Forget-Her-Nots (12 page)

“What?”

“Don’t act all innocent,” said Tara. “You and Rose set up the whole Robbie thing to make me look like an idiot. Congrats. You win prank o’ the month.”

“But Rose would never want Robbie to—” Laurel hesitated.

“Never what?” asked Tara.

“She’d never want Robbie to look like an idiot, either. He was in the wrong place, and he smelled—” She stopped herself before she gave anything else away. “I mean, he
saw
 . . . the flowers. Maybe if you had shown them to Everett first.”

Tara lifted one palm. “It’s not a wise move to treat me like I’m stupid. And, BTW, that old book is missing from the library tower.”

Laurel cleared her throat to make her voice light. “What book?”

“The really old flower one.” Tara squinted at Laurel’s bookshelf. “Is it here? I told the librarian it was gone, but I didn’t tell her you stole it. Not yet.”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Then where’d it go? Nicole saw it awhile ago.” Tara picked up a remnant of purple lilac from Laurel’s desk. “There’s more of this in the garden, right?”

“We’re not supposed to pick them,” said Laurel.

“
You
do.”

“Uh, Ms. Suarez gave me special permission,” said Laurel. It was almost true.

“Ms. Suarez? Is she involved in this, too?” Tara asked.

Laurel wished she could keep something to herself. “She just likes flowers.”

Tara plopped down on Laurel’s bed. “Alan’s called Kate like six times, and other guys asked her out.”

Other guys? Laurel thought. Would Kate tell me if Justin called her?

“I never got close to Everett.” Tara punched Laurel’s pillow. “He followed Whitney around, and she has a boyfriend. I’m totally in love, and Ev hardly knows I exist.”

Staring at Tara’s curtain of dark hair, Laurel wished she could read her mind. Any pity, any help she offered could be twisted to explode in her own face.

“You have to help me,” Tara pleaded softly. “You’re my only hope.”

Laurel wanted to laugh and kick Tara out, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Maybe there were too
many people around. Maybe if we tried it again—”

“Then he’ll get the message?” Tara finished. “That would be so awesome.”

“Yeah.” But Laurel’s own thoughts moved back to Justin. Would fresher flowers have worked? Different flowers? She had no idea how long the effects of Kate’s tussie would last. The love between Miss Spenser and the professor had taken root, but maybe Justin’s feelings for Kate wouldn’t—not if they weren’t reciprocated.

Tara sat up straighter. “So promise me that your flowers will work right next time.”

Laurel stood up. “I can’t. Besides, they worked perfectly
this
time.”

“On the wrong person,” said Tara.

“I can’t control that,” said Laurel.

“Why not?” said Tara.

Laurel opened her mouth but didn’t have a satisfying answer. “You have to go now,” she said, suddenly flustered. “I have a huge project for . . . Latin.”

“Fine.” Tara spun around at the door. “Is Robbie going to stalk me next time I see him?”

Laurel shook her head. “He’s fine now.”

Tara took a step closer. “What I really want is for Everett to ask me to prom.”

“But he’s a freshman. He can’t go, can he?”

“Yes, he can,” said Tara. “Edmund du Valle thought
all ‘proper’ young men should dance. You missed the ballroom dance classes in PE last fall. The guys have to go to two dances a year, and lots go stag.”

Laurel had never been to a real dance, not one with a date. “So why don’t you invite Everett, then?”

“Duh,” said Tara. “It’s Willowlawn’s dance, not ours. Ours was the semi-formal in December. We switch off every year.”

Laurel frowned. “But you just said Everett doesn’t know you exist.”

Tara’s look was steely as she left. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

Laurel locked her door. She wanted sharp thorns and dead leaves for Tara’s tussie, but that would be too obvious. Her head throbbing, she walked back to her desk and picked up the heavy book that had pressed the violets onto her note. She tossed the book onto her bed, picked up a pen, and scrawled across the back of the envelope:

Lily doesn’t want you to be like this!!!

