Forget-Her-Nots (18 page)

Mrs. Westfall pursed her lips. “It’s an odd habit, though, don’t you agree?”

“But it’s not like I’m doing drugs.” The petulance in her own voice surprised her.

“True, but we have to be careful and avoid even the appearance of drugs. These may be only herbs, but someone thought they were drugs.”

“Who?” said Laurel, leaning forward.

Mrs. Westfall shook her head. “I’m sure you understand why I can’t tell you that. Students are allowed to report drug use anonymously.”

“But it doesn’t go on my record, does it?”

“Of course not. It’s only basil and rosemary.” Mrs. Westfall almost smiled. “However, it’s not a good idea to keep it in your locker. I’m sure there are reporters still attuned to our activities here who’d be only too happy to write an exposé.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Laurel started to get up.

“One more thing,” said the principal. “I’ve been hearing your name lately in connection to flowers. Can you tell me more about that?”

Laurel practically stopped breathing. Lies could boomerang back at you, but she couldn’t tell the truth. “I—I’ve been trying to help some girls. Everyone says I have a way with flowers and carrying them can make people feel more confident. I read that in a psychology book.”

Mrs. Westfall tilted her head back. “Avondale has a long association with flowers going back to Gladys du
Valle. Our gardens truly set us apart.” She paused. “You understand I must stay on top of everything that happens, Laurel. Everything.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But I’ve told you everything I can, she thought. Everything you’ll believe.

For the rest of the day Laurel eyed everyone suspiciously, because someone—probably Tara—was out to get her. She couldn’t help wondering if her mom had ever faced such an enemy and if she had managed victory. During practice she gave Kate the cold shoulder and then sat as far away as she could at dinner. Kate left a note on her door asking her to stop by, but Laurel crumpled it.

“‘Rosemary to remember, With sage I esteem,’” Laurel recited sarcastically when she was locked alone in her room. “Thyme to be active, Parsley for the feast.” Then she froze, because she’d finally remembered the last line without even trying. She flipped through her book, but it said only the same:
Parsley for the feast, festivities
.

“Lame,” she said, tossing the paperback. “I need something with
real
power.”

“Yo, Flora?”

Laurel recognized Rose’s voice later that evening and let her in. “Flora?”

“The Roman goddess of flowers.” Rose wrinkled her nose. “What smells in here?”

“Basil. I’m studying it.” Tiny bits of leaf were scattered across her bed.

Rose sat down on Laurel’s desk. “Is that what they found in your locker?”

“Yeah. That and some
killer
rosemary.” Laurel dropped into her mom’s chair.

Rose laughed. “Are you okay? You’re kind of missing in action these days.”

“Like anyone cares.” Laurel pulled another basil leaf off a plant in her window. “I can’t believe someone told Westfall to search my locker. It
had
to be Tara.”

“Maybe. But she might not be the only person who’s pissed off at you.”

“You think Susan snitched?”

Rose picked up a pencil and twirled it between her index fingers. “You have a pretty high profile these days, so you’re more likely to be a target.”

“But that wasn’t a prank,” Laurel protested. “Westfall was dead serious.”

Rose smiled. “But they can’t exactly expel you for illegal possession of
basil
.”

“No.” Laurel folded the leaf in half. “So Mina’s seeing Justin now?”

“Seeing, as in going out with?” Rose’s eyebrow lifted. “Puh-leeeze. He’s a freshman.”

“But she was flirting with him big-time at the wedding,” said Laurel.

Rose shrugged. “That doesn’t mean they hooked up. Recreational flirting is Mina’s favorite sport. The other guys were all dweebs or taken.”

Laurel sat up straighter. “So, she doesn’t like Justin?”

“Not like
that
.”

Laurel felt so relieved she couldn’t even smile. Still, that didn’t mean Justin was hers.
Not yet
, but she felt sharp and strong, like she could make anything happen. She glanced at the notes divided across her bed into categories. “Do you have plans tomorrow night or Saturday morning? Kate just ditched me, and I have to make all these prom bouquets by myself.”

