The Secret of a Heart Note

by Stacey Lee

  I rein back my horror and reflexively reach for my BBG. Then I remember that it’s sitting on my dresser at home, empty. “It’s not really my thing. Er, do you?”

  Court appears from behind Whit, and wipes his brow with his arm. “Hi.”

  I drum up a smile. “Hello.”

  Whit looks from me to Court.

  I could just tell Whit I infected him. That usually undupes the duped, though it can get messy, and he could refuse the BBG once I remake it.

  Whit turns his back on Court, and cracks his knuckles. “All righty then, well, I was wondering if you wanted to, uh—”

  Court clears his voice loudly. “Hey, Whit! Coach says tow in or he’ll tow it for you.”

  Whit groans. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  Court doesn’t budge. “He said, now.”

  “All right. Chill.”

  Court’s eyes shift to a spot somewhere behind me.

  I turn around to see Vicky picking her way toward us. The realization that I didn’t smell her approaching, despite her severe risk rating on my personal security advisory system, nearly causes me to fall. Inhaling deeply, I catch only the fragments of her skulking black elder. The celery top note barely registers.

  “Hey, guys,” she says.

  “Hey.” Court’s tone flattens.

  Her eyes fall to me, squatting in her shadow, and become flinty. “What ever are you doing?”

  A clump of Jupiter grass rolls off my knee. “Weeding.”

  She gasps-laughs in a way that says, “Loser.” Then her attention locks on Court. “We’re going to get froyo after school. Want to come?”

  “Sorry, we’ve got practice.”

  Vicky squeezes her Gucci purse so hard, I think I hear it scream.

  Court glances back at the coach, who has his hands on his hips and is glaring at all four of us. “Come on, Whit, we gotta go.”

  Whit curses. “Can’t we have a little privacy?”

  Vicky’s chalky red lips thin into a smile. “Who? You and Mimosa?”

  Whit’s head bobs up and down and he looks at me like he wants to eat me. “Yeah.”

  Court glares at Whit. “No.”

  The coach blows his whistle and beckons his players back with his hands.

  “See you later.” Court grabs Whit and tows him back to the field.

  Vicky’s nose wrinkles, and she pierces me with her gaze. “See who later?”

  “You.”

  She crosses her arms and her pupils don’t budge from mine for a full five seconds.

  At last, she relaxes her stance and flips back her hair. “Well, maybe it’s working, finally.” She turns on her heel and stomps away.

  Desperately, I twist off handfuls of Jupiter grass and stuff them in a canvas bag, past caring about quality. Clustered with his teammates, Court watches me. My stomach twists into a knot as the memory of his sweet taste now fills me with dread.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “TRADE A FLOWER FOR A SMILE.

  GIVE A PUMPKIN AND REAP A GRIN.”

  —Cassis, Aromateur, 1689

  I DON’T BOTHER filing an excuse with the secretary. I just pedal home as fast as I can, though a bullying headwind fights me all the way. The clouds coming in from the coast roll out over the sky. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but maybe the sky changed its mind when it saw me biking.

  At least I got that Jupiter grass. First, I have to process it and the other ingredients that need to be steeped over night. Then, I’ll have to pray I still have enough of my nose left tomorrow to blend them.

  By the time I pull into our courtyard I’m so full of adrenaline, I could pedal all the way to the moon without stopping.

  The left half of the Virginia creeper that frames the workshop door swapped its green coat for red overnight. If I had my nose, I would’ve known that happened before I even stepped out of the house. I should get used to figuring things out by sight or sound. Too bad those senses can’t help me make elixirs.

  As I unlock the door, some of the Virginia creeper’s pinwheel-like leaves drop on my head.

  I arrange all the plants on the familiar worktable, grouping them by the methods of oil extraction. In one pile, I put the specimens that I will wrap in muslin and steep in sweet almond oil. In a second pile, I gather the ones I will run through our copper distillers. Plants in the last pile, larger than the first and second combined, require pressing through a vise-like contraption called a cold press. Those, I will save for last.