F
orty-eight
hours after May Day nearly everyone at the school knew that Miss Spenser was engaged, and strange rumors about Laurel’s flowers were starting to fly.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Kate insisted. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. Everything’s happenin’ at once, and everyone wants to know all about Alan. Ally thinks we’re nuts.”

“Really?” Laurel asked, disappointment creeping into her voice.

The hum of voices paused and heads turned when she and Kate entered the dining hall for dinner. She heard her name whispered as she slid onto the bench. She bowed her head during the blessing, but her skin prickled with the thought of eyes watching.

“Is it true?” several girls finally asked. “Spinster Spenser’s really getting married?”

Kate nodded. “We heard it all . . . .” Two seniors suddenly appeared at their table.

“Which one of you is the flower girl?” asked Whitney. Her thick dark hair and pale skin reminded Laurel of Snow White, but Whitney always wore lots of eye makeup and red lipstick. She dated Ricky Pavotti, a popular senior at Willowlawn, and his letter jacket hung on her as low as her uniform skirt. Her tall friend Amanda was with her.

“You must mean Laurel.” Kate flipped her hand across the table.

“Hi.” Laurel waved the fingers of one hand.

Whitney’s voice was low and hoarse. “You gave Spinster Spenser flowers, right?”

“She’s the one,” said Kate. “We heard the—”

Laurel kicked her under the table.

“Ow,” Kate said.

Whitney scanned the freshman faces that were straining to hear every syllable. She leaned closer, and Laurel inhaled an unpleasant mix of cigarettes and mint gum.

“We need to talk,” the senior whispered. “Alone. Meet me at Bill’s bust at seven.”

“Tonight?” Laurel’s voice squeaked.

“Past your bedtime, punkin?” Whitney said, unsmiling.

Laurel blushed. “No, I have to have tea with Mrs. Fox. It’s my turn.”

Whitney frowned. “Dorm mothers are a major nuisance. So tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’ve got soccer practice.”

“Aren’t we Little Miss Everything!” said Whitney.

Tara laughed. “Hardly.”

Laurel glared at her. “What about Wednesday? I could get there by six.”

“Okay,” Whitney said. “Bill’s bust. Wednesday.”

“I’ll be there,” Laurel said.

Whitney whispered something to Amanda, who snickered as they walked out of the hall.

“They didn’t even eat,” Nicole said. “No wonder she’s so skinny.”

“She’s skinny because she smokes,” said Tara. “My mom smokes like a chimney when she’s trying to lose weight. It takes away your appetite.”

“That’s brilliant.” Rose squeezed onto the bench between Laurel and Kate. “Pump your body full of carcinogens just to lose a few pounds. What’s a few years off your life span, anyway?” Her fist pounded the table. “Better to be thin.”

Tara glowered at her, but Rose smiled widely. “Hello, Tara, and how are we today?”

Tara and Nicole picked up their trays and moved to the other end of the table.

Rose shook her head. “It’s such a drag being popular. What did Whitney want?”

“She says we haaave to talk,” Laurel said. “I’m meeting her Wednesday.”

“Why?” Rose shook her chocolate milk carton.

Kate leaned around Rose to whisper to Laurel. “I told you everyone would want flowers. You’re famous now.”

Rose frowned. “Princess Whitney’s not known for her benevolence. She must want something
baaad
to talk to a lowly freshman.”

“Thanks a lot.” Laurel elbowed her.

“You want me to come?” asked Rose.

“That’s okay,” Laurel said. Rose was sure to say something to irritate Whitney.

“I’ll go,” announced Kate.

“Hey,” Laurel whispered to Rose. “You didn’t tell Robbie about the flowers, did you?” She was dying to know if anyone was talking about her at Willowlawn.

Rose sniffed. “How can I begin to explain what I don’t comprehend myself?”

Laurel held on to one question until Rose left. “So, Ally thinks we’re nuts?”

