by Stacey Lee
Pascha hasn’t stopped scowling since Whit blew me the kiss, and doesn’t look disappointed at my response.
“Okay, well, have a nice weekend.” Lauren grabs Pascha’s arm and begins to pull her toward the parking lot.
“Lauren?” I call out.
She turns around. “Yeah?”
“The wider open the heart, the easier it is for Cupid to shoot his arrows.”
She cocks her head to one side, then gives me a baffled smile. “Okay, thanks.”
Instead of the parking lot, I follow those ambling toward the street.
“Mim?” says a voice from behind me. Court, still wearing his uniform and bright with the flush of victory, steps into the fluorescent lighting.
There are no mood scents to guide me, but there’s a bouncing energy around him, a liveliness like a puppy who has found its favorite kid. My insides spin with his nearness. “W-what, don’t you have a debrief or something?”
“The debrief went something like this, “Nice footwork, you clowns. Don’t be late to practice on Monday.”
“That was an amazing kick.”
“Thanks, though you better spray Whit before I get jealous.” From behind him, a couple of girls whisper and giggle.
I chew on my lip. I can’t spray anybody until Mother returns and makes the BBG. Of course, by then, I won’t need to because Mother will have exiled me to the far reaches of the Arctic Circle.
I need to tell him the truth at last. But before I can muster the words or the courage, he grabs my hand. “Let’s get lost.”
We dash back toward the stadium, through exiting stragglers, and over litter and pulled-down posters. A few fans try to stop us, but we run past them.
When I’m out of breath, Court pulls me to a dark spot underneath the bleachers.
“The PUF didn’t work,” I gasp.
“For sure?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
He looks more surprised than worried. “So what’s next?”
“My mother will be home soon. I’m in way over my head.” I stare glumly at my shoes.
“Hey, don’t feel bad. You know, it’s not so bad, Mom being in love. She’s been laughing a lot this week. And Mr. Frederics is kind of cool. He bought every one of her pies at the rally this morning. Maybe the PUF didn’t work for a reason.”
Yes, the loss of my nose.
He tucks me into his arms. “You don’t have any excuse not to kiss me now that the game’s over.”
My resolve weakens with one glance into the still waters of his eyes. One little kiss. I already lost my nose, and I may as well enjoy myself while I can. It’s his big night after all.
I draw back. No. I can’t do that. A kiss would just dig me deeper in the hole, further strengthening a bond that should never have formed. I already made my choice—nose over love. If I can sever our tie, maybe Mother can make an elixir for me like she did for Aunt Bryony. I tear myself away. “I can’t.” The two words weigh heavy as cement blocks.
“What are you talking about?”
He comes close again, but I hold up my hands. “You don’t like me that way. You think you do, but so do the rest of the people I infect.”
His face is half-smiling, half-disbelieving, as if waiting for me to deliver a punch line. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you should forget about me.”
A look of pain washes over his face, and then quickly disappears, leaving me with no clue as to what he’s thinking. Straightening his throat, he focuses on a wad of neon-green gum on the pavement. I push the knife in further, so there is no going back. “I mean—it’s been fun.”
“Wow,” he says, clearly not meaning the gum.
My heart feels like it’s about to collapse into a black hole, pulling the rest of me along with it. Who knew heartbreak was a literal thing? Court’s eyelashes dip toward my hands, which are wringing themselves dry.
A familiar laugh sounds from above, followed by voices growing louder with each footfall on the metal grating of the bleachers. We both look up. Vicky and Melanie pause just a few feet above Court’s head. I freeze, though it’s too dark for them to see us below them.
“Whit totally lost it. At least now everyone will know she puts spells on guys. Love witch,” Vicky spits. “She’s an attention-whore.”
“I know,” says Melanie.
“And you know what? I practically threw myself at Court yesterday and he completely ignored me. Like I was wallpaper. You sure you gave him the elixir?”
My heart screeches to a stop. Court quirks an eyebrow at me, and I want to seep into the earth.
“Of course I did,” says Melanie, halting. “You were there. You saw me drop it in his drink.”
I cringe. Court stares into the shadows, not looking at me.
