A few people laugh, but not Melanie, who grimaces. She catches me watching her, and I shift my gaze to the window. Still overcast.
“Who will do problem number five from your homework?” Mr. Frederics’s gaze sweeps over the classroom and lands on me, the tardy one. I freeze for a moment. Not only do I not know the answer, I don’t know the question. I shuffle through my folder for the homework pages when Drew’s chair squeaks behind me. Oh, sweet relief. It’s not me.
As Drew completes the problem, everyone copies it down. Everyone but Vicky, who’s watching Drew’s derriere shake as he flourishes his numbers with flags and scrolls.
She rouses herself from her daze, and a flush creeps up her face.
Oh my, she’s definitely coming down with something, either the common cold, or the love bug. Symptoms can be similar: hot and cold flashes, nausea, difficulty breathing. Maybe that will teach you to pick on someone your own size, and by size, I mean ego-wise.
At last, the bell sounds. “Great work today everybody,” says Mr. Frederics over the noise of people scrambling to leave.
Drew stuffs his notebook into his frayed backpack. “Hey, Mim?”
“Yes?”
His pale skin makes his blue eyes pop. He glances at the paper on my desk. “Can I still sign up for Puddle Jumpers?”
“Sure. Algebra?”
He blinks. “Huh?”
“You want extra credit for algebra, right?”
“No, I just wanted to hang out with the kids.”
My cheeks warm. “Oh, right.”
“I like kids. My mom’s a kindergarten teacher.”
“That’s cool. You must get killer bedtime stories.”
“Yeah, we do ‘Wheels on the Bus’ every night, too.” He smiles, lifting me momentarily from my mushroom cloud of anxiety. He’s wearing clear braces. Once his teeth don’t stick out so much, he might find that more girls than Vicky are attracted to him.
The itchy guilt makes me fidget. Maybe I don’t have the ethical backbone to be an aromateur after all, fixing a minor with an innocent party like Drew, even if he did have a crush on her. If I ever get my nose back, perhaps I should consider a career in drug detection, or truffle hunting.
I shove those thoughts away. There’ll be plenty of time later to wallow in guilt. Right now, I need to get the Jupiter grass. I hurry outside and scan the skies. Still, not a single break in the gray blanket overhead.
TWENTY-FOUR
“O HUMBLE GARDENIA! HIDDEN AMONG BASE-LYING BUSH.
YOUR HEAD MAY BE SMALL, AND PALE BE YOUR FACE, BUT
MY! HOW THE CREATURES ADORE YOU.”
—Sorrelia, Aromateur, 1645
FINALLY, THE LUNCH bell rings, and right on schedule, the clouds burn off. Time to collect the Jupiter grass, then check out early.
I hurry to the field. The soccer players are drilling, which isn’t surprising, given the upcoming game. As I draw closer to the field, I spy Court’s familiar form, feet moving quicker than a sandpiper’s. He taps the ball left, then pivots to catch it again, throwing his opponent off balance. It’s mesmerizing. The cheerleaders scream his name, but he doesn’t even look up.
Mother calls that kind of focus “the flow.” Once you’re in, you connect with your task so closely that doing it is almost an act of magic. It’s the same way with elixirs. When we focus on the scents, they sing to us in all their complex glory. Mixing a potion is just a matter of choosing the right singers for the chorus.
Hopefully, Court’s so involved in his game he won’t notice me.
A patch of Jupiter grass grows where the cement ends. I drop down on still-wet lawn and comb through the hairy weed. A handful of students eye me suspiciously, but I ignore them.
I pluck off a tendril and sniff. Jupiter grass always announces itself like a soprano hitting high C. But today, it’s just a background voice.
Swiping my forehead with my sleeve, I pluck another, and another. They’re no stronger than the first. The sun is shining, strong enough to give me a tan, but everything is so weak, even weaker than the papaya this morning. Come on, nose, don’t go yet.
Someone calls my name. In front of me, Whit Wu appears, giving me a grin and flipping his ponytail. I didn’t even smell him coming.
“Hi there.” He shakes out his lanky legs, the kind that require an aisle seat. There’s a natural pout to his mouth, and his olive skin is blemish-free. I sniff by reflex, but only catch the synthetic fragrance of his deodorant.
“Hi.” I silently implore him to leave so I can continue panicking in peace.
He reaches into the front pocket of his sweatpants, but whatever he’s searching for isn’t forthcoming, so he tries the ones in the back. Not there, either.
“Don’t you need to practice?”
He cocks his head to one side, exposing a jawline straight enough to chart courses. “Nah. We got this. Coach is taking us to Spaghetti Station for carb upload tonight. So you coming?”
“Spaghetti Station?”
He chuckles. “No. The game.”
“Oh, yes.”