  I work faster than I ever have, sniffing like a hound dog every few seconds to gauge any change in my nose. Soon, I lose myself in the physical work of prepping the ingredients. I shred ash bark and pommel pomegranate seeds, break yucca strips into fine threads and cut the bad spots off alder leaves with tiny scissors. Then I warm a kukui nut in my palm that’s the exact shade of Court’s eyes. The memory of our one kiss halts all other thoughts, and I replay it in my mind for a guilty moment.

  One of the distillers begins to boil over. I dash to the burner and adjust it lower. Wrong way! The flame shoots higher and I burn my hand. Quickly, I switch it off and run my hand in the sink, cursing myself for spacing out. Mistakes happen when you’re not paying attention. I never seem to learn.

  Groaning, I rub aloe vera onto my burned skin, then get back to work. With my left hand now, I mince pine needles. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

  My nose begins to bleed, forcing me to take another break. The duller my sense of smell becomes, the harder I have to sniff. If it vanishes by tomorrow, I won’t be able to gauge the right proportions for the elixir. Might as well make a cake without measuring cups.

  My breath comes in short gasps, and it feels as if someone is using my heart as a punching bag. More from desperation than logic, I cross the room to the computer.

  “How to fall out of love,” I type.

  My search generates forty-six million results. I click on the first link.

  Tip 1: Make a list of all the reasons why it wasn’t meant to be.

  My list isn’t long: loss of livelihood.

  Tip 2: Remove all traces of him from your life.

  Also easy, since I won’t be attending SGHS for much longer.

  Tip 3: Practice thought stopping.

  Every time I think about him, I should say, out loud, stop. Are they kidding?

  I try calling Mother again. The line is still busy.

  I wipe my sweating palms on my apron and rummage through the cabinets to find the lavender to calm myself. Even if I can’t smell it as well as I used to, it still works, in the same way loud music can damage your hearing even if you’re not listening.

  My twitchy hands fumble the bottle, and with a clunk, it shimmers across the floorboards.

  I pick up the bottle, managing to save a few last drops. The spill quickly transforms into a wet spot on the floor. I don’t notice I’m crying until I feel the sting of the salt water on my cheeks.

  My knees scrape against the hard floor. I’m drowning in a sea of plant debris, staring at a stain that looks suspiciously like a surfboard. But unlike yesterday, there will be no rescue for me here. If only Mother and I weren’t the only love witches on the planet.

  Wait a minute. Aunt Bryony.

  Though she can’t use her nose anymore, my aunt was a love witch. Maybe she knows how to fall out of love. At the least, maybe she’ll give me a place to stay when Mother disowns me.

  I go to the People Finder website. How many Bryonys could there be in Hawaii? I hope she didn’t move. How many Bryonys could there be in the United States? The world?

  A man’s voice calls out, and even though it’s faint, I jump.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  I freeze as I remember. Dr. Lipinsky. I’m scheduled to do his intake, though I can hardly do that now with this bare excuse of a nose. For a moment, I’m tempted to hide out here in the workshop. But the poor man drove all the way from Santa Barbara.

  “Coming!” I call back.

  A stoop
ed figure stands midway down the path of stones. I hurry to him.

  Mother said Dr. Lipinsky was in his seventies. But this man before me couldn’t be more than fifty. When he sees me, he straightens his slim posture. He’s fit and neatly put together, with combed hair parted straight down the middle. His pressed pants break neatly over his shined shoes.

  “I’m sorry, the gate was open.” He gestures behind him. “I’m Dr. Lipinsky.”

  I paste on a smile. “That’s okay, we were expecting you. I’m Mim.” Welcome to my house of horrors.

  “Nice to meet you.” He reaches out his hand, but I don’t shake it.

  “I’m sorry, we’re not supposed to shake people’s hands. Contamination.”

  An eyebrow lifts.

  “How was your drive?” I quickly ask. Maybe I can convince him to give up his shirt, and then Mother can scent it out later. Or even a sock. He’d probably prefer driving home with a bare foot over a bare chest.

