I wanted it all, but maybe I already had it all. One thing’s for sure: if I’d never come, neither Alice nor Kali would be in this mess.
Well, the elixir’s ready to go and I have to do this. Vicky deserves what’s coming. She stops at the vending machine. I tuck myself behind a partially open classroom door and wait.
“Mim?”
I nearly jump out of my ankle boots. Whipping around, I get a mouthful of hair—chestnut brown and curly. Cassandra Linney sweeps back her tresses and secures them into a rough braid.
“Hi,” I say cautiously.
“I’m looking for her again. She didn’t come to school and she’s not answering texts.” Her feathery brows stretch high above her wide-open eyes. She smells more concerned than uneasy today.
“I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday.” Having never texted Kali before, or anyone for that matter, I can’t say whether it’s unusual for her not to respond, but she never misses class. I should’ve called her last night.
Cassandra rocks forward on her toes. “Well, I hope she’s not sick. We have homecoming rehearsal right now. I can’t pull off the show without her.”
I sniff for the insincerity scents of dirty bathwater and pond salt, but find only the freezer-burn smell of alarm and a little bit of pitcher plant. But Cassandra was the half-time show for the past three years before Kali came along. She’s a born performer. At the beginning of the year, she’d climb up on the lunch tables to sing the daily specials until Principal Swizinger made her stop over liability concerns.
Cassandra fans her face with her hands and takes a few deep breaths as if she’s preparing to either cry or break into song. I quickly say, “I’m sure she’s fine.” If Kali is sick, I hope it’s not Vicky-induced nausea. And if it is, I’ll take care of that right now. “I’ll let her know you’re concerned if I see her.”
The ambivalent note of rambling sunflower crisscrosses my nose, but disappears when the girl stops hyperventilating. She smiles, an expression that tucks her mouth down at the corners in an oddly charming way. “Thanks. See you around.”
Cassandra traipses back down the hall, passing Vicky who is still puzzling over her options at the vending machine. I uncap my vial and move in closer, hoping to get her while she’s still distracted. A couple kissing in the hallway separates me from my target.
Vicky punches in a number and a canned soda falls to the bottom of the machine with a thud. She bends to collect it. As I pass her, I check that there are no eyewitnesses, then raise the vial. A twinge of guilt stops my hand in midair.
I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t thrown the first punch. She did this to herself—
A kid bumps me from behind. I stumble forward, and a few droplets in my vial spray the back of Vicky’s neck. In a hot panic, I retreat, tucking myself into the classroom across the hall. My heart pounds like a jackhammer, but I don’t dare breathe.
Vicky pops the tab off her diet soda. Thank the lilies, she didn’t see me.
I slump back against the wall, which feels cold and rough through my worn cardigan sweater. Well, that’s that. Vicky will fall in love with Drew, forget about Court, and Kali will be off the hook. Everyone will be happy, even, perhaps Vicky.
Vicky’s on the move again. She continues down the checker-tiled hall, then stops by an emergency exit. The door makes a metal crunching sound as she presses her back to it and slips out.
She’s probably going outside to smoke. The door leads to a small grassy quad and an equipment shed.
Kids hurry to their classrooms. Chem lab will be starting soon.
Suddenly, Principal Swizinger hurries up the hall, her eyes and mouth all pulled into severe lines. She stops at the emergency door, then follows Vicky out.
I know a bust when I smell one. I’m not the only one who can smell the tobacco breath that Vicky covers with mint gum.
I emerge from my hiding place. I should get to class, but I suddenly have the urge to peek out the door. As I reach the emergency exit, the door swings open, and a sour-faced Vicky followed by the principal sweep by me.
“But I only wanted some fresh air,” says Vicky. “You have no proof.”
Her face screws up when she sees me. The principal gives me a curt nod. I pretend like I was about to get a drink from the water fountain and dip my head.
Principal Swizinger taps her toe. “I don’t need proof. This isn’t a courtroom. I’ve smelled it on you several times before. I’ll need to call your stepmom.”
