by Stacey Lee
Court leans beside me on the well’s outcropping and studies the wisteria dripping like bunches of grapes from the overhead trellis. An expression of wonder causes his dimples to flatten out. I bask in all the campfire smells of his scentprint, floating around relaxed and unguarded. When I realize I’m staring at him, I drop my gaze to his shirt. Even his alligator logo has perfect teeth.
I really should tell him to go, but my mouth won’t form the words. Our rooster struts by, bobbing its head at Court. It decides Court’s no match for it, and starts pecking at the ground.
“So where’s your mom?” he asks.
“Oman.”
“That’s not an easy place to get to. We had a goodwill meet in Israel, once.”
“It is when you have a private Cloud Air jet.” I’m not supposed to tell people this, but surely there’s an exception for when you’re sitting next to the richest kid you know, and your dress has a stain and a hole, the well’s crumbling, and your last haircut involved hedge clippers. My image could use bolstering.
He whistles. “Nice. Vicky said you charge a grand for your elixirs.”
I snort. More like a grand zero. The thought of Vicky spreading rumors about me sticks a thorn under my seat, but I don’t deny the rumor. Aromateurs are rule-bound to keep our no-charge policy a secret.
Court studies me squirming beside him. I try to dislodge the grimace from my face.
“Vicky’s not a happy person, that’s why she acts that way. Drives her stepmom crazy. They’re always arguing. Her stepmom’s a vinyasa yoga instructor, too, very chill.”
An itchy feeling scuttles up my back. When I was eight, a Hollywood producer came to us seeking an elixir for a vinyasa yoga instructor. His wife had died the year before. He smelled of black elder. “Her father, is he a Hollywood producer?”
“Yep. That’s why Mel hangs out with her. She hopes he’ll make her a star.”
That explains Vicky’s disdain for me. She blames Mother, and therefore me, for giving her a stepmom. But Mother wouldn’t have made a bad match. We always consider families when dealing with second marriages. My feet and hands go clammy. “Why don’t Vicky and her stepmom get along?”
“Vicky says her stepmom spent all her dad’s money, but the truth is, her dad was washed up a long time ago. And Mrs. Valdez doesn’t let her get away with crap, but it’s only because she cares.”
Then maybe it wasn’t a mismatch. Why do I care? Vicky’s problems are not high on my list of wrongs to right.
Court twists and drags his fingers in the well water, which Mother filled with gardenia blossoms before she left this morning. The flowers’ delicate scent plays around our noses, teasing us with its creamy, almost incense-like fragrance. Against my better judgment, I fish out one of the blossoms and hand it to him. He twirls it against his nose, a nose that would be perfect for leaning my own against, and his eyelids dip closed. I’m caught by the simple beauty of his appreciating a flower.
“Well, thanks for everything today.” My voice sounds too loud and chipper. I could offer him a snack, but that would only prolong my torture. “I should be getting back to work.”
He puts his elbows on his knees. “You know, aside from a few weird stares, people never treated me differently after that thing with Dad and the call girls hit the news. But I still felt ashamed. I didn’t think I could ever hold my head up again.
“Then I saw you. First day of school, you sat at our lunch table. Tina screamed at you.”
He saw that? My face flushes with the memory. I felt five years old all over again. The girl and all her friends left the table, like I was the grim reaper. I ate by myself, the first of many days of solo dining.
“You didn’t leave, or even react. Even finished your lunch.”
“I was hungry.”
“Even with all the rumors, you still come to school, day after day. I never see you whine or cry. You act like nothing bothers you. I figured if you could handle . . .”
“Public ridicule,” I fill in for him.
He chuckles. “Right, then I should stop moping and get on with life.”
“At least one good thing came of it.”
His gaze softens. “I’d say a lot of good things came of it.”
My skin tingles. I focus on Tabitha, who just caught herself a juicy soil engineer. The other chickens crowd her for a bite, but then something spooks the clutch and they all flutter away.
