“I’m sorry I disappointed you.”
“You didn’t disappoint me.” She points the toe of one slip-on, then the other. “The thing about you is that, even when you’re wrong, you’re still trying to do right, even when most people would’ve punched out, called it a day. It’s like you have to take the hardest route possible or it doesn’t count.”
“It’s a survival instinct. We hail from a long line of women who don’t want to face our mothers.”
“It’s more than that.” She cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’re honest as a Sunday shirt. I guess I never expected to see the shirt get wrinkled.”
That chafes a little. “All shirts get wrinkled, even the polyester ones. I was trying to be there for you.” I can hear the injury in my own voice.
Kali’s mouth bunches up. She’s either thinking, or about to clobber me. Then her face relaxes. “I’m sorry, Nosey. I should’ve been there for you, too. I guess I have a lot of wrinkles of my own to iron out.”
I nod.
“How can I make it up to you? You need me to be there when your mom comes home?”
An image of Mother’s angry face springs to mind. I consider. Mother can’t explode with Kali present, but maybe she would just store up more anger for later. “It’s okay. I like to make it as hard as possible for myself, remember?”
“Your mom’s not so bad. She’s got a big heart, though she doesn’t like to show it. I guess it’s just her way.”
“It’s not just her way. It’s the aromateur way. We have a saying, Though cowslips line thy mapled cart, the wise will catch a falling heart.”
“Cows’ lips?” A smile lurks behind her lips.
“Cow slips.” We share a chuckle. “They were used in love potions. It means, though we deal in love, we must keep our own feelings in check. Aromateurs have never been the life of the party.”
She wedges her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “But you’re not like that—restrained. Neither is your aunt. You don’t push people away. I think you like them a lot more than I do.”
“Guess I should work on that,” I mutter.
She paces in a circle then faces me square on, arms crossed. “I think you’re reading it wrong. It doesn’t say catch your falling heart; it says catch a falling heart, meaning anyone’s. It’s like the saying, ‘catch a falling star.’ Just like love, stars don’t fall too often, and if you see one, you don’t close your eyes. You don’t let the love go splat.”
I squint at the Jupiter grass, wondering if she’s right. Kali is a poet. If anyone can untangle a verse, it’s her. Larkspur was wrong about romantic relationships, so perhaps there’s room for this new reading of Carmelita’s Last Word, too. If she’s right, life just got a lot more interesting. Still. “Mother won’t believe it.”
“Tell her it makes sense from a business perspective. You can’t sell the product if you don’t use it yourself.”
Cassandra starts singing again, holding her hands out to Kali. We watch her a moment.
“You better finish your cheeseburger. Thanks, Kali.”
She bumps me with her elbow. “Good luck.” She starts off toward Cassandra, then turns around again. “Hey, Nosey, if you get sacked, can I still keep my job?”
I make a face. She laughs as she treads away, arms swinging easy and free.
I pick my way through the grass, around the cheeseburger crowd and toward the school.
“Mim!” Lauren trots up to me, pulling Pascha behind her. “Help us. Pascha’s dad said she could go to the dance and she wants to ask Whit, but she’s wussing out.”
Pascha clutches an unwrapped cheeseburger to her chest. Oil from the burger seeps through its papery envelope. “I’ll just dog myself. He likes Mim, not me.” She sniffs loudly and wipes her nose with her headscarf.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Over there.” Lauren points to a cluster of guys tossing around a Frisbee. Whit leaps, his hair whipping in all directions, and plucks the disc out of the air.
Not seeing Court anywhere in the vicinity, I square my fedora on my head and pull my sleeves down to my knuckles. “Follow me.”
We troop across the field to the target. When Whit sees me, a goofy smile spreads across his face, and he opens his arms wide enough to hug one of the huge recycling bins set nearby. This time, I’m ready for him.
THIRTY-FIVE
“EVEN THE TOUGHEST PHILODENDRON CAN GO INTO
SHOCK IF THE WEATHER DROPS SUDDENLY. I WRAPPED
MINE IN A WOOL SWEATER AND IT DID JUST FINE.”
—Hazel, Aromateur, 1901
“HELLO,” I TELL Whit brightly. “This is Pascha.”
Pascha’s gone as white and still as a saltshaker. While Whit takes in the girl resisting Lauren’s efforts to push her forward, I hit him with a double serving of BBG from behind. Whit’s goofy grin disappears. He takes off his sunglasses and squints at all of us.
“Pascha likes spicy food,” I say.