“We’ll be all right,” Marcella says. “We’ll protect each other no matter what, no matter who.”
“Are you ready?” Sydney asks all of us. We each take a moment, take a breath, and we all murmur yes and climb out of the car.
The air is warm, fragrant, and it’s immediately alluring and relaxing.
“Don’t be fooled,” I tell the others. “They may be beautiful, but any one of these flowers can kill you. They’re poison.”
“They’re lovely,” Brynn says, sounding dreamy for a moment. But then she clears her throat and closes her fist as if trying to fight off the allure.
It’s late afternoon, and the birds are singing in the trees. Wind blows softly over our skin as we approach the door. I half expect Rosemarie to answer before I knock, but she doesn’t. I give a soft rap, and we wait.
It takes a while, and I’m surprised by this. Surely, she was expecting us. She’s always been one step ahead. When the door finally swings open, it’s not Rosemarie who answers, but Lennon Rose.
“Girls,” she says with a bright smile. “You’re early.”
I fall back a step, bumping into Sydney. We’re speechless, staring blankly at her.
For her part, Lennon Rose looks beautiful. Her blond hair is tied up in a high knot, long strands framing her face. Her skin is makeup free and fresh, a soft shine on her lips. She nods to me.
“I like the hair, Mena,” she says casually. “It’s very you.”
“Thank you,” I reply, touching the ends of it. Seeing Lennon Rose answer the door has left me off-balance. Or maybe it’s the flowers.
“Come in,” Lennon Rose tells us, stepping aside and waving us forward. “Rosemarie is just in the kitchen.”
We all walk inside, and the other girls take a moment to look around the living room. The old books, potted plants, and eclectic furniture. Like Quentin’s cabin, there is an immediate hominess to the place, only this house is decorated exactly the way we would have loved it. Alive and lived-in, relaxing—not to mention the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon hanging in the air.
Lennon Rose leads us into the kitchen, and sure enough,Rosemarie is standing by the oven, an apron tied around her waist, her gray hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She gasps delightedly when she sees the other girls.
And that’s how I know she’s planning something. Her approach is too sweet, too kindly. I turn away, startled when I find Leandra sitting at the kitchen table, balancing a cup of tea between her fingers.
“Leandra,” I say in surprise. She gives nothing away, only smiles in return.
“Hello, girls,” she says to all of us, and takes a sip, never lowering her gaze from mine. I imagine she’s not happy. She either correctly guessed our intentions or she isn’t here by choice.
“Hope you have a sweet tooth,” Rosemarie says. “Lennon Rose and I have been baking pies.” She motions to two that are cooling on the countertop—the lattice crusts perfectly browned, a dusting of sugar on the tops. “Have a seat,” Rosemarie says, adjusting the time on the oven. She wipes her hands across her apron, and then unties it, wrapping it neatly in its own strings before setting it aside.
The girls and I do as she asks, trying our best not to seem too eager. Brynn is barely holding it together, though, and her eyes dart around the room, finding the hallway that leads to the back bedrooms.
“Ah,” Rosemarie says, taking a moment to gaze at each of us. She tilts her head and smiles at Brynn. “The caregiver,” she says lovingly. “Even now your programming shines through. I’m glad you didn’t lose that.”
Brynn is uncomfortable with the poet’s attention and folds her hands in front of herself, attempting to keep her expression clear. But it’s a reminder of how well Rosemarie knows us—she developed our personalities. It feels a bit invasive, although I guess it shouldn’t. Wouldn’t a parent know their child’s personality? Maybe not to this extent.
Rosemarie turns to Marcella, reaching out to run her hand over her curls. I can practically feel Marcella fight off the flinch of discomfort from Rosemarie touching her without permission. “You are beautiful, my dear,” Rosemarie says. “An educator for certain. I see the intelligence in those brown eyes. You glow with it.”
“It’s nice to meet you finally,” Marcella says, sounding every bit the girl Rosemarie expects. The poet smiles and turns her focus to Sydney. She sighs.
“I’m sure you don’t need me to point out that you’re everyone’s best friend,” she tells Sydney. “The perfect companion in every way. Beautiful, funny, clever. Tell me, Sydney, have you ever met anyone who doesn’t like you?”
“Yes,” Sydney answers immediately. “The vice principal of the school.”
Rosemarie’s smile falters, and she straightens her posture. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she replies. “Humans are unpredictable sometimes. Especially when it comes to matters of race and gender. They have a lot to learn, or unlearn, if you will.”
But Rosemarie turns away then, her comment a throwaway. An observation that she doesn’t intend to follow up on. Sydney and I exchange a glance but then go back to being polite whenRosemarie faces us again. The timer on the oven sounds, and she lets out a pleased laugh.
“Oh, good,” she says. “The rhubarb pie is done. If you could just give me a second.”
She steps back over to the oven, grabbing two mitts off the counter before sliding them on. She opens the oven, waving away the hot air, and the smell that escapes is absolutely enchanting. We watch as she takes out the perfect-looking pie and sets it on a wire rack. In the meantime, she grabs one of the others that’s already cooled and carries it over to set on the table in front of us—the edges of it are red, nearly pink where it spills onto the crust.
