I take a deep breath then explain about the PUF and why I need to go to Meyer. A large cloud of apple scab—one of the thirteen notes of horror—rushes at me, but I press on. “I just need you to keep her from coming to school, long enough for me to make the PUF. Maybe you could pick out her library books for her, or—”
“I don’t believe this.” His expression is too carefully neutral. “I mean, I thought it was cool you liked to garden, but this is seriously screwed up.” He gets to his feet and hikes up his backpack.
He can’t leave, and especially not smelling of rage. I jump to my feet. “I know, it’s screwed up. But please don’t go yet.” Please see reason. “I’m only asking for a few days. Does she like movies? Maybe you can take her to a movie?” I sound desperate. He glances at my hands, stretched in the space between us, and I quickly clasp them together.
A gust of frustration blows from his lips. “What gives you the right to play with people’s lives?”
“We don’t play with their lives, we try to make them . . . happy.” I wilt under his gaze, feeling the loose threads of our friendship untie. I had no right to expect his help anyway. “I’m sorry.”
ELEVEN
“LOVE IS REVEALED THROUGH SACRIFICE.”
—Shayla, Aromateur, 1633
AT LEAST I learned one thing today in school. It’s not possible to die of mortification. After the final bell rings, I numbly haul books out of my locker even though I won’t have time to study.
“Hey, Nose!” Kali floats like a neon-hoodied lifesaver toward me. The sight of my best friend’s smiling face, like aloe vera, instantly takes some of the burn out of my misery. Sometimes one friend is just enough.
“You’re not going to believe what happened,” I tell her.
“I believed it when you said you’d never eaten a Dorito.”
As we tread toward the library, I fill her in.
A string of painted metal benches run along one side of the courtyard. Vicky and her posse perch atop one with their feet on the seat. They’re engulfed in a cloud of perfumed beauty products.
The girls go quiet, and as we approach, Vicky smirks. Kali slows and the sour sap scent of fear mingles with the burnt tires of her anger. I grab the crook of her arm and hurry her along.
“She’s been giving me those snooty looks all day,” Kali mutters.
“I can fix that.”
Kali’s eyes snap to mine. “You’re not still thinking about fixing her with Drew?”
“Leave the guilt to me.”
“Seems like you have more than you can handle right now.” When I don’t answer, she pokes me with her elbow. “I’m serious. Don’t do it. Just worry about Alice. Want me to ask Mukmuk if he’ll drive you to that garden?”
“Will he tell your parents?”
“Maybe. He’s such a choir boy.”
Even though Kali’s brother is usually reliable, the Apulus are friendly with Mother. I can’t risk a leak. “Thanks, but that’s okay. I’ll take the train.” Assuming I’m not in Oman.
“You need me to come?”
It would be nice to have Kali’s company, but I can’t justify spending money on two train tickets, or breaking her perfect attendance record. The garden closes at five every night, and I can’t wait until school lets out. “That’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She can’t smell it, but I wonder if she can hear my lie.
I set off for home. The autumn wind wrestles with my hat and the toggle bead strains against the hollow under my chin. When I hit a pothole, my bag of candy grams nearly goes flying out of my basket. I’m tempted to dump them all into the next trash bin. In the time it will take me to scent them all and match them to their authors, I could probably spray every one of the five hundred boys that attend SGHS. Of course, then I would need to make several more bottles of the very expensive BBG.
Or maybe I’ll just do nothing and wait for the mob to throw me into the ocean.
I ride around the block one more time to rid myself of the swampy stench of anxiety. When I pedal up the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Mother behind the turret window.
On the kitchen table sits a new crate of Creamsicle tulip bulbs, which smell of oranges and cream. A grower in Holland delivers these to us every year in October. Despite the pleasant fragrance, a scowl tugs at my face. The bulbs will be stressed from their flight and Mother will make me plant them today.
I trudge upstairs, mentally rehearsing the speech I prepared about why I should not go to Oman. In her room, an open suitcase lies on the bed. Mother is in her closet, sifting through her blue clothes.
We’re leaving already? I open my mouth to speak, but my rehearsed words flee my head, and all that comes out is “The seniors need to be fixed.”
“What?”
“I can’t go to Oman. We have seniors coming up. And the papayas are ready to drop—you’ve seen them yourself. Who’s going to look after things here?” I hold my breath.
“Relax. You don’t have to go.” Hangers squeak against wood.
“What? I mean, are you sure?” I lower myself next to her suitcase.
“We’ll save that vacation for when it won’t compromise love lives.”
Like that will ever happen.
“Alfie got me the jet for tomorrow. Oh, I assume you saw the Creamsicles?” She bustles out of the closet carrying a navy sweater and navy slacks.