Forget-Her-Nots (15 page)

“I was just askin’.”

Laurel wanted to change the subject. “How was Willowlawn last night?”

Kate smiled widely. “Alan is sooo awesome, but Tara was bummed because Everett didn’t show. I think he went home for the weekend.”

Laurel squinted at a man and woman coming up the sideline. “Ka-ate?” Her fingers squeezed Kate’s arm. “That
is
my dad coming toward us, isn’t it?”

Kate looked up. “I met him only that once. Did he tell you he was comin’?”

Laurel shook her head. They’d hardly communicated since their fight in the diner.

“Laurel!” her dad yelled and waved to her. His other arm was supporting an elegant, black-haired woman whose high heels were sinking into the turf.

Glancing sideways to make sure Kate wasn’t watching, Laurel held the basil to her nose, whispered her words, and inhaled deeply.
Power
. She didn’t care what the book said; basil made her feel like she was carrying a weapon.

“Girls, move it!” Coach beckoned them into a huddle. “You really okay, Laurel?”

“Fine.” The basil seemed to be elevating her energy level already.

Coach nodded. “Good. Laurel, Ally, you gotta pick it up. Number sixteen is faster than she looks. Kate, talk to Laurel out there. Let’s try this.” Her pen slid across the board.

The referee blew his whistle, and all the girls put their hands on top of Coach’s. “AVONDALE!” they yelled.

“Laurel?”

Recognizing her dad’s voice, Laurel turned to walk backward toward her position. “I’ll see you after the game, Dad.” Stray leaves and pieces of trash scuttled across the grass, and the temperature was dropping. The clouds over the ridge seemed closer and menacing. She couldn’t believe her dad had brought a date.

“We’ll go out to dinner!” her dad shouted.

“Or not,” Laurel said, scowling at Number 16. The girl was good, but she was also cocky, and Laurel despised cockiness. She scanned the sidelines again, but there was no sign of a flowered scarf. She rubbed the leaves so she could feel the rush and tucked them into her waistband. The scent seemed to rocket through her blood.

The referee blew the whistle. Kate passed to Ally, who dribbled around a Prep forward. Number 16 hung back, watching the action on the other side. Moron, thought Laurel. Quickly, quietly, she zipped behind the girl. The pass would be high, and she had to get to it first. Ally slowed and—
thwack!
—the ball was in the air. Laurel raced to trap it.

Kate was downfield with a Prep fullback glued to her, and Number 16 had to be close. The crowd droned in her ears as Laurel dribbled almost into the corner. She needed only a second to turn and pass. The ball lofted off her foot and arched toward the goal, but Laurel couldn’t watch Kate head it in. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Number 16 coming at her late. Surging with anger, Laurel jumped straight up and then landed on the sliding girl.

“Ow, my foot!” said Number 16.

Laurel rolled off her and stood up. “So sorry,” she said.

The Avondale crowd was going nuts. Kate ran
toward her and touched fists. “Awesome pass! What happened?”

“That tackle was major late,” said Ally. “I can’t believe the ref didn’t see.”

Laurel glared at Number 16 as they walked back to their end. Tie game. Glancing westward, she saw darker clouds rushing their way. The referee blew the whistle, and the Prep center passed. But Ally read it perfectly, and the ball was hers. Kate hung back while Laurel shot up the sideline and then cut toward the center as if she were taking the shot. She waved her arm and shouted. “Ally! Ally!”

But before anyone could score again, a deep rumble unleashed itself overhead, and the referee blew his whistle to call the game. Laurel held her hands close to her face. Basil was a rush she wanted to keep riding.

Her dad was standing at the bus door next to Coach while her teammates jogged up the steps. “Great game, Laurel,” he said. “What a pass. I just told Coach you’re leaving with me. You can take the train back Sunday night or fly.”

“But I didn’t pack anything,” Laurel protested.

Her dad waved his hand. “We’ll figure something out.”

Laurel put her hands on her hips. “No, we won’t. I have an essay due Monday morning. The rough draft’s on my laptop in my dorm room. You can’t just barge in here and expect me to drop my life.”

Her dad’s mouth was open.