Twilight is my favorite time of day. All shimmery in the ceiling, violet on the carpet. The night bloomers are rolling up their sleeves to do their magic. I want to remember this moment, for after the BBG kicks in, it’ll never come again: Court, staring at me as if I’m the only thing worth looking at in this garden of beauties. And me, sitting in a honeysuckle cloud of my own desire, wanting to kiss him, and cursing my nose for getting in the way.
“Why can’t you like anyone?” he asks suddenly.
The intensity of his gaze makes me stammer. “I—I—” I want to slap myself. I can’t tell him about Larkspur jinxing us from romantic relationships. If word got out aromateurs could jinx people, Mother and I would be driven out with the proverbial stakes. So I tell him the other reasons. “Ethics. The plants we use draw others to us like bees to pollen. People might think we were taking advantage. Our reputation would suffer.” I sound like Mother.
“What if someone likes you for you, and not because of the flowers?”
“It would be impossible to tell.”
“My mother always says, don’t throw away a bucket of ice if you think there might be a diamond inside.”
“We’re not supposed to want diamonds.”
“But do you?”
“No,” I lie.
His eyelashes flicker, a movement so quick it could’ve been a trick of the light. But when the smell of blueberries mingles with my own, I realize his placid expression is just a front. A lie, like mine, though a hundred times less cruel.
SEVENTEEN
“ELIXIRS WHISPER TO THE MIND WHAT
THE HEART ALREADY KNOWS.”
—Begonie, Aromateur, 1768
AFTER COURT LEAVES, I head to the workshop, feeling hollow inside. Scents can be sneaky, making themselves so at home in your nose that when they are pulled away, it feels like something is missing.
To outsiders, our garden’s the picture of serenity, an impressionistic painting of sight and smell. But if Mother saw it, she’d freak. It hasn’t felt a rake or pruning shears for days. I can smell seven types of weeds, all gearing up to spawn weed babies. But I have bigger shoots to pull at the moment.
The workshop lock sticks again, but I jiggle the key patiently until it surrenders. Once inside, I cover all the plants I harvested today with muslin and set them under drying lamps. Alice’s elixir must be as fresh as possible, so I won’t start mixing them until I get the miso plant. Unlike Alice’s complicated scentprint, Drew’s only contains forty-two notes, basic ones that are all found in our garden. Most people don’t grow into their full range until their twenties.
Back in the garden, I carefully dig out a woody stalk of horseradish, one of Drew’s main notes. Used to treat impotence, the horseradish looks like a horse-size phallus. Proof that nature has a sense of humor.
The nutmeg tree diffuses an eggnog scent from several paces away, and thoughts of Court wiggle their way in. Maybe I shouldn’t go to Playa del Rey with him tomorrow. Who knows what will happen on a deserted strand of beach, sunlight glowing off his very ripped body . . .
But Court’s my only option. Buses and trains don’t go to Playa del Rey, and it’s too far to bike. I could take a taxi, but then what? Is the taxi supposed to wait around while I find the plant? Mother would know if a few hundred dollars went missing from the account. I just need to pull it together. Act professional.
I trot back to the house for a shower. I need to clear my mind before I begin on Drew’s elixir.
My neglected pile of books and papers nag at me from the dresser. So does the stack of candy
grams on my nightstand, which I still haven’t had time to scent, let alone read. But that’s okay, because I also haven’t had time to make another batch of BBG.
The pile of laundry collecting in the garage is rank enough for Mother to smell in Oman. As I strip off my clothes, the phone rings. It’s Mother, finally calling. Thank God they haven’t invented smell-e-phone yet, or she could smell the heartsease flooding from my pores.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hello.”
“Why are you yawning?”
“It’s eleven.”
“It is? Oh, I am sorry. I got my times mixed up. Then why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Just . . . tidying up. Didn’t want to miss your call. How’s everything there?”
“The coconut palms are outstanding. I wish I could bring one home. What did you eat for dinner?”
“Um, leftovers. The thing in the fridge.”
“Oh, the spinach quiche. Was the basil still fresh?”
“Top note retention of 70 percent at least, very zingy on the liftoff.”
