“Sorry, we’ve got practice.”
Vicky squeezes her Gucci purse so hard, I think I hear it scream.
Court glances back at the coach, who has his hands on his hips and is glaring at all four of us. “Come on, Whit, we gotta go.”
Whit curses. “Can’t we have a little privacy?”
Vicky’s chalky red lips thin into a smile. “Who? You and Mimosa?”
Whit’s head bobs up and down and he looks at me like he wants to eat me. “Yeah.”
Court glares at Whit. “No.”
The coach blows his whistle and beckons his players back with his hands.
“See you later.” Court grabs Whit and tows him back to the field.
Vicky’s nose wrinkles, and she pierces me with her gaze. “Seewholater?”
“You.”
She crosses her arms and her pupils don’t budge from mine for a full five seconds.
At last, she relaxes her stance and flips back her hair. “Well, maybe it’s working, finally.” She turns on her heel and stomps away.
Desperately, I twist off handfuls of Jupiter grass and stuff them in a canvas bag, past caring about quality. Clustered with his teammates, Court watches me. My stomach twists into a knot as the memory of his sweet taste now fills me with dread.
TWENTY-FIVE
“TRADE A FLOWER FOR A SMILE.
GIVE A PUMPKIN AND REAP A GRIN.”
—Cassis, Aromateur, 1689
I DON’T BOTHERfiling an excuse with the secretary. I just pedal home as fast as I can, though a bullying headwind fights me all the way. The clouds coming in from the coast roll out over the sky. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but maybe the sky changed its mind when it saw me biking.
At least I got that Jupiter grass. First, I have to process it and the other ingredients that need to be steeped over night. Then, I’ll have to pray I still have enough of my nose left tomorrow to blend them.
By the time I pull into our courtyard I’m so full of adrenaline, I could pedal all the way to the moon without stopping.
The left half of the Virginia creeper that frames the workshop door swapped its green coat for red overnight. If I had my nose, I would’ve known that happened before I even stepped out of the house. I should get used to figuring things out by sight orsound. Too bad those senses can’t help me make elixirs.
As I unlock the door, some of the Virginia creeper’s pinwheel-like leaves drop on my head.
I arrange all the plants on the familiar worktable, grouping them by the methods of oil extraction. In one pile, I put the specimens that I will wrap in muslin and steep in sweet almond oil. In a second pile, I gather the ones I will run through our copper distillers. Plants in the last pile, larger than the first and second combined, require pressing through a vise-like contraption called a cold press. Those, I will save for last.
I work faster than I ever have, sniffing like a hound dog every few seconds to gauge any change in my nose. Soon, I lose myself in the physical work of prepping the ingredients. I shred ash bark and pommel pomegranate seeds, break yucca strips into fine threads and cut the bad spots off alder leaves with tiny scissors. Then I warm a kukui nut in my palm that’s the exact shade of Court’s eyes. The memory of our one kiss halts all other thoughts, and I replay it in my mind for a guilty moment.
One of the distillers begins to boil over. I dash to the burner and adjust it lower. Wrong way! The flame shoots higher and I burn my hand. Quickly, I switch it off and run my hand in the sink, cursing myself for spacing out. Mistakes happen when you’re not paying attention. I never seem to learn.
Groaning, I rub aloe vera onto my burned skin, then get back to work. With my left hand now, I mince pine needles. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes.
My nose begins to bleed, forcing me to take another break. The duller my sense of smell becomes, the harder I have to sniff. If it vanishes by tomorrow, I won’t be able to gauge the right proportions for the elixir. Might as well make a cake without measuring cups.
My breath comes in short gasps, and it feels as if someone is using my heart as a punching bag. More from desperation than logic, I cross the room to the computer.
“How to fall out of love,” I type.