“Ditched?” said Rose. “Aren’t you being kind of hard on her?”

“Wait a sec.
I’m
being hard on
her
?” Laurel said. “She has no time for me. She’s completely obsessed with Alan.”

Rose picked up the basil plant on the desk. “He’s a decent guy.”

“That doesn’t mean she gets to treat me like dirt.”

“Does she? She says she’s asked you to do stuff with them.”

Laurel gestured toward the notes. “I’m busy.”

Rose scrunched her nose and set down the basil. “Maybe this whole flower thing is getting out of hand. People are starting to say you’re stuck-up.”

“Me?” Laurel suddenly had the oddest sensation, like she was floating outside herself, watching her anger rise, hearing her words sharpen. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m
way
too smart to pick sides,” said Rose. “But you’re acting like you always have more important things to do these days.”

“Maybe I do,” Laurel snapped, crossing her arms and legs on the chair.

Rose held up her palm. “Fine, but if that’s your attitude, you’re not going to have a ton of friends here.”

“I’ve got you, don’t I?”

“I’m family.”

“So you
have
to be my friend?”

“That’s not what I said.” Rose glowered. “Look. This is exactly what I mean. We just started talking, and now we’re arguing. You never used to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Argumentative. Defensive. Maybe the flowers are doing weird things to you. Have you heard from Grandma since that book came?”

“No,” Laurel said sullenly. “And she doesn’t answer her phone.”

“What about Ms. Suarez?”

“Out of the country.”

“Right.” Rose threw her hands out and stood up. “Are you sleeping okay? Your personality seems . . . different.”

“Maybe this is the real me,” said Laurel.

“Maybe,” said Rose softly. “You haven’t—uh—seen your mom again, have you?”

Laurel’s voice was taut with anger. “Kate has the biggest mouth on campus.”

“She was worried about you. That’s the only reason she told me.”

“But everyone already thinks I’m bonkers.” Laurel paused, waiting for her cousin to contradict her, but Rose didn’t. “So, can you help me with the prom flowers or not?”

Rose shook her head. “Not. I want nothing to do with prom.”

“You could be a hostess, too.”

“Nope. I’m taking a moral stand. I’m protesting how people treat prom as the most important thing in their lives. In the big picture it’s just one night that’s never going to live up to anyone’s grandiose expectations.”

“Can’t you protest next year? I need you.”

“Nope. The time is ripe.”

Laurel’s anger surged like venom through her veins, and she flung her words as if they were barbed.
“You’d go if a guy asked you, but nobody has.”

Rose narrowed her eyes. “I am
not
going. End of discussion.”

“Someone will ask you to dance.”

“Maybe,” said Rose. “But I’m not playing wallflower.”

“Is that what you think I am?” said Laurel.

“Whoa.” Rose held up her hands. “You’re being totally paranoid. I’m your friend, remember? Kindred spirit?”

“Kindred?” Laurel said. “But you can’t even Flowerspeak. Your gifts are nothing like mine, not even close.”

Rose opened her mouth, but—for once—she didn’t have a comeback before she left the room.

A
s
Laurel brushed her teeth Friday morning, she realized with a pang that her dreams had been dark. Even her mom had deserted her. Emptiness pooled inside her as she spit out toothpaste. She slipped fresh basil in her pocket and left for class.

All her teachers, and even Mrs. Fox, fixed her with “the Probe.” Laurel forced smiles and said she was fine and knew she’d be called in by her counselor, especially after she skipped practice to start the tussies. Strapping on her backpack, she found two buckets in the dorm kitchen and half filled them with water. Then she headed for the garden.

Other than Whitney’s, the girls’ desires were predictable: they wanted to flirt, to dance, to be the brightest
flower in a field of flashy blooms. Even Nicole wanted a tussie now. In the garden Laurel cut lemon verbena for “enchantment,” double red dianthus for “pure and ardent love,” and scarlet poppies for “fantastic extravagance.”

