Awesome Blossom

  Yaz worms past Natalia and Chance and Preston, and she reaches the door that leads to the playground before any of them.

  “Yaz?” she hears through the muzzy-buzzing of her thoughts. It’s Katie-Rose. She’s probably wondering why her friend has suddenly turned into an Olympic-class sprinter. “Yaz?!”

  Yaz could stop running and let Katie-Rose catch up with her and spill everything to Katie-Rose right now, even though Katie-Rose would gag and make vomit noises and be totally horrified that two teachers are acting so lovey-dovey. But the cold air is a tonic to Yasaman’s flushed skin. Her muscles burn as she sprints down the field, and it feels good. Her lungs are tight, and her heart thumps against her ribcage, and oh, that’s good, too, because it leaves nothing left for thinking.

  “Yasaman!” she hears.

  She runs.

  “Yasaman!”

  Her shirt pulls against her chest. Someone’s grabbed it, trying to make her stop. She keeps going, pulling against the tugging, but she can’t run forever. Anyway, she’s ready to talk now. She thinks. Once she catches her breath, that is.

  She leans over, sucking wind and bearing her weight on her thighs.

  “Yaz?”

  Yasaman turns, panting.

  “Violet,” she says between gasps. She was expecting Katie-Rose.

  Violet’s forehead is lined with worry. Unlike Yaz, who is huffing and puffing, Violet is elegant and perfectly unmussed.

  “Are you okay?” Violet says. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  Yaz shakes her head. Then she nods her head. She holds up one finger to say give me a second, and takes in great gulps of the cool November air. Then she straightens her spine and drags the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead.

  Violet regards her. “Let’s walk,” she says, linking her arm through Yasaman’s.

  “Good idea,” Yaz says.

  They start off along “the loop,” as Rivendell calls it. It’s the broadest circle you can make within the confines of the playground, right alongside the metal fence that separates the playground from Lemay Avenue at one end and the somewhat spooky railroad tracks at the other.

  Yasaman’s breathing grows more regular. Violet strolls patiently, not pressing. She doesn’t unhook her arm from Yasaman’s.

  “So,” Yaz says at last.

  “So,” Violet repeats.

  Yaz gives a sideways peek at her friend. “I needed to run.”

  “I gathered.”

  “My brain was spinning.”

  “I’ve felt that way before,” Violet says. They take several more steps. “How come? If you want to tell me, that is.”

  “I do,” Yaz says. She means it, too. She checks to make sure no one is nearby, then stops walking and confesses everything, all in a rush: Mr. Emerson. Ms. Perez. Dating and kissing and sending each other sweet (but somewhat disturbing!) love notes, and all of this right under Yasaman’s nose!!!

  Violet’s eyes grow wider and wider with each new detail. When Yaz finally stops talking, she closes her eyes and keeps them closed for a long moment. Then she opens them with a snap. “Wow,” she says.

  “Exactly.”

  Violet starts walking again. Yaz matches her pace.

  “They shouldn’t have used you as a messenger,” she says.

  “I know,” Yaz says.

  “But … it’s kind of cool that they did.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s kind of exciting, even.”

  Yaz sighs. “I know.”

  “So the question is, did anything bad happen? Do you feel like you need to tell Ms. Westerfeld or anything?”

  Ms. Westerfeld? The principal? “No!” Yaz exclaims. “Omigoodness, Violet. If I told Ms. Westerfeld …” She shudders, imagining her teachers getting in trouble. Surely they would … wouldn’t they? “Why would I tell Ms. Westerfeld?”

  “Well, apparently you wouldn’t,” Violet says. “So we answered that question. So, good.”

  Yes, good. Yaz nods, relieved.

  “And we always have said how cute they’d be together,” Violet goes on. She squeezes Yaz’s elbow. “You, especially, thought they’d be cute together.”

  Yaz nods again.

  “And now they really are together, so that’s another good thing. But I do think you should demand to be their flower girl when they get married.”

  Yaz giggles. It feels as if a too-tight shoelace around her insides has finally been loosened. “I was thinking they should name their firstborn child after me.”

  “Absolutely,” Violet argues. “Unless it’s a boy, in which case maybe they’ll name him after Mr. Emerson.”

