The Secret of a Heart Note

by Stacey Lee

  Love is so chancy. If Alice hadn’t gotten hooked on romance books, I might never have fixed her. Or if Ms. DiCarlo’s rabbit hadn’t died, Mr. Frederics and Ms. DiCarlo might be making some of their own sunshine, without our help.

  I would still simply be Mimosa, the oddball with the hats, she who should not be touched.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “THE EASIEST WAY TO RUIN

  A GOOD ELIXIR IS TO THINK ABOUT IT.”

  —Xanthe, Aromateur, 1877

  AT LAST, ALL oils are ready for blending. The homecoming game starts at seven. Two hours to get this right. Ordinarily, it would take me an hour, and that’s with a nose. I work at a Frankensteinian pace, transferring oils into test tubes, and occasionally banging my head on the table. Finally, ninety-eight glass tubes stand at attention in front of me like the pipes of an organ.

  I try again to smell, and nearly pass out from the effort.

  A mathematical formula would be really handy, something that told me exactly how much of each oil to use. If the aromateurs of yesteryear had allowed scientists to study their noses, perhaps they could’ve invented tools to quantify smells by now. I take a slow breath in, trying to steady my heart.

  Going from memory, I begin to layer the oils onto a square of cotton using pipettes the size of straight pins. Certain notes, like kangaroo paw, are typically “shy” and like to hide, and so for these, I use more. Others, like blue tansy, a flower with an appley scent, are notorious for being the loudest one in the room, so I use only the smallest drop I can manage.

  I should try calling Mother again. She’ll be livid. I imagine her clutching her heart and sucking in her bottom lip the way she does when the soup’s too hot.

  The thought causes my hand to shake, knocking over the vial of blue tansy. The tansy quickly seeps into the entire cotton square. Holy dirt, that’s the second spill in twenty-four hours! I grab the vial before I lose all the precious scent. Between the tansy and the lavender, Mother will smell the mistakes before she even gets to the driveway. I’ll need to bring in the spider plants, with their pure oxygen smells, to erase the evidence.

  Sinking into my chair, I clutch my head in my hands and curse myself. The square is useless now. Breathe and start over, one singer at a time.

  It’s dark by the time I finish. Why doesn’t Mother get a clock in here? Quickly, I put the cotton square in a test tube and add carrier solution. I shake it fifty times, unlid, filter, and retube. Then I run back to the house. The homecoming game must have already started.

  My heart sinks when I see it’s 7:14. Games always start late, don’t they? They have to do the anthem, the welcome home speech to the alums. I pull a sweater over my sundress, stuff my hair into a beret, and grab my gloves. Then I hop on my bike and I’m riding as fast as my legs can pump toward the biggest game of the year.

  Most people think homecoming means football, but not in Santa Guadalupe. Some of the greatest soccer players in the country come from our narrow strip of the world, which is why cars are parked along the shoulder at least two miles before the school. Opening car doors and strewn beer bottles force me to slow down as I draw closer.

  I leave my bike near the library and race to the stadium. The trash cans are already overflowing with empty cans and hot dog trays. A group of kids blow their noisemakers right by my ear.

  According to the scoreboard, visible from outside the stadium, no one’s made a goal yet. The words Half Time inch across the screen as the announcer reads advertisements. I hope Kali hasn’t performed yet, though I have to focus on finding Alice. My blend may be the worst elixir ever in the history of elixir making, but it’s all I have right now.

  I pull my beret over my ears and work on my cotton gloves. With no BBG, I must be extra careful to avoid skin contact with anybody who could possibly take more than a friendly interest in me. Keeping my elbows in, I make myself as small as possible as I hurry into the stadium, passing people wearing panther ears, and others sporting opposition T-shirts for the Bulldogs.

  The half-time show has begun. Someone, I think Cassandra, begins to sing. Definitely Cassandra. She chose a ballad so syrupy, my teeth ache.

  “Hey, Mim!” yells Lauren. She and Pascha, linking arms, rush up beside me. Lauren’s fully decked out in panther wear, complete with black ears, whiskers drawn on her cheeks, even a tail pinned in the back. Pascha’s wearing the same ears atop her headscarf.

