“Well, maybe we could just go enjoy some dinner smells together. It’s the least I could do to thank you.”
Of course. An appreciation dinner. The BBG would’ve neutralized any feelings he might have developed for me. “Thank you, but it’s not necessary.”
Disappointed notes of blue hydrangea weigh down the air like sad jazz music. He probably doesn’t hear no often.
A woman in a sweat suit riddled with rhinestones steps out of the library with a shaggy pet under one arm, a stack of books in the other. A ukulele is slung against her back.
“Hi, honey. I stopped by to get more books.” She pecks Court on the cheek. Court’s mother could be mistaken for one of the seniors with her trim figure and hair done up in pigtails, with only a bit of gray to give her away. Her scentprint is a complicated mix of rare plants, lying under a thick fog of blueberries. You would never guess her heart was aching by looking at her.
Court relieves her of the books and the pet, which turns out to be a purse. She keeps her ukulele.
“Couldn’t you leave it in the car?”
“Of course not.” She bats at his arm. “The sun warps the wood. Who is this?”
Court tips his head toward me. “Mim. She’s the one who saved me.”
“Oh, you’re Mim! I can’t thank you enough, darling. I gave Court hell for forgetting his pen.” She fishes keys from the purse Court is holding and hooks them onto his pinky. “Fetch the car for me, dear. I parked by the Cat in the Hat.”
I must look stumped because she adds, “That’s what we call the wind sock. Get it?”
“Oh, right.” The red and white wind sock on the street fronting the school does look like a Dr. Seuss hat.
Court flashes me a smile that spreads a strange warmth throughout my body. As he jogs away, I avoid watching.
Mrs. Sawyer focuses her bright eyes on me. “You’re the perfumer’s daughter, right? Melanie mentioned you started school here.”
“Yes.” Court’s younger sister, Melanie, has never spoken a word to me other than, “I sit there,” when I chose the wrong desk on my first day of algebra.
The woman steps close enough to count my nose hairs. I know because I can count hers. Taking my chin, she steers my face from side to side. “Nice bone structure. What a sweet little bump.” Her eyes almost cross. “And those amber eyes, like that cougar I saw on Big Cats. A little mascara and gloss, you could do runway. You’ve got the height and the lines.”
“Thanks.” I’m not sure what kind of lines she’s talking about. Far as I know, models don’t really speak at all.
“Talofa,” Kali calls out a Samoan greeting as she rolls up from the parking lot on her Vintage Schwinn.
I gently extricate myself from Mrs. Sawyer. “Hey, K. Where you been?”
“Went for a ride. Trying to get healthy so I can be stealthy.” In one smooth motion, Kali hops off her bike and steers it into its usual spot at the library bike racks. Despite being the biggest girl in the junior class, limbs thick and large like the rest of her Samoan family, she moves as gracefully as a gazelle.
“Hello, Kali,” says Mrs. Sawyer. “You’ve grown up since Girl Scouts.”
“Haven’t seen you here in a while, Mrs. Sawyer.”
“Call me Alice, both of you. The divorce is final.” She flashes us her beauty queen smile. She is a former Miss California, which makes her the most famous person in Santa Guadalupe. “Now I’m on a reading kick.” She pushes a shoulder down toward her books. “Sofia, er, Ms. DiCarlo, orders the best romance novels. I never go to City anymore.”
Ms. DiCarlo. With a start, I turn back to the library window. Ms. DiCarlo is no longer at her desk, though the Starbucks cup is still there. I groan. I’ll be late to Cardio Fitness, waiting here for her to drink it.
“But enough about me. Congratulations on winning the half-time spot,” Mrs. Sawyer—Alice—tells Kali.
I wasn’t surprised when Kali was selected to recite a poem as part of the entertainment for next Friday’s game. She wins every poetry contest she enters, and her monthly slams for the Puddle Jumpers are legendary. She could be the next Poet Laureate.
Kali beams. “Thanks.”
Alice touches Kali’s arm and leans closer. “I was on the committee. Your submission was very Gertrude Stein.”
Kali stiffens and her face turns red. “It was?” The boggy note of anxiety trickles from her direction, even though the poet Gertrude Stein is one of Kali’s heroes. Unlike Gertrude, Kali is not yet out, herself.
Alice nods with her whole body. “Absolutely.” She doesn’t seem to notice Kali’s discomfort. “‘Kite’ was about individuality, about being yourself—”
Kali clears her throat. “Actually, I have another poem I was thinking about doing.”
“Oh, here’s Court.” Alice waves toward a late-model BMW pulling up beside us. “Kali, if you prefer to do another piece, I’m sure that’s fine, as long as it doesn’t have any F-bombs. Are you girls coming to Melanie’s birthday party tomorrow? The Bandits will be there. Melanie even hired bouncers.”