  “John Junior,” Yaz says.

  “Well … unless they use his nickname. Mr. E’s, I mean.”

  “Huh?”

  “C’mon. Can’t you just see it?” Violet pretends to be Ms. Perez, holding a little baby. “And here is our little darling, Hottie-with-a-Body. We call him Hottie for short.”

  “Agh!” Yaz cries, covering both of her ears with her hands. She giggles and giggles and giggles.

  Violet grins. She waits until Yaz has calmed down, and says, “But hey, I don’t think you should worry about … you know. Reading their notes or whatever.”

  “You don’t? You don’t think it was wrong of me?”

  “Well, sure it was wrong. But in the big picture, I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

  “Explain.”

  “You said you’re not going to tell on them. You said you don’t want to tell on them. So that means your conscience doesn’t think you need to tell on them, and so that means”—Violet shrugs—“that even your conscience isn’t freaking out about it. You might be, but not your conscience, and Yaz? You have a very strong conscience.”

  “I do?”

  “You do.”

  “I do,” Yaz says. She lets the truth flood in. With it comes a tidal wave of relief.

  “So I don’t need to do anything? Like, for example, tell Ms. Perez I read her personal and private love notes?”

  “Why in the world would you do that?” Violet says. She stops walking and stares across the field. She puts her hand over her eyes and squints.

  “But what if they ask me to pass more notes?”

  “If you don’t want to, just tell them no,” Violet says. She changes course, veering across the field instead of continuing along the loop. “Unless you don’t mind, that is.”

  “I don’t know if I do or not. Would you, if you were me?”

  Violet seems distracted. “Huh?”

  “If Mr. Emerson asked you to take a note to Ms. Perez, would you?”

  “Yaz, hold that thought. Um, we’ll talk later, all right?”

  “Why later?” She grabs Violet’s arm. “We’re talking now, so why can’t we keep talking now?”

  “I just …” Violet shoots her a tight smile. “I can’t.”

  Yaz knits her brow. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I hope. But I’ve got to run, ’kay?”

  She pulls free, and Yaz watches, perplexed and more than a little dismayed, as Violet hurries over to the play structure.

  Oh, Yaz thinks, putting the pieces together. It’s Hayley. Violet’s worried about Hayley because Hayley’s standing by the slide, surrounded by Modessa, Quin, and Elena. They’re standing awfully close. Menacingly close. The four of them are talking, but Yaz can’t make out what they’re saying.

  Violet reaches them, and Yaz’s breath hitches. Two minutes ago, Violet’s elbow was hooked through Yasaman’s. Now she’s elbowing her way into Modessa’s little circle, and Yaz doesn’t like it one bit. She doesn’t want Hayley to get hurt, but she doesn’t want Violet to get hurt, either.

  If anyone’s going to get hurt. In all honesty, she doesn’t know what to think of the scene unfolding before her. She knows that Modessa and her buddies are bad news, but she doesn’t know if Hayley agrees. She doesn’t know if the Evil Chicks are even being mean to Hayley, or to Violet. She’
s too far away to tell.

  She knows what she feels, though. Violet was helping her, and then she decided to run off and help Hayley instead.

  It doesn’t feel good.

  only Modessa can. Like, if Violet were writing it out in poem form, with line breaks and other clues to the reader, it would look like this:

  OH

  (beat)

  (beat)

  myGOD.

  But that’s Modessa, dripping with attitude.

  Violet steps closer. So far, the group hasn’t noticed her.

  “And these were your friends?” Modessa says to Hayley.

  “I know,” Hayley says.

  “Some friends!” Modessa says.

  “I know,” Hayley says. She looks over Modessa’s shoulder. “Hi, Violet.”

  Modessa twirls on her heel. Violet’s insides sink, and then she squeezes her hands into fists.

  You are strong, she reminds herself. So be strong.

  “Hi,” she says stiffly.

  “Violet,” Modessa says, the way another person might say, Gross, a dead roach. “Why are you here?”

  “Why are you here?” Violet replies.

  It’s not the most brilliant response, and Modessa takes full advantage. “Um, because I am? But you. You’re such a magnet. Everywhere I go, there you are. It’s annoying and pathetic. Am I right, girls?”

