DESPITE THE DISQUIET I cause among the student body, I like school. I like raising my hand and answering questions during class. I revel in feeling smart on the few times I score A’s. But this morning’s lessons pass as slowly as glacial melt. At least I already had algebra today. The last thing I need is to see Mr. Frederics, whose love life I may have screwed up forever.
Finally, the lunch bell rings. On autopilot, I follow a balding path of grass toward a grove of trees. The sun pokes me in the eyes, and I keep my hand up to shade them. I stop at the second to last tree, a sprawling mulberry, where I always eat my lunch, since Kali works the hot lunch line “scooping the goop” as she calls it. I feel less alone there than in the cafeteria, surrounded by people who try not to sit by me.
Not to mention, being outdoors gives me a break from all the pent-up high school smells. The concentrated odor of teenagers, with their fickle natures, rivals even the smelliest crowds in the world. Not even the jam-packed trains in India, or the World Cup crowds Mother and I battled in Brazil on the hunt for a rare bakupari tree can cause such proboscine consternation.
I plop down on a dry spot and cradle my head in my arms, wilting at the thought of Mother’s disappointment.
I won’t be able to fix Ms. DiCarlo with Mr. Frederics’s elixir until I make the PUF for Alice. The librarian will just have to wait. If I fix her now, I might end up with a messy love triangle, and a cartload of new problems.
Maybe a woman like Alice could fall for a man like Mr. Frederics, even though they sit on different ends of the salad bar. A graduate of Georgia Tech and a proponent of reducing our carbon footprint, he’s crunchy granola, the healthy kind with organic seeds and nuts. She’s crisp iceberg lettuce, a natural flare for dressing, and freshly plucked from the runway by her ex-husband at the tender age of nineteen. But, it could work; their scents are in alignment.
I shake my head. They could be Romeo and Juliet for all I care, but it wouldn’t matter. My mission is to stamp out any embers, not blow them into a flame. Unfix Alice. Fix Ms. DiCarlo. And avoid the subject at all costs with Mother so I won’t have to lie.
The rough bark of the mulberry feels warm against the back of my head. Closing my eyes, I inhale. Campfire smells fill my nose: charred cedar, roasted hickory, and fir needles.
Court ambles in my direction with his trademark casual stride, backpack slung over one shoulder.
I stop breathing as I watch him close the distance, wishing I didn’t feel so giddy. Behind him, the school appears stately and calm, with clean blocks of blond stone rising behind columns of Italian cypress.
Moments later, he stands before me. “Hi, again. I’m not following you. This used to be my spot. I sat here all the time freshman year.” He drops down beside me and straps his arms around his knees. On the right toe of his Converse All Stars, someone wrote in black marker, “Beware of Foot.” “You get tired of people, too?”
“The other way around.” His squint deepens, and I add, “People prefer I keep my distance.”
“People can be idiots.”
The undeserved sympathy jabs at me like goatheads, cough-syrupy creepers that grow through the smallest cracks and can puncture even tires with their sharp spines. I pray that he leaves now so I can continue panicking in peace.
He fiddles with his watchband as he stares off to the right, where the field extends toward the five-thousand-capacity soccer stadium. “You coming to the game?”
“Game? Oh, homecoming.” Dummy. It’s only the biggest event of the year, of which Court is the star. He chuckles.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure if I can go.” Because I might not be alive.
“It’s okay. It’ll probably be boring.”
“I doubt all your screaming fans would agree.”
His mouth hints at a smile, which quickly disappears. “The only fan I care about is my mom. This game means a lot to her. I don’t want to disappoint her. She’s had enough of that this year.”
“I’m sorry.” Sorrier than you know.
“It’s okay.” He glances at me. “My mom plays her ukulele in the key of B minor every night. Doesn’t matter what the song is, it could be ‘Happy Birthday’ and it would still be in B minor. It’s so damn depressing.” When he shakes his head, his hair flops into his eyes. He doesn’t brush it aside.
I rub my temples. “I smell protea in your mother’s scentprint.” Protea, also called sugarbush, is usually sweet, but hers is especially melon-like in the top notes.
“Protea. From Proteus?”
“Yes. You know the myth?”
Tapping his finger against his forehead, he says, “Greek god who told the future. He’d change his shape so people couldn’t recognize him and bug him with questions.”
“Nice.”
He stretches his back. “See, I’m not all jock.”
“They named protea after Proteus because it comes in a thousand varieties—pincushion, brown-beard, tooth-leafed, et cetera.”
He snorts. “No dude wants a flower named after him. So why the protea?”
“People who smell like protea are resilient, survivors. Victory has the same sweet notes, like champagne sorbet.”
“Wow. So, does defeat smell sour, like a bunch of stinky jocks crying for their mamas?” His grin teases one out of me.