Should I tell her now? If I do, she’ll just stew on the way home. If I don’t, she might be even madder when she learns I lied. But after all the other lies, maybe this one won’t even register. “Emergency solved.” For now.
“Mim?” she asks sternly.
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get home.”
“Okay. Well, see you tomorrow after school.”
“Good-bye, Mother.”
I dial Kali. I no longer expect her to pick up, but the act of calling her is strangely soothing. Maybe when she sees my call come in, she’ll remember that someone cares. This time, her phone goes straight to voicemail.
I pour myself into a chair, suddenly weary, though I haven’t done so much as pull a weed all day. It’s as if all the people I’ve let down in the past week are standing on my shoulders. Mr. Frederics. Alice. Ms. DiCarlo. Kali. Drew. Mother. And of course, the one who smells like campfire, Court.
THIRTY-FOUR
“THE MARIGOLDS ARE HARDY SOULS.IN RAIN,
DROUGHT, EVEN SNOWFALL, THEY FLOURISH, POKING
THEIR HEADS OUT, LIKE TINY TORCHES OF TRUTH.”
—Privet, Aromateur, 1703
THE NEXT MORNING,I pedal to school, filled with an acute awareness that this might be the last time I make this trek. Mother will be home in a matter of hours. I try to appreciate the sights rushing by—a screen of Texas privet with its tiny, dark berries, a wooden gate that Frankensteins into an iron one, then chain link, then back to wood again. The iris I wrapped in silk hops in my basket when I roll over a speed bump.
Today, the ever-changing signage on the school facade says, “Cheeseburger Monday! Today at Noon!” Another homecoming tradition. If somebody buys you a burger, that’s an invitation to the dance. Eat it and accept the invitation.
A crowd collects around a bulletin board outside the school office. Beside pictures of the SSArgonaut, the venue for the homecoming dance, are photos of court nominees. I give the board a cursory glance from under my fedora as I stroll by withmy bike. Not surprisingly, Court and Whit are up there, along with Vicky and Melanie and other A-listers. What causes me to nearly crash into a trash can is the sight of Kali’s brown face, smiling right alongside Vicky’s.
Kali’s nominated for homecoming queen.
“I’m so voting for Kali,” one girl says to her friend. “It’s about time someone besides a mean girl won.”
The friend’s head pumps up and down. “It’s about time a Latina won.”
“VickyisLatina, stupid,” says the first girl. “Kali’s black.”
“Actually, she’s Samoan,” I inform them.
I can’t help worrying about what will happen if Kali beats the odds and wins. That will be another pin in Vicky’s cushion. Then again, what more can Vicky do? She’s done her best, and Kali’s still standing. No, she’s outstanding.
Ms. DiCarlo, sitting behind her computer monitor, sneezes as I enter the library.
“Good morning. I was thinking about your allergies.” I take out the Post-it on which I had written the name and office number for Dr. Lipinsky, the junior. “He’s an otolaryngologist.”
She studies the paper, her nose draped by a tissue. “That’s kind of you. But I’m beginning to think I know what I’m allergic to.”
“What?”
“Actually, you.”
My mouth opens and closes.
She chuckles. “It must be all those flowers you work with.”
I grab the edges of my hat, as if that will contain the pollen. “I’m sorry. I should stop coming in.”
“It’s okay. I enjoy our visits. And anyway, I might be moving soon.”
