The Secret of a Heart Note

by Stacey Lee

  “I’m starting to develop a weird craving for cotton candy.” He leans down and tries to kiss me, but I step back.

  “I think I have a cold. And I would hate for you to catch it.”

  His eyebrows draw together. “We shouldn’t stand out here then.” He hangs an arm around my shoulders and ushers me back into the house. “Can I do anything? I’m pretty good at opening soup cans. I can even do those childproof Tylenol bottles.” He looks down at me with a goofy grin.

  I turn to face him so his arm drops off me. Clutching at the plushy weave of my robe, I shift from foot to foot. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. How’s your mom?”

  “I found a book on her nightstand.”

  “Another cookbook?”

  “Worse. How to Ask Out a Man and Keep Him. I think she’s going to make a move tomorrow night. Melanie said Mom bought herself four-hundred-dollar jeans for the game.”

  “I thought your aunt was keeping her occupied.”

  “She left this morning, but don’t freak. The earliest they can kiss is at the game. She’s busy all tomorrow with alumni stuff. How’s the potion making going?”

  “Haven’t finished it yet.” My voice goes high and slightly hysterical, but I clamp my lips together. “I’m prepping the ingredients.”

  “Hey, it’s okay.” He reaches out to take my hand, but I shake my head.

  “Germs.”

  “You know, maybe it’s not such a bad thing, Mom tripping over Mr. Frederics. I admit, I never thought it would work. They’re so different. I mean, he’s—”

  I fill in the blank. Poor? Bald? Obsessive about recycling his Ziploc Baggies?

  He shakes his head. “He seems like he has his act together. Mom’s a bit of a wreck. But who am I to judge? She seems happy for once. Maybe she’s finally over Dad.”

  “But it’s not supposed to be that way. Mr. Frederics likes Ms. DiCarlo. Your mother might get hurt.”

  “I know. But you can’t score if you’re always playing defense.” His voice lowers. “We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t take a risk on me. And I feel so good, I could win tomorrow’s game all by myself.”

  His words pull my emotions all out of shape. His smile is weak as a shoestring and even his eyes are full of wonder. If he keeps looking at me that way, I might jump into his arms and beg him to take me to the moon. Somewhere with no flowers to remind me of my failure, only space and starlight.

  My shoulders slump. The ceiling feels like it’s sagging down on top of me. Even my robe weighs me down. “I’m sorry, I’m a little beat.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you rest. Do you want me to get you a burger? Dad always got us McDonald’s when we were sick. Oh, right. You don’t eat those. Maybe I should—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  After another long look at me, he kisses me on the forehead, leaving a warm imprint there. “Good night, Mim. Feel better soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  After he leaves, I lean on the door to prevent myself from flinging it back open and running after him. I don’t move until I hear his Jeep start up and power away.

  The rooster’s crowing. I bolt upright in my bed and sniff.

  Still can’t smell the dust motes. But, am I worse than yesterday?

  I shower and wiggle into fresh clothes, then hurry back to the workshop.

  Now the Virginia creeper has completely switched its spring coat for autumn attire. Traffic-light red. I sniff a leaf, but only get a vague impression of its ivy-like scent.

  I’m tempted to return to my bed and throw another pity party under the covers. But pity is a luxury I have to save for later.

  In the workshop, the two tendrils of Layla’s Sacrifice spread out in opposite directions like the plant’s opening its arms to me. I rip off the glass cover and inhale.

  Now, instead of the jam-like humming of marmalade, all I get is its shadow, quickly fading to nothing.

  My nose has become ordinary, or, as Mother would say, useless.

  The room tilts and my locked knees suddenly sag. Though I’d been dreading this moment of truth, now that it’s here, I feel weirdly calm, or maybe just numb. At least now I don’t have to worry about losing my nose anymore. It’s gone. Gone.

  I drop into my place at the worktable.

  Breathe. Clear your mind. Mother says that before we work, we need a tabula rasa, a blank mind, since so much of what we do requires sensing, not reflection.

  But now, I can’t sense, only think. The plants, once my only company, seem to turn their shoulders to me, cloaking their scents like strangers. I run my fingers over the narcissuses that William the handyman carved into the table, but the ritual brings me no comfort. On the edge of panic now, I grab a twig of partridge berries and set it between the steel plates of the vise. Keep moving.

