“Let’s move forward, shall we?” Mother pans her face to me. “Mim?”
“We’re happy you chose Sweetbriar Perfumes to be your relationship intermediaries.” I recite the spiel Mother wants us to use for all clients, never mind that we’re the only aromateurs on the planet, not including Aunt Bryony, who lost her nose when she was nineteen. “Everything we use in our elixirs is botanical, no synthetics. We grow what we can here in our garden. The rest comes from organic or wild sources.”
He nods. “Good, wonderful. You know I’m a big proponent of reducing our carbon footprint. I drive a Prius.”
“You’re not currently in a relationship, is that correct?” I ask.
“No. I haven’t dated in seven years.”
Mother’s petite nose wiggles. This is a key part of the interview. A lie smells like pewter and sour grass with stale yellowundertones, rather like a sweaty palm that has been clutching dirty coins. Mother can detect a lie as easily as most people smell dead fish. My own nose—which looks like someone took pliers to Mother’s, tweaked it longer and a pinched a bump on the bridge to be funny—doesn’t detect a single wayward molecule, though Mother’s the expert.
She could have waited untilnextsummer to take him on as a client. It’s not like we don’t have enough people on the waiting list—six hundred or so lonely hearts last time I checked.
Mother raises her thin eyebrows at me and ticks her head toward Mr. Frederics. Get on with the program.
“Could you tell us a little about, er—” I don’t know the target’s name.
“Sofia,” says Mother.
He beams. “I’d be happy to.” The grassy sweet smell of the flower heartsease drifts from under his collar, the telltale sign of a crush. He’s got it bad.
“As you probably know, she’s a bit of a neat freak, but I love her for it.”
But why wouldIknow she’s a neat freak?
“She’s smart, as is obvious.” He looks at me, waiting for confirmation. A chill passes through me, the way the temperature drops when a cloud passes over the sun. I really should have reviewed the application. “Read all the books in our library, which, as you know, is considerable.”
Ourlibrary means the Santa Guadalupe High School library. “Ms. DiCarlo?”
Mr. Frederics coughs and straightens his sweater cuffs. “Er, yes.”
I would never have put Mr. Frederics and the school librarian together. The math whiz listens to ethno jazz and his breath smacks of oats and honey. There’s a laidback vibe to him, despite his snazzy outfits. Ms. DiCarlo, a petite redhead, buys hand sanitizer in bulk, and probably goes to bed in business casual. But, it could work. Both are middle-aged, use words likejuxtaposed, and have good posture. Most important, their scents don’t clash.
Mr. Frederics’s eyes shift to Mother’s. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, I thought—”
Mother’s cheeks flash pink, and her eyes become pestles, grinding into me. “There is absolutely nothing to be sorry about. Mim has not had time to read the file.” The smell of burnt tires drifts from under her collar, stinging my nostrils. The teakwood plank suddenly feels too hard under my bottom and I shift from side to side.
If the librarian is the target, what’s next? Is Mother going to ban me from checking out library books? Ridiculous.
“She is single, yes?” Mother gets the interview back on track.
“Absolutely. Never married.” Mother taps my sandaled foot with the toe of her clog and discreetly points to her nose as she inhales. The vein across her forehead has begun to throb. She’sas annoyed with me as I am with her, but I have more to lose by showing it. So I focus on the task at hand: decoding Mr. Frederics’s scentprint. Mother can do it in one quick sniff—she’s that good—but I’m still learning. I take a deep inhale and unravel his unique combination of scents, layer by layer.
Besides the top notes of lichen, caper, and pepita I already detected, Mr. Frederics smells like candelabra and Guinea millet, not surprising given his African roots. All in all, at least eighty more notes play to my nose like a complicated chord.
Aromateurs perceive smells like most people see faces. A single glance can take in a thousand pieces of information, from the curve of the cheek to the exact shade of skin. It’s the same with our noses, only it’s easier to remember smells, since the olfactory bulb neighbors the limbic system, the area closely associated with memory and emotions in the brain.
“So what seems to be the problem?” Mother takes charge.
Mr. Frederics blows out a breath and his chest collapses. “Thought everything was on the up and up. She let me buy her a granola bar at the vending machine. When I told her I’m the president of the Latin Hustle Club, she said she’d think about joining. Then over the summer, her rabbit died and she shut down.”
Still no lies. Mother nods empathetically, chin tilted to encourage him to go on.
“My mother wants to see me knotted up before the chariot swings lo for her.” Mr. Frederics adjusts his necktie. “She’sninety-two. Thought Ms. DiCarlo would be the one. She favored me, too; I could tell by how she always processed my requests before the other teachers’. Polished my books nice and shiny.”
Probably deciding I am no longer fit to conduct this interview, Mother launches into a final set of questions about his background and criminal history. Unlike in the classroom where Mr. Frederics speaks with an easy confidence, now he stammers and sometimes blushes, though his answers are honest. The lovelorn are often self-conscious. Clients come to us when they’ve tried everything to woo the target but can’t get the fire going, whether due to shyness, insecurity, or even prejudice. Elixirs free the inhibitions. Coax the spark into a flame.
“Mim, the rules.” Both Mother and Mr. Frederics are looking at me.
