Mr. Rennert, who has taught English at Pacific Heights High for longer than my grandmother has been alive, sighs and drops the dry-erase marker onto his desk. “Enter.”
The door swings open, and Misty Shaffer, a junior with short, cropped hair and a constant grin that shows off her braces, steps into the room. I expect to see a note in her hand, something private to be delivered to one of the students. But instead she holds an enormous bouquet of roses.
Purple roses.
Lacy Hamilton and Jenna Sanchez gasp from their seats a row over, their faces ignited in hope, and chatter breaks out at the back of the room.
“Quiet down back there. You’re still on my clock,” Mr. Rennert warns in his usual dry tone. “Ms. Shaffer, you seem to be lost. Last time I checked I was teaching AP English, not Intro to Botany.”
“Special orders from the front office, Mr. R,” Misty says, unrepentant as she edges past him, all purple-and-green teeth. “The delivery guy said these couldn’t wait.”
Time seems to slow as she makes her way down the aisle. I think she’s going to stop at Jenna’s desk, and Jenna’s posture says that she thinks so, too. But Misty stops in front of me, the bouquet nearly blocking her face. I blink up at her, the pencil in my hand stalled on the half-finished sketch of a winding vine I’d been drawing in the margins of my notebook.
“Charlotte,” she says grandly. She holds the roses out to me—their purple petals nearly the same shade as her braces—and I can’t seem to react, to lift my hands to take them from her.
It can’t be.
Carlos jabs me in the side from his seat next to mine, prodding me to do something. The entire class is staring at me, including a clearly annoyed Mr. Rennert. I hurriedly yank the bouquet from her hands and set it on the desk. Misty stands for another moment in the aisle, her eyes wide, expectant, like she thinks I’m going to tell her who they’re from.
“All right, Ms. Shaffer, you’ve done your job.” Mr. Rennert eyes the flowers while I pretend I’m invisible. “Now perhaps you’ll let me get back to doing mine?”
Misty spins around with one last grin, leaving as promptly as she arrived.
“Show’s over, people. Let’s focus,” he adds, picking up the marker from his desk. But before he can say another word, the bell buzzes from the speaker over the door and everyone springs up from their seats. Mr. Rennert glares, first at the bouquet and then at me.
I rise slowly, as if the force of gravity is too strong. I can’t even speak. It’s all I can do to block out the whispers and lingering stares as people pass me on their way out the door. Jenna Sanchez throws me one last look over her shoulder, disbelief etched on her face. Probably the same expression is carved on mine.
“What are you not telling me?” Carlos asks, his tone almost accusing as the rush of the hall swallows us. We never keep secrets from each other—not that I’ve had any to keep. Backpacks and shoulders slam against me as I weave through the crowd, Carlos close behind. “Who sent you those?”
My fingers tremble as I pull out the card from the center of the bouquet, examining the envelope. It’s definitely from our shop; I recognize the thin gold border around the edge. Charlotte, it reads in plain lettering on the front. The tiny card slips easily from the envelope, and glitter spills out with it, sticking to my fingers and raining down to the floor, dusting the tops of my navy-blue flats.
Because roses shouldn’t try to be something they’re not, the card reads.
“Um, explain?” Carlos asks, reading over my shoulder and brushing the dark shock of hair away from his forehead. Carlos is a good foot taller than me, and when he’s standing up straight, the top of my head could actually fit beneath his chin. “And what’s with all the glitter?”
I shove the card back into the envelope, my heart thumping inside my chest. Tate. He bought the flowers for me. What kind of insane person buys roses for a girl he doesn’t know? And how did he find me here at school?
“Hello?” Carlos says beside me, waving a hand in front of my face. “Has my little Charlotte found herself an admirer at last?”
“Of course not.” But my cheeks burn at the thought. “It’s just some guy who came into the shop yesterday.”
Carlos’s mouth dips open, revealing the slight gap between his two front teeth. “You met him yesterday and he’s already sending you flowers?” He touches one of the perfect buds, the vintage black ring he found at a garage sale two months ago glinting in sharp contrast to the purple petals. Carlos changes his style monthly: Today he’s wearing a herringbone vest over a slouchy gray T-shirt and plaid loafers he took from his dad’s closet.
“I don’t even know how he found me,” I say.
“Okay, back up. Start from the beginning. Was he cute or creepy?”
I frown at the memory of his perfect face, his dark eyes, and the easy way he leaned across the counter to wipe the glitter from my cheek.