  Quin and Elena nod. Their heads are attached to invisible strings, because they’re Modessa’s puppets.

  “Hayley—” Violet says.

  “No,” Modessa interrupts. “Don’t try to steal Hayley away, and don’t follow her around, either. Don’t follow any of us. Anyway, can’t you tell that poor Hayley doesn’t want you bugging her?”

  Poor Hayley? Violet thinks. Poor Hayley?!

  Modessa very deliberately turns her back on Violet. Done, her actions say. And bye-bye to you. To Hayley, she says, “Well, real friends wouldn’t have done that.”

  Done what? Violet wonders. She does feel dumb, standing outside their circle. Should she leave?

  But no. Because Modessa is clearly making her bid for Hayley. Violet can’t back down.

  “Come to my house, and I’ll do it,” Modessa says.

  Violet edges closer. Do what?

  Hayley makes a noise that’s neither a yes nor a no. “I don’t know. I’m, like, not sure anymore. That I even want to.”

  Want to do what?! Violet’s mind demands.

  “I think you should,” Modessa proclaims. “I totally think you should, and I totally think you should let me be the one to do it for you.” She moves closer to Hayley, farther from Violet. Quin and Elena follow suit. “Okay? So will you?”

  They’re cornering her, Violet thinks. Then she doubts herself, because Hayley does have legs, after all. And, unlike Elena, she has a functioning spine. Hayley could walk away from Modessa if she wanted to, because unlike Quin and Elena, Hayley isn’t a puppet-girl.

  But if Hayley isn’t a puppet-girl, then why is she putting up with the Evil Chicks? And what does Hayley maybe or maybe not want to do, and how does it involve Modessa?

  Violet forces herself to step forward. “Modessa?” Her voice quivers, dang it. “Leave Hayley alone.”

  Modessa rolls her eyes at Quin, Elena, and Hayley … and all of them giggle.

  Even Hayley.

  Violet swallows. She’s suddenly uncertain whose side Hayley is on.

  “What’s your problem, Violet?” Modessa says, as if even such a simple exchange is exhausting.

  “Yes, what’s your problem, magnet?” Quin contributes, sniggering.

  Violet glares, shifting her focus to Modessa’s right-hand girl. She pulls herself up and ignores the niggling awareness that by taking on Quin, she’s taking the easy way out. “Shut up, Quin. Anyway, you need to pay more attention during science, because a magnet draws things toward it. So who’s the magnet?”

  Quin looks confused. Elena looks confused. Then Elena’s brow unwrinkles, and she says, “Ohhhh.” She turns to Modessa. “She’s right.”

  “Huh?” Quin says.

  “Modessa’s the magnet,” Elena says.

  This gives Violet the courage to glance at Hayley.

  Hayley’s expression is impassive.

  “She’s not right, and shut up,” Modessa snaps. She pauses. “No, she is right, actually, but not in the way she thinks. I am a magnet, because I have a magnetic personality, just like movie stars and America’s Next Top Models.” She lifts her chin. “So thank you, Violet, for clearing that up.”

  Modessa smiles at her. It’s not a real smile.

  “Violet’s a very smart girl,” Modessa says. “Don’t you think, Hayley? That Violet’s a very smart girl?”

  Violet turns to Hayley, hoping that she will somehow fix things.

  “Whatever you say,” Hayley replies.

  It’s an answer, but it only leaves Violet with more questions.

  Yasaman take trapeze lessons in Rivendell’s PE room, which has been set up with basic trapeze equipment just for that purpose. It’s pretty much awesome sauce in a can … or rather, awesome sauce flying through the air with the greatest of ease! Only without splattering onto the floor, hopefully, because a) that would be gross, like vomit, and b) it could result in bodily harm.

  No one splatters today. Yaz even pulls off a tricky level-three skill involving a reverse single knee hang followed by a double somersault over the bar. The hardest part about a double somersault, or a single somersault for that matter, is when it comes time to let go of the bar and land, not on your booty but on your feet. It’s hard because your brain gets confused when it does loop-de-loops, that’s Katie-Rose’s theory. Brains expect to be perched on top of necks, and they expect, in general, to stay up there and not go bouncing all around town.

