“Cramped.”
“Caged.”
“Cornered.”
I set the plate before her. “I dub you Sir Synonym, but there will be a rematch,” I say good-naturedly, even though I have another one up my sleeve:curbed.
Mother grins, and I return the smile despite the fact that I’m so tired, even my face droops. She was up even later than I was, but unlike me, there’s no stoop to her shoulders, no circles under her eyes. Her hair is neatly combed in place, not tangled like brambles under a slouch hat.
She tucks her bookmark with the pressed flowers into the seam of her crossword book. “You should’ve slept in, though this is a nice treat. My favorites.”
“I felt like banana scones, too.” Their caramel goodness swirls like a halo of scent above each buttery wedge.
Smell and emotion are closely linked in the brain. Pleasant smells trigger positive emotions, which then give off more “feel-good” smells. I fed Mother banana scones before asking permission to attend high school. It worked, too. She let me go.
The earthy scents of vetiver and French sage warm the air. Good, she’s relaxing.
“I haven’t changed my mind about algebra.”
Though I keep my expression neutral, the scowlish odor of molded lemons gives me away. I grasp the back of a chair and focus on a narcissus flower engraved on the window frame.
“You’re already taking too many classes.” She waves around a scone. “What issourgent about that subject?”
“Math is useful. We might be able to formulate algebraic expressions for the elixirs using ratios of base notes to hearts and tops.” Maybe there are even formulas for calculating attraction, maybe even love.
Her scone slips from her grasp and detonates the eggs. Yellow blood oozes forth, sulfury with a hint of sunflower seeds, which our chickens love to eat. “Why would we do that when we have our noses? It would be so cumbersome.”
“For future generations.” As the only two aromateurs left on the planet, the survival of our kind is hanging by a spider thread. “We could leave a roadmap behind after we’re gone.” Maybe the gene pool would spit up another aromateur.
The eggs seem to stop oozing, held in place by the sudden chill in the room. “Why? Are we planning to go somewhere?”
“No,” I quickly say, regretting the turn in conversation.
Her eyes tighten. “Each client is unique and elixirs can’t possibly be reduced to a formula. Our knowledge has been passed down from mother to daughter for thousands of years. That is all the formula we need.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Arguing the point will not help my cause. “Fine. But how exactly does algebra break Rule One?”
“Mr. Frederics could unintentionally favor you in grading.”
“I’m not going to college, so grades aren’t important. I’m just there to learn.” I hold my breath, hoping I didn’t just send lie odors into the environment. It’s mostly true.
“We have to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. Our business is built on reputation. If people don’t trust us, they’ll stop coming. Our skills, ournoses, will go to waste. Don’t you want to be an aromateur?”
“Of course.” This is the third time she’s asked me that since I brought up the issue of school. It’s like asking me if I want to be Persian, Welsh, Inuit, Chinese, or any of the other seventy-two ethnicities in my genetic makeup. I didn’t choose them, I justamthem. “But people will never stop coming. We’re the only love witches in the world besides Aunt Bryony—”
“Sheis no longer an aromateur,” Mother says of her estranged twin, and the vetiver and sage drain away. When my aunt lost her sense of smell, she became, in Mother’s opinion, “useless.” The two lost contact twenty years ago when my aunt left. “Honestly, Mim, people don’t go to high school to learn. They go there to suffer. Teenagers are a different species, angsty and hormonal with that canned apple juice smell. It’s much nicer here.” She gestures toward the window, which offers a glimpse into our ten-thousand-plant garden. “Plants are our books, and we have a full library.”
I groan. It occurs to me that it isn’t just dropping algebra that bothers me. It’s also Mother’s refusal to care about my interests. Of all people, she knows how multilayered people are. We spend our lives decoding people’s complexity. For once, maybe she could decodemine. As hard as it sometimes is to believe, she was a teenager once. Didn’t she ever wonder if there was more to life than mixing elixirs? “I have a whole life of weeding ahead of me. I just want to—”
She puts a hand on her hip. “You want to what?”
Take up a sport, like football, or crew, and limp away, flushfrom victory. Join the debate club, and say things like “That’s a logical fallacy!” Scream over boy bands. I don’t want to waste my teen years elbow-deep in soil and begonias. But if Mother knew I wanted to have a life outside the briar walls, she’d think I was planning to defect, maybe like Aunt Bryony. “Not weed.”
I gather my books and my lunch into my messenger bag, almost knocking our chipped guacamole bowl off the counter. If I was the type to throw things, that ugly bowl would make a satisfying crack against the wood floors. The frustrated scent of loosestrife peels off me, a noxious weed that smells like garlic breath. “I’m late.”
“Mim.”
I pause in the doorway, but don’t turn around.
