“She is single, yes?” Mother gets the interview back on track.
“Absolutely. Never married.” Mother taps my sandaled foot with the toe of her clog and discreetly points to her nose as she inhales. The vein across her forehead has begun to throb. She’s as annoyed with me as I am with her, but I have more to lose by showing it. So I focus on the task at hand: decoding Mr. Frederics’s scentprint. Mother can do it in one quick sniff—she’s that good—but I’m still learning. I take a deep inhale and unravel his unique combination of scents, layer by layer.
Besides the top notes of lichen, caper, and pepita I already detected, Mr. Frederics smells like candelabra and Guinea millet, not surprising given his African roots. All in all, at least eighty more notes play to my nose like a complicated chord.
Aromateurs perceive smells like most people see faces. A single glance can take in a thousand pieces of information, from the curve of the cheek to the exact shade of skin. It’s the same with our noses, only it’s easier to remember smells, since the olfactory bulb neighbors the limbic system, the area closely associated with memory and emotions in the brain.
“So what seems to be the problem?” Mother takes charge.
Mr. Frederics blows out a breath and his chest collapses. “Thought everything was on the up and up. She let me buy her a granola bar at the vending machine. When I told her I’m the president of the Latin Hustle Club, she said she’d think about joining. Then over the summer, her rabbit died and she shut down.”
Still no lies. Mother nods empathetically, chin tilted to encourage him to go on.
“My mother wants to see me knotted up before the chariot swings lo for her.” Mr. Frederics adjusts his necktie. “She’s ninety-two. Thought Ms. DiCarlo would be the one. She favored me, too; I could tell by how she always processed my requests before the other teachers’. Polished my books nice and shiny.”
Probably deciding I am no longer fit to conduct this interview, Mother launches into a final set of questions about his background and criminal history. Unlike in the classroom where Mr. Frederics speaks with an easy confidence, now he stammers and sometimes blushes, though his answers are honest. The lovelorn are often self-conscious. Clients come to us when they’ve tried everything to woo the target but can’t get the fire going, whether due to shyness, insecurity, or even prejudice. Elixirs free the inhibitions. Coax the spark into a flame.
“Mim, the rules.” Both Mother and Mr. Frederics are looking at me.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Our elixirs don’t guarantee a love match. They only breathe on the embers. No embers, no fire. If a fire comes to life, you must maintain it. We never rekindle.”
We can reignite love that has died as long an elixir was never used to form the original bond. Only one shot at the love apple. It’s in the Rulebook.
“Sure, I understand. How soon can it be ready? I’m in a bit of a hurry. My mother’s heart’s been acting up. Think it’s the stress of me not being married.”
“We’ll have to do some due diligence on Ms. DiCarlo,” says Mother, “but if everything checks out, we could have something for you by tomorrow.”
Great, a rush order.
“I appreciate what you’re doing here. I just hope I’m worthy of her.” Even in full shade, Mr. Frederics’s scalp is dotted with sweat. He tugs out a handkerchief from his sweater pocket and swabs his scalp.
“We wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t,” says Mother smoothly. “Mim, I need you to get grub lichen from Arastradero. Go now before dinner while we finish up here.”
I groan. Arastradero Park is a good hour round trip on my bike. “I smelled some grub lichen growing on Parrot Hill Road. Can’t we use—”
“No.” Mother pastes on a smile.
She hates using roadside plants because of car pollution, but I wish she would make an exception just this once. I haven’t completed a homework assignment in days—not just algebra—and now with Mr. Frederics’s rush order, it looks like the truancy will continue.
Mother arches an eyebrow. We trade the annoyed smells of molded lemons for a moment, but I give in, as I always do.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Frederics.” Hopefully from the third row of your classroom, if I can help it.