“Of course. Thank you for driving me today, and for everything else,” I say in a rush. Before he construes that as an invitation, I firmly close the door.
I watch from the window as he backs out his Jeep, then motors off. Then I collapse on a rocking chair, a little trembly in the knees. As the chair gently rocks me, Court’s eyes appear in my mind, dark like ash bark with hints of gold. His dimples seem perfectly placed in their asymmetry. I linger over the expressive line of his mouth, a mouth that tells me so much without speaking a word. And, then, of course, there is his smell— My eyes pop open as I remember his mother’s scentprint. I cannot sit here and daydream. Certain ideas, once they take hold, like the ruthlessly creeping kudzu plant, require years to eradicate. I’ll need to avoid any further amorous encounters with Court before I can remake the BBG. Next time, I’ll make it twice as concentrated.
Before I know it, my eyes blur. I bury my face in the Welcome Home pillow Mother embroidered when she was expecting me. The truth is, I don’t want to BBG Court with a stronger dose. I like that he likes me. In her last letter to her love, Percy, before she died, Hyacinth wrote, Somewhere between right and wrong lies a garden surrounded by thorns, and I have met you there.
TWENTY-TWO
“UPROOT YOUR WEEDS BY THE ROOT, LEST,
LIKE THE HEADS OF THE HYDRA, THEY MULTIPLY,
DESTROYING ALL IN THEIR PATH.”
—Angelica, Aromateur, 1723
MORNING LIGHT FILTERS through the window of the storage room at the back of the workshop. The ottoman on which I’m sprawled is too short for a bed, but that didn’t stop me from falling asleep on it after an intimate night with bladder wrack. I carefully dried each frond, then processed it into a fine powder.
A million things to do today, starting with a change of clothes. I’ll have to skip school again. I’ll probably be suspended before Mother can pull me out. What a waste, made even worse because there is no one to blame but myself.
I eye the phone. I need to talk to Kali, sort things out with her so she can sort things out for me. Yet, why should I call her? I’m the one who nearly died yesterday. She should be calling me.
Pettiness aside, would it kill her to be concerned or at least curious about my state of emergency? Not to mention, I really need to tell her that I kissed Court, an event that, though admittedly ambrosial, will probably come back to bite me one day.
Sniffing, I wipe away hot, indulgent tears. Kali must care. Haven’t we plowed through our share of dirt together? I knew her back when she ate rival gangsters for lunch. She stuck by my side during those awful first weeks of school when people ran from me.
I dial. The sound of her cell phone ringing jangles my ear, and after several rings, her phone goes to voicemail. I can’t help wondering if she saw it was me calling, and switched her phone off. I don’t leave a message.
Still thinking about Kali, I scamper to the house for a quick bite, shielding my eyes in the bright glare. In the kitchen, I remove one of Mother’s homemade raspberry granola bars from a canister. Instead of Brazil nuts and pumpkin seeds, the bar tastes wooden, almost as if I’ve bitten a chunk off the wall. Even the raspberry bits barely register on my taste buds. Strange. Maybe they went bad.
Something slick and queasy loops through me. I grimly head back into the garden, anxious more than ever to start on Alice’s elixir. Several papayas dropped off the tree and lie squashed, black seeds oozing out like guts. I forgot all about harvesting them. Once they fall, the seeds are useless for elixirs.
I brake so abruptly, I nearly knock my knee out of joint. Why did I have to see the papayas before I knew they were rotten? Why didn’t I smell them first? I point my nose toward the tree and inhale. I definitely smell the rotting papayas, like stinky socks, but only because I’m searching for it. My hand flies to my nose. It feels stuffed up, like I caught a cold.
My skin breaks out in goose bumps. I race to the workshop.
Another bud has started growing out of the center stalk of Layla’s Sacrifice. A sister bud means the plant should be twice as fragrant. I line the floors with thick towels in case I faint. The glass lid rattles as I close my trembling fingers around the knob. It occurs to me, the haba?ero scent of panic dribbling off me should be a lot stronger, given my current levels of stress, but I will know soon enough. I brace myself. If my nose is fine, I’ll definitely pass out once I lift the lid. One, two . . .
I lift off the cover.
The juicy sour scents of marmalade waft up to my nostrils and cheerfully hum. But I’m still standing, at least, kneeling. I’m not even dizzy.