The Wonder of Wildflowers

by Anna Staniszewski

  “I think so,” Miss Patel says. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless they’re cut even more.”

  24

  The next day, Yuli comes down with a head cold and Krysta bans her from our table until her nose stops running. “We can’t have your germs hanging around,” Krysta tells her. “You understand, right?”

  Yuli, being Yuli, only nods and goes to sit by herself at the other end of Daniel’s table. There she pulls out her new purple lunch bag and a box of tissues and eats her sandwich with her eyes cast down, dabbing at her runny nose. I wonder why she doesn’t go sit with the kids she used to eat lunch with before Krysta pulled her over to our table. Maybe they don’t want her back now that she’s one of us.

  “Did you really have to send Yuli away?” I ask Krysta, a little surprised at myself for speaking up.

  I hope my eyes say what my mouth can’t, that Krysta doesn’t have to worry about getting sick like everyone else, not while her family still has the secret well to draw from whenever they want. For once, I guess I don’t have to worry about it either.

  Krysta only shrugs and says, “I have to watch out for us, don’t I?”

  Eileen looks ready to hug her. “Seriously, Mira. Without Krysta, we’d be totally lost.”

  But during gym that afternoon, Eileen and Anton collide during dodgeball. Eileen hits the floor and howls in pain. “My ankle!” she screams. “It’s broken!”

  After a visit to the high school to see the nurse—the only nurse in our entire district—Eileen comes back to class with a walking cast on her foot and a scowl on her face. It turns out her ankle isn’t broken, only lightly sprained. Under the new rationing laws, the injury isn’t bad enough for an extra dose of Amber.

  “I can’t believe the nurse said that I need to suffer through it,” Eileen complains as she limps around. It’s obvious, though, that she loves the attention as everyone coos in sympathy whenever she winces in pain. “Don’t worry,” she tells Krysta. “I can still do the dance next week.”

  But Krysta isn’t convinced. “We’ll see,” she says.

  * * *

  The next day, Yuli is feeling better, which means her banishment is over. At recess, Krysta makes us practice our dance harder than ever before. “We have to get it perfect for the assembly!”

  As we run through the moves, Eileen keeps falling out of the routine, grabbing on to my shoulder to catch herself anytime we have to spin. Her sprained ankle still has a cast on it, and she can’t help limping when she walks. There’s no way she should be dancing.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to sit this out?” I finally whisper to her when she nearly knocks Yuli to the ground. “Krysta would understand.”

  “I’m fine,” she says through gritted teeth. She glances at the girls on the other side of the playground—the ones who weren’t asked to join Krysta’s exclusive little group—as if they’re a salivating pack of hungry wolves.

  We repeat the dance a dozen more times, and I can see that Yuli and Eileen are getting tired. They pant and sweat like normal people. Like I was doing a month ago. Now Krysta and I are the only ones who are glowing.

  “God, Eileen!” Krysta finally cries. “If you can’t keep up, then go take a seat.”

  Eileen blinks rapidly. “But—but…”

  Maybe the extra Amber in my veins has made me braver, because I find myself saying, “She’s hurt. Give her a break.”

  Krysta seems stunned to hear me speaking up in front of everyone. To be honest, I’m a little stunned too. But I can’t stand by and watch Eileen hurt herself even more because of a silly dance.

  “Fine,” Krysta says. “Eileen, go sit down.” Then she points across the playground at Ava and waves her over. “Come on!” she calls. “You’re in!”

  Ava practically sprints over to get in line, as if she’s been waiting for this moment the past few weeks.

  “B-but that’s not fair!” Eileen sputters.

  “Let’s go,” Krysta tells Eileen. “You’re holding everything up.”

  Eileen finally gives up and starts to limp away, but not before shooting me a glare so fierce, it feels like it could singe a hole right through me. “Thanks a lot, Mira,” she mutters before sinking onto a nearby bench.

  25

  That night, as news of another Amber reservoir drying up spreads through town, the protests turn violent. My parents and I watch the footage on TV, of the police holding up plastic shields while people push against them and throw trash cans at parked cars. Someone sets a dumpster on fire.

  Mayor Perez holds an emergency press conference. He assures people that the government is looking into the possibility of drilling more public Amber wells, that the solution to the problem will be found. And even though he sounds confident, I realize I don’t believe him.

  I must look worried, because Mama pats my hand and says, “Everything will be all right.”

  “What if they come back here?” I ask softly. “The people who put that sign in front of our house, who spray-painted your car…” The angry red words still aren’t completely gone, even though Tata has scrubbed at the paint over and over. “What if they want to burn our house down this time?”

  “That won’t happen,” Mama says. “The police have been patrolling our neighborhood to make sure everything is all right.”

  “But all the police are there!” I say, pointing at the TV.

  I catch my parents exchanging a look over my head. A few minutes later, Tata puts on his coat. “I’ll be back soon,” he says.

  “Where are you going?” Mama asks, but he’s already out the door. He’s in such a hurry that he doesn’t shut it all the way.

  “Can you close that?” Mama asks me, her voice tired. “We don’t want to all catch colds from the draft.”

