Forget-Her-Nots (4 page)

Laurel used to be part of a group—guys and girls—who went to Starbucks or Baskin-Robbins after school or practice and hung out together at dances. After her mom’s diagnosis, though, she always went straight home and skipped the dances. Then when her mom died, it seemed like most people didn’t know how to talk to her
anymore. They seemed afraid of her—like she might shatter if they said the wrong thing.

“I need some guy friends,” Laurel muttered to herself. “This place is unnatural.”

“Laurel?” Miss Spenser was beckoning to her. “Do you have a moment, please?”

“Uh, sure.” Laurel gathered up her stuff, but her feet halted in the doorway of the classroom. A tall dark-haired teacher was standing at the windows. She wore large hoop earrings, high-heeled boots, and a flowing purple skirt. Laurel had seen her zipping around in a golf cart, but they hadn’t spoken. She looked exotic and beautiful, and she was the one who had stared at Laurel in the dining hall the day Professor Featherstone came.

“Laurel, this is Geneva Suarez,” said Miss Spenser. “She teaches many of our science classes.”

Ms. Suarez’s silver bracelets clinked as she held out her hand. “Hello, Laurel. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.” She spoke with a trace of a Spanish accent.

“Hello.” Laurel shook her hand.

“Ms. Suarez also oversees our gardens,” said Miss Spenser. “If you see flowers brightening any room on campus, she’s usually the reason.”

Ms. Suarez smiled at the older woman. “You know what I always say: no room is complete without flowers.”

Laurel’s head snapped sideways, and her eyes met Ms. Suarez’s. That comment sounded
exactly
like something her mom would have said.

“I adore flowers,” the teacher said softly. “Just as your mom did.”

Laurel inhaled sharply. “You knew my mom?”

“Yes. You have her beautiful brown eyes.” Ms. Suarez sat down in one of the student desks and crossed her legs. “Lily and I were here at Avondale together. She was a year older than me, but we had a lot in common. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Laurel said automatically. She’d heard a million condolences, but they never changed a thing.

Miss Spenser laid her hand on Laurel’s arm. “Ms. Suarez was impressed with that lovely bouquet you gave me. She’s quite intrigued by that flower language.”

“Really?” Laurel looked at the teacher again.

“Yes. I’ve heard of it,” Ms. Suarez said. “Did your mom teach it to you?”

Laurel hesitated. Her mom hadn’t taught her anything, not directly, but her mom had left clues she was tracking. She could feel both teachers watching her. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, kind of. She—we—used to make bouquets all the time.”

Ms. Suarez nodded. “How old are you now?”

“Fourteen.” Laurel glanced up at the clock. “I’m sorry, but I need stuff for my next class.”

“I have to run, too.” Ms. Suarez stood up. “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the conservatory sometime, if you’d like.”

“Conservatory?” Laurel said, taken aback. “There’s a conservatory here?”

Ms. Suarez nodded. “Behind a row of cedars off the main path to the gardens. It’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, or if you don’t know it’s there.”

Ms. Suarez was out the door when Laurel thought of something else. “Ms. Suarez?” she said. “Since you know about flowers . . . I went to the garden and found a red one on an evergreen bush, and it had bloomed even though the weather was freezing. Do you know which one I mean? With a yellow center?”

Ms. Suarez seemed to study Laurel’s face before replying. “It’s probably a camellia. Many of them bloom early and can withstand the cold.”

“Camellia,” Laurel repeated carefully. “Thanks.”

At the lunch break she grabbed a few granola bars, ran back to her room, and flipped through her flower book. Camellias stood for “unpretending excellence.” So far the mystery message was “hope and true excellence.” Nothing about love—so far. The bizarre part was
that when she’d sniffed the bouquet outside her door that morning, when she’d traipsed through the garden, and then dissed Everett, she’d felt unusually hopeful and confident. And Miss Spenser had given her an A for “Excellent!”

F
riday
afternoon, Laurel’s fingers clutched the grass as Coach Peters read the team list.

“ . . . Kate Samuelson, Gabrielle Tulum, Laurel Whelan, Ally Wilkins.” The coach closed her notebook, and Laurel exhaled in a rush. She loosened her grip but didn’t dare look around. Tara’s name hadn’t been called, along with those of several other girls. Coach was explaining how difficult the decision had been, but Laurel felt like doing a cartwheel. She low-fived Ally and hoped to walk back to campus with her new teammates.

It was Laurel’s turn, however, to help Coach with the equipment. Kate, her arm around a weeping Tara, was long gone by the time Laurel set the last stack of orange cones in the coach’s trunk. She slammed the door shut,
grabbed her sweatshirt from the grass, and took off toward campus. She glanced at Miss Spenser’s cottage as she passed, but the porch was empty.

The Avondale grapevine was failing Laurel. No one seemed to know anything about the budding romance. All anyone had talked about all day was pizza and movies tonight at Willowlawn. Laurel was positive that Kate, Tara, Nicole, and probably Ally would be going, but no one had invited her along.

