Flower Stormtrooper gave me a glassy stare. “Do you think we care how many mindless zombies you managed to attract with your bloated-ego thirst traps?”
Wow.Way to rub salt in my wound. Or rather, dirt. I wasn’t posting pictures of myself on Instagram to make peopledesire meor something. I was building my brand.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
He waved his hands with agitation. “We’ve had enough of people like you coming out here to take pictures for your precious social media. We don’t need any more trampled lavender fields or beheaded roses. Last year someone took down a seven-foot sunflower stem outside the garden center when they grabbed it because a bird flapped near them. And now we have to clean up all this manure!”
Sunflower stems were seven feet tall around here? After the parakeet thing, I kind of understood being afraid of a bird. But he was beingrude. Even after I’dapologized. I offered to help clean up. I offered to pay for the spilled—wait,what?
“What did you say this was?” I looked down.
The redhead flipped her hair over her shoulder and smirked. “Sheep manure.”
“Manure?” This wasmanure, not soil. Literally, shit. I closed my eyes.
“I mean,” she continued, “it’s composted manure, so it’s mostly sterilized. C’mon, you look like the type to bathe in curated poop at one of those fancy spa places. Manure is no big deal.”
Flower Stormtrooper scowled again. “It is a big deal that there is manure all over the gravel.”
I glared at them sharply. “Can you stop saying that word?”
The girl chuckled. “Would you prefer we called it sheep shit? Poo? Excrement? Softened turds?”
Honestly, I would’ve preferred they both stopped talking.
I sighed. I was far from home, covered in poo, and had completely lost my will to fight back. “I just wanted a picture.”
“Well, this isn’t your personal photo booth,” said Flower Trooper. “It’s abusiness, and we need to work, not argue with wannabeinfluencersor clean up your messes.” He took a deep breath, preparing himself for more. “No trespassing, no moving stock around to suit your whims, andno pictures. Now please leave so we can clean this up.” He snorted at my shoes, shaking his head.
I didn’t need to be told twice. I walked toward Mom’s car. Which was gross, because I could feel the squish of manure in my boots with every step. I wanted to vomit.
“I don’t want to be here. I don’t like your fucking town!” I called out without turning back.
Two feet from the car, I unleashed a series of sneezes that I swore pulled a stomach muscle.
I really, really didn’t want to be in Bakewell.
3
TINY HOUSE OF PINE
Ihad no choice but to leave my poop-covered boots on for the fifteen-minute drive to my aunt’s. There were six other pairs of shoes in the trunk, but I wasn’t about to change, or even go barefoot, until I took off (and burned) these socks and scoured my feet clean. All I could do was wipe the suede with a napkin while Mom tried not to laugh. I gave her a much-deserved pout.
I texted Gia that there wasno way my first day in Bakewell could get worse—there was only uphill from here.
Mom pointed out the window. “Look, we’re in Bakewell.”
Yup. There was the town welcome sign. A large carved wood monstrosity with the wordsWELCOME TOBAKEWELL, FLOWERCAPITAL OFONTARIOsurrounded by painted wood flowers. It was speared next to a highway overpass on a little patch covered, of course, with real flowers in shades of...well, all the shades. So many colors. Too many flowers, if you asked me. I was glad I’d packed the Costco-size bottle of antihistamines. I’d need them.
I added to the text.
We may have made a colossal mistake.
Gia didn’t respond. I texted Matteo, but also, no answer. They were probably still at that baptism.
A few minutes later, Mom turned onto a street, saying, “Here we are, Tahira.”
The street looked kind of weird. Since this was the so-called flower capital of Ontario, it was no surprise that all the houses had pretty, well-maintained gardens. But they were spaced farther apart than I was used to, and they were all different sizes and colors.
