Now he’s checking the inside pockets of his sweatpants. What’s he looking for? What does he want from me? And how many pockets do you need to play soccer?
I know I couldn’t have infected him. I only see him when he’s on the field—except the last time when the soccer ball hit me in the parking lot. His soccer ball.
I grimace. I must have contaminated Whit’s soccer ball with aromateur’s pollen. Voilà, infection.
Whit finally finds what he wants. Chapstick. Cherry-flavored. He pops off the cap and draws it on his mouth in two quick circles. “You like miniature golf?”
I rein back my horror and reflexively reach for my BBG. Then I remember that it’s sitting on my dresser at home, empty. “It’s not really my thing. Er, do you?”
Court appears from behind Whit, and wipes his brow with his arm. “Hi.”
I drum up a smile. “Hello.”
Whit looks from me to Court.
I could just tell Whit I infected him. That usually undupes the duped, though it can get messy, and he could refuse the BBG once I remake it.
Whit turns his back on Court, and cracks his knuckles. “All righty then, well, I was wondering if you wanted to, uh—”
Court clears his voice loudly. “Hey, Whit! Coach says tow in or he’ll tow it for you.”
Whit groans. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Court doesn’t budge. “He said, now.”
“All right. Chill.”
Court’s eyes shift to a spot somewhere behind me.
I turn around to see Vicky picking her way toward us. The realization that I didn’t smell her approaching, despite her severe risk rating on my personal security advisory system, nearly causes me to fall. Inhaling deeply, I catch only the fragments of her skulking black elder. The celery top note barely registers.
“Hey, guys,” she says.
“Hey.” Court’s tone flattens.
Her eyes fall to me, squatting in her shadow, and become flinty. “What ever are you doing?”
A clump of Jupiter grass rolls off my knee. “Weeding.”
She gasps-laughs in a way that says, “Loser.” Then her attention locks on Court. “We’re going to get froyo after school. Want to come?”
“Sorry, we’ve got practice.”
Vicky squeezes her Gucci purse so hard, I think I hear it scream.
Court glances back at the coach, who has his hands on his hips and is glaring at all four of us. “Come on, Whit, we gotta go.”
Whit curses. “Can’t we have a little privacy?”
Vicky’s chalky red lips thin into a smile. “Who? You and Mimosa?”
Whit’s head bobs up and down and he looks at me like he wants to eat me. “Yeah.”
Court glares at Whit. “No.”
The coach blows his whistle and beckons his players back with his hands.
“See you later.” Court grabs Whit and tows him back to the field.
Vicky’s nose wrinkles, and she pierces me with her gaze. “See who later?”
“You.”
She crosses her arms and her pupils don’t budge from mine for a full five seconds.
At last, she relaxes her stance and flips back her hair. “Well, maybe it’s working, finally.” She turns on her heel and stomps away.
Desperately, I twist off handfuls of Jupiter grass and stuff them in a canvas bag, past caring about quality. Clustered with his teammates, Court watches me. My stomach twists into a knot as the memory of his sweet taste now fills me with dread.
TWENTY-FIVE
“TRADE A FLOWER FOR A SMILE.
GIVE A PUMPKIN AND REAP A GRIN.”
—Cassis, Aromateur, 1689
I DON’T BOTHER filing an excuse with the secretary. I just pedal home as fast as I can, though a bullying headwind fights me all the way. The clouds coming in from the coast roll out over the sky. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but maybe the sky changed its mind when it saw me biking.
At least I got that Jupiter grass. First, I have to process it and the other ingredients that need to be steeped over night. Then, I’ll have to pray I still have enough of my nose left tomorrow to blend them.
By the time I pull into our courtyard I’m so full of adrenaline, I could pedal all the way to the moon without stopping.
The left half of the Virginia creeper that frames the workshop door swapped its green coat for red overnight. If I had my nose, I would’ve known that happened before I even stepped out of the house. I should get used to figuring things out by sight or sound. Too bad those senses can’t help me make elixirs.
As I unlock the door, some of the Virginia creeper’s pinwheel-like leaves drop on my head.