  I crank out oils by brute force, until the sun’s rays light up the terrariums, meaning it’s around eleven. All sense of self-respect has evaporated by now and I try Kali’s cell not once, but three times. No answer. Maybe this is how a friendship dies. One blast of hot air is enough to kill a begonia, but I hoped our friendship could weather more than one argument.

  Grimly, I set off for school. Puddle Jumpers starts at noon. I’ll just take care of the event and be back by one thirty. If I don’t finish the elixir in time for the big game, at least it will have been for a good cause.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “VEGETABLES ARE AS VITAL TO THE BODY

  AS FLOWERS ARE TO THE SPIRIT.”

  —Alyssum, Aromateur, 1655

  PRINCIPAL SWIZINGER AND a bunch of adults wearing orange shirts stand in the field surrounded by folding tables. The tables bear washtubs of produce, from shiny eggplant to bloodred tomatoes. A banner proclaims, “Fruits and Vegetables Love Our Bodies.”

  There’s no sign of Kali anywhere. Principal Swizinger points at me and a woman with a blond crew cut hurries over. “Mimosa, right? I’m Hope. Thank you so much for helping us.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Hope scratches the side of her head with her pencil. “Is Kali coming?”

  “I’m not sure. She hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. We sure appreciate all the work she put in. Kids should be here in fifteen. Do you mind checking people in?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Great.” The woman hands me a clipboard. “Here are the teams, and those are the shirts.” She nods at a box under one of the tables. “Have people wait by their traffic cones.”

  “Got it.”

  The woman leaves.

  Students drift out from the main buildings. Most hang back when they see me. I stifle my irritation. I promise not to touch you or breathe in your face. “Step right up. Todd Sze, Ann Abrams, you’re both on Team Eight. Take a shirt and find your cone.”

  Those at the back of the line start pressuring those in the front to hurry up, and soon I have a crowd on my hands. I strain my eyes for signs of the math teacher and the librarian, and finally spot them approaching from the lunch tables. This is the first time I’ve seen them together. I can’t read their chemistry anymore, but they aren’t exactly brimming with conversation, which for the moment, is good. Ms. DiCarlo lifts her feet, but her heels keep sinking into the grass.

  “Hi, Mr. Frederics and Ms. DiCarlo.” I sniff, trying to read their chemistry, even though it’s futile. Nothing but sunscreen and grass. “We decided to separate the adults this year to even out the competition. So, Mr. Frederics, you’re on Team Two, and Ms. DiCarlo, you’re on Team Eleven.”

  Ms. DiCarlo spreads the neck of her T-shirt wide as she maneuvers it around her hairdo. Mr. Frederics makes eye contact with me, pupils shifting meaningfully to Ms. DiCarlo, who’s still tented in her shirt. I give him an apologetic shrug, and tick my head toward Principal Swizinger, as if she made me do it. His mouth rounds into an O and he nods. He tugs on his shirt. “You know, Ms. DiCarlo, eleven is very special. Do you know why?”

  “It’s the first number we can’t
count on our fingers?”

  “Well, yes.” His zinc-smeared nose bobs up and down as he nods. “But it’s also the fifth smallest prime number.” He slips on a baseball cap. “You know, my colleagues used to call me the human calculator.” He winks at me. Is this the secret weapon? “Give me any problem and I’ll do it in my head. Go on.”

  Ms. DiCarlo frowns, eyes bobbing around as she thinks. “572 times 1,008.”

  Without missing a beat, he answers, “576,576.”

  “Wow, that certainly is . . . impressive.” She blinks.

  “Cool, Mr. Frederics,” I add. “But you should get to your cones. We’ll be starting soon.”

  “After you,” he says to Ms. DiCarlo, extending his hand toward the cones. “Give me a harder one,” I hear him say as they stroll away. I watch him drop her off at Cone Eleven, then amble to his own Cone Two. Hopefully there’ll be no more romancing for today.

  People crowd around me, loud and impatient. Some start rummaging through the shirt box before I can check them in.

