch party in mid-August, right before Brad is due to leave. The golf club overlooks the ocean, rolling green hills meeting the surf.

  Riley refuses to go. “I have to work,” she says. I do not press her.

  I wear a long emerald dress in cool cotton, with cap sleeves.

  George smiles when I step out of my car. “First time I’ve seen you in a dress.”

  “For all you know, it’ll be the only time.” I hike up the skirt so I don’t fall.

  He has on blue and white seersucker pants, and a white polo shirt. He offers me his arm to help me over the bumpy lot. “This reminds me of the striped pants my mother made me wear to parties in the seventies. Only those were olive green and pink corduroy.” He laughs. “Look at any childhood photo of mine. If I’m wearing those pants, I’m at a party.”

  I giggle. “Mine was a sailor dress.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s worse.”

  We walk slowly to the building.

  Dara waits for us at the door. “Hey, guys.” She is resplendent in a white sundress printed with camellias and a watercolor cat, her hair loose and somehow not bothered by the ocean wind.

  “Hey, Dara.” George, I notice, does not comment on her appearance. They smile easily at each other.

  I remember I am clutching George’s arm and step away with a blush. Dara’s eyebrows shoot up, but she says nothing.

  “Miss Garner!” Brad’s father shakes my hand. His hair is slicked back and his face, nicked from shaving, is earnest. “Thank you for coming.”

  I nod helplessly. “Uh, thank you for inviting us. What a lovely location.”

  He nods, leans forward to whisper. “I clean here at night. They gave me a break.”

  I smile despite myself. “You must be well liked.”

  “Please. Food, drink.” He points. “Enjoy.”

  I glance around. Most of the people here are people I’ve seen at school: parents, students, teachers. Samantha is noticeably absent. Everyone mills about, food in hand. I want to kick those little plates right out of their hands and scream that it’s all a scam, a miscarriage of justice.