Forget-Her-Nots (10 page)

T
he
tulips had all dropped their petals, but pink and white dogwood blossoms were unfolding on bare branches that raised them, like an offering to the sun. Laurel was feeling panicky because May Day was only a week away. Scanning the first floor of the library, she hurried up the steps of the tower. Her hand froze as she reached for the antique book, because its title was upside down. Laurel was compulsive about replacing books correctly, as her mom had been. She looked around, but the stacks were silent.

Was it Tara or Nicole? she wondered. She shook the book gently, but nothing fell out. The ribbon was still marking Violet’s name, so she moved it to another page. Settling in at a desk, Laurel turned to the list of flower
meanings and got to work. She made a wish list for Miss Spenser, but she had no idea what was blooming.

Before she left, she looked up one more flower: Cicely, Grandma’s name. She found it under “sweet cicely, for gladness and comfort.” She almost snorted, because Grandma’s name was so wrong. Hugging the book to her chest, she crept around the tower and slid it underneath a stack of yellowed newspapers. They won’t find it again, she thought.

As Laurel hurried down the stairs, a set of old-fashioned portraits near the checkout desk caught her eye. She stood under the couple and gazed up.
Gladys du Valle
, said one card.
1878 to 1932. Avondale Founder and Benefactress.
Gladys’s red hair reminded her of Miss Spenser, but Gladys was young in the portrait and held her head high. She was holding a bouquet, a blur of bright colors, in her hand.

Laurel stepped sideways and met the gaze of a handsome man with a kind face.
Edmund du Valle, 1868 to 1924. Founder of Willowlawn and Benefactor of Avondale
. A hundred years earlier he’d built Gladys a conservatory and a school and filled her life with “bright blossoms and sweet scents.”

“Psst.”

Laurel turned toward the sound. Rose’s friend Mina
waved to her from behind a pile of books. She had a few violets stuck behind one ear. They were blooming all over the quad, but Laurel couldn’t remember their meaning.

“Whassup?” said Mina.

“Nice flowers,” Laurel whispered. “Hey, have you ever been in the conservatory?”

“Sure. Lots of times.”

“What’s it like inside?”

“It’s soooo beautiful. Flowers bloom there in winter, and it’s always warm.”

Laurel hesitated, but she could never ask Rose. “What about the ghost? I heard—”

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. “This is not social hour,” said the assistant librarian. “Please stop the chatting.”

“Sorry,” Laurel and Mina said in unison. Mina stared down at her book, and the ghost question hung unanswered between them. Frustrated, Laurel gave Mina a quick wave and headed out to the library steps. With a glance at the waning sun and a shiver of indecision, she ran toward the cedars.

Every time Laurel saw the gaping gargoyles and Gothic tower, she thought of foreign lands and fairy tales. She half believed that anyone who stepped into that fanciful building would be transported into another world. She
knocked on the glass door and felt a wave of relief as she saw Ms. Suarez walking toward her.

“Laurel.” Ms. Suarez smiled warmly. She was wearing old jeans and a stained apron. Her hair was pulled back, but dark wisps hung loose through her silver hoop earrings. “Come in. I’ve been thinking about you.”

Finally
. Laurel breathed in the heavy moist air. Plants, vines, and small trees were hanging from hooks and rods, stacked on shelves, and even winding through a wrought-iron circular staircase that led to the central tower. She couldn’t wait to explore.

Ms. Suarez leaned against a table. “Did you come for your tour?”

Laurel wanted to phrase this just right. “Sure, and I want to make another tussie-mussie—like I did for my presentation—but I don’t know if the flowers I want are in bloom.”

“What do you have in mind?” said Ms. Suarez.

Laurel took out her list. According to the antique book a flower called cape jasmine was for “ecstasy and transport.” “What I really want is some cape jasmine,” she said.

Ms. Suarez’s eyebrows drew together. “Cape jasmine?”

“Is it really rare?”

Ms. Suarez shook her head. “Not at all. It’s the old-fashioned name for gardenia.”

“Really? That’s great!” Laurel knew that scent. Her dad had given her mom a huge gardenia every Mother’s Day, and her mom always acted surprised. “I need just two.”

“Two whole plants?”

“Oh, no. Two flowers, and maybe some cabbage roses, too.”

“I’m curious,” asked Ms. Suarez. “Where did you learn about cape jasmine?”

“There’s this old language of flowers book in the tower,” Laurel explained. “I have a paperback, too, but it’s not so detailed.”

Ms. Suarez smiled. “It’s a lovely book, isn’t it? Quite rare and full of fascinating stuff.” She scanned the room around them. “Let’s see. I don’t attempt roses inside, and it’s too early outside. You know the scent of a gardenia?”

