The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel

by Fiadhnait Moser

  Floralie felt a flutter in her heart, and dizziness washed over her as she wrote, My real home is far away, too.

  Nino grinned, but then his smile fell. You look different from before, he wrote. Sadder.

  Floralie looked away. “I’m fine,” she whispered, the words slipping out of her mouth before her fingers could catch them onto paper.

  “I’m fine” is a cloak, and there are too many hidden pockets in those words for me to trust them anymore, wrote Nino.

  That’s a funny way of putting it, wrote Floralie. She giggled, careful to cover the gap in her teeth. I don’t really want to talk about it. I’ll be fine. Honest.

  Will you write me a poem about it?

  Floralie considered this. Maybe someday. Will you help me find a box of tulips? I’ve got to sell them in a bit—not that box there, though, and she pointed to the viridiflora box. That one’s filled with bugs like Pandora’s box.

  Nino nodded, and the two set to searching for a new box of tulips, and eventually they found one labeled LES TULIPES FOSTERIANAS.

  “Strange,” breathed Floralie as her fingers traced the latch of the wooden box.

  Nino tilted his head.

  “It’s the address,” said Floralie.

  The words 84 Rue Claude Monet, Giverny, France were scrawled on the top of the box.

  “I used to live in France—that very village, actually. Giverny.” She yearned for those winding roads of hyacinth-laced doorways and catching glimpses of the famous artist Monet behind the green-shuttered windows. She yearned for real croissants and she yearned for Mama’s homemade whipped cream—even if Papa always complained that it was too sweet. Floralie shook her head. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

  After opening the new box, Floralie took a handful of tulips, and then said, “I’ve got to go—maybe I’ll see you later.”

  Nino’s hand shot for his notebook, and he scrawled, Remember—you promised me earlier you’d write me a poem.

  Did not! wrote Floralie.

  Well, then promise me now.

  Floralie sighed. Fine. I promise, and she turned and left the attic.

  “Dare you,” said Mama one hot August evening. They sat in the soil amidst the flowers of Mama’s garden sipping tea with three spoonfuls of sugar.

  “Dare me what?”

  Mama’s eyes sparkled in that impish way Floralie knew all too well, and then said, “I dare you to do something that scares you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . the next passerby you see, go right on up and give him or her a flower. We know nearly everyone in this town. Turn one into a friend.”

  Floralie’s stomach squirmed, but in a good way. “What kind of flower?”

  “A tulip.”

  Floralie sighed. Mama often played these games with her. Mama was full of bravery like that. Overflowing with it, at times. Floralie wished she could be that way, full of life and love and not a drop of fear. “Okay,” said Floralie, but there were no passersby that evening.

  So Mama said, “Let’s go out and find someone,” and she pulled Floralie to her feet, Floralie wobbling with nervousness. “We’ll give them a tulip.”

  Floralie and Mama went into the village and found the young woman who worked at the bakery, the one who always gave Floralie a spoon of frosting when she visited, and Floralie gave her a tulip. The woman smiled and said thank you, and Floralie felt lighter. When Floralie came out of the bakery, Mama greeted her with a blackthorn flower and said, “This one’s for your courage.”

  The next day, Tom cleared out the wallpaper from Floralie’s room, and Floralie spent the day selling tulips on the bridge. However, all day long, passersby said to her, “Is everything quite all right, dear?” and, “Are you still with us, love?” and (the grumpier ones), “What’s the matter with you? I said I wanted tulips, not two lilies!”

  The trouble was, Floralie simply couldn’t help but feel preoccupied not only by the loss of her wallpaper, but by the curious box she had found inside her wall and the curious boy she had found inside her attic.

  It was only by evening that she remembered she had promised to write a poem. Poems were so much more complicated than paintings. Paintings were like buttercups, popping up out of nowhere in broad daylight. But poems, poems were like violets. They grew in shadowed corners and secret hideaways, hard to come by and sneaky by nature. The ones she had written on her hands the night before had just fallen out of her like loose change out of a hole in a pocket. She hadn’t intentionally tried to make a poem, and now she felt the true impossibility of it all rise in her chest. And besides that, there was no way she was showing that poem to a boy she just met. It clung too close to her heart. After four dismal tries, Floralie finally scribbled down a halfhearted attempt on a scrap of paper and snuck into the flower shop attic.

