The best ones always are.
8
Reed
The greenhouse hums with the sound of equipment working overtime and my friends helping to bail my ass out. Paolo adjusts my backup grow lights while Vick measures nutrient solutions with the precision of someone who’s watched me do it a hundred times. Kash crouches beside a tray of seedlings, documenting their progress on my tablet.
“These look good,” he says, photographing a symmetrical specimen. “How many do you need for the presentation?”
“Twenty-four,” I say, checking the time on my phone. Again. “Twelve for the main tables, twelve as backup in case of damage.”
“How many are presentation-ready?” Paolo asks, smirking, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
I look around the lab, mentally cataloging each tray. “Sixteen. Maybe eighteen if I’m being optimistic about the ones still filling out.”
“So, we need miracles,” Vick says cheerfully. “Good thing you called in the cavalry.”
The cavalry being these three guys, who showed up without question when I sent a desperate group text. They’ve been here since 6:00 pm, and it’s now past eleven. Tomorrow is presentation day.
Eliza was here all day, distracting me more than she ought to, snapping at me for relying on machines she thinks are ruining everything, but she had to go tend to her villains.
My phone buzzes with yet another message from my mother about the “wonderful opportunity” to meet potential Nicholas Industries board members at tomorrow night’s event. Apparently, half the city’s business elite will be at Bramblewood’s pitch fest, including my father’s former business partner, who’s now running a major development firm. I should feel happy that my parents are acknowledging tomorrow’s event, but I know this is just lip-service enthusiasm. They really prefer I ditch the small business and join Dad’s firm.
“Your parents again?” Kash asks, noting my grimace.
“My mother thinks tomorrow is my chance to ‘network properly’ instead of ‘playing with plants.’” I set the phone facedown on the counter. “She’s invited three separate investors to meet me, none of whom cares about sustainable agriculture.”
“But they have money,” Paolo points out.
“They have money and expectations. They’ll want to see profit margins and expansion plans, not environmental impact studies.” I adjust the timer on the nutrient pump, trying to channel my anxiety into useful tasks. “My presentation is designed for people who care about sustainability.”
“What about your dad?” Vick asks. “Will he be there?”
The question I’ve been avoiding. “Yeah. He always shows up to these things to ‘maintain important relationships.’” I can hear the bitter edge creeping into my voice. “Should be fun explaining to him why I’m still playing scientist instead of accepting his job offer.”
A sharp electrical pop echoes through the greenhouse, followed by the distinct smell of burning circuits. One of the main grow lights flickers, then goes dark.
“Shit,” I breathe, rushing toward the affected section. A full quarter of my seedlings sits in sudden darkness.
“Can we fix it?” Paolo asks, already pulling out tools, twirling a hammer like he’s a fancy bartender with a cocktail shaker.
I examine the control unit, my stomach sinking as I take in the melted wiring and fried circuits. “Not tonight. Maybe not at all.” I groan and tug at my hair.
“What does that mean for the trees?” Kash asks.
I stare at the dark section, doing rapid calculations in my head. “Without proper light exposure, these seedlings will start declining within hours. By tomorrow afternoon…” I trail off, not wanting to voice the obvious conclusion.
“How many trees are we talking about?” Vick asks.
“Eight. Eight trees that I need for the Bramblewood tables.” I run both hands through my hair, the familiar gesture providing no comfort. “Which means I’m going with an incomplete display and the joy of explaining to my parents why their investment in my education was wasted.”
The three of them exchange glances, and I can practically see them trying to figure out how to fix something that can’t be fixed with solar panels, waste management expertise, or architectural drawings.
“What about calling Eliza?” Paolo suggests. “Isn’t she supposed to be helping you?”
“It’s almost midnight,” I protest. “And she doesn’t know anything about grow lights.”
“She knows about plants,” Kash points out. “And emergency problem-solving.”
