“You know, maybe it’s not such a bad thing, Mom tripping over Mr. Frederics. I admit, I never thought it would work. They’re so different. I mean, he’s—”
I fill in the blank. Poor? Bald? Obsessive about recycling his Ziploc Baggies?
He shakes his head. “He seems like he has his act together. Mom’s a bit of a wreck. But who am I to judge? She seems happy for once. Maybe she’s finally over Dad.”
“But it’s not supposed to be that way. Mr. Frederics likes Ms. DiCarlo. Your mother might get hurt.”
“I know. But you can’t score if you’re always playing defense.” His voice lowers. “We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t take a risk on me. And I feel so good, I could win tomorrow’s game all by myself.”
His words pull my emotions all out of shape. His smile is weak as a shoestring and even his eyes are full of wonder. If he keeps looking at me that way, I might jump into his arms and beg him to take me to the moon. Somewhere with no flowers to remind me of my failure, only space and starlight.
My shoulders slump. The ceiling feels like it’s sagging down on top of me. Even my robe weighs me down. “I’m sorry, I’m a little beat.”
“Okay, I’ll let you rest. Do you want me to get you a burger? Dad always got us McDonald’s when we were sick. Oh, right. You don’t eat those. Maybe I should—”
“I’ll be fine.”
After another long look at me, he kisses me on the forehead, leaving a warm imprint there. “Good night, Mim. Feel better soon.”
“Thanks.”
After he leaves, I lean on the door to prevent myself from flinging it back open and running after him. I don’t move until I hear his Jeep start up and power away.
The rooster’s crowing. I bolt upright in my bed and sniff.
Still can’t smell the dust motes. But, am I worse than yesterday?
I shower and wiggle into fresh clothes, then hurry back to the workshop.
Now the Virginia creeper has completely switched its spring coat for autumn attire. Traffic-light red. I sniff a leaf, but only get a vague impression of its ivy-like scent.
I’m tempted to return to my bed and throw another pity party under the covers. But pity is a luxury I have to save for later.
In the workshop, the two tendrils of Layla’s Sacrifice spread out in opposite directions like the plant’s opening its arms to me. I rip off the glass cover and inhale.
Now, instead of the jam-like humming of marmalade, all I get is its shadow, quickly fading to nothing.
My nose has become ordinary, or, as Mother would say, useless.
The room tilts and my locked knees suddenly sag. Though I’d been dreading this moment of truth, now that it’s here, I feel weirdly calm, or maybe just numb. At least now I don’t have to worry about losing my nose anymore. It’s gone. Gone.
I drop into my place at the worktable.
Breathe. Clear your mind. Mother says that before we work, we need a tabula rasa, a blank mind, since so much of what we do requires sensing, not reflection.
But now, I can’t sense, only think. The plants, once my only company, seem to turn their shoulders to me, cloaking their scents like strangers. I run my fingers over the narcissuses that William the handyman carved into the table, but the ritual brings me no comfort. On the edge of panic now, I grab a twig of partridge berries and set it between the steel plates of the vise. Keep moving.
I crank out oils by brute force, until the sun’s rays light up the terrariums, meaning it’s around eleven. All sense of self-respect has evaporated by now and I try Kali’s cell not once, but three times. No answer. Maybe this is how a friendship dies. One blast of hot air is enough to kill a begonia, but I hoped our friendship could weather more than one argument.
Grimly, I set off for school. Puddle Jumpers starts at noon. I’ll just take care of the event and be back by one thirty. If I don’t finish the elixir in time for the big game, at least it will have been for a good cause.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“VEGETABLES ARE AS VITAL TO THE BODY
AS FLOWERS ARE TO THE SPIRIT.”
—Alyssum, Aromateur, 1655
PRINCIPAL SWIZINGER AND a bunch of adults wearing orange shirts stand in the field surrounded by folding tables. The tables bear washtubs of produce, from shiny eggplant to bloodred tomatoes. A banner proclaims, “Fruits and Vegetables Love Our Bodies.”
There’s no sign of Kali anywhere. Principal Swizinger points at me and a woman with a blond crew cut hurries over. “Mimosa, right? I’m Hope. Thank you so much for helping us.”
“You’re welcome.”
Hope scratches the side of her head with her pencil. “Is Kali coming?”
“I’m not sure. She hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. We sure appreciate all the work she put in. Kids should be here in fifteen. Do you mind checking people in?”
“Of course not.”
“Great.” The woman hands me a clipboard. “Here are the teams, and those are the shirts.” She nods at a box under one of the tables. “Have people wait by their traffic cones.”
“Got it.”