“Yes.”

“They’re here.” Ms. Suarez’s eyes twinkled as she swept her arm in an arc. “You find them.”

Laurel turned around in the mass of plants. “Here?”

“Think of it as a treasure hunt.” Ms. Suarez touched her nose and walked away.

“Oh-kay.” A citrusy scent hung on the air, and Laurel could feel a breeze stirring through the open windows. She turned in a circle and sniffed. Although few plants
were labeled, her nose quickly found open gardenias.
Ecstasy and transport
. The scent was so delicious that she shivered wordlessly with delight. The professor won’t be able to leave her side, she thought.

Laurel considered taking a bloom now, but she didn’t have permission, and it would wilt before May Day. She opened her mouth to call Ms. Suarez, and then closed it. Stepping softly, she followed the whims of her nose up and down the aisles. She found strange and lovely blooms redolent of lemon, while others exhaled cinnamon or licorice. Her head swirled with the giddy mingling, and she felt like she was flitting, floating in a dreamy cloud. She was about to lean into a large white lily when she heard footsteps.

“That’s a lily,” Ms. Suarez said flatly. “Do you need some help?”

“No.” Laurel smiled blissfully. “I already found the gardenias. I’ve just been . . . exploring.”

“Oh.” Ms. Suarez’s red lips parted in surprise. “Please show me them.”

Laurel turned toward the circular staircase to gain her bearings. She retraced her steps and leaned into a creamy gardenia, but the teacher’s hand pulled her back.

“Not too much,” Ms. Suarez said. “Remember the wild orchid? Gardenias are potent, and I don’t want”—she paused—“you to feel dizzy again.”

Laurel straightened. “Oh.”

Ms. Suarez reached for some drooping petals and pulled them off. “You’re fourteen now, right?”

Laurel nodded.

“I know this is personal, but I assume you’ve started your period?”

Startled, Laurel took a step backward but nodded.

“I thought so,” said Ms. Suarez. “Your sense of smell has improved, hasn’t it? The world is rich with scented delights, and you’ll come to—” She tapped her fingertips on her mouth. “But maybe it’s not my place to say,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Your place to say what?” asked Laurel.

Ignoring her question, Ms. Suarez took small scissors from her apron. “Have you ever heard of the Hupa?”

Laurel shook her head. “No.”

“It’s a tribe of Native Americans in northern California. They’ve lived in the same, isolated canyon for thousands of years,” said Ms. Suarez. “When a girl of the Hupa tribe becomes a woman, the tribe holds a Flower Dance for her. Their dancing and flowers and singing summon the Spirits to welcome her womanhood.”

Ms. Suarez snipped off a gardenia. “Welcome, Laurel, to your blooming.”

Laurel flushed red as she took the flower. “Uh, thanks.”

“And I have another idea.” The teacher motioned for Laurel to follow her to a desk in a corner. Crouching, she took a colorfully woven purse from the lowest drawer.

“We don’t know each other that well, but I’m going to trust you,” Ms. Suarez said as she unfastened the purse’s flap. An ornately wrought silver key fell to the bottom of a chain. She held the chain wide, and Laurel bowed her head as she slipped it over her hair.

“It’s a key to the conservatory,” said Ms. Suarez. “An original. But tuck it under your shirt. I don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

The key hung cold between Laurel’s breasts. “Thanks,” she said, although she had no idea whose were the “wrong” hands. “Does this mean I can come whenever I want?”

“Yes.”

“And may I take
any
flowers?” Laurel stared down at the single gardenia.

“No,” Ms. Suarez said solemnly. “I cultivate many for their seeds, so the flowers shouldn’t be cut. But you wanted gardenias, right?”

“Yes, but not for me.”

“Who?” Ms. Suarez’s voice cajoled. “Who needs gardenias?”

“Miss Spenser.” And Kate, Laurel added to herself.
She didn’t want Ms. Suarez to think she’d take too many flowers.

“Sheila?” Ms. Suarez’s eyes scanned Laurel’s face. “You gave her that bouquet you made in class. Have you given her anything else?”

Laurel nodded. “A few weeks ago when she went to the professor’s for dinner.”

“Which flowers?”

“Red tulips.”

“To declare love,” Ms. Suarez whispered. “But they just met, and you . . .” Crossing her arms, she gave Laurel a look resembling the Probe. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this—not so quickly. You seem more . . .”

“Quiet and well behaved?” Laurel finished for her. “Shy and boring? Everyone thinks that, but it’s not who I am.”

Ms. Suarez lifted her eyebrows. “Then I’m excited to know the
real
Laurel.”