Rubbing her goose-bumped arms, she yanked the dorm door open and trudged up four flights of stairs to Rose’s lofty room. She rapped on the door, but there was no answer. She jogged down to the basement and peeked into the silent study room. Tall and pale with short brown hair, Rose was hunched over a book.

“Geek,” Laurel whispered.

Rose smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah, yeah. You hungry?”

Rose’s left eyebrow lifted. “Do I have to sit with the jocks?”

“Hardly.” Laurel pushed Rose’s backpack out of the way and sat on the table. “I made the JV team.”

“Awesome,” said Rose, lifting her right palm.

Laurel slapped it. “Everyone’s going to Willowlawn for movie night, aren’t they?”

“Everyone who’s anyone,” Rose said sarcastically. She
marked her place and set aside her book. “You should go, too, and meet people.”

“Are you?”

Rose shook her head. “I already know everyone I want to.”

I’m not going solo, Laurel thought. “What are you working on?” She turned Rose’s papers around to face her. “Fi-toh-ree-med-tion. Huh?”

“Phytoremediation. It means using plants to clean up the environment,” Rose explained. “There are these cool ferns that absorb arsenic out of contaminated soil. This science competition is coming up, and the winner gets an internship at the Smithsonian. I’m looking for ideas.”

Laurel touched the picture of the fern; it reminded her of the feathery plant she still hadn’t identified. She’d hung the mystery bouquet upside down in her wardrobe to dry.

Rose glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting Mina for dinner. Want to come?”

“Maybe, but I need to ask you something.” Her name was Laurel, her mom was Lily, Rose was her cousin, and Rose’s mom was Iris. Other than her mom’s mom, Cicely, all the women of their family were named after plants and flowers. Laurel had once drawn their family tree for a project and traced the custom back generations.
“I know it’s tradition and all, but why are we
really
named after flowers?”

Rose smiled too sweetly and batted her lashes. “Because we are fair and tender young things. And we smell good, too.”

Laurel felt a wave of impatience. “Will you be serious for once? I need to know, and it’s not like I can ask my mom about it.” Silence reigned as she ignored “the Probe,” the piercing stare of people—her dad, teachers, the dorm mother, and now Rose—trying to figure out whether or not Laurel was “recovering” from her mom’s death.

“Sorry,” Rose said contritely. “I can ask my mom. If you want.”

Laurel knew her mom might have entrusted the birthday letters to Aunt Iris. “Ask her, but I want to know what
you
think, too.”

Rose shrugged. “Somebody started it way back when, and it kept on going.” She stuffed her book into her backpack. “But I’ve never felt like a Rose. They’re too prissy and persnickety—”

“So be a
wild
Rose,” Laurel said with a grin.

Rose nearly snorted. “Puh-leeeze. Any other burning questions?”

Laurel nodded. “Have you ever heard of the language of flowers? It’s symbolic.”

“Of flowers?”

“Each flower or herb stands for an emotion. It was big in the Victorian period.”

“Which explains why I know
nothing
about it.” Rose stood and swung her heavy backpack over one shoulder. “Not a fan of the Victorians.”

Laurel hopped off the table and followed her cousin outside.

“You know, Grandma would know more about the flower names,” Rose said quietly.

“So?” said Laurel. “When was the last time she picked up her phone or answered an e-mail?” Grandma had endured her daughter’s funeral with stony and unrelenting silence, and Laurel hadn’t heard from her since. Not a word.

“A valid point,” said Rose. “You could talk to Mina. She likes flowers.”

“Does she?” Laurel said as they reached an intersection of sidewalks.

“May Day is the only time people here pay attention to flowers, and that’s over the top,” said Rose. “People wear flowers in their hair and do this medieval skippy dance with ribbons around a big pole. I’m hoping they make it optional by the time I’m a senior.”

May Day, thought Laurel. But it’s not even April yet.

Rose bumped her arm. “Come with me. It’s pizza night here, too.”

Laurel was sick of people thinking pizza made everything all better. She wished she was on her way to Willowlawn chatting with Kate and Ally . . . keeping an eye out for Justin. A cool breeze lifted the hair off her neck and wafted a sweet scent to her. The sweetness spun gently through her head—just a hint of the tinglyness she’d felt around flowers lately. Somewhere an owl hooted, and she looked toward the garden.

Rose tugged on Laurel’s arm. “C’mon. Don’t be such a loner.”

Laurel yanked back. She didn’t feel like trying to fit in—yammering about nothing with Rose’s friends on the fringe. “Next time. I’m really tired.” She faked a yawn.

“I’m meeting Robbie for Sunday brunch at Willowlawn. Want to come?”

“I can’t,” said Laurel. “I’m at Westfall’s table this week.” Each Sunday after chapel the principal invited eleven girls from various grades to eat with her. Besides, Laurel would soon be spending spring break with Rose’s annoying little brother—her dad was out of the country on business—and that was all the Robbie she could take. Still, visiting him might be the only way she’d get to see guys on a regular basis. Some girls bounced back and forth between the two campuses, but Laurel felt like she didn’t have the secret password. Not yet.

“Rosie!”

They both turned to see Mina coming out of the dorm. The pink jewel in her pierced nose glittered against her mahogany skin.

