It’s a little early to be ringing doorbells—just past seven in the morning, but I won’t have time to deliver them after school. I press the button.
A senior wearing a terry turban and a kimono squints at me, pulling her wrinkles in new directions. She slips on the pair of reading glasses that dangle around her neck. Her nails are caked with something that smells like clay. “What’s this?”
“Delivery for Ms. Salzmann. Is that you?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
I sniff to make sure. I can’t afford another mistake. Lemon curry. Check. I hand her the bouquet, which she takes without incident. Fixed. I sigh. One down.
“How lovely.” Her nostrils flex as she inhales. “Who could have sent them?” She pulls out the tiny card embedded in the bouquet on which I’d written “From Your Secret Admirer.”
“My secret admirer? Good heavens. Don’t you think I’m a little young to settle down?”
I laugh.
She peers more closely at me. “You look just like those twins who used to bring flowers for the still lifes, back when I was teaching.”
“My mother and her sister are twins—Dahlia and Bryony.” Mother never mentioned it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Aromateurs often donate flowers to worthy causes.
“Yes, those were their names. They’d always beg to stay and watch the artists work. Of course I’d say yes, even if we were doing nudes.” She winks.
Mother definitely never told me that.
“You have a second to give me an opinion on something? It’ll only take a second. Come on in.” Ms. Salzmann disappears into the house.
Before entering, I sniff. Acrylic paint. Bran muffins. No drugs, or smoke, or anything that would set off warning bells. I step inside.
A skylight washes the main room of the strange house with bright morning light. For a second, I think the room is filled with people, then realize they are life-size statues fashioned of recycled junk like beer bottles and cereal boxes. Ms. Salzmann sets the flowers in the arms of one of the statues, then crosses the room to a shelf stuffed with books. Nearby, a wingback chair is arranged next to a pottery wheel and a table. On the table, sits a bust of a man.
Ms. Salzmann glances at me rubbernecking her crowded room. She taps the table in front of the bust. “Tell me, who does this person look like to you?”
I study the face. The strong nose, wide-set eyes and Caesar-like bangs remind me of the face on all the current teen rags right now.
“Tyson Badland?”
She clasps her hands together and leans in. “He’ll be so pleased.”
I gape. “Is it for him?”
Her lips flatten into a sly smile. “All the stars must have a bust nowadays.” She cups her hand beside her mouth. “He’s shorter than you think.”
“I better go. I’m late for school.”
She escorts me to the front door. “You good with your hands?”
“I guess.”
“I’m looking for an apprentice, you interested? My last girl moved to Singapore.”
“Sounds interesting, but I have a lot of projects going on right now.”
“Well, here’s my card in case you change your mind.” She hands me a business card from a shelf on the wall. “Thanks for the flowers.”
Court can’t leave until lunchtime, after his Kill Drill. That works out fine, since I have an arrow to shoot.
Kali fails to show for Cardio Fitness, a fact noted by Vicky’s cohorts, who snicker as they look back at me. I ignore them. In a matter of hours, Operation Fix Vicky will be complete. Vicky always splits from Melanie after algebra when Melanie goes to dramatic arts.
An hour later, I take my usual spot in algebra with Vicky two desks away. Mr. Frederics’s outfits have grown snazzier by the day, or maybe my bleary eyes are just more sensitive to color. He’s wearing a herringbone blazer and patent leather shoes, and the sugary notes of his happiness overpower even the tang of teenage angst. Is he sprucing up for the woman he expects to fall in love with him, or the one who’s actually falling for him?
Mr. Frederics calculates the sum of an arithmetic series, and I hide behind my textbook, biding my time. Vicky knots her hair on her head, exposing a brown expanse of neck above her white tank top.
The moments tick by.
Only a week ago, I looked forward to coming to this classroom. Now, coming here only reminds me of my mistake—the first term in an arithmetic series that set off a whole chain of consequences. Finding the upper limit will be a monumental task.
Finally, Mr. Frederics frees us.
I quickly pack my things and begin to follow Vicky.
Mr. Frederics calls my name. “Do you have a moment?”
“Er, sure.” Vicky sweeps out of the classroom and out of range. I step up to the teacher’s desk, hoping this won’t take long.