“Of course not.” Is that what people think? “I’m not even allowed to date. Plus, that would be unethical.”
Pascha stops stuffing. The folds of the scarf covering her head ripple in the breeze. “Then how do you do it?”
“Do what?”
The girls look at each other again.
“How do you get all those boys to like you?” Lauren asks.
I snort. Try living in a garden bursting with aphrodisiacs all your life. My particular brand of boy problems must be more obvious than I thought. I try to disinfect my followers as soon as I detect a problem, but I’ll need to be more vigilant. Wouldn’t want a jealous mob of teenage girls after me, like the ones who threw six-fingered Hyacinth into the sea. It hits me that maybe Larkspur’s concerns weren’t so far-fetched.
“I drywall better than I give love advice,” I say. “Sorry.”
Lauren deflates a little, and her sigh smells of diet soda and stomach acid. She could use more leafy greens. “I just want to know how I get a certain boy to ask me to the homecoming dance.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue.
“Why don’t you just ask him?”
“I couldn’t do that!” she gasps. More dabbing.
“Why?”
“What if he said no? I’d need a sign that he’d say yes first. What are the signs that a guy likes you?” She clasps her hands together and implores me with her hazel eyes.
I tug at my sleeve. “When a person has a crush, their top notes become buttery and their middle notes brighten by a factor of sixteen. Plus, they smell like heartsease, which is a kind of wildflower.”
A hundred yards out, the soccer team in their blue-and-whiteuniforms returns from their morning practice, slapping hands with members of the track team jogging past them. Number ten, Court, walks with his customary slouch. His shirt hugs his lean body like a wetsuit. Number nine, Whit Wu, runs to catch up with him.
Lauren’s lips separate. “Um, what?”
Pascha’s kohl-rimmed eyes narrow as she appraises me. Without lifting her gaze from me, she hands Lauren another tissue. “Listen to the witch. She knows what she’s talking about.”
I cough, putting into doubtthatperception. My eyes drift toward the field again. Court looks up and our eyes connect. My heart does a backflip, and a dozen different scents burst from me, the sugar maple of happiness, the chicory of regret, and more rambling sunflower, a plant notable for its tendency to change directions several times during the day. I rarely smell like rambling sunflower. I usually have the Rulebook to circumscribe my path, and if not the rules, then Mother.
Court waves, then trots toward the locker rooms.
“But how am I supposed to know what, er, what she just said?” says Lauren to Pascha.
“Your body knows,” says Pascha. “It’shormones. We just can’t smell them like she can.” Her dark eyes swing to me. “Am I right?”
Not exactly, but it’s close enough.
Pascha doesn’t wait for me to answer. She slaps her friend’sarm. “Weren’t you paying attention in sex ed? Hormones are like these candy grams that pass messages to people, only we get the messages mixed up because we’re teens.” She pulls a note out of the pumpkin. “‘You’re nice.’ Ha! That one really means, ‘You have nice buns.’”
“What does that have to do with whether he likes me?” asks Lauren.
“Just because youthinkyou like him doesn’t mean you do. Maybeyoujust like his buns.” Pascha uses her spindly hands to help her talk.
“I do not.” Lauren grabs a candy bar from the table and opens it. “You’re so lucky you can just smell these things.”
“Right,” I say, not feeling lucky at all. “Well, I should go to class.”
Pascha pushes a silver cuff up her arm. “Okay, well, try not to have too much fun today.” Her brown lips fold into a smile.
Cautiously, I sniff but don’t detect any disdainful dirty bathwater odors. “Okay.” Shouldn’t be hard. I’ve never had much fun, let alone too much.
I shift around on the plastic seat of my desk. Only ten minutes into algebra and my legs have already gone numb. Mr. Frederics’s argyle cardigan bunches and pulls as he writes an equation on the board. The fluorescent lighting shines off his scalp.
As I copy the problem, Drew Reaver’s pen scratches rapidlybehind me. I glance over my shoulder. Instead of the equation, he’s flourishing the words “soul sucker” under a demon he etched into his notebook.
