I stop after that.
I keep picturing Mr. Brophy’s face when I close my eyes, devastated by the damage to a store that I imagine he’s owned for decades. I don’t know the man. We only crossed paths once, but I’ve created a whole backstory for him in the days since the arson. I imagine he’s a widower, his wife dead for a few years, his children grown and moved away. Maybe he has daughters. Maybethat’s why he was so worried about the scrawny girl taking food from his store.
In this history I’ve spun for him, Mr. Brophy’s store once belonged to his father and was passed down to him. He loves it there. Loves the employees like family. Loves seeing his regular customers come in and hearing about their lives.
And I took that away.
I don’t know how severe the damage ended up being, but I assume there was enough destruction that the store will be closed for a couple of weeks, at least. That’d be a loss of income for him and any employees he has.
I know Sol says that money isn’t that important, that our society places too much value on it. But Mr. Brophy and anyone who works for him don’t have someone like Sol to teach them that. They’ve lost their livelihoods and don’t have a mentor to enlighten them on how to separate from their attachment to material wealth.
I’m not just worried about him, though. I’m worried about us, too.
I keep waiting for the police to show up at the door again, not to check in this time but to arrest me. They’ll drag me away in handcuffs and throw me in a dark, cold cell by myself. And worse,they’ll take the other girls away, too. Sending Poppy, Zinnia, and Rose back to places they don’t want to be. Or the real nightmare: putting them into foster care.
The only time when I’m not thinking about all the potential consequences of what I’ve done is when I’m around Sol.
He looks at me, and his smile is so bright that it chases the shadows away. He puts a hand on my shoulder from time to time, gives it a squeeze. More than once in the days that follow, he tells me that he’s proud of me.
And in those moments, I remember why I did it. I remember that it was to protect the other girls, that it was to show my loyalty to this family. To stay in the garden.
When Sol looks at me and says, “You did a good job, Iris,” during our next Growth Session, I believe him. I feel confident that I did the right thing, and I trust that everything will be okay.
Until I leave his room
And then the sun sets, and all the fears come rushing back in the darkness he leaves behind.
My stress must show, especially in comparison to the other girls, who are in high spirits now that they have a bit of food in their bellies. That’s one benefit of my actions, at least. I try to hide the guilt and worry behind smiles, but I know I’m doing apoor job of it. So I’m not surprised when, a week after my second trial, Rose broaches the subject.
“Hey,” she says in one of those rare moments when we’re alone. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re a bad liar?” she asks.
We’re out in the shed, cleaning off some shelves and figuring out which gardening supplies will need to be replaced as spring rapidly approaches. Sol wants to start planting soon.
“You’ve been off since the night you came back crying,” she says. “I didn’t wanna push it then. And I know you said you’re not supposed to talk about what you were doing that night. But you’ve been quiet and distant for the last few days. I’m worried about you.”
I stare at a box of seed packets, wishing so much that my hair was long enough to hide my face as I feel heat rush into my cheeks. It feels good, in a strange way, to know that she worries about me. Because that means she thinks about me, maybe as much as I think about her.
Even though Ishouldn’tbe thinking about her. Not this much. Not the way I do.
“Iris.” Her hand wraps around my wrist. “You know you cantalk to me, right? I won’t tell anyone you broke the stupid rules.”
I look up and find Rose giving me a very serious expression, undeniable sincerity in those big green eyes.
And I want to. I want to tell her everything. I want to spill my sins like blood and let her heal the wound left behind. If sheandSol tell me that I did the right thing, surely that will be enough.
It occurs to me then that Rose’s approval has grown to matter to me almost as much as Sol’s does. That makes me feel weirdly uncomfortable.
I hesitate, still uncertain, until she reaches out and puts a hand over mine where it sits on one of the shelves. My eyes go to the place our skin touches.
“I don’t want you getting in trouble,” she says. “But I want you to know I’m here, if you need to talk.”
Her face is so open and earnest. Not even the usual teasing smirk on her red lips, and I swallow. Because it’s at this moment I know I’m about to deliberately defy Sol for the first time.
But I believe Rose when she says she won’t tell anyone.