Coach spoke up. “There’s another problem, too, Mr. Whelan. Unless I have prior permission from Mrs. Westfall, I have to bring back every girl I brought. Laurel didn’t tell us you were coming.”

“I wanted to surprise her.” He spread his hands in amazement. “This is ridiculous. She’s my daughter.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Coach. “Get on the bus, Laurel.”

“You can’t make an exception?” asked her dad.

“If I do, I’ll get fired.”

Laurel could barely hold in a smile.

Her dad took hold of her arm. “Just a minute. I want you to meet someone.” The black-haired woman took a step forward. “This is Madeleine Eakins. We attended a fund-raiser in Warrenton this morning and decided to swing by.”

The woman extended her hand. “Hi, Laurel. You played a great game.”

Her dad’s hand felt heavy and insistent on Laurel’s back, rubbing a circle. “Thanks,” she said, rubbing her nose. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t bother playing too nice. The way my dad’s running through women these days, I’ll never see you again.”

No one said anything for several seconds, and Laurel felt a flicker of triumph.

“Excuse us,” her dad said in a strained voice. His eyes were flat with anger as he pulled Laurel away.

“Mr. Whelan,” said Coach. “There’s lightning. I’ve
got
to get everyone on the bus.”

“Just one minute!” he yelled back as a bolt sliced the sky behind his head. “Look at me,” he said to Laurel. “I cannot believe that my own daughter just said something that rude to someone I care about. What the hell’s going on?”

“It’s true,” Laurel said as raindrops spotted the pavement. “You’ve got your little sports car, and now you’re going out with all these different women. I called the other night and some woman with an accent answered.”

“That was Marta,” said her dad. “My new housekeeper. She couldn’t come at her usual time, so she asked to come one evening. Did you bother to talk to her?”

Laurel shook her head.

Her dad’s lips were pulled thin. “I don’t know where to begin.” Madeleine walked up behind him and handed him an umbrella.

“Here,” she said. “We should go now, Bill.”

Laurel wouldn’t look at the woman. “I’ve got to get on the bus.”

“Fine,” her dad said as he opened Madeleine’s umbrella over the two of them.

Laurel walked past Kate and Ally to the back of the bus. Through the rain-splattered glass she watched her dad open the door of his car for Madeleine and then get in. His car stayed in the same place, though, for as long as Laurel could see it from the bus.

I won’t regret anything, she told herself, savoring the certainty of her anger. He so deserved that.

F
or
the rest of the weekend, Laurel’s emotions swirled in a mixture of hope and dread. She kept imagining Justin’s touch on her hands, on her hair. If she knew when she’d see him again, she’d have the perfect flowers ready. But she also had to fix things with her dad. She didn’t exactly regret what she’d said, but she knew it was pretty far over the line. Her dad had sent a livid e-mail from his BlackBerry, telling her how “immature and selfish” she was being and demanding she write a note apologizing to Madeleine. She did it, even though she thought he was the one being selfish. And she sent another note to Grandma with forget-me-nots attached.

Halfway through Tuesday’s lunch Laurel glanced
up from her soup to see Susan Monroe glaring at her. Laurel’s stomach plunged as the table chatter quieted around them.

“You shouldn’t lie about your flowers, Laur-
elle
,” Susan snapped. “They’re totally lame. I got an F on that chem quiz. I can’t believe I thought you were for real.”

“An F?”

“Why don’t you say it a little louder so the whole school hears?”

Everyone in earshot was already listening. “I never promised—” Laurel whispered.

“I’m telling everyone you’re a joke!” Susan shouted. “So you have to stop lying.”

“I—I didn’t lie,” Laurel protested, but Susan had stormed away. Nicole’s eyes were as wide as Tara’s uncensored smile. Her head and heart pounding, Laurel stared down at her tray.

Kate put a hand on her arm. “Just forget about her.” Her voice was unconvincing.

“I told you all her flowers are worthless,” Tara said loudly. “Or maybe they only work in la-la land.”

Laurel looked at her in confusion. “But you
know
my flowers work,” she whispered.

Tara raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “I think it’s time for someone to see her counselor. Or maybe a shrink.”

