I give my remaining flowers their inch and a half of water, naming them as I go. Golden Midas Touches, sunset yellow and pink Garden Parties, the soft yellow Maid of Honors, crimson Olympiads, blushed-gray Silverados, and flushed-ivory Pristines. They glow with the fresh water and still-rotting banana peels from Sammie. I give slightly less water to the few newer roses that are still in pots outside the gate, since I’ve been too indecisive to plant them yet. The cacophony of pinks, oranges, and yellows that make up the Voodoos and intense raspberry edging on the white Suffolks make them too bold to place at random.
The next hour floats by. I pick the dead leaves and browning petals for compost, brush off spiderwebs and pests that are threatening my babies, and mark down in the notes on my phone which bushes I think would be best to harvest from for everyone’s corsages and boutonnieres. I don’t realize how much time has passed until Mom pulls off my headphones, scaring the crap out of me.
I whirl on her. “Shit! Don’t sneak up on a girl with a pair of trimmers.”
“Language,” she scolds, and I bite back a remark asking if she’d prefer I curse in Spanish. She takes a seat on the same bench Sammie and I sat on last night and pulls out a can of the Materva Dad picked up from the store last weekend.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask as she hands me the can. I crack it open and take a long sip of gingery, bubbly goodness. Dad tends to ration the Cuban soda, since it’s a rare find anywhere but the supermercado half an hour away. Mom says it’s for the best, given how caffeinated they are, but I say it’s all the more reason to up the Cuban population in NorCal.
“You’ve been working so hard out here, I figured you could use the reward.” She pulls her hair into a ponytail. “Plus, you look flushed. ‘O Rose, thou art sick.’”
“Please don’t quote William Blake at me at this hour.”
She perks at my recognition.
“Would you prefer William Carlos Williams? ‘The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in—’”
“‘—an edge,’” I finish. “Don’t make me recite the entire poem; you know ‘The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end—of roses’ gets me every time.”
She sighs. “You’re every English professor’s dream.”
I offer her a sip of the Materva to veer away from her attempt to guilt-trip me about my future major.
“The roses look great,” she says, handing me back the soda after only a light sip. She’s more of a tea person.
“Hopefully they look as good in photos.” I wipe sweat off my forehead. “Agatha will kill me if dead roses wreck her aesthetic.”
“I still can’t believe you’re already a senior. My baby girl, getting so big. Soon you’ll be off at college, moving out, getting a husband and having kids of your own—”
“Whoa there.” I sit beside her and wrap my arms around her stomach from behind, resting my chin over her shoulders. “I love the idea of my happily ever after being around the corner too. But I’m still right here.”
“I know, I know.” She bends her neck and kisses my temple. “My sweet, boy-crazy Ophelia.” She laughs and wipes her nose, standing up and stretching out her pale arms. “Sorry, honey, preemptive empty-nest syndrome. I’ll let you get back to work. Just don’t tell your dad I gave you that.” She nods to the Materva and winks before heading back inside.
I turn my music back on, airy female vocals blending with soft ukulele strumming, but I don’t get back to work right away—can’t, actually. I fiddle with one of the newly bloomed Olympiad roses, the petals a vibrant, bloody red. With misty water droplets resting atop them, they glitter in the sunlight. Like sparkling red nail polish.
Mom’s words echo in my head. A husband … boy-crazy Ophelia.
I drop the flower and get back to work.
SIX
Chatter fills the halls on Monday morning as potential prom-court-candidate names are tossed around left and right. The official ballot won’t be announced until next week, but by now we all know who actually has a shot at winning. Anyone who has their eye on those plastic crowns should’ve been preparing since freshman year, because at this point people either know you or they don’t. And people know Lindsay.
Star sprinter of the track team two years running (literally), math tutor to basically half our graduating class, holder of a 4.1 GPA, early acceptee into the undergrad math program at the University of Chicago, and guaranteed invite to every party, even the ones thrown by students she’s never spoken to. In every way, Linds is the type of person you’re expected to pay attention to, and people do, so she’s a shoo-in for prom queen. If only she weren’t so opposed to the idea.
“How many times do I have to say I’m not running before you realize my answer isn’t going to change? I’m not going to waste a chunk of one of our final months of high school begging for people to give me a useless crown,” Lindsay huffs at Agatha as we all take our seats for first-period homeroom. From the minute we all pulled into the student parking lot this morning, Agatha has been back on her bullshit trying to sway Lindsay. So far, she hasn’t done much but annoy her.
“How many times do I have to list the reasons why you should run?” Agatha replies. She takes her seat beside Lindsay, in front of my and Sammie’s desk.
“I’d like to hear the list again,” Sammie says as Lindsay sighs and drops her head. Wesley pats her on the shoulder on his way to his and Zaq’s desk, and Sammie stiffens beside me.
“At risk of further encouraging this debate,” I start as Lindsay lifts her head, “do you think winning prom queen would compensate for losing Best Hair?”
“Oh my God, you little floral genius!” Agatha screeches. “I didn’t even think about the superlative!”
We all, naively, assumed Lindsay’s bright red locks had Best Hair in the bag come senior year, but Danica Peters’s rainbow hair swooped in at the last minute and won. Lindsay and Sammie ranted about the unfairness of unnaturally dyed hair winning, but Sammie’s frustration was, at best, a lackluster attempt at flirting. Truthfully, I admired Danica for her dedication to her wild hair. Lindsay hasn’t exactly worked for her locks, but I still felt bad about her disappointment. Especially after she stood up when they announced the winner at the senior assembly last month before realizing they hadn’t called her name. She had to pretend to give Danica a standing ovation. It was rough.
“Everyone, settle down,” Mr. Greggory calls as students scramble into class last minute. First-period homeroom used to be lax when we were all A students who did our homework the night before. But senioritis has everyone procrastinating and rushing to finish shit before next period. I don’t even want to think about this carrying over to college.
“Fine,” Lindsay says quietly. I freeze while pulling out my chemistry worksheet, sneaking a peek at Sammie. He looks at me with wide eyes before looking to Linds.
“Fine … what?” Agatha asks with a creeping smile.
“Fine … I’ll run for prom queen,” Linds sighs. We all explode in cheers, even Wesley and Zaq. Agatha squeals, listing off the next steps to guarantee Lindsay doesn’t lose this title. Forget fashion, Agatha should work in political campaigning.