  But add in a somersault …

  Suffice it to say that unlike Yaz, Katie-Rose has yet to master the single somersault dismount or the double somersault dismount. Oh well. Katie-Rose doesn’t care. She likes swinging on the bar best of all, anyway.

  After the class ends, Katie-Rose jogs to catch Yasaman before she exits the building.

  “Yaz, hold up!” she calls. “Where’s the fire?”

  Yaz turns around. “Huh?” She looks from side to side. “Fire? Where?”

  Katie-Rose says, “Oh, Yaz,” because she’s so funny, that silly girl. “There’s no fire, you goof. I just mean, why are you rushing out of here so fast?”

  Yasaman tilts her head. She’s wearing her “sports” hijab, which is one solid color and made out of stretchy material. The hijabs Yaz wears during the day are long and flowing and made from beautiful, intricately woven fabric, and compared to them, her sports hijab is startlingly boring.

  “I’m sure my mom’s waiting for me, that’s all,” Yaz says. “She doesn’t like me to keep her waiting.”

  Well, yes, Katie-Rose does know that. Yaz’s parents are stricter than Katie-Rose’s. Stricter than the parents of any of the FFF’s. Still, Katie-Rose doesn’t want Yaz to go just yet.

  “Nice double somersault dismount,” Katie-Rose says.

  Yaz’s face brightens, and the before-and-after difference between Yaz’s two expressions makes Katie-Rose realize that Yaz wasn’t looking very sunshiny until now.

  “Thanks,” Yaz says. “You did a good job, too, on your cutaway.”

  Katie-Rose waves that off. “Level-one skill. A baby could do it.”

  “Hardly. A baby would fall off.”

  “My point exactly. I fell off.”

  “But you got back on. You have to remember that. You can’t just focus on the bad stuff.”

  Bad stuff. Huh. The phrase strikes a chord with Katie-Rose, and she uses it as an opening to get to what she really wants to discuss.

  “Okay, true,” Katie-Rose says. “But speaking of bad stuff, do you feel like things are weird between us, Yaz? Not you and me, but all of us? Milla and Violet and you and me?”

  “N-n-no,” Yaz says, but doubt flickers across h
er face.

  “Because it was you who said that whole thing about secrets, at lunch yesterday. Are you telling me you don’t feel like everyone’s keeping … well … secrets from each other?”

  A stronger emotion shadows Yasaman’s face. Yaz ducks her head and tries to pass Katie-Rose, but Katie-Rose grabs her. She stares deep into Yaz’s eyes. “Yaz?”

  Yaz looks away.

  “Yaz?” Katie-Rose steps to the side until she’s once again within Yaz’s line of vision. “Talk to me.”

  “Did Violet tell you?” Yaz asks.

  “Did Violet tell me what?”

  Yaz is flustered.

  “Did Violet tell me what?” Katie-Rose repeats.

  “Okay, listen,” Yaz says. “Maybe I do have a secret. Do you?”

  “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Katie-Rose says.

  Yaz deflates. That’s what it looks like.

  “Yes!” Katie-Rose says. “I do, I do. Will you tell me yours if I tell you mine?”

  Yaz glances toward the main door of the building. “My mom’s waiting. I’ve got to go.”

  “Milla has a date with Max tonight,” Katie-Rose says quickly. “A date date. Like, you know, smoochie-smoochie, and you know how I feel about all that.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, that it’s gross,” Katie-Rose says. She sounds too forceful, even to herself, and for the barest flash of an instant, Katie-Rose glimpses her true secret, which is that she’s jealous of Milla and Max. Because until yesterday, when Preston made everyone laugh at her, she honestly thought he liked her. But no. Only Milla gets to have a boy like her. Not Katie-Rose.

  Well, that line of thought isn’t going to get her anywhere. “They’re going to the Olive Garden, and I’m going to go, too,” she announces. “Only Milla doesn’t know.”

  Yasaman’s face changes. “Wait. First of all, I thought Milla wasn’t …” She shakes her head. “Never mind. What do you mean, you’re going to go, too?”

  “Exactly that: I’m going to go, too. She’s not the only one allowed to go to the Olive Garden, is she?”

  Yaz looks confused. “But … are you going because you want to? Or because Milla is?”