  “One at a time, people!” barks a familiar voice. “What are you, piranha?”

  “Kali!” I nearly weep at the sight of her solid self. She sweeps her arms at the crowd and they finally begin to line up. There’s a healthy glow to her cheeks and a swagger to her stride. The plumeria on the print of her lavalava wrap are so vibrant they might burst off her dress.

  “Thanks for picking up the slack.”

  She didn’t say talofa or call me Nosey. It’s not something I would ordinarily notice, but today, the lack of familiars stings. I sniff for her mood out of reflex, but of course, don’t get anything but grass. “Where have you been?”

  “Thinking about earthworms again.”

  “Earthworms?” People start crowding around us, halting further conversation. At least she doesn’t seem to be actively mad at me anymore, despite her relative aloofness. I check off names while she hands out T-shirts and dispatches people to their cones.

  Her hand shoots up. “Next!”

  Cassandra bounces up, fidgety as a sunbeam on water. “Hi!”

  “Oh, hey,” says Kali, handing Cassandra her clipboard, instead of a T-shirt. “Oops, sorry.” Kali’s cheeks flush and she exchanges the clipboard back for the T-shirt.

  “Are you feeling better?” Cassandra’s voice goes squeaky. “I was worried about you.”

  I could swear Kali blushes. “Yeah, I’m cool. You ready?”

  “I was born ready.” The songbird trills out a high note to prove it. “Which poem are you doing?”

  “Made up a new one.” Kali hands Cassandra an extra small.

  “Thanks! I can’t wait to hear it.” She skips away.

  After dispensing with several more volunteers, we’re down to one. Vicky arrives by herself, sporting dark sunglasses, maybe to shield her from the glare off her gold tracksuit. Crossing her arms in front of her, she shows us her profile. Without her peeps, and in the middle of this festooned field, she looks like a cat floating on a pool chair, nervous and slightly ridiculous.

  Kali tosses a shirt at her. “Designer, for you.”

  Vicky tosses it back. “There’s no way I’m putting that on.”

  “No shirt, no service.” Kali chucks the shirt back at Vicky.

  Principal Swizinger, standing only a few feet away, lasers Vicky with her eyes. This time, Vicky hangs on to the shirt, and her scowl morphs into a smile. “This is going to be so . . . gay.”

  Kali’s wide nostrils flare and her mouth tightens, as if she’s trying to keep her tongue from letting loose. I jerk my head toward one of the orange cones. “Team Four.”

  Vicky picks her way across the grass toward the cone.

  “Psh.” Kali lobs her gaze to the sky. “So did you fix Alice?”

  “I ran into some complications.”

  “What complications?”

  “I lost my nose,” I say in a tight voice.

  “Looks like it’s still there to me.”

  I shake my head, forcing my tears back into their corners. “I’m toast.”

  “Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Kali bumps my arm with hers, and I’m so grateful for her sympathy, I nearly lose it.

  “Oh, great, Kali, you made it.” Hope with the blond crew cut holds out a megaphone to her.

  “Talofa. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Let me show you the buttons.” Hope leads Kali to an adjacent table. The two consult while I regain my composure.

  “Did I miss anything?” In front of me, Drew runs a hand through his blond hair.

  “Oh, hello.” A pang of guilt hits me again at his guileless face, with his blue eyes enlarged by his glasses and his clear skin. “You’re with your friend Parker, Team Seventeen. Grab a shirt.”

  Drew gamely pulls the Day-Glo tee over his black ensemble. He shades his eyes as he scans the field for his friend. “Wait. Can I be with her?”

  My eyes travel to where he’s pointing. Fifty feet toward the school, Vicky clutches her purse like she’s on a New York City subway. Before I can reply, Drew skips away. The chain linking his pants to his wallet slaps him on the back of his thigh with each stride. Kali notices, and frowns at me.

  I smash my clipboard to my chest. If I had it to do over again, would I choose differently? Undecided. Vicky might be a shark out of water right now, but once we get off the field, Kali’s chum number one. Kali deserves to live her life on her own terms.