“Why is it taking so damn long for him to fall back in love with me? The situation is making me crazy. I nearly asked Drew Reaver to the dance this morning. I mean, Drew Reaver?”
Reaver Fever. She definitely caught it.
Melanie doesn’t answer. The sole of her shoes twists back and forth on the grate. Finally, she says in a voice so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the drone of the stadium stragglers, “Have you ever thought, maybe you and Court aren’t meant to, you know . . .”
“No, I don’t know. Please enlighten me.” Vicky’s voice turns icy.
“I’m sorry, Vicky. I just think when you have to try so hard, maybe it’s not meant to be.”
“I thought you believed in us. Why would you help me if you didn’t believe in us?”
Melanie falls silent.
Court stands rigid and apart from me, his lips pressed into a hard line. I shake my head at him, trying to pass him the truth even though he’s not looking at me. It’s not what you think. The elixir was just water. I was trying to help you.
“You never believed it would work,” comes Vicky’s accusing tone.
“I thought you needed to see for yourself that he wasn’t meant for you.”
Vicky makes an indignant gasping noise. “Well, I guess you’re not as bad an actress as my father thinks you are. But you can forget about a part in his movie. When you have to try so hard, maybe it’s just not meant to be.” At that last line, she makes her voice go high and overarticulated, like Melanie’s.
Vicky gets to her feet. The bleachers rattle like thunder as she stomps off.
Court’s breath escapes in a hiss. He looks up at Melanie, now by herself. Her stiletto pokes through the grated flooring of the bleachers and gets stuck. She twists her foot to free it, then runs in the opposite direction.
Court swears. “You fixed me with Vicky?”
“No, it’s not like that. It was w-water. The elixir.” My stammering makes my explanation sound even lamer.
He snorts. “So you charged her for water? That’s a good one.”
“Elixirs are free.”
“Free?” His eyes flick to the side and he shakes his head. “So are private jets.”
I cringe as I remember my boast to him about having a private jet. Why did I do that?
He walks away, then reverses course. “This is seriously jacked up. I thought you cared.”
“I do.”
“Right. You needed my help to fix your mistake.” He rakes a hand through his hair and some of it remains sticking up. “You know, I would have done it anyway. She is my mother.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Did you ever care about me?” His eyes plead with me to make it right.
“Not that way.” My voice sounds raspy and dry. I swallow hard. “I told you, love witches can’t love.”
He coughs in disbelief and his head draws back. His hurt eyes linger for a moment on mine, then with a muttered curse, he strides off.
I waver between laughter and tears as I stumble away. BBG was never the answer. All I had to do was lie.
THIRTY
“AMAZED, PLEASED, EVEN TICKLED, SOMETIMES. BUT NEVER
SURPRISED. NO, A GOOD
AROMATEUR IS NEVER SURPRISED.”
—Anise, Aromateur, 1904
THE PIERCING WHOOSH of a plane like a Cloud Air jet rouses me from my slumber, and for a moment, a thrill of panic stabs through me. But it can’t be Mother. She won’t be here until Monday. I squint at the clock—almost eleven a.m. I haven’t slept this late in weeks. Sunlight streams through my windows, but today it doesn’t burn my eyes. Perhaps I am getting accustomed to my other senses. I sniff, but don’t detect any olfactory improvement.
I try calling Kali. With every ring, I’m filled with hope that this time she’ll answer. That she’ll be ready to get our friendship back on track. When the call goes to voicemail, I say, “Hi. Your poem—what you did—was amazing.” I stretch out the coil of my old-fashioned phone. “You’re amazing. If you feel like talking, call me.”
The bag of candy grams on the floor catches my eye. I shake myself free of my quilt and sort through the messages, one by one. The sight of Court’s neat printing squeezes my chest, making it hard to breathe. Twenty of the twenty-one are written by the same hand.
I read one:
I’m a veggie vampire,
Who does not suck on necks,
I only eat bean sprouts and peas,
And other healthy snacks.
I snivel a few times but won’t allow myself to cry. You’re not supposed to cry if you’re the cause of your own misery. Then it’s just pathetic.