“No, you can’t do that. You don’t understand. She’ll ground me from homecoming.”
“Maybe she should.”
“But it’s so unfair.” She hiccups like she’s about to cry.
The principal makes uncomfortable throat-clearing noises. I stop drinking and head back down the corridor.
“Mim?” The principal’s voice resonates off the tiles.
I freeze, then slowly turn back around. Behind the principal, Vicky puts her hands on her hips and mutters something coarse.
“You’re in charge of volunteers at Puddle Jumpers this year, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How many volunteers do we have so far?”
“Thirty-two students, two faculty.” I cringe, as a vision of Mr. Frederics breaking into the Latin Hustle in front of Ms. DiCarlo’s startled eyes crosses my mind.
Her eyes become sly. “Make it thirty-three. Miss Valdez, you are lucky I have a soft spot for the Puddle Jumpers. Volunteer, and I will consider clemency.”
Vicky’s arms drop to her sides and her mouth falls open. Snapping it shut, she narrows her eyes at me. Either she’s going to thank me or spit at me, and my nose tells me they’re equally venomous.
EIGHTEEN
“TRAVEL WIDELY. WHEN YOUR FEET
EXPAND, SO SHALL YOUR NOSE.”
—Marjoram, Aromateur, 1784
WHEN THE LUNCH bell rings, I head toward the library to collect my bike. Through the library windows, I see Ms. DiCarlo typing at her computer. The bleach smells emanating off her desk are especially strong, which means she’s been cleaning again. Still stressed. I bet if I went in there, I’d come out a blonde.
I should unchain my bike and leave. Court will be meeting me at the windsock soon.
But I can’t.
Ms. DiCarlo looks up as I push through the familiar doors. “Hi, Ms. DiCarlo.”
“Oh, hello.” Her features look especially pale today under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “What can I help you with?” she says a shade too brightly.
I fumble around for an answer, not knowing myself why I’m here. Guilt, probably.
Her manuscript, Avoiding the Torture Chamber of Medieval Library Collections, lays open on her desk. “That looks interesting.”
She touches her face. “Thank you. I’m hoping to get something published. It’s hard to make a name for yourself as a medieval collections specialist, especially if you’re a woman.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.” Because I did not know medieval collections specialists existed until today.
“Yes, well, it’s a huge problem. Most librarians are women, but the ones at the top are inevitably men.” She squirts her desk with cleaner and rubs it with a paper towel, rubbing so hard, she may set the desk on fire. “I hate to say it, but women get the short end of the stick almost everywhere, especially middle-aged women.” She chucks her paper towel in the garbage, then teases out a tissue and wipes her nose, which has started to run.
“That’s . . . sad,” I say lamely. If not for my mistake, Ms. DiCarlo would be sharing her lunch with a certain math teacher, instead of spending it contemplating gender treatment. “But I think that as long as there’s hydrangea, there’s hope.”
Smile lines appear on her cheeks, but instead of making her look old, they give her face a sweet kind of vulnerability.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kali rolls up on her bike and parks it in the racks. I exit the library.
??
?Talofa,” Kali says, jerking her chin up. “I’m late for lunch duty.” She starts making tracks. Her nylon windbreaker swishes with each pump of her arms. I jog to keep up, and together we join the noisy mass of students on their way to the cafeteria. The nauseating smell of enchiladas and pizza intensifies with each step.
“You get your plants?”
“All but one. Court’s taking me to Playa del Rey right now to find it.”
Her head retracts. “Court?”
“Yeah. He had a change of heart. So where were you this morning?”
“Home. Thinking about earthworms.”
“Why?”
“Those earthworms have to eat dirt all their life. Talk about a sucky existence. Not only that, they have to worry about being stepped on, chicken gangs, the sun baking them. They don’t make SPF sleeves in their size, you know.”
I let out a teensy smile.
