“Right.”
“He’s hard of hearing, so remember to speak loudly. Now, get some sleep tonight. Oh, but first, make sure the orchids are getting enough water. I’ll call you Sunday.”
“Okay.”
Even after we hang up, I swear Mother’s still in the room somewhere.
“Everything okay?” Court murmurs into my hair.
I spook away. “Yes. You?”
He sighs. “Coach is going to kill me for missing tonight’s strategy meeting.”
“Will he bench you?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to him. But I don’t want to leave you.”
“No, you should go. The Panthers need their captain.” That, and if he stays any longer, I might be tempted to do something that would cause the Rulebook to spontaneously combust. I lead the way out of the room before I can change my mind. “And I should start your mom’s elixir.”
At the front door, I nearly push him into the driveway in my haste to avoid further romantic entanglement. He turns and stands firm in the doorway.
“Mim, we nearly died today. Maybe we should both take it easy.”
“I will.” I give him a too-bright smile.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” A dab of sand by one of his ears challenges me to rub it off, but I resist.
“Of course. Thank you for driving me today, and for everything else,” I say in a rush. Before he construes that as an invitation, I firmly close the door.
I watch from the window as he backs out his Jeep, then motors off. Then I collapse on a rocking chair, a little trembly in the knees. As the chair gently rocks me, Court’s eyes appear in my mind, dark like ash bark with hints of gold. His dimples seem perfectly placed in their asymmetry. I linger over the expressive line of his mouth, a mouth that tells me so much without speaking a word. And, then, of course, there is his smell—
My eyes pop open as I remember his mother’s scentprint. I cannot sit here and daydream. Certain ideas, once they take hold, like the ruthlessly creeping kudzu plant, require years to eradicate. I’ll need to avoid any further amorous encounters with Court before I can remake the BBG. Next time, I’ll make it twice as concentrated.
Before I know it, my eyes blur. I bury my face in the Welcome Home pillow Mother embroidered when she was expecting me. The truth is, I don’t want to BBG Court with a stronger dose. Ilikethat he likes me. In her last letter to her love, Percy, before she died, Hyacinth wrote,Somewhere between right and wrong lies a garden surrounded by thorns, and I have met you there.
TWENTY-TWO
“UPROOT YOUR WEEDS BY THE ROOT, LEST,
LIKE THE HEADS OF THE HYDRA, THEY MULTIPLY,
DESTROYING ALL IN THEIR PATH.”
—Angelica, Aromateur, 1723
MORNING LIGHT FILTERSthrough the window of the storage room at the back of the workshop. The ottoman on which I’m sprawled is too short for a bed, but that didn’t stop me from falling asleep on it after an intimate night with bladder wrack. I carefully dried each frond, then processed it into a fine powder.
A million things to do today, starting with a change of clothes. I’ll have to skip school again. I’ll probably be suspended before Mother can pull me out. What a waste, made even worse because there is no one to blame but myself.
I eye the phone. I need to talk to Kali, sort things out with her so she can sort things out for me. Yet, why should I call her? I’m the one who nearly died yesterday. She should be callingme.
Pettiness aside, would it kill her to be concerned or at least curious about my state of emergency? Not to mention, I really need to tell her that I kissed Court, an event that, thoughadmittedly ambrosial, will probably come back to bite me one day.
Sniffing, I wipe away hot, indulgent tears. Kali must care. Haven’t we plowed through our share of dirt together? I knew her back when she ate rival gangsters for lunch. She stuck by my side during those awful first weeks of school when people ran from me.
I dial. The sound of her cell phone ringing jangles my ear, and after several rings, her phone goes to voicemail. I can’t help wondering if she saw it was me calling, and switched her phone off. I don’t leave a message.
Still thinking about Kali, I scamper to the house for a quick bite, shielding my eyes in the bright glare. In the kitchen, I remove one of Mother’s homemade raspberry granola bars from a canister. Instead of Brazil nuts and pumpkin seeds, the bar tastes wooden, almost as if I’ve bitten a chunk off the wall. Even the raspberry bits barely register on my taste buds. Strange. Maybe they went bad.