I should throw them away, but I can’t. So I stick them in my nightstand drawer. The Rulebook falls over when I close the drawer. I pick it up and flip through the pages once again. Maybe there’s something about recovering your nose.
The book opens to Rule Eighteen, the rule on PUFs, probably because I’ve been reading that page a lot lately. My eyes stick on the Last Word penned at the top of the page: Love is revealed through sacrifice. —Shayla, Aromateur, 1633.
Shayla was Layla’s daughter, the one for whom Layla gave her life. Is there a reason her Last Word appears on this particular page? Last Words appear throughout the Rulebook in no particular order, though most aromateurs put them in the blank pages at the end.
My mind drifts back to the day I asked Mother about PUFs. She said, Sniff-matching. It wasn’t December, you know.
I grip the book too hard and leave a wrinkle on the page. Mother had said those words when describing how to make a PUF for Aunt Bryony. December is when Layla’s Sacrifice is in bloom, the plant with the scent so complex—over ten thousand notes—a single orchid can substitute for an elixir. Could it also substitute for a PUF?
I snap my fingers. That’s it. Even if I’m wrong, I have to try. I don’t know for sure if Alice and Mr. Frederics kissed, but maybe not, given his mother’s presence at the game. I pull on leggings and a tunic, and bobby pin my hair into submission.
Outside, I hurry to the workshop.
The twin buds of Layla’s Sacrifice are big as my thumbs and still closed. Harvesting the petals early kills the whole plant. My breath fogs up the glass as I wonder what Mother would do.
Pointless. Mother would never be in this situation. I’m toast whether I kill Layla or not. Alice might as well benefit.
I lift off the glass cover, and stroke one of the buds with my finger. This particular specimen has been growing in this case for twenty-odd years. When they were teens, Mother and Aunt Bryony spent three months in the Brazilian jungle sniffing it out. To end it now while it’s still in its prime sends a needle of pain through my heart. But it’s either Alice’s future happiness, or the plant. To me, the choice is clear. I can always sniff out another orchid. At least, Mother can.
I swab my sharpest clippers with ethanol. Flowers start disintegrating within minutes of cutting, which is why we put them in carrier oil right away. But an enfleurage will take days to reach usable concentrations. I’ll need to cut and run. I’ll have an hour, two, tops to swipe the fresh cut flower directly onto her skin before it starts to go rancid.
Holding a bud with two fingers, I snip it at the base. Then I wrap it in gauze and place it in a six-pack cooler along with an ice pack. Back outside I go. I stop at a hyacinth bush. Like the rest of the garden, the hyacinth is crying out for a trim, but I clip only a single stalk. Hyacinth means, “Please forgive me.”
Moments later, I’m on my bike, working out how to PUF Alice without her knowing. All she needs to do is touch the bud, which should be easy enough.
A pile of debris sweeps over me, kicked up by an easterly draft. I wipe dust from my eyes and nearly knock off my bucket hat. It’s the same one I was wearing that day at Arastradero when I first met Court. I should’ve grabbed a different one. Maybe Court will be sleeping. He was the star last night, and no doubt there was plenty of celebrating. With luck, he won’t wake until noon. Then again, the aspen shadows have started to seep eastward, which means its well past one.
I’m tempted to turn back and wallow under my covers.
I pass Main Street and approach the turnoff into the hills of Cypress Estates with its griffin fountain. A black compact whizzes by me. The driver’s head cranes around, and I swear she looks like Mother. Of course not, Mother’s not back until Monday. But—?
I whip my head around, remembering the jet that woke me up. The black compact slows and makes a U-turn.
It is her. Mother’s back early.
I veer into the rumble strip, nearly colliding with a side rail. The cooler jostles in my basket. What am I going to tell her? I’ll have to make it snappy. Layla’s Sacrifice will go to waste if I don’t swipe Alice soon.
I’m a heaving, sweaty mess by the time Mother pulls up to me.
The passenger side window lowers. I rub my eyes, not sure I’m seeing right. A vibrant-hued gypsy dress swathes her petite frame, topped with a triple strand of iridescent beads. And is that makeup? Mother got a makeover?