“But do those things stop them? They keep eating dirt, and crapping it back out. And look how nice they make the grass.” She holds her hand out to the smashed strip of crabgrass that runs along the building next to us.
“I know you’re making a point.”
“Never let fear stop you. I’m not going to let a squirrel push me around.”
“That’s good, but the squirrel still has your journal.”
“Humph.” Her face grows dark and her pace quickens.
“But you don’t have to worry anymore. I took care of her.”
Her eyes narrow to black slashes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it won’t be long before she develops a little Reaver fever.”
Kali stops so quickly I overtake her and have to retread my steps.
Frowning, she puts a hand on her hip. “I asked you not to fix her with Drew.”
“After that stunt she pulled in Cardio, she had it coming.”
A cloud of blue hydrangea has begun to form in the air around Kali. I stiffen at her disappointment, and the blood rushes to my cheeks.
“She might have had it coming, but you just can’t . . . do that.”
“I was trying to help, I—”
She angles her body so she’s facing me square on. Her deep, all-seeing poet’s eyes study me. “There are lines we can’t cross, Mim, especially you.” She points to me, then taps her finger against her chin.
“Why me?”
“Because, Nosey, you can do things the rest of us can’t. Clark Kent was always getting stepped on, or chewed out, but did he ever use his superpowers against that kind of shit? No.”
She’s comparing me to Superman? “He was trying to keep his identity secret. And anyway, if Clark Kent’s friends were being stepped on, he’d whip out the cape.”
All six feet of her seems to bristle. “Do I look like someone who can be stepped on?”
“No, but—”
“Just leave it alone. I can take care of myself.” Her flip-flops slap the pavement away from me, and the smell of burnt tires singes my nostrils, strong as a freeway underpass.
She’s mad at me? I was just trying to protect her. What good is a superpower if you can’t help your friends when they need it? I’m suddenly aware of all the faces casting me curious glances.
Closing my mouth, I steer myself back to the library. After I fetch my bike, I walk it toward the windsock, my heart full of injury, and my ears ringing. A tangle of clover weed pokes through a crack in the pavement, and I lengthen my stride just so I can crush it under my ankle boot. It doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I feel like, well, a heel. So I fed Vicky a little giddy juice. It’s not like I carjacked Ghandi. I dig a nail into my palm to stop thinking about her.
I exit the school grounds and roll toward where Court is already parked at the curb. He gets out of the Jeep, wearing aviator sunglasses, Levi’s faded at the knees, and a navy T-shirt that hugs his lean frame without being tight. He jams my bike into the back.
Moments later, we’re pulling into traffic. The Jeep has been vacuumed of sand, and smells of car shampoo and window cleaner. I can still smell the perfumes of girls past—those can stick around for years—but now there’s a manufactured pine scent overlaying everything.
“I hope it smells better today,” he says with a sideways glance at me.
Blushing bromeliad rises from my collar. I will have to learn not to be so transparent. “It smells fine. You didn’t have t-to—” I stammer, “but thanks. Er, do you know the way to Playa del Rey?”
His wet hair falls in waves and he smells like Ivory soap. “Yeah. It’s just north of where we surf.”
We take the road west, toward the Pacific. The sun burns a hole in the patchwork of gray and white clouds covering it. Highway traffic is sparse, and we ride the fast lane at just above the speed limit, causing the red and white oleanders along the shoulder to blur into pink. The burnt rubber scent of the highway breezes through the vents, and I begin thinking about Kali again. She didn’t even let me finish my sentence. She just stormed off.
I shoulder those thoughts away. “How did the Kill Drill go?”
“Not great. Coach decided to change strategy so we have a meeting tonight. How’s the potion making?”
“Fine.” I feel shy because of how we left each other last night. Unresolved. Like a crossword puzzle that gets too complicated to finish. “Any updates on your mom?”
“My aunt took her shopping today. They hit up the yard sales, collecting stuff to put in Christmas wreaths for the foster homes.” He tenses his grip on the steering wheel and shakes his head. “Last night, Mom took out all her cookbooks and spread them out around her. Said she was looking for Savannah Sweetpie.”
