“Soap bubbles.”
“Ah. You’d be a hard person to hide from.”
“Yes—” I cough to prevent more words from slipping out.
An awkward silence follows. The accelerator nudges to seventy-five miles per hour, but then noticing it, Court eases up on the gas. I study the toe prints on the window in front of me. I could’ve admitted that I also smell like soap bubbles.
Or I could just change the subject. “Was your coach okay with you missing practice?”
He seems happy for the switch, and one hand releases the steering wheel. “I promised him a Kill Drill tomorrow at lunch.”
“Kill Drill?”
“We scrimmage for forty-five minutes, no breaks.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“We could use the practice.” He flashes me a smile. “So the plants you need, will they just let you take them?”
“Ordinarily. The master gardener lets us clip what we want in exchange for cuttings from our garden. But I didn’t arrange a visit because I don’t want Mother to find out.”
“How will we do it?”
I pull out my garden pruners, freshly oiled and sharpened. “Garden variety theft.”
He whistles.
“You have any better ideas?”
“Would they sell them to us? I went to the ATM this morning.”
“The common ones, maybe. But definitely not the rares. And we need several of those.”
“Bribery?”
Is he serious? He’s not smiling. Bribery would never have occurred to me, mostly because it’s never been an option. But I’d feel weird using his money, even though it is for his mother. Plus, if the bribery didn’t work, they’d toss us out for sure, maybe even call the cops. “Thanks, but no. My way is less risky. The squirrels do it all the time.”
Conversation stalls the rest of the way to the garden, and it’s hard to know exactly what he’s thinking. Thoughts, unlike feelings, cannot be smelled. On the other hand, the soap bubble notes don’t dissipate as Court concentrates on the driving and I concentrate on what’s going on outside the car, instead of who’s in it. I don’t do a very good job.
FOURTEEN
“EVERY SMELL IS A KEY, UNLOCKING MEMORIES HIDDEN IN
THE CHAMBERS OF THE SOUL.”
—Irisa, Aromateur, 1801
RUTH MEYER WASthe only daughter of a toothpick manufacturer, who believed that the souls of all the trees her father felled were conspiring to kill her. As penance, she built the largest botanical garden this side of the Mississippi. At the time of her death, she owned a hundred acres of prime real estate in the heart of San Francisco, not to mention the cleanest gums in the state.
As the town oddball with the big garden, sometimes I worry that I’m destined for a lonely existence similar to Ruth’s. She probably talked to her plants, too.
We park, and I empty out my messenger bag so I have room for the contraband. Then we make our way to the stone entrance of the Meyer Botanical Garden, past yellow school buses parked side by side like bakery loaves.
I notice a thin black case clipped onto Court’s belt. Must behis EpiPen. “I guess gardens aren’t your thing. You don’t have to come in. I do tend to attract bees.”
“As long as you don’t mind sticking me, I don’t mind being stuck by them,” he jokes.
We pass the ticket office and go right to the gated entrance where I show my lifetime pass, which allows entry for me and a guest. The man studies it long enough to make me worry that he senses my evil designs. I sniff, but the winds are blowing his scents into the garden.