If I could only figure out who that is, thought Laurel. I used to know. “So, can I have gardenias for Miss Spenser? The book says they’re for ecstasy and transport.”

“Yes, but the book won’t tell you everything,” Ms. Suarez said.

“Then how do I find out more?” Laurel asked.

Ms. Suarez pinched off a few browning petals. “You have to study and spend time with the blooms to
learn names and scents. It will take time, Laurel. And patience.”

But May Day was looming. “Don’t you want me to give her flowers?” Laurel asked. “You left some outside
my
door.”

Ms. Suarez pursed her lips. “I wish this could be simpler, but you shouldn’t rush things. You need to know the blooms better . . . and yourself.”

Laurel couldn’t bear Miss Spenser being empty-handed on May Day. “Can’t I have just a few more gardenias? Or even one?
Please
. It’s practically an emergency.”

Ms. Suarez looked at her skeptically. “A flower emergency?”

Laurel nodded. “Really. And I need them to be fresh on Saturday.”

“That’s May Day.”

“Yes. The professor’s coming back for it.”

Ms. Suarez exhaled audibly. “All right. Leave a note in my box to remind me, and I’ll set a gardenia plant near the front door on Friday. But be careful who you give them to, okay?”

“Thank you sooo much,” said Laurel. “You’re awesome.” She headed for the door, but then spun around and retraced her steps. She couldn’t let go of an image from her dreams—of flowers falling into a grave.

“Excuse me, Ms. Suarez?”

The teacher was opening a cardboard box. “Yes?” she said without looking up.

“Do you know my grandma?” Laurel asked.

Ms. Suarez pulled the flaps apart. “I met her when I was a student here. Why?”

“I had this dream,” Laurel said softly. “About you and Grandma throwing flowers on my mom’s grave.”

Ms. Suarez’s head snapped up, and she dropped what was in her hands. “What?”

Laurel took a step back. “It was just a dream.”

Ms. Suarez shook her head. “No, it wasn’t. We threw Cicely’s flowers onto your mom’s grave. You must have seen us.”

Laurel shook her head. “I didn’t see you there. I left when my dad did.”

“Dreaming can be a way of seeing, too. You have to tell Cicely. She’ll—”

“She won’t care. She never talks to me, and my dad said she torched her garden.”

Ms. Suarez’s hand covered her mouth. “Nooo,” she whispered.

Laurel nodded. “After the funeral, she set it all on fire.”

Ms. Suarez leaned heavily against a table. “I’ve been too out of touch.”

“I just found out,” Laurel said. “I’ve tried to call her,
but she doesn’t answer me or call back. I think she wants to die.”

Ms. Suarez rubbed her forehead. “There are ways to die even while your body lives on. But, Laurel, we can’t let her slip through our fingers.”

“I sent her a letter,” Laurel said.

Ms. Suarez nodded pensively. “Then I will, too.”

“
W
ow
,”
Kate said as she lifted her tussie to her nose. “These smell amazin’. But you have some, don’t you?”

The scents of gardenia and lilac—for the first emotions of love—filled Laurel’s room. She’d been feeling a little dizzy ever since she dropped off Miss Spenser’s tussie at her cottage. She nodded at Kate as she took the last gardenia out of her refrigerator.

“That’s all you have?” said Kate.

“That’s all that’s left,” Laurel explained. She’d kept adding more flowers to her teacher’s bouquet, and the rest were for Tara and Kate. She followed Kate out the door.

Kate knocked on the frame of Tara’s open door. “Flower Delivery.”

“Enter.” Tara was leaning toward the mirror, puckering her lips. Her smile was almost believable when Laurel handed her the bouquet. “Mmm. This will get Everett’s attention, right?” Her eyes fixed on Laurel.

“It should,” Laurel said, reluctant to predict anything about Everett.

“Let me see yours,” Tara said to Kate.

Kate held up her bouquet for inspection.

Uh-oh, Laurel thought.

“What’s that flower?” Tara pointed at the white one in Kate’s tussie.

“Ask the expert.” Kate gestured toward Laurel. “I sure don’t know.”

Laurel cupped her single, lonely bloom behind her back. “It’s just a gardenia.”

“And I don’t get one?” asked Tara.

Laurel made her voice light. “I’m all out. But next time. For sure.”

Tara’s pink lips straightened. “Oh. I get it now.”

Kate shrugged at Laurel. “You want mine?” she asked Tara.

Tara looked at the floor. “No, thank you.”

“Please.” Kate pulled the white flower out of her bouquet. “I don’t need it.”

Tara’s chin lifted as she shoved the flower into her tussie. “You’re such a sweetie.”

