The woman mumbles something under her breath, but waits by the front desk. It’s almost like she’s watching every move I make. It’s terrifying, but I try not to think about it.
Ten minutes later, Tracy stumbles through the back door holding six dozen wrapped roses, three dozen under each arm. “Hello!” she cheers, laying the roses on the table. She laughs. “That was a nasty drive. Bee, can you get the rest in the back of the car and lock it? I’ll help our lovely customers.”
I take the opportunity, practically running outside. The car is wide open and full to the brim with flowers of all different colors and sizes. I pick them up, only able to carry four or five sets at a time, and put them with the roses. When everything is locked up, I head to the front of the shop—only to have Tracy call me back to the designer’s table again.
“Help me here, sweetie,” she whispers, when I’m close enough to hear. “I’m overwhelmed. Hand me that oasis.”
I run to the sink and grab the soaking green foam and help Tracy cut it down to fit in the basket. She starts working on the funeral piece, her fingers skillfully placing each wide fern leaf (which Tracy calls “leather”) into the green foam. I help her strip the white roses of their excess leaves and cut them down to size while she arranges them. I want to stand and watch her all day, but more customers have arrived, and I have to go on delivery soon.
I step up to the counter. A young woman approaches me, looking like she’s about to burst into tears. She’s holding a premade bouquet from the cooler, one full of white and lavender flowers that I haven’t learned the names of yet. “I want something just like this. Do you mind making it larger? I have to take it…to…a funeral.” She says the last words on a heaving breath.
I take the vase from her, nodding. “Let me take it to the back. How much do you want to spend?”
“No more than ninety dollars.”
I smile sympathetically, but when I place the arrangement on the table in front of Tracy, she shakes her head at me. “I can’t. You do it. Grab that vase there—” She points behind her. “And grab more leather and those lavender dahlias.”
I stand there, gaping at her. “You want me to make it?”
“Why not?” She smiles. “You’ve seen me do it before, right? You know what it’s supposed to look like. And I’ve seen the way you decorate the shop for me! I know you have an eye for color and order.”
I whimper incredulously. “Okay,” I say, and some part of me snaps and bursts into action. I hardly know what I’m doing as I grab the leather and three lavender dahlias. I cut and wipe the stems of the leather like I’ve seen Tracy do it, then set them in the vase so they make a circle around the rim. I add a few more layers, then pick up the original arrangement and place it inside the new vase. There’s still room around the edges, so I fill it with white wax flower. Once it’s full, I add the three dahlias and three stems of spray roses.
I step back. Tracy steps back. She looks at me. I blush. “Is it okay?” I ask.
She whistles approvingly. “It’s more than okay. I know you had something to work with already, but I’m impressed.”
I nod, completely uncertain, but something is buzzing inside of me as I head to the front counter to ring up our customer. I’m happy to see that she’s no longer on the verge of tears. (I feel a bit like flying.)
Chapter 7
Dinner is scattered that night. My sisters have ballet at seven, and my dad comes home from work late. By the time I’m hungry, my mom and sisters are gone, and my dad is sitting at the table alone. He’s spooning cereal into his mouth (cereal for dinner; welcome, one and all, to my family) and reading the book that’s propped up between his fingers. Crime and Punishment, the spine says.
Thing You Should Know About Me #104: I’m a book pusher, constantly telling people to read certain books, often to get them out of their comfort zones. I’ve been badgering Papa to read this book for ages, and it looks like he’s finally taking my expert advice. It also looks like I was right to recommend it, because he’s enthralled, his blue eyes focusing hard on the pages. It’s only when I step in front of him that he looks up and scratches his short brown hair. “Hey, Bee.”
“Hi, Papa.” I lean down to kiss his cheek. “How’s the book?”
“Good stuff. Raskilnikov is digging himself into a deep hole.”
I sigh dramatically. “Ahh, Raskilnikov.”
He leans back. His clothes are dusty from work, and his cheeks are unshaven. “Going somewhere tonight?”
“Out with Tom and some friends.”
“Where is he?”
“Probably in his room.”
“Hmm.”
Papa seems a bit more tired than usual. I wrap my arms around his shoulder and give him a squeeze. “How was your week?”
“Good. I’m tired of working on this attic, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. There was a problem with the electrical company, so now we have to wait until they rewire the entire second floor.”
I pat his arm. “That’s super annoying.”
“Hmm,” he says again. Then he rubs his eyes and grunts. “I’m going to watch some TV before I go to bed—want to join? I’m starting a new science fiction show.”
I’m rather tantalized by this, but I give him an apologetic smile. “I promised Tom.”
“Well, I suppose I should be urging you to go out more often anyway, so…good for you.”
I laugh, high-fiving him as he heads into the living room. “Thanks, Papa. See you tomorrow.”
It isn’t until I get into my room that I remember that it’s Saturday, and my dad doesn’t work Saturdays. There’s a split second where I wonder why he’s so tired if he hasn’t worked all day. Then I find myself staring at my closet, thinking about the party and the weather and what to wear (and The Boy), and that moment is past and forgotten.
I decide on jeans and my favorite blue shirt and polka-dotted sweater. My shoes match the blue on my shirt, and I’ve even put on my favorite pair of gold earrings. I pull my hair into a messy bun and apply lip gloss.
Thing You Should Know About Me #204: I don’t wear makeup. My skin is sensitive and I’m too practical to spend more than twenty minutes getting ready. But every once in a while, when Tom convinces me to go out (or there’s a wedding; these are the only acceptable times), I borrow some of my mom’s makeup. Right now I’m looking in the mirror at my slightly-more-smooth face, and it surprises me. I look…older. It takes a few seconds, but the near-panic queasiness settles in my stomach with a whoosh. When did that happen?
“Hey, Beef!” Tom yells from across the house, rescuing me from my moment. “Time to go!”
“Coming!” I answer, grabbing my purse, and rush outside. Tom’s already waiting by his car…and his girlfriend is with him.