Kate nodded and took her last bite of cherry pie. “She tries to be so frickin’ rational all the time. Typical math geek.”

“Like Rose,” Laurel said. “What about you? Do you think my flowers are illogical?”

Kate crumpled the napkin onto her tray. “Love isn’t supposed to be logical, is it? And I’m havin’ a great time.”

Laurel matched her smile. “Me, too.”

The next day Laurel hurried from her class to the library tower. In all the excitement she’d forgotten about Tara’s threat to snitch. Her hands shook as she unearthed the antique book from the newspapers and slid it back into its slot. Now no one could hassle her about the book.

“Yes, of course,” a familiar voice said from the stairs. “I’ll look, too.”

Sucking in a breath, Laurel threw her backpack onto a table, grabbed a random book, sat down, and pretended to read.

“Laurel?” whispered Ms. Suarez, coming around a bookcase.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Suarez.” Laurel struggled to keep her voice even. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Ms. Suarez’s beaded earrings brushed her shoulders. “Come here often?”

“Pretty often.” Laurel giggled nervously. “The dorms get so loud.”

“I love the scent of old books.” Ms. Suarez walked directly to the shelf, which once again held the antique flower book. “Ah. She has magically returned. The librarian told me this book was missing even this morning.”

Laurel stared down at the scramble of words on the page, but Ms. Suarez pulled out the chair directly across from her and placed the antique flower book between them.

“We need to talk.” Ms. Suarez’s face was solemn. “I’m sure you’re relieved that this rare and valuable book has returned.”

Laurel knew she’d never get away with playing dumb, not with Ms. Suarez. “Yes.”

Ms. Suarez leaned forward and whispered. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but this book cannot leave this library again. Okay?”

Laurel twisted a string that hung loose from her backpack. “Maybe it never left the library. Maybe it got misplaced, and then someone found it and put it back.”

“Ah.” Ms. Suarez seemed to be waiting for more, but Laurel needed to shift the conversation. She lightly touched the book between them.

“Did this one belong to Gladys du Valle?” she asked.

“No. She would have had her own copy. What do you know about Gladys?”

“Not much. I—I think she’s interesting,” said Laurel.

Leaning back, Ms. Suarez started to toy with a pendant she was wearing. “She was a fascinating woman. Troubled but fascinating.”

“Troubled?” Laurel pressed. She could feel the tension dissipating.

“I’ll tell you what I know of her story.” Ms. Suarez took the deep first breath of a practiced storyteller. “Over a hundred years ago there was a family in England with three daughters named Daisy, Lavender, and Gladys.”

Two flower names, Laurel thought. Like mine.

“Their mother had the gift of flowers, but she could be careless. She—”

Gift?
Laurel leaned forward on her elbows. “You said something about my gift before—in the woods with the orchid. Should I call it that? The
gift
of flowers?”

Ms. Suarez looked down at the table. “Have you heard from your grandma yet? She should be the one—”

“No.” Laurel jumped to her feet. “She might as well be dead.”

“Laurel!” Ms. Suarez admonished. “Don’t talk like that. She’s one of our elders.”

“
Our
elders?” Laurel sat down.

“Yes.” Ms. Suarez looked around and lowered her voice. “The elders are ones who have mastered
all
the flowers and herbs after many years of study and practice.”

Laurel folded her hands together like she was praying. “
Please
, Ms. Suarez. I need to know more about the flowers and my gift. I can’t stand this anymore!”

“Shhh.” Ms. Suarez nodded solemnly. “You are the youngest in an ancient line of Flowerspeakers. Your gift has been passed on through many, many generations.”

“But what does that mean, flowerspeakers?”

Ms. Suarez tilted her head. “It means what you
know
it means. Flowers respond to your summons. You draw forth their scent and true meaning.”

“In the language?”

“Yes.” Ms. Suarez patted the book between them. “That’s why this book is so valuable. It holds one key to our gift.”

“Like a translation? But I found lists of flower meanings all over the Web.”