  Nino lay in the corner, feet crisscrossed in the air, leaning over a book. As soon as he saw Floralie, he shot upright.

  You’re here! he wrote.

  Floralie nodded and weaved in and out between the boxes, slung her shoulder bag down (with a rather loud thud), and sat beside Nino.

  What are you carrying in there, bricks? wrote Nino, as Floralie flipped open her bag and dug through the contents. A train ticket here, a wadded-up handkerchief there . . . at last, she pulled from it a loaf of bread and three linty apples, along with a pen. Food, she wrote in the notebook, pushing the bread and apples to Nino.

  Nino’s eyes were alight, and he took the food with haste, tearing bread like a lion would a gazelle. He chewed ravenously, biting apples and bread simultaneously. Apple juice dribbled down his chin and crumbs speckled his shirt, the sound of his crunching echoed around the attic. It was the loudest sound Nino had made since Floralie had met him. When he was finally satisfied, he wiped his chin with his sleeve and wrote, Thank you. Do you have the poem?

  Floralie shrugged. Kind of, she scrawled on the back of her poem.

  Let’s see, then.

  Floralie handed her poem to Nino, and together, they read:

  Stuck

  By Floralie Alice Laurel

  Nothing comes to mind

  Blank page staring back at me

  Poetry is hard.

  It’s a haiku, wrote Floralie.

  Nino tilted his head. Write me a real poem.

  This is a real poem, wrote Floralie, blushing. And then she added, I’m a painter. I don’t write poems.

  Write me one anyway.

  Floralie frowned. I did, and you didn’t like it.

  Please, wrote Nino.

  Floralie sighed. About what?

  Nino pondered this, and then wrote, Something simple. Meeting you, maybe. Or meeting me. Whichever.

  Fine, I’ll bring one tomorrow.

  No—right now.

  Floralie’s heart fluttered. She felt as if she were standing on tiptoes at the edge of a canyon, staring into the abyss. Something wonderful glittered on the other side, a jewel, perhaps—no—a flower—but jumping, jumping was not a practice to which Floralie was accustomed. She couldn’t help but feel the cold wind slapping her face and the nauseating vertigo settling in the pit of her stomach. Her hair catching on her lips, dress tangling around her knees. An army of geese flew overhead, honking in harmony, urging her closer and closer to the edge.

  Yes, perhaps she could write a better poem than “Stuck” . . . but what if she couldn’t? Floralie had never had a friend before, unless Wilma Jacobson from Mrs. Coffrey’s school counted. But even though Wilma had lent Floralie shoes that sparkled and sat with her at supper, she had also pulled Floralie’s hair and spread nasty rumors and cheated off her French tests. But Nino, Nino could be a friend. Perhaps, though, only if she could muster up a better poem. Floralie looked to his honey-colored eyes. Certainly, she decided, he wouldn’t want to be friends if she didn’t even try.

  And so, tentatively, Floralie wrote, Okay.

  The words did not flow easily like oil paint, but with a topic this time, Floralie a
t least had something to go from. The two sat in silence—seconds knitting into minutes knitting into hours—until Floralie finally revealed her new poem.

  Meeting You

  By Floralie Alice Laurel

  One:

  There are some rules I know

  About meeting someone new.

  Like, a first impression is a last impression

  Stand tall and stand straight

  The way you wish to be painted

  Like this, be lovely

  They are painting you.

  Two:

  Listen twice as much as you speak

  Words are useless things in

  Situations like these

  So keep them simple, short, and sweet

  Like this, be lovely

  They are painting you.

  Three:

  There are some rules I own

  About leaving someone old.

  Like curtsying

  Or hand shaking

  Or kissing on the cheek

  Like this, be lovely

  They are painting you.

