I freeze in my tracks. Court? I should have known.
“I just need a little help unconfusing him.” Her voice trembles. “For his own good.” Any rookie aromateur could smell that their chords clash. Certain notes do that, just like music. Invisible airborne warfare.
Casually, I glance at the lunch tables a few paces to our right that form straight lines all the way down to the field. Court and his friends always eat lunch at the last table, but I don’t see him there today.
“Pssh,” says Kali. “No use crying over spilled oil. Probably found someone else who floats his boat.”
The juniors’ mouths form two O’s of indignation. Melanie recovers first. She rubs Vicky’s arm. “Of course not. He loves you.” She overarticulates, making sure each word is perfectly formed before she sends it out into the world. “Your Christmas formal picture is still on our mantle.”
“I want our homecoming picture to be on your mantle. He’s the one.” Vicky’s eyes plead with me to see reason. “I love him so much it hurts. Don’t you understand?” She clasps her hands as if praying.
Though I never had a boyfriend, or even a boy who was a friend, I do understand the washing machine nature of love: the hot churning, the hand wringing, the head spinning, the sometimes final rinse with cold water. Aromateur is my name, and love is my game. But rules are rules. No minors.
Plus, we would never take someone like Vicky for a client. She reeks of insincerity, like dirty bathwater and pond salt. “Sorry, can’t help you.”
Vicky crosses her arms over her chest, and her tone turns snappish. “Court’s almost an adult. He’ll be eighteen in six months. Can’t you round up?”
At the nearest lunch table, a bunch of gamer nerds are playing video games on their phones. Drew Reaver squints at us through his thick-rimmed red glasses. The poor guy’s got it bad over Vicky; I can smell the heartsease from here. She might have the personality of a wet porcupine, but the boys still go gaga over her. Must be the celery, whose stalks are known to induce lust.
I shake my head. “Again, sorry. You’ll have to hook him the old-fashioned way.”
“My brother is not a he-ho.” Melanie flips back her blond hair and stomps one of her pink Nike sneakers.
I look at Kali for help, having no idea what a he-ho is. She snorts loudly.
“I’ll pay you double.” Vicky whips out a credit card from somewhere in her bra. “Platinum.” She holds it out as if she actually expects me to swipe it through something.
Kali flicks her eyes to the sky and shakes her head. “Are we in a bad movie? Attack of the Killer Bimbos? Close Encounters of the Turd Kind?”
Vicky’s sweat glands ooze the angry scent of rubber tires, and I quickly say, “Money’s not the issue.” Clients don’t know our no-fee rule until we take them on, and then we swear them to secrecy. Aromateurs have always been obsessive about privacy.
Vicky’s eyes harden. “I know all about how you work. You have ethical rules, blah, blah, blah.” She waves her credit card. “But I bet you haven’t splurged on yourself in a long time. I mean, your hair . . .”
My hand flies to my unruly bob, which I trimmed myself with hedge clippers when I couldn’t find the scissors. A flash of heat passes over my face.
“Now, Mim, you’re new, but you should know something about me.” Vicky leans closer. “When I was two, a Rottweiler tried to take my binky. Guess who won?”
Kali replies. “I’d say whoever didn’t have to suck your stinky binky. C’mon, we don’t have to listen to this crap.”
She begins to haul me off to the locker room, when Vicky says in a singsongy voice, “A lady walked along the beach, as lovely as a summer day. And when I asked her for a kiss, mermaid-like, she slipped away.”
Kali’s eyes snap to Vicky’s. In one quick motion, Kali shrugs off her backpack and feels the front pocket. It’s empty. “You stole my journal.”
“I learned so much about you and your”—Vicky winks—“preferences.”
I gasp at the same time Kali lets out a Samoan curse. Kali’s hands bunch into fists, and she shifts her weight from one flip-flop to the other, glaring at Vicky hard enough to sear holes. “Give it back, or I’ll make you into jam.”
She could do it with one swipe of her tattooed knuckles. Kali used to eat girls like Vicky for lunch back when she hung out with her brother’s friends. Her parents worked late hours—her mom as a nurse and her dad on construction—and left the upbringing of their youngest to their sons.
Vicky tilts her head, and her asphalt tresses cascade to one side. “You wouldn’t dare. Unless you want everyone to know. Remember what happened to Barry the Fairy?”
“Blackmail is a crime,” I huff.
“You mean, black female.” Vicky winks at me and her spidery lashes nearly tangle. “You can have the journal back when Court falls back in love with me. Bring the elixir to Melanie’s party tomorrow.”
Melanie frowns, and Vicky’s the only one left smiling.