“Not at all, Mr. Frederics,” Mother answers before I can. My toes curl against the leather soles of my sandals. “We are delighted to have you as a client. And let me reassure you, Mimosa will not be taking advantage of the situation. You know we adhere to the highest standard of conduct.”
I scowl. Rule One of our ancient code of ethics states that “an aromateur’s nose shall never be employed in the creation of elixirs for personal gain, but for the betterment of society,” meaning we don’t charge for our services. However, the rule is vague, leaving the aromateur to decide what personal gain means in gray areas.
“We’ve decided Mimosa will be dropping algebra until the end of the semester.”
“Wh—?” I get out before Mother shoots me a look that could cause my hair to catch fire. Three years I spent teaching myself enough math to qualify for algebra. Not to mention, Mr. Frederics is the only teacher who doesn’t jump every time he sees me.
I clamp my lips, but the scent of my anger, like burnt rubber tires, blackens the space around me.
Mr. Frederics pulls at his collar. “Oh, I wouldn’t feel right about that.”
“I assure you, Mimosa is as committed to our work as I am. Isn’t that right, Mim?” Mother places a hand on my knee, which has started to bounce. “Mim has a very packed schedule, and she’s bright. I’m sure she can pick up with algebra next semester.”
Mr. Frederics casts me a worried gaze, and my smile starts to hurt. If Mother loses face because of me, there will definitely be no algebra. Better to play along for now. “It won’t be a problem.”
“Let’s move forward, shall we?” Mother pans her face to me. “Mim?”
“We’re happy you chose Sweetbriar Perfumes to be your relationship intermediaries.” I recite the spiel Mother wants us to use for all clients, never mind that we’re the only aromateurs on the planet, not including Aunt Bryony, who lost her nose when she was nineteen. “Everything we use in our elixirs is botanical, no synthetics. We grow what we can here in our garden. The rest comes from organic or wild sources.”
He nods. “Good, wonderful. You know I’m a big proponent of reducing our carbon footprint. I drive a Prius.”
“You’re not currently in a relationship, is that correct?” I ask.
“No. I haven’t dated in seven years.”
Mother’s petite nose wiggles. This is a key part of the interview. A lie smells like pewter and sour grass with stale yellow undertones, rather like a sweaty palm that has been clutching dirty coins. Mother can detect a lie as easily as most people smell dead fish. My own nose—which looks like someone took pliers to Mother’s, tweaked it longer and a pinched a bump on the bridge to be funny—doesn’t detect a single wayward molecule, though Mother’s the expert.
She could have waited until next summer to take him on as a client. It’s not like we don’t have enough people on the waiting list—six hundred or so lonely hearts last time I checked.
Mother raises her thin eyebrows at me and ticks her head toward Mr. Frederics. Get on with the program.
“Could you tell us a little about, er—” I don’t know the target’s name.
“Sofia,” says Mother.
He beams. “I’d be happy to.” The grassy sweet smell of the flower heartsease drifts from under his collar, the telltale sign of a crush. He’s got it bad.
“As you probably know, she’s a bit of a neat freak, but I love her for it.”
But why would I know she’s a neat freak?
“She’s smart, as is obvious.” He looks at me, waiting for confirmation. A chill passes through me, the way the temperature drops when a cloud passes over the sun. I really should have reviewed the application. “Read all the books in our library, which, as you know, is considerable.”
Our library means the Santa Guadalupe High School library. “Ms. DiCarlo?”
Mr. Frederics coughs and straightens his sweater cuffs. “Er, yes.”
I would never have put Mr. Frederics and the school librarian together. The math whiz listens to ethno jazz and his breath smacks of oats and honey. There’s a laidback vibe to him, despite his snazzy outfits. Ms. DiCarlo, a petite redhead, buys hand sanitizer in bulk, and probably goes to bed in business casual. But, it could work. Both are middle-aged, use words like juxtaposed, and have good posture. Most important, their scents don’t clash.
Mr. Frederics’s eyes shift to Mother’s. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, I thought—”
Mother’s cheeks flash pink, and her eyes become pestles, grinding into me. “There is absolutely nothing to be sorry about. Mim has not had time to read the file.” The smell of burnt tires drifts from under her collar, stinging my nostrils. The teakwood plank suddenly feels too hard under my bottom and I shift from side to side.
If the librarian is the target, what’s next? Is Mother going to ban me from checking out library books? Ridiculous.