  That’s beautiful, wrote Nino. But it’s missing something.

  Floralie huffed and crumpled up the poem. Well, if you think you can do better, go ahead.

  Nino cracked a smile, then leaned over his notebook. He spun words the way spiders spin webs. Floralie watched his fingertips closely—dancers on the old notepaper. And when he finished, Floralie read:

  Meeting You

  By Konstantinos

  One:

  I’ll say my name, and you will say yours,

  You become mine and I become yours

  Lost in a simple hello,

  Inventing our turn-of-a-century breakthrough

  Floralie, it’s lovely to meet you.

  Two:

  I catch your thoughts

  Drifting like dandelion clocks

  You reach for my hand, but slowly withdraw

  You see me, not only my flaws

  We’ll weave a dandelion crown, just you and I

  My Floralie, it’s lovely to meet you.

  Three:

  Some people toss coins into angel-guarded fountains

  For wishes, for love, for more coins, for luck,

  Mine landed on you

  My Floralie, my Floralie, I’m lucky to meet you.

  Nino was grinning when Floralie looked up. And in spite of herself, Floralie’s own mouth had melted into a smile as well. Floralie bit her lip to force her mouth shut as her tongue flicked against her teeth. Smiles, she thought, were no good for making friends when all anyone saw was the gap in her teeth.

  Nino turned over the page and scrawled, Your turn.

  Floralie sighed. No, I’m useless at this. Where’d you learn to write like that anyway?

  Nino shrugged. An old poet. I mean, a really old poet.

  Oh, wrote Floralie. Well, can’t we do something else?

  Nino shook his head. There’s nothing wrong with your poem. It’s just unfinished, is all. Try again. One more time.

  Floralie uncrumpled her “Meeting You” poem and reread. She stared at it for a long time, and Nino waited, simply, patiently, and then Floralie began to write. When she finished, she handed the page to Nino, and they read:

  Meeting You

  By Floralie Alice Laurel

  One:

  There are some rules I know

  About meeting someone new.

  Like, a first impression is a last impression

  Stand tall and stand straight

  The way you wish to be painted

  Like this, be lovely

  They are painting you.

  Two:

  Listen twice as much as you speak

  Words are useless things in

  Situations like these

  So keep them simple, short, and sweet

  Like this, be lovely

  They are painting you.

  Three:

  There are some rules I own

  About leaving someone old.

  Like curtsying

  Or hand shaking

  Or kissing on the cheek

  Like this, be lovely

  They are painting you.

  Another One:

  Half-finished paintings are worthless

  In galleries

  But lucky

  In house fires.

  Those one half meets

  Are easy to leave behind.

  Strangers hurt less than the ones you love.

  So like this, be lovely

  They’ve only started painting you

  Like this, be lucky

  And nothing will hurt you.

  Better, wrote Nino, grinning. Much better. You told your truth.

  A smile pulled at Floralie’s mouth, but she looked away. Yeah, well, I don’t get to tell “my” truth much anymore.

  Nino’s grin fell. Why not?

  Got expelled from school for it. They said I was a chronic daydreamer and a horrendously hopeless case. So they sent me back to my brother, Tom. Now my grandmother’s going to take me away to turn me into a proper lady. Tom tore down my paintings. I used to paint all over my walls; it used to be my wonderland, but not anymore. Painting is my poetry, I suppose.

  Nino’s eyes grew stony. That’s wrong—they can’t do that! His handwriting had gone dark and heavy like a thunderstorm was brewing beneath the ink. The words almost tore the paper. Won’t your father stop her? Or your mother?

  No, I—her hand hovered over the paper—I haven’t got them around anymore.

  Oh, wrote Nino, softer this time. I’m sorry. He paused, and then added, Me neither.

  Floralie chanced a look at Nino; he didn’t look back. I’m sorry, too, she wrote.

  So, it’s just Tom looking after you, then?

  Floralie nodded. He thinks he knows everything. He thinks he’s my father, but he’s not. I wish he would just leave me alone.

