The sight of Drew and Vicky’s burgeoning chemistry should make me feel relieved, but instead, something rancid burns inside me. If not for that arm-twisting squirrel, Kali and I would still be okay. I might still have Kali’s respect, and not just her pity.
I move beyond Team Four to where Ms. DiCarlo holds a coconut for her kids to pet. Mr. Frederics studies her from far away, his expression thoughtful.
Does the man still care for the timid librarian? Or did Alice’s attentions cool his ardor, and kindle a new one? If so, where does that leave Mr. Frederics when I PUF Alice? He’ll be damaged goods. We’ll have to tell him to plant rosebushes, the best way to get over a broken heart.
Love is so chancy. If Alice hadn’t gotten hooked on romance books, I might never have fixed her. Or if Ms. DiCarlo’s rabbit hadn’t died, Mr. Frederics and Ms. DiCarlo might be making some of their own sunshine, without our help.
I would still simply be Mimosa, the oddball with the hats, she who should not be touched.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“THE EASIEST WAY TO RUIN
A GOOD ELIXIR IS TO THINK ABOUT IT.”
—Xanthe, Aromateur, 1877
AT LAST, ALLoils are ready for blending. The homecoming game starts at seven. Two hours to get this right. Ordinarily, it would take me an hour, and that’s with a nose. I work at a Frankensteinian pace, transferring oils into test tubes, and occasionally banging my head on the table. Finally, ninety-eight glass tubes stand at attention in front of me like the pipes of an organ.
I try again to smell, and nearly pass out from the effort.
A mathematical formula would be really handy, something that told me exactly how much of each oil to use. If the aromateurs of yesteryear had allowed scientists to study their noses, perhaps they could’ve invented tools to quantify smells by now. I take a slow breath in, trying to steady my heart.
Going from memory, I begin to layer the oils onto a square of cotton using pipettes the size of straight pins. Certain notes, like kangaroo paw, are typically “shy” and like to hide, and so forthese, I use more. Others, like blue tansy, a flower with an appley scent, are notorious for being the loudest one in the room, so I use only the smallest drop I can manage.
I should try calling Mother again. She’ll be livid. I imagine her clutching her heart and sucking in her bottom lip the way she does when the soup’s too hot.
The thought causes my hand to shake, knocking over the vial of blue tansy. The tansy quickly seeps into the entire cotton square. Holy dirt, that’s the second spill in twenty-four hours! I grab the vial before I lose all the precious scent. Between the tansy and the lavender, Mother will smell the mistakes before she even gets to the driveway. I’ll need to bring in the spider plants, with their pure oxygen smells, to erase the evidence.
Sinking into my chair, I clutch my head in my hands and curse myself. The square is useless now. Breathe and start over, one singer at a time.
It’s dark by the time I finish. Why doesn’t Mother get a clock in here? Quickly, I put the cotton square in a test tube and add carrier solution. I shake it fifty times, unlid, filter, and retube. Then I run back to the house. The homecoming game must have already started.
My heart sinks when I see it’s 7:14. Games always start late, don’t they? They have to do the anthem, the welcome home speech to the alums. I pull a sweater over my sundress, stuff my hair into a beret, and grab my gloves. Then I hop on my bike andI’m riding as fast as my legs can pump toward the biggest game of the year.
Most people think homecoming means football, but not in Santa Guadalupe. Some of the greatest soccer players in the country come from our narrow strip of the world, which is why cars are parked along the shoulder at least two miles before the school. Opening car doors and strewn beer bottles force me to slow down as I draw closer.
I leave my bike near the library and race to the stadium. The trash cans are already overflowing with empty cans and hot dog trays. A group of kids blow their noisemakers right by my ear.
According to the scoreboard, visible from outside the stadium, no one’s made a goal yet. The words Half Time inch across the screen as the announcer reads advertisements. I hope Kali hasn’t performed yet, though I have to focus on finding Alice. My blend may be the worst elixir ever in the history of elixir making, but it’s all I have right now.
I pull my beret over my ears and work on my cotton gloves. With no BBG, I must be extra careful to avoid skin contact with anybody who could possibly take more than a friendly interest in me. Keeping my elbows in, I make myself as small as possible as I hurry into the stadium, passing people wearing panther ears, and others sporting opposition T-shirts for the Bulldogs.
The half-time show has begun. Someone, I think Cassandra, begins to sing. Definitely Cassandra. She chose a ballad so syrupy, my teeth ache.
“Hey, Mim!” yells Lauren. She and Pascha, linking arms, rush up beside me. Lauren’s fully decked out in panther wear, complete with black ears, whiskers drawn on her cheeks, even a tail pinned in the back. Pascha’s wearing the same ears atop her headscarf.
“Hello.”
Pascha pushes her friend with her arm, causing both of them to stumble sideways. “Lauren’s going to ask him tonight.”
It takes me a moment to figure out what she’s talking about. Ah, the boy Lauren wanted to ask to the homecoming dance. “That’s great.”
“Assuming I can find him. There’s a full house.”
I look up, swaying a little. The stadium’s crammed even at the highest levels, a dot matrix of color. The din of horns and people yelling feels like somone is pushing needles into my brain.
“Just look for the red glasses,” says Pascha.