  I nod and go to shut the door. Then I lock it to make myself feel better.

  When I turn back to the news, unable to keep my eyes away, I notice that the protestors finally have a leader. Standing in front of the crowd, holding up the biggest GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY sign, is Mrs. Perez.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, but it stings to think that Krysta’s mom, whose house I’ve been to more times than I can count, despises me. It’s one thing to suspect it. It’s another thing to have her holding up a sign that screams it to the world.

  A half hour later, Tata reappears with a few shopping bags in hand. He pulls out a newly purchased alarm system. Without a word, he starts installing it. Mama and I sit on the couch, still watching the news, as he drills and grunts and tests. Finally he arms the alarm, and I can see his shoulders relax.

  “There,” he says. “Now if anyone even touches one of our windows, the alarm will go off and scare them away.” He frowns at the news, where one of the protestors is being arrested.

  “Don’t worry,” Mama says, patting my hand again. “I’m sure the police will break this up soon.”

  But these days, every time someone tells me not to worry, I only worry more.

  * * *

  In the morning, there are some smashed tomatoes on our front steps, but the house is all in one piece. Nothing’s been damaged, and Tata declares it’s because the attackers saw the new alarm system and went on their way.

  I’m not sure if that’s true, but all three of us sigh in relief and busy ourselves cleaning up the steps. Then Mama makes some calls and finds out that a chemist she works with had rotten fruit and vegetables thrown at his house too.

  “A potato broke his window,” Mama says when she comes outside to tell us about it. I’m scraping smashed tomatoes off the steps while Tata hoses down the walkway.

  Even though it’s far from funny, I can’t help laughing at the image of a spud sailing into someone’s living room. My laughter immediately dies down as Tata says, “We can’t stay in this town. Not when things will only get worse.”

  “I also spoke to my boss,” Mama tells us. “She says the police are bringing in officers from neighboring towns
to keep an eye on all the houses that have been targeted thus far. We’ll be safe.”

  “For how long?” Tata asks. “When is enough enough?”

  “We waited years to come here!” Mama says. “We can’t simply give up now.”

  “And I don’t want to leave,” I say. “There’s a writing contest and—”

  But my parents aren’t listening. “We can’t put our child in danger,” Tata says. “We came here to be safe.”

  “So you want us to flee because things are getting too hard?” Mama asks.

  “Isn’t that why we left our home?” Tata cries. “Because we thought life here would be easier? Do you think this is easy?” Then he tosses the hose aside and storms into the house.

  Mama and I are quiet as we work on cleaning up the last of the tomatoes. “Tata hates it here,” I finally say when we’re finished.

  “He feels powerless,” Mama says. “Back home, he was respected. Here, people think he’s not as smart as they are because he has an accent. Since he can’t use his medical training, protecting us has become his main job. Now he feels as though he can’t even do that anymore.” Mama rubs her eyes, and I realize suddenly that she’s wearing her glasses again. “Maybe he’s right and it makes no sense for us to stay here.”

  “You think we should go back?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Or move to another town. We could try living in the city, but…” She sighs. “Things like this have been happening all over the country. I’m afraid nowhere will be safe until people accept that Amber is a limited resource and they’ll have to make do with what they have.”

  “Does that mean you’ll never be able to make more of it?” I ask.

  “Based on our research, no. I believe there’s no way to make more.”

  My insides squeeze. “So you won’t have a job anymore.”

  Mama gives me an odd smile. “I didn’t want to tell you this because it’s not definite yet, but we’re getting funding for a new project. In trying to make more Amber, we discovered a way to strengthen it. That means a small amount will be nearly twice as powerful as it is now. It might be the miracle that people have been looking for.”

  So this is the big “breakthrough” that’s kept Mama at work all those extra hours. It sounds like good news, but…

  “The Amber will still run out, won’t it? If you can’t make more of it?”

  “Yes,” Mama says. “But that won’t be for many years. Perhaps people will have found ways to live without it by then.”

  “Like technology. Miss Patel says the technology in other countries is better than it is here.”

  Mama lets out a soft laugh. “A famous writer once said, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ If we make the technology good enough, people might not even miss the Amber.”

  I think of Daniel’s flying cars and the self-driving ones he claims already exist. But maybe I’m more of an “Amberland girl” than I thought, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine a world without magic.

  26

  When I get to school, Eileen is prancing around with her ankle back to normal, her limp completely gone.

  “That healed fast,” Krysta says, her voice oozing with sarcasm.

  Eileen smiles mysteriously and says, “I’ve always been a quick healer.”

  I imagine her begging and begging her parents until they bought her more rations or gave her their own. Even though the nurse said she only needed to stay off the ankle for a few more days and then she’d be perfectly fine, of course Eileen couldn’t wait and risk not being let back into Krysta’s little circle.

  I watch her for the rest of the day. She can’t stop moving, and her fingers shake. So much worse than mine did that first day when I snuck extra rations. It scares me to think how much more she must have taken for her body to react like this. I remember what Mama said about people who use too much Amber, how it can even affect their hearts. Suddenly the perfume bottle I secretly refilled with Amber this morning and hid in my backpack doesn’t feel so harmless.