As soon as she opened the door to the conservatory, Laurel knew the air had changed. There was a rich and unfamiliar scent: spicy and alluring. She set her buckets down, and when she stood up, the entire room moved in a slow, disquieting wave.
Spizzy, tinny, dingly.
She clutched a table and looked toward the orchids.

All the windows were closed. Steadying herself, Laurel opened one and leaned into the rush of unscented air. She unlatched the others and gulped breaths as she made her way toward the metal frame. Reaching into her pocket, she rubbed a basil leaf and held it to her face as she stepped inside.

Ms. Suarez’s orchid seemed to glow like a setting sun, and Laurel trembled with excitement. She was the first person in the history of the world to lay eyes on its frilly, yellow petals with orange spots.
Glory be to God for dappled things,
she remembered.

Laurel took a step toward the orchid, but reality rippled again. She stumbled back, her fingers grabbing the cold metal. A yearning, deep and hollow, wrenched her body. She hugged herself tightly, but she wanted Justin there to steady her dizziness—his lips close
enough to kiss. His arms will be around me at prom, she vowed.

Goose bumps pricked up her arms, and she shivered violently. The world outside was cooling and darkening, but she couldn’t close the windows and stay. And there was nowhere else for her to assemble the tussies, nowhere free from snooping eyes.

“Poor Ms. Suarez,” Laurel said as she walked back to her table. “Five years, and she missed it.” She reviewed her list for Whitney: candytuft for “indifference” and foxglove for “insincerity.” And lots of basil. The senior had basically ignored her since the flower request, but it wasn’t worth ignoring her back. Yawning, Laurel folded her arms on the table and laid down her heavy head. She was suddenly, wholly exhausted . . . .

Laurel’s head popped up, and she blinked anxiously at the darkness. What time was it? Her nose felt clogged, and the breeze passing over her skin was cool—too cold for the plants. She stood up to stretch but heard a strange rustling near the orchids. Dread squeezed her chest. Ms. Suarez hadn’t exactly denied the ghostly Gladys rumors. Laurel ducked low and peered into the darkness, her fears multiplying with the pounding silence.

Is Gladys jealous of me? she wondered as a craving for basil pinched her. Basil to sharpen and focus. Standing
quickly, she lunged toward the tabletop, but miscalculated and the plant toppled off. A window rattled across the room, and Laurel spun around.

“Mom?” she cried out. No one answered. Her mom felt nowhere near—nowhere Laurel could be in this lifetime. Her craving gnawed at her gut, and she dropped to all fours. Small rocks bit into her knees as her fingertips raked through the dust and dead leaves to find the plastic container. She ripped out the basil and sniffed, but her head was stuffy. She crushed a few of the leaves, but still nothing. She stuffed the basil into her mouth, but spat it out. Then something with lots of legs crawled across her bare knee.

“Ahhhh!” Laurel screamed and climbed onto the stool. Shuddering with disgust, she hugged her knees to her chest as tears streamed around her nose.

“This isn’t it!” she yelled at the darkness. “This isn’t what I want!” She wanted kindred spirits. Rooms full of scents and blossoms. She wanted to feel loved but also powerful. She reached again for the basil.

Basil is for hatred,
a voice said in her head. A voice she knew. Her mom’s voice. Her own voice.
Hatred
.

“Idiot.” Laurel pulled her arm back. “Moron.” She’d been breathing basil—and its subtle poison—for weeks. Kate and Rose weren’t speaking to her. She and her dad exchanged only curt e-mails now, thanks to her basil-
filled outbursts. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed.

Moments later Laurel sensed the air around her brightening, and she looked up at the night sky beyond. Silver light from a newly risen moon was streaming through the glass roof. She wiped her tears on her sleeve and spread her hand into the moonlight.

Sun shine, star shine, moon shine, you shine.
The memory of her mom’s sweet voice flooded her ears.
Shine and bloom beneath the light.
Laurel cupped her palms to capture the moonlight. Every night she’d begged her mom to sing that little song she’d made up—every night until she was too embarrassed to ask.