“Hi, Laurel,” said Mina.

“Hey.” Laurel turned back toward the garden, where a radiant moon was rising above shadowy treetops.

“I adore full moons.” Mina giggled. “Makes you want to howl . . . or something.”

Rose held up her hand. “Be my guest.”

Mina shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow night. You coming with?” she asked Laurel.

Laurel shook her head. “I don’t feel like being inside.” She lifted her face to the sky as Mina followed Rose. A translucent cloud blanketed the moon and divided its glow like a prism. A rainbow moon, she thought. Where’s its treasure?

The garden lay beyond the lit sidewalks of campus, beyond the rounds of the night security guard, but Laurel walked toward it. Moonlight silvered the path at her feet. Like a nocturnal creature, she treaded lightly, her senses straining to make sense of the shadows. The owl hooted again, and her heart beat more urgently:
a-LIVE, a-LIVE, a-LIVE
, it seemed to say.

As she rounded a bend, her nose caught a sudden strong scent. It was fresh and invigorating, and she
looked for its source. She rubbed the stiff branch of a low bush and lifted her hand to her nose. That’s it, she thought. Crouching, she found a small marker spiked into the ground and read it by moonlight. “Rosemary.”

A rosemary bush had grown by the back door of her old house, and Laurel could picture its tiny, purple blooms. Her mom had cooked with the herb and dried it for sachets. Laurel grabbed a branch but jumped back immediately. Something—or someone—had hummed. The low sound had vibrated through her body the moment she touched the rosemary. She looked around, but she was still alone.

“Mom?” she whispered to the sky. “What’s going on? Help me. Please.” She quickly broke off a branch and felt the hummy tingling start again.

Laurel took a deep breath and raised the rosemary with both hands. “Bright cut flowers, leaves of green, bring about what I have seen.” Her fingertips seemed to spark with an energy she felt pouring into her, spinning her senses. “Yessss,” she said as the fragrance transported her into . . . 

Daylight
.
She was standing in her mom’s garden. Her mom’s hat was like a straw halo as she worked among velvety blossoms. Nearby, Laurel—a little-girl Laurel—dug in the dirt, hardly listening to what her mom chanted. She jumped up and filled her
mom’s outstretched hand with a shovelful of dirt. Her mom smoothed the soil between her fingers. Her smile was like a kiss, and her voice seemed to caress the air.

“Rosemary to remember,

With sage I esteem,

Thyme to be active . . .”

Thyme to
 . . . 
Thyme to be
 . . . 
Thyme to
 . . . 

Time
. Laurel’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Mom!” she screamed, but she was all alone in the dark garden. She stared down at the rosemary she’d crushed in her hands.

“‘Rosemary to remember,’” Laurel repeated. She’d remembered something she didn’t even know she knew. She threw aside the branch in her hand and broke off a fresh one. Pressing it to her nose, she whispered her words, but nothing happened.

“Please,” Laurel pleaded. “I
need
to remember.” Her eyes scanned the moon-drenched foliage around her as she breathed in more rosemary. When she was little, she’d trailed her mom through countless gardens. She knew the soft fuzz of lamb’s ears, the tang of mint leaves, and the stab of thorns. Her mom used to say the names of the plants and make Laurel repeat them.

“These are asters,” her mom said.

“Astwews.”

“Hydrangeas.”

“Hydwanjus.”

Her mother had sung and said rhymes about flowers all the time. Why can’t I remember them now? Laurel thought. A rapid flapping above her head startled her, and she saw the silhouette of wings—the owl—flying away. She bent off several sprigs of rosemary and ran out of the garden.

As she hurried past a row of tall swaying evergreens, a high light seemed to wink at her. Laurel pushed aside the branches and stepped into a clearing, where a Gothic tower rose above an expanse of glass. The conservatory, she thought with a shiver.

Most Avondale buildings were symmetrical redbrick structures with white columns and trimmed pairs of boxwoods outside every door. The administration building had a white dome that copied Thomas Jefferson’s nearby home, Monticello. In contrast, the conservatory seemed to be lifted out of a fairy tale. Moonlight gleamed on the copper roof and reflected off the glass surfaces. Gargoyles with fanciful animal faces stretched their mouths wide, as if awaiting a downpour.

Laurel looked back through the trees and could still see the path to campus. Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed to
the front stoop to peer inside. The huge room brimmed with plants, so there had to be flowers. Laurel jiggled the knob, but the door was locked. Knocking loudly, she pressed her nose to the glass but saw no one. She’d waved to Ms. Suarez in the hallways, but the teacher hadn’t mentioned a tour again.

Conservatories had always seemed like magical places to her. The outside world could be cold and dead, but whenever Laurel stepped inside the glass, the world burst into bloom. I need to be inside, she thought. She walked around the building looking for another entrance, until a gleam of reflected moonlight caught her eye. An engraved plaque was set high in the wall.

“Rooms of bright blossoms and sweet scents,” Laurel echoed
.
“I like that.” But she had no clue who Gladys and Edmund were. Clutching her rosemary, she jogged toward the artificial glow of main campus.