  “Hello.”

  Pascha pushes her friend with her arm, causing both of them to stumble sideways. “Lauren’s going to ask him tonight.”

  It takes me a moment to figure out what she’s talking about. Ah, the boy Lauren wanted to ask to the homecoming dance. “That’s great.”

  “Assuming I can find him. There’s a full house.”

  I look up, swaying a little. The stadium’s crammed even at the highest levels, a dot matrix of color. The din of horns and people yelling feels like somone is pushing needles into my brain.

  “Just look for the red glasses,” says Pascha.

  My eyes fall back to the girls. Drew has red glasses. “Is it Drew Reaver?”

  Lauren squeezes Pascha’s arm so hard, Pascha makes a face. “How do you know that?” Lauren asks me. “Can you smell that I like him? Or can you smell that he likes me?”

  Pascha untangles her arm from her friend’s, and her bracelets jangle. “He’s the only junior with red glasses, dummy.”

  “Oh, right.” Lauren has changed the rubber bands in her braces to silver, making her smile extra tinselly.

  I look around me, as if I could be the butt of some colossal joke. Lauren likes Drew, but thanks to me, he already has one pant leg caught in the Vicky vacuum, and soon he’ll be whirling around in the vortex of her affections. There will be no room for Lauren.

  “Now we have to work on a date for Pascha.”

  “It’s okay. I need to babysit my brother. Plus, my dad thinks people just go to dances to make out.”

  “He’s sort of right. But you’re on the committee. You’ll be too busy working to make out.”

  A wave of vertigo passes through me again, and I grab a rail on one side of the pathway to steady myself. The lights hurt my eyes, and my head might explode soon with the combination of Cassandra’s high notes and the noisemakers.

  Breathe. I close my eyes and inhale a few more times.

  When I open them again, Pascha and Lauren are staring at me.

  “Are you okay?” asks Lauren.

  “Yes, thanks. I’m fine.” I still have a mission to accomplish and I can’t get sidelined. “Have either of you seen Alice, er, Court’s mom?”

  “No,” says Lauren.

  Pascha shakes her head. “Why?”

  “I have to give her something.”

  “There’s an empty seat by us,” says Pascha. “Front row because we’re officers. She might have seats there, too.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur gratefully.

  I scan the bleachers as I follow the girls, trying not to bump anyone.

  Cassandra holds her final note long enough for my clothes to come back into fashion. When she finally cuts it off, the crowd applauds and she spends the next few minutes bowing, her curly tresses flipping up and down like she’s giving the crowd a car wash.

  Pascha and Lauren finally park in front-row seats, right at the midline. I slide into the empty seat beside Pascha, then crane my neck in both directions. No Alice.

  At last, the announcer hooks Cassandra away. “Now, get ready for the Panther’s own poet laureate performing her poem, ‘The Way We Are,’ Kali Apulu!”

  Kali’s appearance distracts me for the moment. She lights up the stage in her neon ensemble and I yell like crazy, finding my second wind. The cheering is especially loud two sections up, where I spot her family, jumping up and down and waving.

  Kali adjusts the microphone headset then gives a thumbs-up to the audio guys. A bass beat starts rocking the stadium, and a synthesizer adds a syncopated rhythm. She’s going to rap.

/>   I’m-a get square with you,

  Gonna share with you,

  Kick a chair, let down my hair, and spare the air with you.

  Living out loud is the way we groove it,

  If they don’t like our crowd, they can go move it.

  Kali bends her knees and begins moving them from side to side like she’s slaloming, and the crowd goes crazy.

  They think we don’t know jack,

  They think we just throw smack

  Racing cars, hiding, and getting cash,

  Rolling down the lane is how we’re strollin’,

  If they don’t like the groove, they can get rollin’.

  This time, everyone joins Kali in the dance move. Despite my sensory overload, and the noise of the bass pummeling my brain, I can’t help smiling. That’s my friend, smoking up the stadium.

  I continue straining my eyes for Alice and finally locate her—right behind the goal, another prime viewing section. She’s wearing a hot-pink sweater over her four-hundred-dollar jeans and waving pom-poms. Her head swivels side to side, then looks behind her, below her. She must be looking for Mr. Frederics, who I don’t see anywhere. That’s good. Maybe he decided not to come to the game.

