by Joan Bauer
She smiles. “Yes, we can. And I expect great reports from you.”
I laugh. “Anna in Flowerland.”
I walk her out to the car, give her an intensely long hug. “Major bravery, Mom. That’s what we’re going for here.”
She salutes, gets in the car. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And she’s off.
And here I am, holding tight to major bravery.
It’s only a separation, I tell myself.
I picture my parents separating, like pan juices and fat do in a gravy separator. The fat comes to the top, the juices stay at the bottom.
We did a science video of this in school. I was a water droplet, Lorenzo was a hunk of fat. We had a fight because fat and water don’t mix—Lorenzo went one way and I went the other. We got six hundred and eighty-one hits on our video, mostly from me and Lorenzo checking to see if anyone was watching it.
Mim walks out. “This week,” I tell her, “I need to do three things I’ve never done before.”
She laughs. “That won’t be a problem.”
Five
I wake up early. Bean is licking my toe. Peanut never does this. I giggle.
From the kitchen Mim says, “I think he’s bored.”
Bean gets his disgustingly gross tennis ball that he’s been chomping on for years and presses it into my hand.
“I have to go to the bathroom, and then we’ll play.”
Bean makes a disappointed noise.
“It’s not like I go outside, lift my leg, and it’s over.”
Another noise.
“Deal with it.”
Mim hands me a warm strawberry muffin as Bean and I head outside. Can I tell you how good this muffin tastes? Strawberries and brown sugar swirls are in every bite.
Bean is getting impatient. We walk down the path that circles Mim’s garden. The daylilies are awake and open to the sun, the peonies are fat and pink, with ants crawling all over them. Baskets hang on the trellis that my grandpa Mel put up right before he died. Butterflies dance around Mim’s daisies. She even has a mirror behind a tree that makes the flowers near the back door feel like they’re right in front of you.
Bean whines.
“We’re getting there. You can’t rush in a magical place.”
We head down the stone path past the wisteria vines. We get to the clearing by the split-rail fence. Bean drops the ball and looks at me.
“How lucky do you feel today?” I ask him.
He wags his tail, I pick the ball up and throw it high. Bean jumps up and catches it in his mouth. This is his big talent. I throw it again—he catches it running, like a baseball player going for a pop fly. He rolls it back to me. I throw a grounder to the fence. He gets that one, too. He rolls it back to me.
There’s a noise behind me.
“Whoa, Zoe.”
I turn to look.
A white horse with a black mane and black legs is standing there. A girl older than I am sits in the saddle. They come right up to the fence. She’s got deep-green eyes and the longest eyelashes. I think this is the horse I saw when I was sitting on the roof deck.
“Don’t come at her from the front,” the girl says. “She’ll spook.”
I step to the side and look at this horse’s head, the small pattern of black splotches on the neck. I want to touch her.
“Our grandmothers are friends,” the girl says to me. She points behind her to the house on the hill. Dr. Gudrey lives there. “I’m Taylor.”
“I’m Anna.”
Taylor nods like she knows that. She pats the horse’s neck. “This is Zoe.”
I wave at the horse. “Hi.”
Taylor reaches down and hands me a piece of an apple. “Give it to her, but from the side.”
I do this. Zoe takes the apple from my hand.
I breathe out slow.
“You can rub her shoulder a little.”
I climb up on a split rail of the fence and rub Zoe’s shoulder. I haven’t been close to a horse in a long time. “Good girl, Zoe,” I say. I remember being thrown. Zoe looks at me. Her eyes are so soft. I look down.
I’ve got some issues, okay?
But I keep rubbing. “How you doing, Zoe? Does this feel good?”
And now this horse brings her head close to me and puts it near my shoulder. I figure if this wasn’t okay, Taylor would say something.
I stand here and don’t move.
“How long are you here for?” Taylor asks.
“I don’t know.”
Taylor nods like she knows what that’s like.
Zoe nuzzles me. I didn’t know horses do this.
“Do you ride?” Taylor asks.
“No.”
“You should ride,” she says. “There’s nothing like it.”
Taylor makes a quiet noise and Zoe turns from the fence; a quick touch of the reins and Zoe starts trotting . . .
Then goes faster . . .
Taylor rides this horse like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I can’t tell you how much I want to do that.
“That girl on the horse . . .” I say to Mim as she and I climb into the pickup.
“You met Taylor. Good. . . .” Mim backs out of the driveway. “She’s one resilient kid. I do believe it was the horse that saved her.”
“Zoe?”
I wait for Mim to tell me the story, but she doesn’t. She drives down the street and turns left by a painted unicorn.
I laugh. “I love that!”
“We have a lot of those around. Some towns paint cows, we paint unicorns.”
Past a gazebo now, past a park with a sign, CRUDUP GARDENS, past more unicorns, another huge road sign:
CRUDUP’S COUNTRY MARKETS
YOU CAN ALWAYS DEPEND ON US!