  A cloud passes over the sun, and the change in temperature chills my skin. In some way, I feel responsible for Kali’s predicament. If I hadn’t come to school, Vicky would not have seen an opportunity in me. I’m like a strange magnet whose very presence seems to screw with people’s compasses, shifting them in new directions. I couldn’t have foreseen the trouble I would cause here. But it doesn’t erase any of my guilt.

  A bus rumbles onto the field, then parks. The happy faces of dozens of kids stare out the windows.

  Kali fiddles with the megaphone, then holds it to her mouth. “Sup, everyone.” Her friendly voice booms across the field. “We’re makin’ Thanksgiving baskets with the kids. Teach ’em about veggies, like radishes and sh—”

  The principal clears her throat loudly and gives Kali a severe look.

  “Shit-ake mushrooms,” Kali corrects. Everyone laughs. “Stay with your kids at all times, and don’t squeeze the tomatoes.”

  The bus door opens with a metallic gasp. Moments later, the kids burst out and run to their cones. The energy and noise level shoots up by a factor of ten.

  Kali turns off her megaphone and heads back to me. “So how’d it happen?”

  “I fell in love with Court Sawyer.”

  She snorts. “I coulda told you that.” Her ironic expression fades when she sees my face. “Look, you’re still you without your nose, right?”

  “I don’t know.” I sniff. “My smell started fading, and now it’s gone completely.”

  “After all that work you put it through, maybe it’s on vacation.”

  “Noses don’t take vacations.”

  “Well, maybe they should.”

  “How am I going to mix if I can’t smell?”

  “What did you do when you didn’t prepare for a choreography for Cardio class?”

  “I don’t know, blew it off?”

  “Nope.” She pokes my shoulder. “You sweated it. You didn’t give any excuses, you just powered through the routine, grapevines and everything, and you got a B plus.”

  “Thanks. But there are no grades here. It’s either pass or fail.”

  Vicky stands apart from her group, nervously picking at her sleeves. Drew pulls three onions from his basket and begins a juggling act. His kids bounce up and down. Kali watches, then turns her back to them, as if she can’t bear to look any longer.

  “So what if you’re wrong? Alice ain’t gonna sprout an extra head.” Kali cocks an eyebrow. “Is she?”

  “No.”

  “You going to tell Court?”

  I shake my head. “What’s
the point? Mother would never let us date, even if he did save my life.”

  “Your life?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Okay.” Her lips press together, then unstick with a smacking sound. “You go home and work on the elixir. I can handle things here.”

  “Thanks, but I still want to hear about your earthworms.”

  She shakes her head. “Not today.”

  I can’t tell if she’s brushing me off, or just looking out for my time. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Same to you.” She blinks, but her face remains unreadable. Without another word, my only friend moves toward a group of kids throwing grapes at one another.

  Things still aren’t right between us, but at least she still cares. That refills some of the air in my leaking inner tube, makes me feel I can float a little while longer. If I still had my nose, I bet I would smell like cucumber, that cooling scent of relief.

  I weave through people and baskets of fruit back to school, passing by Team Four. Drew, still juggling, throws Vicky his onions, and she catches them, well, one of them. Then he starts a new act with beets. Vicky tosses him back all the onions, one by one, which he neatly adds to his routine.

  Now Drew’s juggling six tubers. The guy’s talented. Vicky smiles. Not a fake one, either—a real smile, like the one I saw on her sister, Juliana. Drew urges Vicky to throw one more. This time, she hefts a pineapple. She winks at one of the kids, then tosses it to Drew. His whole act falls apart.

  But now all of the kids on Team Four are holding their sides, laughing.

  The sight of Drew and Vicky’s burgeoning chemistry should make me feel relieved, but instead, something rancid burns inside me. If not for that arm-twisting squirrel, Kali and I would still be okay. I might still have Kali’s respect, and not just her pity.

  I move beyond Team Four to where Ms. DiCarlo holds a coconut for her kids to pet. Mr. Frederics studies her from far away, his expression thoughtful.

  Does the man still care for the timid librarian? Or did Alice’s attentions cool his ardor, and kindle a new one? If so, where does that leave Mr. Frederics when I PUF Alice? He’ll be damaged goods. We’ll have to tell him to plant rosebushes, the best way to get over a broken heart.