  On one side of Alice are three empty chairs, and on the other, Melanie and Vicky. Unlike the rest of the crowd, the girls are sitting, both staring at their cell phones.

  Time to move. If I can reach Alice while Kali still has the crowd pumped up and on their feet, maybe I can dose her without anyone noticing.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell Pascha, then slip away.

  The path to Alice is slow and treacherous. I skirt bodies flinging their arms around, some still holding their drinks. I dodge hoards of barking Bulldog fans. The journey’s as slow as wading through mounds of sand.

  I’m an extra large

  And I charge by the pound,

  So get your nuts and chews before I come around.

  Living loud and queer is how I travel

  If they don’t like my gear, they can hit the gravel.

  What did she say? Living loud and queer? I stop in my tracks.

  Kali just outted herself.

  Vicky’s hands fly to her mouth. She turns her astonished eyes toward Melanie, and the two of them have a staring contest. Kali keeps up her flow, knees now bowing inward and outward and arms pumping up and down. Her audience copies her, yelling out the chorus and nearly drowning her out. Besides Vicky and Melanie, no one even notices Kali’s confession.

  So that’s what Kali was talking about when she said no squirrel was going to push her around. And her speech about earthworms and not letting fear stop her.

  With a winning state of mind,

  We’re gonna catch you from behind,

  We iPhone, homegrown, won’t go home until we own.

  In your face, keep the pace, pass, and unlock it,

  Shooting from the line, Panthers go rock it!

  Kali didn’t need me to break any rules for her. She could hold her own.

  I sag into the metal railing and it digs into the bumps of my spine. Kali didn’t even confide in me about what she planned to do, more proof that she doesn’t need me, not like I need her. My eyes grows misty, and I cage my chest with my arms, feeling like the emotions that swarm inside might suddenly fly away and leave me empty. I have to keep moving.

  By the time I finally arrive at Alice’s section, Kali has finished and everyone’s back in their seats. I want to bang my head on the railing. Now I’ll have to wait for the next time everybody’s on their feet and no one’s paying attention to me. I try to blend into a post a few rows up from Alice.

  A cheer goes out as the Panthers file back on to the field. The sight of Court in his white soccer uniform makes my stomach turn a clumsy cartwheel.

  The cheerleaders spell out “Sawyer” letter by letter with their bodies. Soon everyone begins chanting his name, especially Alice, who pumps her pom-poms with every beat of the cheer. When the cheer ends, she stands up and looks around her.

  The Bulldogs reenter the field, and soon the ball’s bouncing around the pitch. Back and forth it goes, never quite making it to one end or the other. Court and Whit tag team, each dancing with the ball until the defenders force a pass to the other.

  Court fakes one direction, then needles the ball through the path of two defenders. People jump to their feet, screaming for him to kick it. Now’s my chance. I squeeze by the row of people directly above Alice, making myself very compact so I don’t touch anyone. When I get to Alice, I nonchalantly overturn my vial on her head. She doesn’t notice.

  The crowd groans as Court’s ball goes high, missing the goal. I nearly trip in my haste to exit the row before everyone sits down again. Finally, I make it back to the aisle. There, I wait while I gauge Alice’s reaction, crossing my fingers and praying.

  Nothing.

  According to Mother, the PUF almost always works immediately, just like BBG. But Alice doesn’t show any sign of being confused or in a daze. In fact, she’s still shaking her pom-poms, even though another of Court’s kicks misses.

  Suddenly, she spots someone. It’s the math teacher himself, leading an unsmiling old black woman past Alice’s section. Maybe that’s his mother, the one who wanted to see him hitched before she died. Alice yells and waves a pom-pom in their direction. I watch in horror as Mr. Frederics wiggles his fingers in salute. The mother forms her mouth into an O, then nods at Alice.

  The teacher begins climbing the stairs, leading his mother by the hand. He and his mother stop at Alice’s row then edge past people, including a scowling Melanie, until they reach Alice, who pulls the mother into a hug. Finally, they all sit down.

