Someone calls my name. In front of me, Whit Wu appears, giving me a grin and flipping his ponytail. I didn’t even smell him coming.
“Hi there.” He shakes out his lanky legs, the kind that require an aisle seat. There’s a natural pout to his mouth, and his olive skin is blemish-free. I sniff by reflex, but only catch the synthetic fragrance of his deodorant.
“Hi.” I silently implore him to leave so I can continue panicking in peace.
He reaches into the front pocket of his sweatpants, but whatever he’s searching for isn’t forthcoming, so he tries the ones in the back. Not there, either.
“Don’t you need to practice?”
He cocks his head to one side, exposing a jawline straight enough to chart courses. “Nah. We got this. Coach is taking usto Spaghetti Station for carb upload tonight. So you coming?”
“Spaghetti Station?”
He chuckles. “No. The game.”
“Oh, yes.”
Now he’s checking the inside pockets of his sweatpants. What’s he looking for? What does he want from me? And how many pockets do you need to play soccer?
I know I couldn’t have infected him. I only see him when he’s on the field—except the last time when the soccer ball hit me in the parking lot. His soccer ball.
I grimace. I must have contaminated Whit’s soccer ball with aromateur’s pollen. Voilà, infection.
Whit finally finds what he wants. Chapstick. Cherry-flavored. He pops off the cap and draws it on his mouth in two quick circles. “You like miniature golf?”
I rein back my horror and reflexively reach for my BBG. Then I remember that it’s sitting on my dresser at home, empty. “It’s not really my thing. Er, do you?”
Court appears from behind Whit, and wipes his brow with his arm. “Hi.”
I drum up a smile. “Hello.”
Whit looks from me to Court.
I could just tell Whit I infected him. That usually undupes the duped, though it can get messy, and he could refuse the BBG once I remake it.
Whit turns his back on Court, and cracks his knuckles. “Allrighty then, well, I was wondering if you wanted to, uh—”
Court clears his voice loudly. “Hey, Whit! Coach says tow in or he’ll tow it for you.”
Whit groans. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Court doesn’t budge. “He said, now.”
“All right. Chill.”
Court’s eyes shift to a spot somewhere behind me.
I turn around to see Vicky picking her way toward us. The realization that I didn’t smell her approaching, despite her severe risk rating on my personal security advisory system, nearly causes me to fall. Inhaling deeply, I catch only the fragments of her skulking black elder. The celery top note barely registers.
“Hey, guys,” she says.
“Hey.” Court’s tone flattens.
Her eyes fall to me, squatting in her shadow, and become flinty. “Whateverare you doing?”
A clump of Jupiter grass rolls off my knee. “Weeding.”
She gasps-laughs in a way that says, “Loser.” Then her attention locks on Court. “We’re going to get froyo after school. Want to come?”