Mim pulls into the back of Flower People, her shop, the best place for flowers anywhere. “Anna, my girl, are you ready to touch lives?”
I laugh. “Always.”
Mim throws a crazy purple scarf over her shoulders. “That’s the right answer.”
Mim’s in action, doing a dozen things at once.
A guy, maybe sixteen, comes in holding mum plants. “The funeral procession starts at noon.”
Mim nods and puts two bouquets together. “Get me the mint and the catnip.”
What?
The guy hands these to her, and she puts them in the bouquets.
“Anna, say hello to Burke.”
“Hello to Burke,” I say.
The guy smiles. “You’re the actor.”
I shake my hair dramatically. “Yes.”
Burke looks at his list, looks at Mim. “Cassidy’s needs as many dogwoods as we’ve got, Mirando’s now only wants pink roses for the wedding . . .”
“They need to stop changing their mind.” Mim groans.
“And,” Burke continues, “Carl Bristol called and wants to know if he can water his cactus with coffee.”
“What kind of coffee?”
Burke looks at his paper. “French roast.”
“Tell him once a month, no more. Anna, Burke here can put up an arbor one-handed. My kind of man.”
Burke smiles. He’s got light blond hair and an almost- beard. He’s wearing jeans, sandals, and a green Flower People T-shirt.
I’m standing by the indoor fountain looking at the pots and baskets hanging from the ceiling. Mim points at me.
“Girl, you’ve got big deliveries to make today.”
“I do?”
“They require a person of your unique gifts.”
Burke laughs in a way that makes me nervous.
I ring the doorbell at Leona Cushman’s house with my elbow because the vase of roses I’m holding is so big—it’s an “I’m Sorry
” bouquet sent to her from her husband, Harold.
I don’t know what Harold did, but Mim said it’s my job to sell the apology.
A lady opens the door. “Mrs. Cushman?” I ask.
“Yes . . .” She looks at the flowers and smiles.
Flowers aren’t all she gets this morning.
I hand them to her, take a big gulp of courage.
You can do this, Anna.
My mouth feels dry, but I need to get over that.
“Woo woo . . .” I sing.
Now I start swaying.
He’s sorry.
Woo woo woo.
Really sorry.
Uh-oh!
Let the flowers show how much he cares.
Woo woo woo.
He’s sorry!
Woo woo . . .
I go for the big finish, throw my hands out . . .
Wooooooo!
My voice cracks on the high note. I hate when that happens.
I wrote this little song in the car. If Lorenzo was here, we’d have harmony. It’s so much easier to sing with somebody else.
Mrs. Cushman gives me a big tip and shouts, “You’ve outdone yourself, Mim!”
Mim waves from the truck, and we’re off to, I’m not kidding, the pet cemetery.
“No singing on the next one,” Mim warns. “Look solemn even though you’re a dog person.”
“Meow.”
One down on Things We’ve Never Done Before.
I carry two bouquets past the headstones:
BIG MONGREL
FUR E. BALL
MISS BITSY
There’s a small group of old ladies gathered in a circle. Mrs. Bernstein comes forward, crying. I hand her the bouquet with fresh mint and catnip, her cat’s favorite things.
“I’m sorry for your tragic loss, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bernstein sniffs. “I believe Empress is happier up there.”
An old lady calls, “God knows she wasn’t happy down here!”
I nod meaningfully and leave. Two down on the Things We’ve Never Done Before challenge. I walk toward the pickup. A tall woman is talking to Mim.
“If you must know, Mim, it’s the Tourism Council. They’re concerned.”
“You’re the head of that council, Doria.”
This woman goes into all-out snark: “How long have we known each other?”
Mim smiles like it’s been too long.
“And in that time, have I ever asked you to do something that wasn’t for the benefit of the town?”
Mim keeps smiling.
“Coleman Crudup is protesting his placement in the parade, Mim. He gives so much money to this event, and he feels strongly that last year his float should have won a trophy.”
Mim leans against her truck. “Last year he cheated, Doria. His float design was taken from one in the Rose Bowl Parade. The designs have to be original. You know that.”
This tall lady isn’t happy. “Mim, Coleman Crudup is a major force in this town. We need to keep him happy.”
Mim adjusts her purple scarf. “I believe in taking care of everyone in town, and those who respect the rules should get precedence at the festival over those who don’t.”
I think Mim needs some help, so I walk up. The tall lady looks at me, not impressed. “You’re the granddaughter. . . .”
“I’m Anna, ma’am.” I smooth my Kids Act Out shirt from the Children’s Drama Workshop.
“I hear you’re amusing. . . .”
I wiggle my nose. People love this in Philadelphia.
This woman stares at me.
“You must show us your full range of talents sometime, dear. I love to be entertained.”
I smile. Really?