  “My drive? Er, fine.”

  He’ll think I’m crazy. Hello, nice to meet you, now could you take off your sock? My knuckles crack as I crunch a fist.

  He straightens his bow tie. “See, the thing is—”

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, on the verge of blubbering now. “I can’t help you today.”

  His eyes grow a fraction, then he scratches his head. “Oh. Well, I think you have the wrong idea. Because I’m not the Dr. Lipinsky you’re expecting.”

  “Oh? There are two of you?”

  “My father passed away just days ago. It was out of the blue, a heart attack.”

  My troubles recede into the background. “I’m very sorry for your unexpected loss.”

  He nods, his mouth grim. “Well, it was quick and he was seventy-one. They sent a real bugler to play ‘Taps.’ He served in Vietnam.”

  “Oh wow. Was he in combat?”

  “Sure. Got a Purple Heart.” His nose pinkens, and he sniffs.

  “May I get you something to drink?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry you had to drive all this way.”

  “I live just ten minutes away. I called, but the line was busy, so I thought I’d just stop by on my way home.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and stares at a cluster of rosebushes.

  “Would you like some roses?” It’s the least I could do. Somehow I dodged a bullet, but not in a way I would have wanted.

  “I’m afraid we can’t have flowers in the office because of our patients’ allergies.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of doctor are you?”

  “An otolaryngologist.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He smiles. “Ear, nose, and throat.”

  Nose? Why not? I have nothing to lose. “Um, Doctor, could you tell if I have a cold?”

  “Probably. Haven’t you had a cold before?”

  “When I was ten, but I don’t remember much about it.”

  “What about allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what are your symptoms?”

  “I can’t smell. I mean, I can smell, but not smell smell.” What the heck does that mean?

  His forehead creases. “Any coughing? Malaise? Phlegm? Fever?”

  I shake my head.

  The doctor reaches out toward my face. “Mind if I?”

  “Okay, but first I have to get something.” I wave my hand at a bench. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  I dash to the garage. Pulling my sleeve over my hand, I rummage through a cabinet for surgical gloves. We use them to handle plants that stain. At least doctors are accustomed to wearing gloves. I better make that BBG ASAP.

  Bloody bladder wrack. I can’t make BBG without my nose.

  I return to the doctor and hand him the gloves. “Here you go.”

  He draws back in surprise, but takes the gloves. “Oh, well, thank you.”

  After snapping them on, he feels both sides of my throat below my jaw. “Mm hm.” Then he pulls what looks like a pen from his pocket. It turns out to be a mini-flashlight. He shines it into my eyes, then peeks down my throat, my nose, and in both ears.

  Switching off the light, he announces, “Good news. You don’t have a cold or allergies.”

  My heart sinks. I knew it. Now it’s been confirmed by a medical expert. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. You look disappointed.”

  “Oh no. Sometimes I just look disappointed when I’m really not disappointed.” I perk up my expression though I’m cringing inside. Still a horrible liar. Some things will never change.

  He peels off his gloves and hands them back to me. “Well, if you start having any, er, symptoms, feel free to call me.” Removing a business card from his wallet, he hands it to me. “I don’t want to keep you. Do I owe you anything?”

  “Owe? Of course not. I’m sorry about your father again. If I can’t get you flowers, would you like to choose a pumpkin?” I look toward our pumpkin patch, twenty feet away, where gourds shaped like turbans and bottles form an odd junkyard of squash.

  “That sounds wonderful. A pumpkin would sure cheer up my quiet apartment.” He chooses a tangerine one shaped like a turban, and then I walk him back to the gate. He surveys the garden as we go, eyes brighter than when he came in. “My dad would’ve loved this garden. He was a big gardener. Ever since losing his sight.”

  “You mean, he was blind?”

  “That’s how he got the Purple Heart. Never let it stop him, though. He won state awards for his cloud forest orchids.”

  “Cloud forest orchids are notoriously fussy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But he couldn’t see them.”

  “Not the usual way.”

