“Guess so,” I say, feigning cheer. Awkwardly, I settle beside him, still hugging my bag.
“Thanks for bringing those flowers to my rude sister on Saturday. My mom, too. It made her day.” He flashes me that grin that stirs my pulse to a trot. “Power of the flower, even after my dad . . .”
A whiff of friar plums itches my nose, the bluesy note of sadness. Mood scents are often ephemeral, like sweaters we pull on and off. He chews on a hangnail, then drops his hand back into his lap.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He stares at his Converse All Stars, face darkening. “Melanie used to like making pottery, though she wasn’t very good at it. When she was ten, she made this vase. It looked more like a . . . shoe.” A smile flits across his face. “But Mom said she loved it, and so Melanie made her another one every year.
“Last weekend when Dad came to the house, Mom had moved that vase to the backyard for Melanie’s birthday party.” A dent appears in his smooth forehead and he lets out a held breath.
“The one he broke?”
Court nods. “Mom forgave him. Why? Beats the heck out of me. He’s always breaking things. I just want him to leave us alone. Stop promising stuff he can’t deliver. Mel got all dressed up when he said he was going to take her out for her birthday. I told her he wouldn’t show up. I knew he would disappoint her.” Scowling, he plucks up a handful of grass, then scatters it.
“Hope and disappointment are brothers,” I hear myself saying.
Court’s smooth forehead crinkles, and I explain, “Hope smells like pink hydrangea, but if you add a bit of acid to the soil—coffee grounds or eggshells work well—the petals turn blue, and the smell changes to something wetter and foggier, which is how disappointment smells.”
“Disappointment smells like . . . fog?”
“It smells like blue hydrangea, which sort of smells like fog.”
The confusion doesn’t budge from his expression.
“What I’m saying is, without hope, there could not be disappointment.”
The plum scent spikes noticeably, and he gathers his knees to him. “So I should stop hoping.”
“No, it’s human to hope. But you could stop adding acid to the soil. You can stop letting him hurt you.” I can’t help thinking about my own mom, who will be giving off a lot of blue hydrangea if she ever learns what I did. “As my mother says, forgiveness is a gift you give to yourself. At least that’s what she tells me every time I’m mad at her.”
“Yeah. I’m still working on that one.” He gives me a rueful grin.
“It’s nice that you’re close to your sister.”
“We used to be closer. Ever since Dad left, Mel thinks she’s an actress. She used to be a tomboy. Used to surf with us on the weekends. Now she hardly talks to me.” He squints as if trying to make out something on the field, but there’s no one practicing there. “So that’s my messed-up family.”
I crease the cotton of my skirt with my fingernail. Now how am I supposed to tell him about his mom? Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. But without his help, I might not PUF his mom in time.
“Hey, thanks for listening,” he says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to dump. I’m not usually so mopey.”
“It’s okay, I like listening. Feel free to dump—I mean share—anytime.”
“Thanks, and the same goes for you.”
Oh great, way to sharpen the shears even more. Now we’re confidantes. Better get it over with as soon as possible.
I straighten up and look him in the eye. “Actually, I do have something to tell you. I screwed up.”
He goes very still, and the only noise is the breeze rustling the mulberry leaves above us. In as few words as possible, I tell him what I did. As he listens, his face is inscrutable, a placid palate of fair skin.
“Holy crap.”
“I’m sorry.” I dig my fingernails into my palms.
“I mean, I don’t even—” His hand makes circles in the air then stops. “Are you messing with me?”
“No.” I cringe that he could think that. My hat overheats my head. “I wouldn’t do that.”
The angry scent of burning tires soaks the air around us. “You know the crap she’s been through this year?” His muscles tense, and he scoots onto his knees, like he’s about to leave.
“I have a guess, and I am sorry. I have no excuse, except that I was . . .”
“You were what?” He wraps his hands around his head as if preparing for a crash, then lets go, and his hands ball into fists.
I swallow hard. “I wasn’t paying attention.” A trickle of sweat inches down my neck. “I’ll fix this. At least, I’ll do everything I can to fix it.”
He scowls. “How are you going to do that?”