I return to spying on the librarian. She still hasn’t drunk her beverage. What’s wrong with her? No one likes lukewarm espresso.
“Mim,” comes Court’s smooth voice.
I straighten back up. “Oh, hello,” I say, as if I just noticed them.
Cassandra’s blue eyes grow large at the sight of me, and hercorkscrew hair seems to straighten momentarily in fright. Her unease wafts over me, the slightly molded smell of rained-on pavement. “You’re Kali’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”
“Okay.” I hope she’s not still mad about the homecoming half-time show. Kali said Cassandra threw her sheet music when she learned Kali, a junior, would be sharing the stage with her.
“I’ll catch up later,” she tells Court. After a last look at me—the fruity rooibos smell of curiosity joins her unease—she sails off toward a group of seniors.
“H-how are you feeling?” My voice sounds unnaturally chipper.
“Good as new. Thanks again for saving my life.” He touches his arm where the bee had stung him. His dimples appear, one on the left, and two on the . . . I shake myself free.
“You’re welcome. You should really carry an EpiPen.”
“I usually do, but I left it in the car. What was in that jar?”
“Crushed plaintain weeds.”
“You saved me with weeds? Wow. Someone could make a fortune.”
“They have to be fresh.” I shrug. “The power of the flower.”
“So what happened to the kid?” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Queen of Sheba? King Solomon?”
“Oh.” So he did hear my story. Curls of blushing bromeliad, smelling like sun-kissed pineapple, rise from under my scarf. “Hebecame the emperor of Ethiopia. But I’m sure we had our share of dirtbags and pond scum, too.”
He moves closer, and his shadow slips over me. “Maybe you can tell me about them over burgers sometime.”
“B-b-burgers?” I stutter. “You mean like eating with you?”
He laughs. “That’s generally what happens.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.” I squeeze wrinkles into the worn cotton of my sundress.
“Why not?” His voice softens. There’s a freckle on his neck right in the notch below his ear.
“I have dietary restrictions.”
“You’re vegetarian?”
“Yes. I can’t eat refined sugar, vinegar, or salt.” Our overdeveloped sense of smell requires us to follow a finicky diet. Nothing too pungent, like garlic or onions, and absolutely no salt. A single bite of a honey-baked ham almost did Mother in one Thanksgiving. She lost her sense of smell for a week and refused to eat anything but rice.
“But doesn’t that get a little bland?”
“Actually, most of what people perceive as ‘taste’ comes from our sense of smell. So when we smell foods, we’re getting the full flavor experience.”
He grins, and I detect the amused vanilla scent of animal crackers. Maybe I don’t need to besotruthful all the time.
“Well, maybe we could just go enjoy some dinner smellstogether. It’s the least I could do to thank you.”
Of course. An appreciation dinner. The BBG would’ve neutralized any feelings he might have developed for me. “Thank you, but it’s not necessary.”