  Nino twitched his mouth, and a pang of guilt hit Floralie in the gut. I’m sorry—that was insensitive. I should be grateful I’ve still got someone taking care of me. And Tom’s not always so bad.

  Nino shook his head. No, don’t worry. I was just thinking. We’ve got to stop them—your grandmother and brother. They can’t just take you away. And they certainly have no right to take away your painting.

  Floralie shrugged. They’re completely set on it. Besides, it’s my fault. We spent all our money on my finishing school instead of Tom’s university. And I ruined it. All I want is for my daydreams to leave me alone. But they keep sneaking up on me.

  Nino stared at Floralie for a moment before taking the paper and writing for a few minutes. When he finished, he handed the page to Floralie.

  Ivy

  By Konstantinos

  I see your stone walls

  The more you build,

  The more ivy crawls.

  And longing looks like vines

  Fingers outstretched,

  Hands forming waiting lines.

  Every single vein is reaching,

  Every single vein is yearning.

  Let in the ivy

  Through the cracks in your stone

  All they want

  Is for you not to feel so alone.

  Floralie half smiled at the poem, and then quickly covered her mouth. You’re different, Nino, she wrote. But I think in a good way.

  Neither Floralie nor Nino wrote anything for a few minutes. Floralie simply wasn’t sure what to think about the daydreams anymore. About the ivy. As they sat, Floralie became aware of how silent the attic was. When writing with Nino, it was as if the attic was filled with swirling melodies, twirling dancers, when really all it was, was silence.

  Finally, Floralie wrote, Can I keep this?

  Nino nodded, and Floralie tore off the ivy poem and tucked it into her bag. And then she wrote, Nino?

  Yeah?

  I brought something I want to show you. I found it yesterday in my wall. She had been debating whether or not to show Nino. He
had been, after all, a stranger not a day ago. But he was different now. Now, they had met, and he was no longer strange—at least not to Floralie.

  So, she pulled from her bag the small wooden box with its peculiar engraving on the top. Found this in my wall the other day, she wrote.

  In your wall?

  Floralie nodded. After Tom took down my wallpaper—my paintings, I mean.

  Well, what’s in it?

  Don’t know. It’s locked.

  Nino’s eyes grew wide, and he scrawled in excited, flourishing letters, A mystery! And then he added, smaller this time, You know, mysteries are a lot like poems. May I see it?

  Floralie handed him the box.

  V.A.C., wrote Nino, lost in thought. The letters mirrored the initials on the box below the “If you want my secrets.” Do you know a V.A.C.?

  Floralie shook her head no.

  Nino began to fiddle with the lock; a light clattering bounced around the attic—

  And then something skittered past Floralie’s foot.

  Floralie leaped back, tumbling into an empty crate, and was about to scream when Nino launched himself over her and clasped her mouth. He eyed her carefully and removed his hand.

  “What on earth?” said Floralie, clutching her heart.

  But Nino simply crouched down and walked his fingers along the floorboards like spiders until he found something. He then held it up to his chest in one palm. Floralie squinted in the dim light and almost yelped again, but Nino put his pointer finger to his lips to quiet her.

  This is Philomenos, wrote Nino with his free hand.

  Floralie crept toward the puff of chestnut fur curled up in Nino’s palm.

  Rather mighty name for a mouse, wrote Floralie, still not getting too close. The mouse chattered its teeth in a way that reminded Floralie of a baby lion learning how to roar.

  Yes. He’s my friend, wrote Nino, and then added quickly, and to be precise, he’s a hazel dormouse. He likes the sound of boxes opening—he thinks it means food. Or paper. He collects everything—shiny things like buttons, thimbles, but especially paper for some reason.

  Philomenos squeaked and poked his nose up from Nino’s hand. Nino pulled a few blackberries from his pocket and held them out for Philomenos, but the mouse did not take them (perhaps because, as Floralie noticed the tiny chew marks on the leftover bread, he had already had his share of supper), and instead, started to wriggle. Nino let go of Philomenos, eyebrows high in surprise, and the mouse went scuttling toward Floralie.