  I visualize an older version of Dr. Lipinsky with dark shades over his eyes, gently rummaging through the leaves of a lush orchid. He understood, like aromateurs, that a flower’s beauty is more than visual, and not even blindness stopped him from pursuing that beauty.

  Somehow, the thought gives me a poppy seed of hope.

  He offers a smile and extends his hand for a final shake.

  “Oh, I don’t want to get you sick,” I say.

  His eyebrows lift. Maybe now he agrees I’m sick, but not with a cold. “Thanks for the squash.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “NEVER USE PENNYROYAL.

  ITS NAME MEANS, ‘YOU HAD BETTER GO.’”

  —Nasreen, Aromateur, 1840

  IF AUNT BRYONY took on a last name when she got married, Mother never mentioned it. People Finder brings up over three hundred Bryonys in the United States alone. Who knew it was such a popular name? I take a side trip to search Mimosa and find even more.

  Next, I narrow my Bryony search by typing in Hawaii. Seven results. I pick up the phone and start dialing.

  Of the seven, two are wrong numbers, two are definitely not Aunt Bryony judging by the accents, and three are answering machines. I leave messages on all three machines. Again, I try calling Mother’s emergency number but get the same irritating message.

  Finally, I attempt Kali’s cell once again, clasping the receiver anxiously to my ear while her phone rings. This time, her nineteen-year-old brother, Mukmuk, answers the phone. “Hey, Mim. Kali’s asleep.”

  It could be an excuse, but Kali has never deceived me before. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  I better not say anything in case her brother doesn’t know she’s been skipping classes. “She’s usually a night owl. Just tell her I called.”

  “’Kay. Hang loose.”

  She has to come to school tomorrow. We’ve been planning this event together for months and a hundred Puddle Jumpers are counting on us. This was my chance to show the school that they need not fear me, that I can be fun. Not to mention, I have to make sure that whatever Mr. Frederics is planning to surprise Ms. DiCarlo does not cause further catastrophe. If by some miracle, his “secret weapon” does entice Ms. DiCarlo into his arms, it would come at the expense of Alice. I simply
need to maintain the status quo until I can fix her. If I can fix her.

  After I finish steeping all the plants that need steeping, I slog through the leaves piling in the courtyard to get back to the house. It must be close to nine.

  I draw a hot bath infused with rosemary and eucalyptus, hoping they might improve my olfaction, but . . . nothing. Sinking up to my neck, I consider the bleakness of my situation.

  I won’t be able to do anymore tonight. The distilled plants have been extracted, the steeped plants need time to steep, and the third pile of cold-pressed plants can’t be mixed until tomorrow or they’ll go bad. If my nose fails completely by the time everything’s ready to mix, I’ll have to make the PUF from my memory of the strengths of the ingredients. It will be a rough approximation, but I don’t have much of a choice.

  I heave myself out of the tub and towel off, rubbing my face extra hard as if I could erase the grimace there. The door chime rings.

  I grab my robe and pad downstairs. If I still had my nose, I could tell who’s on the other side without opening the door, assuming I know the person. But now, I have to find out the normal way. The peephole.

  Court leans against the post holding up our entryway, his hands in the pockets of his Panthers hoodie.

  My chest suddenly feels tight. Court doesn’t know about my nose, about what our kiss cost me. And I can’t tell him, because he would blame himself. Besides, telling him wouldn’t change a thing. I’d still have to let him go. If there was a chance I could get my nose back, Mother would surely demand it.

  I consider pretending I’m not home, but then he might worry. I’m not ready for this. Not now, not here. Tomorrow’s the big game, anyway. I’ll tell him after the half-time show, when there’s less at stake for him.

  I open the door. His eyes crinkle into half moons and he points the toe of his sneaker. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” How is it possible for him to be so shyly awkward and hot at the same time? His smile broadens and he glances toward the driveway, as if his own smile embarrasses him. What were those tips again? Tip 3: Practice thought stopping. But how am I supposed to not think about him when he’s standing right in front of me?

  My heart turns a cartwheel as his gaze skims down my pink chenille robe.