“Perfect. I worried about that.” She wants to know if the weed situation is under control and if the camellia bushes smell like they’ll bloom on time. I answer in between bouts of yawning.
“Tomorrow you have to fix Ms. Salzmann, remember?”
Oh, shallot. How could I forget? “Of course I remember.”
“Lemon curry is her dominant.”
“Right.” It’s going to be a late night.
“One more thing. Did you follow up with Ms. DiCarlo?”
“Yes.” I let out giant yawn, this one purposeful, hoping to head off further questions and thereby avoid falsehoods. If Mother senses trouble, she might return early.
“All right, good. I won’t be able to call you until Sunday. I’m flying to Egypt to look at the cassia.”
“Okay. Sunday. Got it.”
“Mim? Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
No, but now is not the time to start. “Yes, Mother. Good night.”
Ms. Salzmann’s stucco bungalow with its peculiar dome shape sits at the end of a cul-de-sac. A bouquet of red and pink roses lies cradled in the basket of my bicycle. I managed to stick myself only once when I arranged them this morning.
After I park my bike, I pull my beret more securely over my head. The rest of me is dressed in leggings, an oversize men’s shirt and a cardigan from Twice Loved with a reindeer on the back. A skirt would not be practical for climbing coastal rocks, which I may need to do to find the miso plant.
As I uncap the vial of Ms. Salzmann’s elixir, the fleeting scent of lime blossoms gives way to a singular heart note of tamanu, which is nutty and green like walnuts picked from the tree. I sniff again. Mother never takes shortcuts, and it shows. There’s a silkiness to her elixirs, achieved only through unflinching attention to detail, and patience, an ethereal quality that only another aromateur could appreciate. Given the shortage of aromateurs, at least in this galaxy, it’s a wonder why she still bothers. I sprinkle the contents onto the silk handle of the bouquet. Then I hold the bouquet by the tissue paper and approach the target.
It’s a little early to be ringing doorbells—just past seven in the morning, but I won’t have time to deliver them after school. I press the button.
A senior wearing a terry turban and a kimono squints at me, pulling her wrinkles in new directions. She slips on the pair of reading glasses that dangle around her neck. Her nails are caked with something that smells like clay. “What’s this?”
“Delivery for Ms. Salzmann. Is that you?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
I sniff to make sure. I can’t afford another mistake. Lemon curry. Check. I hand her the bouquet, which she takes without incident. Fixed. I sigh. One down.
“How lovely.” Her nostrils flex as she inhales. “Who could have sent them?” She pulls out the tiny card embedded in the bouquet on which I’d written “From Your Secret Admirer.”
“My secret admirer? Good heavens. Don’t you think I’m a little young to settle down?”
I laugh.
She peers more closely at me. “You look just like those twins who used to bring flowers for the still lifes, back when I was teaching.”
“My mother and her sister are twins—Dahlia and Bryony.” Mother never mentioned it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Aromateurs often donate flowers to worthy causes.
“Yes, those were their names. They’d always beg to stay and watch the artists work. Of course I’d say yes, even if we were doing nudes.” She winks.
Mother definitely never told me that.
“You have a second to give me an opinion on something? It’ll only take a second. Come on in.” Ms. Salzmann disappears into the house.
Before entering, I sniff. Acrylic paint. Bran muffins. No drugs, or smoke, or anything that would set off warning bells. I step inside.
A skylight washes the main room of the strange house with bright morning light. For a second, I think the room is filled with people, then realize they are life-size statues fashioned of recycled junk like beer bottles and cereal boxes. Ms. Salzmann sets the flowers in the arms of one of the statues, then crosses the room to a shelf stuffed with books. Nearby, a wingback chair is arranged next to a pottery wheel and a table. On the table, sits a bust of a man.
Ms. Salzmann glances at me rubbernecking her crowded room. She taps the table in front of the bust. “Tell me, who does this person look like to you?”
I study the face. The strong nose, wide-set eyes and Caesar-like bangs remind me of the face on all the current teen rags right now.
“Tyson Badland?”