I wince. Mr. Frederics is from Georgia. A jolt of panic hits me again as the what-ifs crowd my mind. What if I can’t find that miso plant? What if I don’t fix Alice before the first kiss?
Either Mother will have to make the PUF, and what a party that will be, or Alice’s heart gets broken for a second time. The hum of the air conditioner and the outside traffic compete with the noise in my head.
“It’s weird to think about Mom being in love with Mr. Frederics.” Court interrupts my internal boxing match. “I mean, Mr. Frederics? Last week, he was just another of Mel’s teachers.”
“Mother says you never really see a person until you smell them.”
He flashes me a smile, reminding me of my intimate and thorough sniff down of him yesterday in the tree. My cheeks warm. I scrap around for a new topic. The soccer ball medallion hanging from the rearview mirror catches my eye. “What would you do if you didn’t play soccer?”
“That’s easy. I’d study whales. Humpbacks swim half the globe to care for their young. Blows my mind.”
“The power of a mother’s love. Though it can make you crazy,” I grumble.
He laughs. “But that’s part of the job description. In fact, I’d been thinking about getting a degree in oceanography, though Dad’s not happy about it.”
“Why not?”
“He thinks it’s a waste. He always wanted to play soccer, but didn’t have the legs. If you draw the winning lottery ticket, you shouldn’t burn it. What would your mother say if you didn’t want to be a—?” His finger wiggles as he searches for the word.
“An aromateur. She’d probably lock me in a room with blackberry bramble until I changed my mind.”
“Blackberry bramble?”
“The nonberry part of the plant smells like remorse. It’s angular—it jabs at your nose until you want to mend your ways.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. They used to plant it on graves to prevent the dead from climbing out.”
“I meant about your mother locking you in a room.”
“Oh yes.” Mostly. “Thankfully, I enjoy using my nose to help people out.” I also like being able to detect soap bubbles of his nervousness, and the blush of paprika. “I was born for it. It’s not so much a talent as a calling. Though, it has its limitations.” Like, the one sitting next to me.
&nbs
p; “What would you do if you couldn’t smell the way you do?”
“The list is long.”
“Top three, then.”
I answer without thinking. “Three. I would float in the Dead Sea. I heard it’s just like flying, only wetter. Two. I’d load up on sugary, salty movie snacks. Buttered popcorn. M&M’s. Peanut butter cups. Are they as good as I think they are?”
“The popcorn is, but I can’t speak for the candy. I’m allergic to nuts.” He glances down at the black case clipped to his belt that contains his EpiPen.
“Is it as bad as bees?”
“Worse. What’s the first thing?”
“Um, I haven’t decided,” I stammer as I realize the first thing involves him.
We come off an incline and suddenly the Pacific Ocean opens on the horizon, nearly blinding us with her radiance. Court pulls down the sunshades.
The charcoal cliffs that mark Las Ballenas Reserve run like a black ribbon against a peacock-blue skirt. I inhale the air coming in through the ventilation. The briny scent of the ocean hits me first, mellowed by spicy sagebrush, bay laurel, and a hundred other back notes. I can’t detect the miso-soup scent yet, but I suspect the air currents are chasing it away.
“There.” I point to a sign partially hidden by shrubs that reads Playa del Rey.
We park in a clearing under a cypress tree with craggy branches that resemble a waving hand. There’s no one around. Most people don’t stop until three miles down where the paved parking lot and a wooden staircase make the ocean more accessible.
Court shrugs on his letterman jacket and I button my sweater. It’s always ten degrees colder on the coast.
“When’s the last time you came here?” he asks.
“When I was five. Mother wanted me to practice unlayering. The plants here are so dense, you have to concentrate to pick everything apart. Plus, the smell of the ocean blocks a lot of the subtler notes. It’s like—” I search for the right analogy.