  My eyeballs are dry from staring so hard. I jam my beret further over my head, wishing I was someone else. Someone who didn’t wreak havoc in the lives of others. Someone whose nose still led the way.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “IF PEOPLE ONLY SPOKE THEIR HEARTS RATHER THAN THEIR

  MINDS, THEY WOULD HAVE NO USE FOR US.”

  —Willow, Aromateur, 1840

  I COLLAPSE INTO the seat by Pascha and Lauren. All that work for nothing. Who was I fooling? I knew it wouldn’t work. A blind person had better odds of fitting together a thousand-piece puzzle than I had of creating an elixir without my nose.

  Alice and Mr. Frederics lean toward each other as they chat, with the math teacher’s mother sitting in between them. At least there will be no kissing across the old woman’s lap.

  I cringe, thinking of how angry Mother will be when she finds out. If I tell her when she calls on Sunday, she might have time to cool off before she socks it to me in person. When Mother gets mad, it is a sight to smell. Once, I overwatered the ghost orchids, and Mother released a cloud of burning tires so singeing, I could taste the bitter vapors lingering at the back of my throat.

  Court bats the ball through a defender’s legs, then lithely rushes by to receive it again on the other side. Witnessing his mastery over his game reminds me of our conversation on the way to Playa del Rey. Court doesn’t need soccer to define him; he loves the ocean, he wants to study whales. But I don’t have anything but my nose. Without it, who am I now?

  Pascha’s mouth falls open and she gets to her feet, watching as Whit dribbles the ball down the field. A Bulldog interferes, and Pascha nervously chews a fingernail, her eyes round and unblinking.

  One of our defenders snakes the ball from the Bulldog and sends it back to Whit.

  Pascha starts fanning herself with her scarf. “He’s so hot,” she gushes to Lauren and me. “I mean, look at him. I heard he likes spicy food. I like spicy food. How perfect is that?”

  Whit, right in front of us now, looks around for Court. Pascha starts screaming Whit’s name. Her panther ears slide to one side of her head. Whit looks up for a split second at Pascha, but then his eyes shift to me and he gawks like he’s caught a glimpse of the yeti. I step behind Pascha and out of his sight line. Court runs up for the ball, but instead of passing, Whit
starts playing with the ball, bouncing it off his knees and chest.

  Court screams for him to pass it, but Whit ignores him. Now he’s doing some kind of scissor step with the ball between his legs, despite the Bulldogs rushing up to him. He’s completely forgotten about the game. He looks up and points at me, grinning.

  Pascha’s jaw drops. “Oh. My. Allah. Is it me?” She steers her open mouth from me, to Lauren, to me again. Whit, who still hasn’t broken eye contact with me, puts two fingers to his lips and blows me a kiss.

  Court beelines to Whit, and with one quick movement of his foot, jimmies the ball from him. The crowd cheers as Court dribbles it away. Whit’s face twists, and he hauls off after Court.

  Pascha crosses her arms and frowns at me. “It’s you.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a temporary situation.” I hold out my gloved hands in apology, but she only lifts her nose.

  Lauren talks excitedly, “He’s totally into you, Mim. How do you do that? No, seriously. How do you do that?”

  Failure to BBG is how. I shake my head in misery and stare at the scoreboard. Five minutes left in the game and no goals yet. I should leave now. Try to find Kali. Maybe she’ll be ready to talk now. At least I can congratulate her.

  But there are too many people crowding the aisles. There’s no way I could get through without contaminating someone, even with my long sleeves and hat. I shrivel back into my seat, defeated.

  Just before the clock runs out, Court lets his foot fly. The ball practically sears a hole through the net as it lands.

  Panthers 1, Bulldogs 0. The crowd roars and stomps its feet, and it’s as violent as a hurricane to a single, beleaguered dandelion.

  Outside the stadium, the crowds dissipate and head for their cars. “Sure you don’t want to join us?” asks Lauren. “Stan’s is hosting free donuts for everyone. I’m working up the nerve to ask Drew.”

  Maybe I should tell her not to go to the party, or at least, not to get her hopes up. Then again, maybe I would do the world a favor by just minding my own business. “I’m sorry, I can’t go. I’m expected home.”