It would be nice to have Kali’s company, but I can’t justify spending money on two train tickets, or breaking her perfect attendance record. The garden closes at five every night, and I can’t wait until school lets out. “That’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She can’t smell it, but I wonder if she can hear my lie.
I set off for home. The autumn wind wrestles with my hat and the toggle bead strains against the hollow under my chin. WhenI hit a pothole, my bag of candy grams nearly goes flying out of my basket. I’m tempted to dump them all into the next trash bin. In the time it will take me to scent them all and match them to their authors, I could probably spray every one of the five hundred boys that attend SGHS. Of course, then I would need to make several more bottles of the very expensive BBG.
Or maybe I’ll just do nothing and wait for the mob to throw me into the ocean.
I ride around the block one more time to rid myself of the swampy stench of anxiety. When I pedal up the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Mother behind the turret window.
On the kitchen table sits a new crate of Creamsicle tulip bulbs, which smell of oranges and cream. A grower in Holland delivers these to us every year in October. Despite the pleasant fragrance, a scowl tugs at my face. The bulbs will be stressed from their flight and Mother will make me plant them today.
I trudge upstairs, mentally rehearsing the speech I prepared about why I should not go to Oman. In her room, an open suitcase lies on the bed. Mother is in her closet, sifting through her blue clothes.
We’re leaving already? I open my mouth to speak, but my rehearsed words flee my head, and all that comes out is “The seniors need to be fixed.”
“What?”
“I can’t go to Oman. We have seniors coming up. And the papayas are ready to drop—you’ve seen them yourself. Who’sgoing to look after things here?” I hold my breath.
“Relax. You don’t have to go.” Hangers squeak against wood.
“What? I mean, are you sure?” I lower myself next to her suitcase.
“We’ll save that vacation for when it won’t compromise love lives.”
Likethatwill ever happen.
“Alfie got me the jet for tomorrow. Oh, I assume you saw the Creamsicles?” She bustles out of the closet carrying a navy sweater and navy slacks.
“Yes. I’ll plant them tonight.”
Briskly, she begins to roll up the sweater. “No. There’s a problem with them. I’m sending them back.”
“What kind of problem?”
She stops rolling the sweater and raises her chin. “You tell me.”
A test. I begin to rise, intending to go to the kitchen, but she holds out a hand to stop me. “From here. I’ve babied you way too long.”
I sink back into the bed. Why does she always make it so hard? The Creamsicles barely whisper here on the second floor, let alone reveal to me their defect.
“Close your eyes. It’s easier to unlayer.”
Mother moves about the room, noisily opening and closing drawers. I can’t help wondering if she’s putting as many obstacles as she can in my path. Even her own scent impedes my progress,especially the heart note of tuberose, that overbearing floral reminiscent of a throbbing headache on a hot summer day. My nose rummages for the bitter telltale signs of mold—one of the main reasons for rejection—but I don’t find any more than normal levels coming from that direction.
Mother stops moving around. “Come on, Mim, don’t try so hard. You look like you’re going to pop a vein.”
More smells tiptoe by: ink, a roll of postage stamps, cornflower water, old lace curtains.
A band of sweat forms around my forehead. Finally, the barest thread of something sour—formic acid—seems to chase on the heels of the Creamsicle scent. Before I catch it, it ducks back into hiding. “It’s an insect.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
I wait for it to resurface so I can get a clearer picture.
“Mites?” I open my eyes, and stars float around the room.
Mother, in the closet doorframe holding a denim dress, shakes her head. It stings me to smell the blue hydrangea of her disappointment. “Not mites. Aphids. You need to let go. If you try to force your way through the scents, they’ll resist you.”
I huff out my frustration. “What happens when there are no more aromateurs? Don’t you think we should spend our time figuring out that problem instead of smelling aphids?” I don’t think I could run the business all by myself, should something ever happen to Mother. Grandmother Narcissa was as vivacious as verbena, but still couldn’t avoid getting hit by the taxi in Senegal.