“‘Sun shine, star shine, moon shine, I shine,’” Laurel sang softly. But she couldn’t hold on to the moonlight any more than she could hold on to her mom.

A gust of cold wind jiggled the windows, and with a shiver Laurel remembered Ms. Suarez’s orchid. I hope it’s okay, she thought. One by one she closed all the windows, but she didn’t want to go anywhere near the orchid.

“Bye, Gladys. Bye, Violet,” Laurel whispered before she pulled the conservatory door shut. It was silly for her to fear Gladys or any other ghost. Her own great-great-grandma Violet had been Gladys’s friend. They must have laughed and marveled over flowers and secrets in
this very room. Laurel locked the door and ducked under the cedars. Then she doubled back to pull off some of the long needles.

“Cedar for strength,” she whispered
.
The right kind of power.

Her clock said 1:36
A
.
M
. as she opened the windows in her room to dilute the scent of basil. She tied the plants in a plastic bag and put them outside her door before playing the message on her phone: a dog barked and then a raspy voice followed.

“Quiet, Dickens. Laurel, this is Grandma. I had a strange feeling that I
had
to call you tonight. Is everything all right?”

Rain beat into the soggy ground on prom morning. The instant Laurel awoke she called Grandma back, but no one answered. Still in her pajamas, she picked up the bag of basil, carried it to the dorm kitchen, and dropped it in a trash bin.

“Good-bye, basil,” she said.

On the way back Kate came out of the bathroom just ahead of her. Laurel now realized that everything that had happened between them lately was skewed by basil’s influence. She hadn’t been herself at all—not the self she wanted to be.

“Kate?” Laurel’s voice was a congested whisper.

Kate turned and put her hands on her hips. “Well. Where have
you
been?”

“I’m sorry.”

“First you skipped soccer practice,” said Kate. “Coach was pissed. And then you weren’t at dinner. I knocked on your door at like midnight, and you didn’t answer. I thought you’d left Avondale or something. Why didn’t you answer
this
time?”

“I wasn’t there.”

Kate stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Where were you?”

“In the conservatory. I fell asleep there.”

“Nooo,” said Kate. “All by yourself? Weren’t you scared?”

“Terrified. I heard this noise, and I thought it was the ghost.”

“Was it?”

Laurel shook her head. “No. It—it was just me. I haven’t been myself.”

Kate nodded, close-lipped. “I was so worried I almost went to see Mrs. Fox.”

Laurel couldn’t help smiling.

“What’s so funny?” Kate demanded.

“I guess I’m glad that you were worried,” Laurel said, blinking quickly.

Kate threw out her hands. “Of course I was, but
you’ve been totally hard to live with, Whelan.”

“I know, I know. It won’t happen again. Promise.” No more basil.

Kate nodded. “So, Alan’s track meet is off ’cause of the rain, but I was gonna come help you with the flowers anyway . . . .”

Laurel bit her lip to quell the quick rise of sarcasm. Basil had rooted deeply inside her, and its power was seductive. She’d have to fight herself, fight her darker side, to keep it from growing.

“Do you still need me?” Kate asked.

“Definitely.” Then, before she could think twice, Laurel put her arms around Kate, who squeezed her back.

“Can you believe prom’s
tonight
?” said Kate, almost squealing.

Laurel shook her head. “No. I have so much to do.”

Back in her own room she pulled on holey jeans and a stained sweatshirt. She dialed Grandma’s number but still no answer. She met Kate, and they sprinted through the slanting rain to grab bagels and juice before heading to the conservatory. Laurel unlocked the door as Kate shook the rain off her umbrella.

“You have a key?” said Kate.

“I’m watering while Ms. Suarez is gone.” Laurel held the door open for her.

“Ooo, what’s that smell?” said Kate.

Laurel’s head still felt full of cotton, like her senses had overloaded the night before. “Maybe an orchid? Ms. Suarez is breeding a really rare one that just bloomed.” She opened a window near her table to be safe. “But don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

“Cool,” said Kate. “It smells orangey.”

