“I’d get stuck. You weigh less. You’ll make it. I’ll push.”
“No.”
After a pause, Aunt Bryony calls through the door. “Are you bribable?”
“No.”
“Come on, honey. How about a new car?”
“She doesn’t know how to drive,” snaps Mother.
“No? What kind of teenager lives in California and doesn’t know how to drive?”
“She’s only fifteen.”
“And next year she’ll be sixteen. Better start teaching her now.”
“Now you’re the expert on raising teenagers.” I can already see the dent between Mother’s eyebrows deepen. Probably Aunt Bryony has the same groove.
“It doesn’t take an expert to realize when a young lady is growing up. You never even told her about Edward and the No Mister.”
Silence. I stick my ear to the door. When no one speaks further, I say, “What’s the No Mister?”
“It’s ‘No, Mr.’ Get it?” says Aunt Bryony.
I choke on my own spit. They have a nickname for BBG, too.
“Your mother hit him with No Mister seven times before she believed me.”
“I will explain, if you don’tmind.” Mother spends a moment clearing her throat. “Well, Mim, you’re a young lady now. Boys will be calling for you.”
My cheeks warm. “I’m not six.”
“Up the G-rating, Dahli.”
Mother grunts in indignation and footsteps thud, as if my aunt pushed her aside. Aunt Bryony takes over. “Mimsy, you’re more lovable than you think. If you need to remist, our aromateur’s pollen is not the reason someone likes you.”
“Meaning—?”
“Your boo is into you.”
Mother snorts loudly.
I stare at the wood grain of the door, slow to make sense of what she’s saying. Court liked me for me, not because of being infected by aromateur’s pollen. The ground seems to pitch, and I put my hands on the rough door to steady myself.
“Does falling in love have a scent?”
“Theoretically—” Mother begins just as Aunt Bryony says, “Butterscotch pudding.”
I stare through the peeling blue paint. Court told me I smelled like butterscotch pudding when we first met.
“You can’t detect it because all aromateurs smell like butterscotch pudding,” my aunt continues. “Work with love, and eventually it gets into the bloodstream. Our olfaction adapts to no longer notice it.”
“But I can smell my other heart notes.”
“Not all of them. Some are too small to be detectable by our brains, well, your brains, though your noses know.”
“And makes your brain so special?” comes Mother’s incredulous voice.
