A girl half skates and half walks into the grassy clearing, and I recognize her from the group of rollerbladers who passed me earlier. Her mouth drops when she sees us. One by one, her friends pile up behind her, including Vicky who cries out, “Court?”
Her blades kick up clumps of grass as she dashes to us. “What happened?”
Court squints at her, then his eyes close again.
“A bee stung his arm.”
“He’s allergic!” she says, as if I didn’t already figure that out. “Oh my God, Court baby. Did you find his pen?”
Baby? Gross. “He doesn’t have one on him.”
She kneels beside me and elbows me out of the way, lifting his head and placing it on her own lap. “Move over.”
I eye her long gold-painted nails, hoping she doesn’t scratch his face. “Maybe you shouldn’t move him.”
“Are you a medical expert?” Vicky shoots back. The sharp, weedy odor of her hostility—stinging nettles—peels at the inside of my nose.
The other girls, now crowded around us, glare at me as if I’m the bee.
Sirens wail louder now and a truck rumbles up, the red visible through the screen of plants. A pair of medics rush to us, holding equipment. “Step aside, please,” barks one of them. The girls back off.
“He’s allergic to bees,” Vicky tells the medic, her throaty voice tight and high.
Court opens his eyes again. “I’m, I—” he mumbles.
The first medic pulls out an EpiPen from his bag and sticks Court in the thigh. The medic’s partner examines Court’s arm, which is no longer angry and swollen.
“How are you feeling? Any trouble breathing?” asks the first medic.
“No, no, I’m fine.” Court struggles to sit up, aided by Vicky who straps her arms around him from the back.
“Just rest against me, baby,” she coos. “You’re going to be fine. I’m so glad I found you in time.”
I dig my arms into my stomach. Anyone else might be repulsed by her boldness, but I remind myself it’s better this way. I am a mere comet.
The medic asks Court more questions, which he answers mostly through nods and monosyllables. Slowly, I get up. He’s in good hands now.
Court catches me stealing away and says in a quiet voice, “Mim? Thanks.”
Vicky cuts her gaze from him to me, and her eyes lose their anxious cast and harden. The unmistakable scent of jealousy, like sour milk, putrefies the air.
No good ever came of that scent.
“You’re welcome.”
I refill my jar with lichen, then hurry away, but the scent of jealousy stays in my nose long after I’ve left the park.
THREE
“EVERYTHING SMELLS, ESPECIALLY EMOTION.”
—Mu Jin, Aromateur, 1621
I LIFT Apair of poached eggs out of the pot, willing them not to break. They make it to the plate without incident, so I add a banana scone to my arrangement. Free and easy. I cannot coax Mother into a good mood if I’m giving off stress smells.
At our kitchen table, Mother looks up from Friday’s crossword puzzle. The wagon-wheel lamp bathes her with warm light. She pulls off her reading glasses and lifts an eyebrow. “Confined.”
I don’t lose a beat. “Constrained.” Mother and I used to do the crosswords together until I started school.