“That’s just the orange trees,” Laurel said with relief. She wasn’t sure she could handle the orchid right now, especially not without basil.

Rain pattered rhythmically on the glass roof as they worked side by side for several hours. Under Laurel’s guidance, Kate cut the stems evenly, bound them with floral tape, and tied neat ribbons. Laurel had simplified her plans, so the tussies had just a few flowers and some potent greenery. All except Whitney’s.

“Kate?” Laurel’s heartbeat leaped with her doubts.

“Hmm?” Kate pulled a red ribbon tight.

“Does Justin think I’m a total loser?”

“No—oo.” Kate spoke more cautiously than usual. “I think he’s confused. You’re not an easy person to get to know, ya know?”

Laurel returned her smile. “I hope I didn’t scare him off.”

Kate shrugged. “Justin beats his own drum.”

Laurel looked at her quizzically.

“Or marches to his own beat, whatever.” Kate pointed
to the flowers Laurel had set aside for Whitney. “Who are those for?”

Laurel felt a quick flicker of fear. She didn’t want to lie to Kate, but she’d promised Whitney her total silence. “Whitney.”

“Really,” Kate said, but she didn’t press Laurel further. “I think all these sweet smells are makin’ me sleepy. Can I see it before I go?”

“See what?”

“That rare orchid. I’ve never seen one.”

Laurel took a deep breath. “Sure, but don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

In the daylight the yellow-and-orange orchid seemed almost ordinary, just another fancy flower showing off. “There it is.”

Kate leaned into the bloom. “It doesn’t even have a smell.”

Laurel started to check but stopped herself. “Oh yeah. The professor told me some orchids release their scent only at night.” She grabbed her head with both hands. “The professor! I was supposed to call him as soon as it bloomed.”

“Want me to?” Kate asked.

“Can you? I have a few things to finish up.” They walked back to her table and Laurel dug through her backpack for his card. “Just tell him it opened.”

“No problem.” Kate started toward the door.

“Hey,
you
need some flowers for prom,” Laurel said, following her.

Kate waved her hand. “Alan’s gettin’ me something.”

Laurel grinned. “I could make something so special he won’t be able to resist.”

Kate shook her head. “No, thanks. Maybe your flowers got his attention, but now he’s pretty into me. I don’t wanna mess with that. If it’s only because of the flowers—”

“You
know
that’s not true.”

“But if it’s only the flowers, then it’s like a trick, isn’t it?” Kate met Laurel’s eyes. “I wanna know his real feelings.”

“But the Featherstones aren’t a trick,” Laurel protested. “Their love is true.”

Kate shrugged. “So maybe I just want Alan to give me flowers.”

“He will. Definitely.”

After Kate left, Laurel sat motionless at the table littered with stems and leaves. She met her mother’s eyes in the photo on the window. “It’s not a trick,” she whispered. The Featherstones’ love was deep and lasting, and any fool could see Alan adored Kate.

A squeak near the entrance of the conservatory startled Laurel. She turned and drew in a sharp breath; Tara was walking toward her.

“I’m coming tonight,” Tara announced. “So is Nicole. She told me you’d be here.”

Laurel jumped off the stool. “You mean to prom?”

“Duh. Whitney said we could. I’m not about to be the only freshman not going.”

A craving for basil lashed at Laurel, but she tried to ignore it. I should have grabbed some cedar on the way in, she thought.

Tara shook her head at the labeled flowers. “I don’t understand why people still want your flowers. They’re such a joke.”

Laurel took a measured breath. She had to start over—with everyone. Even Tara. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Everett. I heard—”

Tara crossed her arms. “You can stop pretending you care, flower girl.”

“I want to help you out.” Laurel took a step closer. “Really.”

Tara stared at her hard for a moment, but Laurel didn’t back down. “He thinks I’m a freak,” Tara said.

“We could try some other flowers or a different combination.” Laurel pushed Whitney’s flowers toward the back of the table.

“Like those?” Tara pointed to Whitney’s flowers. “I didn’t have any of those.”