Suddenly, she spots someone. It’s the math teacher himself, leading an unsmiling old black woman past Alice’s section. Maybe that’s his mother, the one who wanted to see him hitched before she died. Alice yells and waves a pom-pom in their direction. I watch in horror as Mr. Frederics wiggles his fingers in salute. The mother forms her mouth into an O, then nods at Alice.
The teacher begins climbing the stairs, leading his mother by the hand. He and his mother stop at Alice’s row then edge past people, including a scowling Melanie, until they reach Alice, who pulls the mother into a hug. Finally, they all sit down.
My eyeballs are dry from staring so hard. I jam my beret further over my head, wishing I was someone else. Someone who didn’t wreak havoc in the lives of others. Someone whose nose still led the way.
TWENTY-NINE
“IF PEOPLE ONLY SPOKE THEIR HEARTS RATHER THAN THEIR
MINDS, THEY WOULD HAVE NO USE FOR US.”
—Willow, Aromateur, 1840
I COLLAPSE INTO the seat by Pascha and Lauren. All that work for nothing. Who was I fooling? I knew it wouldn’t work. A blind person had better odds of fitting together a thousand-piece puzzle than I had of creating an elixir without my nose.
Alice and Mr. Frederics lean toward each other as they chat, with the math teacher’s mother sitting in between them. At least there will be no kissing across the old woman’s lap.
I cringe, thinking of how angry Mother will be when she finds out. If I tell her when she calls on Sunday, she might have time to cool off before she socks it to me in person. When Mother gets mad, it is a sight to smell. Once, I overwatered the ghost orchids, and Mother released a cloud of burning tires so singeing, I could taste the bitter vapors lingering at the back of my throat.
Court bats the ball through a defender’s legs, then lithely rushes by to receive it again on the other side. Witnessing his mastery over his game reminds me of our conversation on the way to Playa del Rey. Court doesn’t need soccer to define him; he loves the ocean, he wants to study whales. But I don’t have anything but my nose. Without it, who am I now?
Pascha’s mouth falls open and she gets to her feet, watching as Whit dribbles the ball down the field. A Bulldog interferes, and Pascha nervously chews a fingernail, her eyes round and unblinking.
One of our defenders snakes the ball from the Bulldog and sends it back to Whit.
Pascha starts fanning herself with her scarf. “He’s so hot,” she gushes to Lauren and me. “I mean, look at him. I heard he likes spicy food. I like spicy food. How perfect is that?”
Whit, right in front of us now, looks around for Court. Pascha starts screaming Whit’s name. Her panther ears slide to one side of her head. Whit looks up for a split second at Pascha, but then his eyes shift to me and he gawks like he’s caught a glimpse of the yeti. I step behind Pascha and out of his sight line. Court runs up for the ball, but instead of passing, Whit starts playing with the ball, bouncing it off his knees and chest.
Court screams for him to pass it, but Whit ignores him. Now he’s doing some kind of scissor step with the ball between his legs, despite the Bulldogs rushing up to him. He’s completely forgotten about the game. He looks up and points at me, grinning.
Pascha’s jaw drops. “Oh. My. Allah. Is it me?” She steers her open mouth from me, to Lauren, to me again. Whit, who still hasn’t broken eye contact with me, puts two fingers to his lips and blows me a kiss.
Court beelines to Whit, and with one quick movement of his foot, jimmies the ball from him. The crowd cheers as Court dribbles it away. Whit’s face twists, and he hauls off after Court.
Pascha crosses her arms and frowns at me. “It’s you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a temporary situation.” I hold out my gloved hands in apology, but she only lifts her nose.
Lauren talks excitedly, “He’s totally into you, Mim. How do you do that? No, seriously. How do you do that?”
Failure to BBG is how. I shake my head in misery and stare at the scoreboard. Five minutes left in the game and no goals yet. I should leave now. Try to find Kali. Maybe she’ll be ready to talk now. At least I can congratulate her.
But there are too many people crowding the aisles. There’s no way I could get through without contaminating someone, even with my long sleeves and hat. I shrivel back into my seat, defeated.
Just before the clock runs out, Court lets his foot fly. The ball practically sears a hole through the net as it lands.
Panthers 1, Bulldogs 0. The crowd roars and stomps its feet, and it’s as violent as a hurricane to a single, beleaguered dandelion.
Outside the stadium, the crowds dissipate and head for their cars. “Sure you don’t want to join us?” asks Lauren. “Stan’s is hosting free donuts for everyone. I’m working up the nerve to ask Drew.”
Maybe I should tell her not to go to the party, or at least, not to get her hopes up. Then again, maybe I would do the world a favor by just minding my own business. “I’m sorry, I can’t go. I’m expected home.”
Pascha hasn’t stopped scowling since Whit blew me the kiss, and doesn’t look disappointed at my response.
“Okay, well, have a nice weekend.” Lauren grabs Pascha’s arm and begins to pull her toward the parking lot.
“Lauren?” I call out.