Several girls at the table laughed. Her hands shaking, Laurel just managed to carry her tray to the conveyor belt, but Kate didn’t follow. No one followed as Laurel pushed through the door and sprinted to the dorms.

Locked in her room, she called the office to say she was sick. An hour later Mrs. Fox stopped by to feel her forehead, declared it to be a twenty-four-hour virus, and praised her for not spreading the germs. Laurel spent the afternoon trying to forget her life in the pages of a novel. Later, when she glanced up at her oversized day calendar, she saw the little J in the corner and remembered it was Tuesday.

“Anytime,” he’d said on the soccer field, but she’d blown it again.

On top of that, Miss Spenser’s wedding was only days away, and Ms. Suarez hadn’t contacted her about the bouquet. Laurel had stopped by her classroom twice but hadn’t caught her there. Did she change her mind? Laurel wondered.

Several people knocked, including Kate, who tried to convince her to go to practice. Kate stopped by again before dinner, but Laurel refused to go, even though her stomach was empty. She didn’t open the door until she heard Rose’s voice.

“Laurel? It’s me.”

Giving Laurel “the Probe,” Rose came in and set a rectangular box on the floor. Laurel dove back onto her
bed. “Why did you skip dinner? Kate said you skipped practice, too. Just because Susan Monroe is a pea-brained hair-flipper—”

“She’s telling everyone my flowers are worthless. Everyone’s laughing at me.”

Rose pushed some papers aside and sat on Laurel’s desk. “Puh-leeeze. Anyone who’s worth having as a friend knows Susan was using you. If you’re stupid enough not to study, you deserve to flunk. Everyone will forget about it in a few days.”

“But Tara’s dissing me, too, and she saw what my flowers did to Robbie.”

Rose shrugged. “She’s always dissing someone.”

Laurel frowned. “Can you bring me some food? I don’t want to leave my room.”

Rose handed Laurel a sandwich from her backpack. “Room service now, but you are not allowed to mope. That means they win.”

“They
always
win.”

“Wrong. Susan got an F, remember? Which was her own fault, but maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?” Laurel’s mouth watered as she unwrapped the sandwich.

“Maybe you shouldn’t give people flowers for tests.”

“I just promised Kate and Tashi some more.”

“Then swear them to secrecy,” said Rose. “Otherwise
losers like Susan will blame you for everything. There’s no way flowers can make you pass a test.”

“Then tell me why Tashi and Kate are doing better?”

Rose tapped her head with her index finger. “Been wondering that myself. My theory is your flowers make them feel more confident. Tashi’s smart, but she chokes. I read in this psychology book that if people
believe
they’re lucky or blessed, they perform better. Maybe your flowers work because people think they can.”

“‘I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,’” said Laurel.

Rose smiled. “Choo, choo.”

“What about Miss Spenser?” Laurel pressed. “Or Kate at May Day?”

“Maybe your flowers made them feel prettier or bolder,” said Rose.

“And Robbie and Tara? Explain that one, Sherlock.”

Rose shook her head. “That one’s beyond the realm of reason. Look, Laurel, you’re messing around with people’s lives. All morons want to believe in magic, and then they have such high expectations.”

“Great expectations,” said Laurel, remembering one of her mom’s favorite novels.

“Here.” With her foot extended Rose slid the package she’d brought in across the carpet. “This was outside your door.”

Crumpling her napkin, Laurel bent over the box. “Oh my god!” she screamed. “It’s from Grandma!”

“No way.” Rose hopped off the desk to look.

Laurel quickly cut the tape and pulled a leather-bound book out of shredded paper.

“Excellent,” said Rose. “That looks vintage.”

Laurel’s heart beat deeply as she ran her fingers across the familiar title embossed in gold. “It’s exactly like the one in the tower.
The Language of Flowers
.”

“How does Grandma know you’re into flowers?” asked Rose.

“I wrote her notes.” Laurel propped the book on her legs and opened it to the flyleaf. A list of names was written there, and a small card was stuck inside. She glanced up, but Rose wasn’t watching anymore. Laurel slid the card into the back pages.

“Look at this.” She turned the book to face Rose and read aloud.

