Things still aren’t right between us, but at least she still cares. That refills some of the air in my leaking inner tube, makes me feel I can float a little while longer. If I still had my nose, I bet I would smell like cucumber, that cooling scent of relief.
I weave through people and baskets of fruit back to school, passing by Team Four. Drew, still juggling, throws Vicky his onions, and she catches them, well, one of them. Then he starts a new act with beets. Vicky tosses him back all the onions, one by one, which he neatly adds to his routine.
Now Drew’s juggling six tubers. The guy’s talented. Vicky smiles. Not a fake one, either—a real smile, like the one I saw on her sister, Juliana. Drew urges Vicky to throw one more. This time, she hefts a pineapple. She winks at one of the kids, then tosses it to Drew. His whole act falls apart.
But now all of the kids on Team Four are holding their sides, laughing.
The sight of Drew and Vicky’s burgeoning chemistry should make me feel relieved, but instead, something rancid burns inside me. If not for that arm-twisting squirrel, Kali and I would still be okay. I might still have Kali’s respect, and not just her pity.
I move beyond Team Four to where Ms. DiCarlo holds a coconut for her kids to pet. Mr. Frederics studies her from far away, his expression thoughtful.
Does the man still care for the timid librarian? Or did Alice’s attentions cool his ardor, and kindle a new one? If so, where does that leave Mr. Frederics when I PUF Alice? He’ll be damaged goods. We’ll have to tell him to plant rosebushes, the best way to get over a broken heart.
Love is so chancy. If Alice hadn’t gotten hooked on romance books, I might never have fixed her. Or if Ms. DiCarlo’s rabbit hadn’t died, Mr. Frederics and Ms. DiCarlo might be making some of their own sunshine, without our help.
I would still simply be Mimosa, the oddball with the hats, she who should not be touched.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“THE EASIEST WAY TO RUIN
A GOOD ELIXIR IS TO THINK ABOUT IT.”
—Xanthe, Aromateur, 1877
AT LAST, ALL oils are ready for blending. The homecoming game starts at seven. Two hours to get this right. Ordinarily, it would take me an hour, and that’s with a nose. I work at a Frankensteinian pace, transferring oils into test tubes, and occasionally banging my head on the table. Finally, ninety-eight glass tubes stand at attention in front of me like the pipes of an organ.
I try again to smell, and nearly pass out from the effort.
A mathematical formula would be really handy, something that told me exactly how much of each oil to use. If the aromateurs of yesteryear had allowed scientists to study their noses, perhaps they could’ve invented tools to quantify smells by now. I take a slow breath in, trying to steady my heart.
Going from memory, I begin to layer the oils onto a square of cotton using pipettes the size of straight pins. Certain notes, like kangaroo paw, are typically “shy” and like to hide, and so for these, I use more. Others, like blue tansy, a flower with an appley scent, are notorious for being the loudest one in the room, so I use only the smallest drop I can manage.
I should try calling Mother again. She’ll be livid. I imagine her clutching her heart and sucking in her bottom lip the way she does when the soup’s too hot.
The thought causes my hand to shake, knocking over the vial of blue tansy. The tansy quickly seeps into the entire cotton square. Holy dirt, that’s the second spill in twenty-four hours! I grab the vial before I lose all the precious scent. Between the tansy and the lavender, Mother will smell the mistakes before she even gets to the driveway. I’ll need to bring in the spider plants, with their pure oxygen smells, to erase the evidence.
Sinking into my chair, I clutch my head in my hands and curse myself. The square is useless now. Breathe and start over, one singer at a time.
It’s dark by the time I finish. Why doesn’t Mother get a clock in here? Quickly, I put the cotton square in a test tube and add carrier solution. I shake it fifty times, unlid, filter, and retube. Then I run back to the house. The homecoming game must have already started.
My heart sinks when I see it’s 7:14. Games always start late, don’t they? They have to do the anthem, the welcome home speech to the alums. I pull a sweater over my sundress, stuff my hair into a beret, and grab my gloves. Then I hop on my bike and I’m riding as fast as my legs can pump toward the biggest game of the year.
Most people think homecoming means football, but not in Santa Guadalupe. Some of the greatest soccer players in the country come from our narrow strip of the world, which is why cars are parked along the shoulder at least two miles before the school. Opening car doors and strewn beer bottles force me to slow down as I draw closer.