I catch a zing of anticipation, the one that smells of iced tea, followed by happy puffs of apple blossom, meaning compatibility. Check. Moving on. “One other thing, I’m searching for a book called Women in Nineteenth Century America: Socialites to Spinsters.”
At the word spinster, I detect a note of something salty spiking her natural scent. Something wistful. She’s definitely open to love.
She types something on her computer, then frowns. “It’s in special collections. I’ll fetch it.”
Standing, she smoothes her blouse into the waistband of her tailored skirt, then hurries toward a back room. When the door closes behind her, I dump in the contents of my vial. More than enough.
A minute later, she returns empty-handed. “I’m afraid the book is missing, but City Library has a copy if you want me to make the request.”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks, anyway.”
The Rulebook requires me to witness Ms. DiCarlo take the bait. I exit the library and spy on her through the library windows. She goes back to polishing book covers, still not touching her espresso.
When I pick up the scent of a campfire, my heart jumps.
Court treads toward the library, his arms swinging easily, eyes unfocused and relaxed. The school songbird, Cassandra Linney, bounces alongside him with her arm hooked through his. The two might have stepped out of the pages of a J.Crew catalogue. On him: cashmere V-neck in moss green, size medium. On her: the clambake skirt in seaport blue with cropped pinstripe jacket, size petite. Cassandra flips back her corkscrew hair with a snap of her wrist.
For reasons I don’t understand, my secondhand sundress suddenly feels as shabby as it is. The Aromateur Trust Fund set up by our medieval benefactors only covers business expenses, meaning we live frugally. Still, did I have to choose this cable-knit scarf and this ratty hat? Looks like something out of a grandma’s closet. I wish I didn’t care so much. After all, once my stint here at Santa Guadalupe High has ended, I will disappear back into the briar, as always.
I shrink into the shadow of a building post as they approach, hoping Court’s too distracted by the living mass of Cassandra’s hair to notice me. The sound of her trilly laugh makes my teeth hurt.
I return to spying on the librarian. She still hasn’t drunk her beverage. What’s wrong with her? No one likes lukewarm espresso.
“Mim,” comes Court’s smooth voice.
I straighten back up. “Oh, hello,” I say, as if I just noticed them.
Cassandra’s blue eyes grow large at the sight of me, and her corkscrew hair seems to straighten momentarily in fright. Her unease wafts over me, the slightly molded smell of rained-on pavement. “You’re Kali’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”
“Okay.” I hope she’s not still mad about the homecoming half-time show. Kali said Cassandra threw her sheet music when she learned Kali, a junior, would be sharing the stage with her.
“I’ll catch up later,” she tells Court. After a last look at me—the fruity rooibos smell of curiosity joins her unease—she sails off toward a group of seniors.
“H-how are you feeling?” My voice sounds unnaturally chipper.
“Good as new. Thanks again for saving my life.” He touches his arm where the bee had stung him. His dimples appear, one on the left, and two on the . . . I shake myself free.
“You’re welcome. You should really carry an EpiPen.”
“I usually do, but I left it in the car. What was in that jar?”
“Crushed plaintain weeds.”
“You saved me with weeds? Wow. Someone could make a fortune.”
“They have to be fresh.” I shrug. “The power of the flower.”
“So what happened to the kid?” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Queen of Sheba? King Solomon?”
“Oh.” So he did hear my story. Curls of blushing bromeliad, smelling like sun-kissed pineapple, rise from under my scarf. “He became the emperor of Ethiopia. But I’m sure we had our share of dirtbags and pond scum, too.”
He moves closer, and his shadow slips over me. “Maybe you can tell me about them over burgers sometime.”
“B-b-burgers?” I stutter. “You mean like eating with you?”
He laughs. “That’s generally what happens.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.” I squeeze wrinkles into the worn cotton of my sundress.
“Why not?” His voice softens. There’s a freckle on his neck right in the notch below his ear.
“I have dietary restrictions.”
“You’re vegetarian?”
“Yes. I can’t eat refined sugar, vinegar, or salt.” Our overdeveloped sense of smell requires us to follow a finicky diet. Nothing too pungent, like garlic or onions, and absolutely no salt. A single bite of a honey-baked ham almost did Mother in one Thanksgiving. She lost her sense of smell for a week and refused to eat anything but rice.
“But doesn’t that get a little bland?”
“Actually, most of what people perceive as ‘taste’ comes from our sense of smell. So when we smell foods, we’re getting the full flavor experience.”
He grins, and I detect the amused vanilla scent of animal crackers. Maybe I don’t need to be so truthful all the time.