She clasps her hands together and leans in. “He’ll be so pleased.”
I gape. “Is it for him?”
Her lips flatten into a sly smile. “All the stars must have a bust nowadays.” She cups her hand beside her mouth. “He’s shorter than you think.”
“I better go. I’m late for school.”
She escorts me to the front door. “You good with your hands?”
“I guess.”
“I’m looking for an apprentice, you interested? My last girl moved to Singapore.”
“Sounds interesting, but I have a lot of projects going on right now.”
“Well, here’s my card in case you change your mind.” She hands me a business card from a shelf on the wall. “Thanks for the flowers.”
Court can’t leave until lunchtime, after his Kill Drill. That works out fine, since I have an arrow to shoot.
Kali fails to show for Cardio Fitness, a fact noted by Vicky’s cohorts, who snicker as they look back at me. I ignore them. In a matter of hours, Operation Fix Vicky will be complete. Vicky always splits from Melanie after algebra when Melanie goes to dramatic arts.
An hour later, I take my usual spot in algebra with Vicky two desks away. Mr. Frederics’s outfits have grown snazzier by the day, or maybe my bleary eyes are just more sensitive to color. He’s wearing a herringbone blazer and patent leather shoes, and the sugary notes of his happiness overpower even the tang of teenage angst. Is he sprucing up for the woman he expects to fall in love with him, or the one who’s actually falling for him?
Mr. Frederics calculates the sum of an arithmetic series, and I hide behind my textbook, biding my time. Vicky knots her hair on her head, exposing a brown expanse of neck above her white tank top.
The moments tick by.
Only a week ago, I looked forward to coming to this classroom. Now, coming here only reminds me of my mistake—the first term in an arithmetic series that set off a whole chain of consequences. Finding the upper limit will be a monumental task.
Finally, Mr. Frederics frees us.
I quickly pack my things and begin to follow Vicky.
Mr. Frederics calls my name. “Do you have a moment?”
“Er, sure.” Vicky sweeps out of the classroom and out of range. I step up to the teacher’s desk, hoping this won’t take long.
Mr. Frederics knits his f
ingers together, then bends them back, cracking the joints. “I asked Ms. DiCarlo to the homecoming game a few weeks ago but she never gave me a straight answer. Do you think I should renew my invitation, or is that too much, too soon, given the circumstances?” He leans closer, giving me a strong whiff of worry. “I don’t want to mess up the, er, medicine.”
“Um,” I stall. There’s a good chance she’d say yes even without the elixir, but if they get together before I’ve had a chance to undo my mistake, Alice will suffer. “I think . . . when Ms. DiCarlo is ready, she’ll bring it up herself.”
His eyebrow stretches up and his mouth pulls down in a thoughtful expression. “Okay. Good thinking. If she’s still on the fence by the Puddle Jumpers event, I’ll have to bring out my secret weapon.”
“Er, what would that be?” I force a smile.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“Right. Well then, see you tomorrow.” Then I hurry out the door, wondering what new surprise awaits me in this high school house of horrors. May his “secret weapon” not cause irreversible mortification, for him or Ms. DiCarlo. And may it not get me further in the hole with Mother for that matter.
I move briskly down the hallway, hoping Vicky’s walking at her usual regal pace. Ahead, Lauren and Pascha are tacking up a poster. They spot me and smile. I return the smile but hurry by, not wanting to encourage conversation. They probably think I’m stuck up.
Thirty feet ahead, I spot Vicky’s dark tresses. Like a stalker, I slip through the stream of students pouring from the classrooms, edging closer to her.
Maybe it was a bad idea, me coming to school. I wasn’t unhappy being homeschooled. I collected more than eighty stamps in my passport. Not many fifteen-year-olds can say they’ve smelled the orange blossoms in Granada, or stuck their nose in a peach-scented Osmanthus tree in Guilin, China. And Mother wasn’t all work and no play, either. We rode camels into a Luxor sunset. Hiked waterfalls in the Amazonian jungle. I even held a baby marmoset in the cup of my hand, its striped tail coiled around my finger.