  At recess, Eileen happily takes her place in line for the dance, sending Ava back to the other side of the playground. Eileen’s forehead is coated with sweat even though we haven’t started dancing yet. She’s jittery and looks pale.

  “Why would you do this?” I can’t help whispering to her.

  It’s clear that she knows exactly what I mean, because she hisses back, “I couldn’t get kicked out again, thanks to you.”

  “I was trying to help!” I say. “Eileen, listen to me. Taking too much Amber can kill you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “So what if it does? At least I won’t die a loser. And you’re one to talk. You’ve been taking more too, haven’t you? There’s no way you’ve gotten this good on your own.”

  I fall silent because of course she’s right.

  The music starts up, and Krysta walks up and down the line, making sure we’re all doing the steps right. When she gets to Eileen, she nods approvingly. “Nice job!”

  Eileen beams. Then Krysta stops at me, and I can tell she’s deciding whether or not to criticize me.

  Suddenly Eileen lets out a strange gurgling sound behind me. I turn in time to see her eyes rolling back in her head.

  “Eileen!” I cry as she falls to the ground and starts shaking, her entire body spasming. “Help! Someone help!” I scream.

  Miss Patel runs over and cradles Eileen’s head in her arms. “Run and get the emergency Amber from our classroom,” she calls to Yuli.

  “No!” I yell. “She’s already had too much.”

  Miss Patel’s eyes widen as she realizes what I mean. Eileen has stopped shaking, but her eyes are closed and her breaths are shallow.

  “Then run to the office,” Miss Patel tells Yuli. “Tell them to call an ambulance!” Then she and another teacher scoop Eileen up in their arms and carry her away like a wounded bird.

  27

  Miss Patel doesn’t bother trying to teach the rest of the day’s lessons after the ambulance takes Eileen away. Instead she lets us have free time until the final bell. No one can stop talking about what happened. Only Krysta is oddly quiet. I wonder if she realizes that Eileen took all that Amber because of her.

  Right before the final bell rings, Miss Patel gets a phone call from the front office. I can tell it’s good news by how her shoulders seem to relax.

  “Class,” she says, turning to us. “We’ve heard from Eileen’s parents that she’s recovering quickly. She’ll be in the hospital until the Amber works itself out of her system.” She glances at Krysta and flashes a reassuring smile. “If all goes well, she’ll be back in time for your dance performance on Wednesday.”

  Everyone looks relieved, and I should be too. But I can’t help the uneasy feeling that’s still pumping through me.

  After the bell rings, Krysta slowly packs up her things.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. “It’s just scary. I’ve never seen anyone that sick before.”

  “I know.” I take a step forward. “I was thinking about it and… I think you should give my spot in the dance group to Ava.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

  “It’ll be better that way.”

  “Are you sure?” Krysta asks, while Yuli looks on, clearly stunned. “If you change your mind, I can’t put you back in.”

  I swallow. Am I sure? Is this what I want? But all I can think of is Eileen sprawled on the ground, her body fighting the Amber as if it were an invisible enemy.

  “Honestly, I don’t even like to dance,” I say. “Besides, Ava’s a lot better than I am. She should have been in the group from the beginning.”

  “Okay,” Krysta says.

  I should be disappointed that she’s letting me go so easily, and miserable that I’ll no longer be part of the dance group. But instead the tightness in my chest loosens and suddenly it’s easier to breathe.

  After school, I hurry toward Daniel’s
house. The perfume bottle in my backpack feels as though it weighs more than I do.

  When I knock on Daniel’s door, his aunt answers.

  “I’m sorry. Daniel’s not here,” she says.

  “That’s okay. I just wanted to give you something.” I hold out the Amber, my hand shaking slightly. “For Mikey.”

  Aunt Flora blinks in surprise. “We—we can’t accept this.”

  “Please,” I say. “Take it. He needs it a lot more than me.” Then I press it into her hand and hurry away before I change my mind.

  * * *

  When I get home, Tata is ripping up my black-eyed Susans.

  “What are you doing?” I cry. “You’re killing my flowers!” They’ve been growing so well in the spot where I replanted them, making the most of their little bit of sunshine.

  “They’re spreading out and taking over the rest of the garden,” Tata says. “And I already told you. They’re not flowers. They’re weeds. They’re invasive.”

  “Invasive?” I repeat. “What does that mean?”

  He thinks for a second and then says, “If you allow them to get out of control, they take over.”

  I remember the shouts at the protests. These people are invading our country.

  “Who says they’re weeds?” I ask. “I think they look nice. Why can’t we let them grow like normal flowers?”

  “Because they’re not flowers,” Tata says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “They’re pests!”

  “You’re as bad as everyone else!” I cry.

  I gather a few of the torn-out black-eyed Susans and stomp into the house. Then I get a vase from the kitchen and carefully put the flowers into some water. Tata might think they’re pests, but they brighten up my entire room when I place them on my desk. Why does calling something a weed make it worse than a flower?