“Yes, but many of them are wrong. Besides, just knowing the meaning isn’t enough.” Ms. Suarez held her fist to her chest. “You have to have the magic inside you.”

“Like you do?”

“Yes.” Ms. Suarez smiled. “And like your mom did.”

Like my mom, Laurel’s mind echoed.

“And like your grandma,” added Ms. Suarez. “Cicely is one of the wisest and most respected Flowerspeakers.”

“Why?” Laurel said. “She does
nothing
. She won’t even answer her phone.”

Ms. Suarez leaned forward. “But you should have seen her before, what she could do. I haven’t given up hope, and you can’t, either. Promise?”

Laurel shrugged. She didn’t want to ruin this moment with thoughts of Grandma.

Ms. Suarez spread one hand on the flower book, as if she could absorb its wisdom.

“And Gladys must have had the gift,” said Laurel, “right?”

“Sadly, no. It runs in families, but not everyone is blessed with it,” said Ms. Suarez. “Only her sisters, Daisy and Lavender, had it.”

“But that’s
awful
,” said Laurel.

Ms. Suarez nodded. “Gladys was very jealous and blamed her mother for not naming her after a flower. But having a flower name never guarantees the gift. It’s just tradition. I’ve watched Rose, but she doesn’t have it.”

“Aunt Iris doesn’t, either,” Laurel added. “She doesn’t even have a garden. So, what did Gladys do?”

“Gladys’s sisters could be condescending,” Ms. Suarez continued. “They teased her, but Gladys was a fighter, and she vowed to master the flowers. When she was seventeen, she met Edmund du Valle, the oldest son of a new American millionaire. He’d come to their estate to meet and court Lavender. Despite Lavender’s best efforts Edmund fell in love with fiery Gladys. Her
parents refused his proposal—they wanted to marry off an older daughter first—so Gladys ran away with him. One morning she took her daily horseback ride, galloped off to meet Edmund, and they eloped.” Ms. Suarez’s dark eyes sparkled. “It was quite the scandal.”

“How do you know all this?” Laurel asked in amazement. “Are you related to her?”

“No.” Ms. Suarez smiled to herself. “It’s strange, isn’t it, to speak the secrets of the dead? I know her story because of my great-grandfather Juan José Suarez. He was an orchid hunter—Gladys’s orchid hunter. He traveled the world seeking jewels for her conservatory. At home he tended her blooms and listened to her stories.

“Whenever she visited her flowers, Gladys talked. ‘The flowers are her confessors,’ my great-grandfather wrote. He kept a detailed journal of everything that happened here. I found it behind some rotted boards when I was restoring the conservatory.”

“Cool.” Laurel pictured Edmund’s handsome face from the portrait in the library. “So, did Gladys really love Edmund? Or was she just dissing her sister?”

Ms. Suarez laughed. “She must have loved him deeply to risk such scandal. She was disinherited, but Edmund gave her everything, including our splendid conservatory.”

Laurel nodded. Edmund had filled Gladys’s life with flowers and scents, and the whole campus was fragrant with descendents of those blooms. “So if your great-grandpa worked here, then did your mom and grandma come here like mine?”

Ms. Suarez shook her head. “Juan José was an employee, so his daughters weren’t the proper social class. It was a different world then.”

“Oh.” Laurel frowned and traced a ray of sun shining through the slim window onto the table. “So Gladys
never
got the gift?”

“No. It can’t be forced. It can’t be bought.”

“Did Juan José have it?”

Ms. Suarez smiled broadly. “Yes. He was a rare and talented man. In his journal he even sketched the bouquets he made for Gladys.”

“Can I see—” Both of them startled as the bell rang for the end of lunch.

“So much for eating.” Ms. Suarez stood up. “There’s one more thing you might be interested to know. One of
your
ancestors was good friends with Gladys.”

Laurel’s eyes widened. “Really? Who?”

“Her name was Violet.”