Mim is driving down Rose Street: a man hangs twinkling lights shaped like flowers over Mabel’s Cafe, a giant winking sunflower turns on top of Crudup’s Country Market, Star Nails is offering 20 percent off on all flower nail designs from now until the festival. I look at my nails, which I’ve chewed to stubs.
“Everything is bigger than I remember, Mim.”
I haven’t been here for the festival in years—I was always at the Children’s Drama Workshop summer program.
“And you won’t believe the crowds that show up. We spent a lot of time in Rosemont trying to figure out what’s the best gift we’ve got to offer that might bring in some tourism. We always had fine gardens, so we built from there, and now”—she laughs—”we’ve created a monster.”
She turns down a winding road lined with bushes shaped like animals.
“Who did those, Mim?”
“Burke.”
“You’re kidding!” I look at a bird, a dog . . .
“That boy’s got deep rivers.” Mim pulls into the parking lot of the Rosemont Library. We get out of the truck, walk past a bush shaped like a camel and up the steps. “You’ll hear a lot more about this while you’re here, Anna, but I want to maintain the heart of this town and this festival. Not grow it too big, to where we can’t handle things. But some people keep pushing for more. . . .”
“Like Coleman Crudup?”
Mim stops for a second and looks so tired. “He’s the richest man in town, and he expects to get his way.”
Six
“I hear you were a cranberry.”
The boy is wearing a T-shirt that reads POSSIBLE GENIUS, and he is holding a weird pink hat with petals.
I look at the hat. “Four shows a day on the weekends. I had a nine-week run.”
He twirls the hat. “Winnie Dugan asked me to talk to you. She’s in an extra-long meeting with people who drive her crazy.” Mim’s in that meeting. Winnie is one of the librarians here and Mim’s best friend.
The boy holds up two costumes. Both look lame. “We’re trying to get kids to help get out the word about the festival, and Winnie wondered if you’d like to be a flower and pass out information.”
A kid dressed like a sunflower walks by, not doing much with the role.
“Daisy or petunia?” the possible genius asks.
As a professional, I need hard facts to make this choice. I take out my phone, look up daisies and petunias.
Points for daisies: simple beauty, popularity. Daisies cheer people up.
Points for petunias: toughness, they keep blooming in cold weather. You can count on a petunia.
That settles it. “Petunia,” I tell him.
He hands me the pink costume with the weird petal hat and points to the bathroom. “You can change in there, Petunia.”
“My name’s Anna. We’re doing this now?”
“You have something better to do?”
Guess not . . .
I look at him. He’s got dark glasses and dark straight hair that falls in his face. “Do you have a name other than Possible Genius?”
“You can call just me Genius.”
“What does your mother call you?”
“Difficult.”
I would like to say that this puffy pink outfit was not well thought out.
It bounces when I move.
The hat is shaped like an upside-down trumpet, and the petals fall in my face.
I look at myself in the mirror of this one-person bathroom.
I do not look like a tough flower, okay?
My mind goes round and round like a hamster on its wheel.
What if . . .
My life is going to change and there’s nothing I can do about it?
My parents don’t love each other anymore?
My parents need me and I’m not there to help them work things out?
Peanut can’t cope and isn’t eating?
Lorenzo finds a new acting partner?
A petal from the weird hat flops over my eye.
Blow it back,
Anna. You’re a petunia.
I do this.
More force, Anna.
I lean toward the mirror.
Look, when the other flowers give up, I’m still blooming.
I laugh at freezing weather.
“Watch me, world, I’m a petunia.”
It’s official. I’m now three down on the Things We’ve Never Done Before challenge.
I open the bathroom door, march into the busy library.
A girl asks, “What kind of flower are you?”
“The toughest one in the garden.”
“Cool.”
I twirl—I think that’s appropriate—and walk to the front door. The genius says, “Nice hat.”
“The flower festival is in eighteen days,” I remind people. I dance around at this news. “We are going to party.” I do my break-dance move.
A little moonwalk moment now, walking like I’m moving against gravity—Lorenzo and I practiced this for one entire year.
A man wants to know where the four-day books are. I point.
A woman wants to know if she can return her past-due books to me. “You need a librarian for that, ma’am.” I shake one of my leaves toward the information desk.
I do the slide, the funky chicken. I’m not used to working solo—I keep expecting Lorenzo to show up and dance with me. A boy does the funky chicken with some excellent wing action, but it’s not the same.
Six men wearing shirts with cactuses on them march in.
The tall snarky lady I saw at the pet cemetery follows them. “Gentlemen, all I’m asking is that your float bring up the rear.”
One faces her. “You want us to be last, Doria. You want us to give up our number one position for Coleman Crudup? We’re cactuses, not pansies.”
Her face gets flushed.
“Tell Crudup to stop pushing the little guys around, Doria.”
They march past me. This Doria woman stares at my outfit.
“Hello, ma’am, we met at the—”
She marches past me, too.
Now a group of kids about my age come in. Their shirts say ROSEMONT MIDDLE SCHOOL JAZZ BAND.