She tilts her head and smiles. Her expression is half-amazed, half- . . . tearful. “Well. She must’ve put something in the soil. You’re as tall as a sunflower!”
“Mother?”
“Honey, I’m not your mother. I’m your aunt Bryony.”
THIRTY-ONE
“IT IS NOT A COINCIDENCE THAT CLIMBING
BITTERSWEET REPRESENTS TRUTH.”
—Jonquil, Aromateur, 1699
I TRY SPEAKING twice before I can form a sentence. Except for the gray streak on the left side of her hairline—Mother’s is on the right—my aunt is an exact physical replica of Mother. “Y-you’re, h-how did you know it was me?”
“You look like her. Which means, you look like me.” She covers her mouth with her hand as we stare at each other. Cars collect in back of us. Some of them honk. Aunt Bryony motions them to go around. “Where are you headed?”
“I have to PUF someone.” I yell to be heard.
Her thin eyebrows lift. “Impressive. Made it yourself?”
“No, I cut Layla’s Sacrifice.” I show her the cooler.
“Ah, well then, time’s wasting. Get in!”
“But, my bike . . .”
“Leave it.”
Abandoning my trusty steed is almost as painful as cutting Layla’s Sacrifice. With a sigh, I dismount and prop my bike against the fountain. I lift my hyacinth and my cooler from the basket, then slide into the passenger seat, still not quite believing my aunt is here in the flesh.
She places her hands around my cheeks and kisses me on the forehead. “Look at you. Prettier than we were at your age. You didn’t get those eyelashes from our side of the family.” She taps me on the jaw. “Or that disappearing chin.”
She motors off, and the backlog of questions waterfall off my tongue. “So when—how did you get my message?”
“Bryony Suzuki got your message and she passed it to me. News travels fast when you live on an island and your name is Bryony. I couldn’t reach you yesterday so I decided to come find out what the heck is going on. Thank the lilies for the private jet.”
“You have a Cloud Air card, too?”
“Naturally. Where next
?”
“Um, make a left at the top.”
She steers the car up the hill. “Tell me she’s okay.”
“Mother? She’s fine, I think. She’s in Oman, and won’t be back until Monday.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She blows out her breath. “Now tell me who we’re PUF’ing.”
“Mrs. Alice Sawyer. I accidentally fixed her a week ago.”
“A week? You got her written permission to PUF her, I assume?”
“There’s a good chance she hasn’t kissed him yet.”
“What are the signs?”
In a few sentences, I explain about the cake and the seating arrangement at the homecoming game.
I don’t notice we passed the cul-de-sac until we’re halfway down the hill. “Oh, turn back!”
My aunt executes a five-point turn. Driving isn’t Mother’s forte either. “Mimsy, why do you think we have a Rule Eighteen?”
She still remembers the rule numbers. “To give us an out in case we screw up?”
“No, it’s to give us a fair out in case we screw up. If you PUF before a party falls in love, no harm is done, no one is the wiser. But once a party falls in love, PUF’ing would take away one of life’s greatest treasures. You must disclose.”
My heart sinks to my feet. Somehow, I knew that, I just didn’t want to admit it.
I point to the Sawyer residence and my aunt parks in the driveway. The sight of the familiar Jeep parked out front makes my adrenaline spike.
Aunt Bryony squeezes my arm. “Let’s do this.”
Moments later, I’m shuffling up the driveway after my aunt, cooler and hyacinth in hand.
As I muster the nerve to ring the doorbell, a motor roars behind us. A sporty yellow two-seater pulls into the driveway next to the rental car, rumbling loudly. Trees reflect off the glossy windows, obscuring my view of the occupants, but as the car inches closer, then stops, I make out the driver and her corkscrew red hair. It’s Cassandra, and next to her is Court.
The engine fades to a purr. Court’s aviators hide his expression. He says something to Cassandra that makes her smile.
So he wasn’t sleeping. Boy, I got it wrong. My insides churn with emotion—resignation, regret, and even a little outrage. Court hops out of the car. He’s wearing a rumpled shirt, dark jeans, and a military-style jacket, the kind of outfit for a Friday night, not a Saturday morning.