Rose squinted at the list. “Guess that’s your pedigree. Your ancestral line.”

“I
know
what it means,” said Laurel. “But it’s yours, too.”

“Nope. I don’t see my name on that list.”

“Your mom probably has this book,” Laurel said. “In the attic or somewhere.”

“Nope.” Rose shook her head. “She’s not into flowers.”

“But we’re cousins.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re identical,” said Rose. “I have my own gifts.”

Laurel’s heart skipped at Rose’s admission. “So, you really think I have a gift?”

“I guess so.”

Laurel closed the book but kept it on her lap. “If you have a gift, then you should use it, right? You said that when you were talking about what a waste case Everett is.”

Rose reached for her backpack. “Maybe this is more complicated than I thought. It may be time to call in the experts.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Grandma’s pretty unpredictable. What about Ms. Suarez? She knows about flowers, right?”

Laurel nodded thoughtfully. “I think she’s a kindred spirit.”

Rose laughed. “Kindred spirit, I like that.” She mussed Laurel’s hair. “Hey, I thought of another flower myth.”

“Which one?”

“Persephone,” Rose said in a theatrical voice. “Daughter of Demeter, goddess of agriculture.”

“About the seasons, right?”

Rose nodded. “Persephone has to go to the underworld for half the year, so Demeter mourns, and that makes it winter. When Perseph comes back, spring is sprung.”

“We read that one in middle school.”

“But don’t forget the grown-up version,” Rose added. “Young Perseph was abducted by Hades when she was out picking flowers. She yanks up this beautiful bloom and out pops Hades in his chariot to deflower her.”

“Deflower?” asked Laurel.

Rose smiled. “‘Deflower’ is one of those quaint terms for losing your virginity. It probably has to do with pollination. In other words, Hades raped her. Nice story, huh?” Rose walked to the door. “Got to run. Fare thee well, kindred spirit.”

Laurel quickly locked the door behind Rose and took out the card Grandma had sent with the book. The envelope contained a sepia photograph of a pretty young woman with her brown hair in a bun and a cameo pin on her high-collared dress. Laurel turned the picture over.
Violet Evelyn
, it said.
1889
. She skimmed the note:

“Blessings,” Laurel repeated. She could almost feel the hands and hearts of her mom, her grandma, and her great-and great-great grandmothers reaching out to her. Across the depths of time, across the chasm of death they stretched, offering her rare knowledge and the gift of flowers. She just had to find a way to take hold of their hands.

Laurel picked up all the flowers she’d found around campus lately—more rosemary, myrtle, and fresh forget-me-nots—and bundled them together with floral tape. Now she wanted a ceremonial light. She found a small votive candle in the school-issued emergency kit, and some matches in her drawer. Standing on her chair, she lifted the top of her special stuff box and took out her mom’s letter.

She shut her curtain, turned off the lights, and lit the candle. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the flickering glow at her feet. The antique flower book and the letter lay in her lap. Clutching the bundle of blooms in her right hand, she called out to the gifted generations before her.

“Violet, Rosemary, Cicely, Lily,” she whispered, and
raised the tussie. “Come . . . teach me to Flowerspeak.” Then she said her words—the words which her mom must have taught her, words which now belonged to her.

A gust of wind shook the windowpane, and Laurel threw her arms wide as her body began its pleasing hum. She closed her eyes and saw . . . 

The luminous dream angels dancing their circle again. They danced to the humming, to a music that sang through the universe. The world around them was icy and barren, but they sang on, casting their light and harmony until a green shoot broke through the ice. Tiny leaves unfurled and stretched toward the rising sun. Higher and higher, the leaves offered up their bud, which opened into gossamer petals. Laurel leaned . . . 

But something bumped behind her. Out of place, out of rhythm, it dragged her back. Laurel shut her eyes tighter, but the humming had stopped.

“Laurel? You in there? I’ve got brownies.” It was Kate’s singsong voice, but Laurel didn’t want her, not now. Her arms fell to her sides, aching.

Sighing, Laurel blew out the candle and reread Grandma’s note. Then she dialed Grandma’s number by heart. The line rang and rang, but no one answered.