“I see.” He touches the peeling bark of a eucalyptus and looks up at the leaves.
The bluesy scent of friar plums drifts toward me, the subtle note of despair, and my annoyance fades. “My mother tells people who are heartbroken to plant roses. They require a lot of attention, and when they finally bloom, you’ll be ready to give them to someone else.”
“Roses, huh?” He’s looking at me.
“Yes. Only heirlooms. Hybrids don’t smell as sweet. April Love. Distant Thunder’s nice. They have a peppery finish over a dusky center.” I’m babbling.
“You’d be an intimidating person to buy flowers for.”
“Me? Oh, I don’t really need flowers.”
He grins. Pinching his shirt, he wafts it a few times then stops. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t smelled before.” That didn’t come out right. Hastily, I add, “I mean, everyone sweats.”
He scratches the back of his head. “So what do I smell like?”
My turtleneck feels like it’s choking me. “You smell like a campfire, with heart notes of fir needle, and nutmeg, plus a ton of cinnamon—” I stop. He might know cinnamon is an aphrodisiac. “And other stuff.”
He blows out an amused breath. “You want to know what I smell in you?”
Me?
He takes a step closer and sniffs, stopping my heart in its tracks. “Butterscotch pudding.” He keeps a straight face.
A flush migrates all the way to my scalp. “You’re making fun of me!”
“I’m sorry, all I meant was you’re not chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry. You dare to be yourself.” His eyes sweep up my five-foot-eight-inch frame, from my prairie skirt to my bucket hat, which hides most of my messy bob. “You’ve got style.”
Actually, what I have is a concerned mother, who makes me cover up as much skin as possible. I try to hold on to my anger, but it slips away. “I just wear whatever fits me from Twice Loved.”
“You hold your head up, even when people say you eat silkworms.”
“They taste heavenly with a bit of butter.” I press a hand to my heart and affect an expression of bliss, a look that must be too convincing, as his forehead crinkles in uncertainty. Cheeks burning, I add, “Also, I make humans fall in love with their shoes.” That’s the latest rumor. I freak a lot of people out. One girl at school even screamed when she looked up from her sandwich and saw me standing beside her. Kali said people are afraid I’ll put a spell on them, I just need to give them time—though I doubt time will make a difference.
He chuckles, and dimples once again light up his face.
I force myself to think about lichen. Black and scratchy like pirate whiskers. “I should finish up here.” Mother will start to worry.
“Right. See you at school.” He gives me a lopsided smile, then lithely jogs away. The wordlifeguardis emblazoned across the hoodie wrapped around his hips.
I shave the lichen into my jar with a metal scraper, but my heart is still racing. At least I managed to keep the weird to a minimum. I shake thoughts of Court’s dreamy smile from my head, lid my jar, and stuff it in my bag. Job done; time to clock out.
Two bees follow me back to the running trail. I’m like an icecream truck to them. Only instead of Popsicles, I peddle pollen, which is impossible to rid myself of without constant showering. Once they realize I’m no flower, they usually leave.
Four girls on rollerblades whiz toward me in a cloud of sunscreen and hairspray. The predinner rush is in full swing. Arastradero gets especially crowded when the school year starts—it’s a prime running spot for the athletes and more interesting than the hamster wheel of our school track. I step off the path to let them pass, and recognize the head roller as Vicky Valdez, Court’s ex-girlfriend.
Coincidence? Or not. Kali told me that when Vicky and Court broke up, she became known as Exxed-Valdez. She’s still not over him.
The girls trailing her veer as far away from me as the paved path allows, casting suspicious glances my way. Vicky, though, stays her course, black hair flowing like seaweed and unencumbered by a helmet. Her gaze lingers on mine for a moment, cool and appraising, and the scent of disdain, like rancid kumquat, invades my nose. Without missing a beat, she muscles forward with her short but well-formed legs. She’s never spoken a word to me, but I don’t need words to tell me she doesn’t like me.
As they roll away, I catch a whiff of habañero peppers, so faint that if it were not for the breeze, I would’ve missed it. It’s coming from the direction Court ran. I inhale. Sifting through the plant smells, I find it again, the hot scent of panic. I run toward the source.
Just around a bend, Court’s lying curled up on the ground, his lifeguard sweatshirt a few feet away. The hot, honey aroma of bee toxin pricks my nose. He got stung?
Panting, I drop down beside him. “Court? Are you okay?”
He struggles to breathe. He must be allergic to bee stings. Those can be fatal.
