“Right. See you at school.” He gives me a lopsided smile, then lithely jogs away. The word lifeguard is emblazoned across the hoodie wrapped around his hips.
I shave the lichen into my jar with a metal scraper, but my heart is still racing. At least I managed to keep the weird to a minimum. I shake thoughts of Court’s dreamy smile from my head, lid my jar, and stuff it in my bag. Job done; time to clock out.
Two bees follow me back to the running trail. I’m like an ice cream truck to them. Only instead of Popsicles, I peddle pollen, which is impossible to rid myself of without constant showering. Once they realize I’m no flower, they usually leave.
Four girls on rollerblades whiz toward me in a cloud of sunscreen and hairspray. The predinner rush is in full swing. Arastradero gets especially crowded when the school year starts—it’s a prime running spot for the athletes and more interesting than the hamster wheel of our school track. I step off the path to let them pass, and recognize the head roller as Vicky Valdez, Court’s ex-girlfriend.
Coincidence? Or not. Kali told me that when Vicky and Court broke up, she became known as Exxed-Valdez. She’s still not over him.
The girls trailing her veer as far away from me as the paved path allows, casting suspicious glances my way. Vicky, though, stays her course, black hair flowing like seaweed and unencumbered by a helmet. Her gaze lingers on mine for a moment, cool and appraising, and the scent of disdain, like rancid kumquat, invades my nose. Without missing a beat, she muscles forward with her short but well-formed legs. She’s never spoken a word to me, but I don’t need words to tell me she doesn’t like me.
As they roll away, I catch a whiff of haba?ero peppers, so faint that if it were not for the breeze, I would’ve missed it. It’s coming from the direction Court ran. I inhale. Sifting through the plant smells, I find it again, the hot scent of panic. I run toward the source.
Just around a bend, Court’s lying curled up on the ground, his lifeguard sweatshirt a few feet away. The hot, honey aroma of bee toxin pricks my nose. He got stung?
Panting, I drop down beside him. “Court? Are you okay?”
He struggles to breathe. He must be allergic to bee stings. Those can be fatal.
“Do you have an EpiPen?” Frantically, I search his pockets, noticing the silver MedicAlert bracelet beside his watchband. I don’t find the EpiPen, but I do find his cell phone. I dial nine one one.
It rings once, twice, three times. Why doesn’t anyone answer?
As the phone continues to ring, my nose guides me to the sting, which is right under his bicep. There’s a deep scratch mark where he failed to remove it. The black stinger sits just under the skin. Carefully, I dig it out with my fingernail.
Ring. Ring. “What is your emergency?”
“My friend got stung by a bee. He’s allergic.”
“What is your location?”
“Arastradero Park, about a hundred yards from the giant lemonade bushes.”
“The what?”
I look wildly around me for another landmark. “We’re in a grove of gum cannabis.”
“Cannabis? Is this a crank call?”
“Oh no, not that variety . . . Er, east of the tennis courts? Hundred feet from a water fountain?”
She pauses for at least four seconds. “Okay. I’ve dispatched the ambulance.”
After I answer more questions, we hang up.
“You’re okay,” I tell Court. “They’ll be here soon. I need to fetch something.”
Court’s eyes are bloodshot and watering. I pillow his head with his sweatshirt. Dumping the lichen out of my specimen jar, I scurry off in search of plantain weed, which grows everywhere except when you’re looking for it. I try to follow the scents but the lemonade bushes and buckwheats are interfering, and an uneven breeze stirs everything together.
I drop to my knees and sniff the ground. Got it. The zesty trail leads me to a strong patch just a few yards from where I harvested the lichen.
Court’s nearly unconscious when I return. Fighting down panic, I stuff plantain leaves into the jar, add stones, then shake the whole thing to release their oils. I pull my sleeves down to cover my hands and lift his head onto my lap. Then I undo the jar and hold the opening to his mouth and nose, praying the anti-inflammatory weed will reduce the swelling.
At last, his chest moves a fraction, and soon he’s breathing in short shallow breaths. I set the jar back down. Sweat trickles into my eyes and I wipe it away with my sleeve. His bicep is taut and curved, even at rest. I take a plantain leaf and hold it against his bee sting, being careful not to touch my skin to his, even though I already touched him to get out the stinger. I’ll take care of that later.
I listen hard for the wailing of an ambulance. His head feels heavy and hot in my lap, and I shift around to get comfortable. It strikes me that this is the closest I have ever come to a boy, much less one so popular. His pheromones pelt my nose from all angles; it’s like being hit by a confetti canon.
Court moans and turns his head to one side.