Laurel cringed. I can’t believe this, she thought.

“Where’s Nicole?” asked Kate.

“She’s meeting us there.” Tara locked her door behind them.

Laurel pulled on Kate’s arm as Tara strode ahead. “Why’d you do that?”

“She was about to go off on you,” Kate whispered. “I can’t let her spoil the day.”

“But your tussie’s trashed. Here.” Laurel pushed her own gardenia into the empty space. “That’s better.”

“That’s your only flower,” Kate protested.

Laurel shrugged. “I’ll find something.” Something for Justin.

Outside a warm breeze ruffled the flowering trees. Grinning, jostling Willowlawn boys seemed to pour off the buses, but Laurel didn’t see Justin yet. A painted pole with multicolored ribbons streaming down towered over her head and into the cloudless sky. Clad in gauzy white blouses and flowing skirts, senior girls ran by barefoot, laughing and whispering. Their heads were wreathed by pink roses and baby’s breath.

“Here comes another bus,” said Kate.

“Let’s go,” said Tara.

Laurel’s bouquets began to disappear into the crowd, and she was gripped by sudden panic. I never said my words! she thought. “Kate, Tara, wait up!” Whether it
was the flowers alone or the rhyming words or both that made the world shimmer with fragrance, Laurel wasn’t going to risk not saying them today.

“I need to see the tussies again.” Pretending to straighten them, Laurel held her hand over Kate’s and sent the thoughts she wouldn’t speak—not around Tara. She pictured Kate flirting with someone tall at her side and then did the same for Tara. The rise of scent was swift and bold.

Kate pumped her shoulders and looked around. “What the heck was that?”

“What?” said Tara.

“Kinda like a shiver?” Kate looked at Laurel expectantly.

Laurel hid a smile behind her tingling hand. “It’s just a bloomin’ breeze.”

“You are so weird sometimes,” Tara said. “To the bus?”

“Go ahead,” said Laurel. “I—uh—have to check on something.”

Kate and Tara dashed away, but Laurel had spotted Miss Spenser on the steps of a building, holding her tussie: three perfect gardenias woven with ivy for matrimony. Rose was also standing nearby, next to the professor, and waved her over.

“Professor Featherstone, this is my cousin Laurel,” said Rose.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said with a deep Southern accent.

Laurel shook his hand. “Thank you. Me, too.”

“I’ve missed your lectures,” Rose told him. “I’m so psyched you’re back.”

“So am I.” Miss Spenser’s fingertips lightly touched the professor’s arm.

“The substitute was way lame,” Rose added.

“Now Rose,” began Miss Spenser, but Laurel didn’t hear the rest. She was staring into the ivory petals, raising her hand, and sending her words over the gardenias in barely a whisper. The burst of fragrance was intense. Laurel stepped back and held her breath.

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Spenser, looking unsteady on her feet. “Oh.”

Laurel reached for her, but the professor had already flung out his arms.

“Sheila—are you all right?” He supported her as they moved toward a bench.

Miss Spenser blinked rapidly and felt her forehead. “I’ll be fine in a moment.” She stared at the tussie in her lap. Its lush scent hung on the air.

Bull’s-eye, thought Laurel.

“Would you like a glass of water?” the professor asked.

“No, I’m fine now. Really.” Miss Spenser held up
the bouquet. “Smell this nosegay, Luke. It’s incredible. Laurel gave me those lovely red tulips, too.”

Rose turned to Laurel with one eyebrow arched.

“They’re magnificent,” the professor said dreamily. “What an unusual hobby for someone your age.”

“They’re from Avondale’s conservatory,” Laurel explained.

“You have a conservatory here on campus?” said the professor.

Miss Spenser nodded. “It’s one of the original buildings.”

“I’d love to see it,” he said. “I had a little corner at our university greenhouse.”

Rose elbowed Laurel. “Busy, busy,” she whispered. “What’s with the flowers?”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” the principal’s voice boomed. “PLEASE CLEAR A CIRCLE AROUND THE MAYPOLE. OUR FAIR MAIDENS ARE READY TO DANCE.”

“Let’s stand,” said Miss Spenser.

“Are you sure?” The professor extended his arm. “Lean on me to be safe.”

Two rows of senior girls encircled the Maypole and picked up ribbons from the grass. They faced opposite directions as a fiddle and tambourine began to play. With their flowered heads held high, the girls danced in and
out of one another’s lines, weaving the bright ribbons on the Maypole. Laurel watched with fascination. None of her former schools had celebrated anything like this.

Miss Spenser leaned toward the professor. “This is a lovely tradition that my great-grandmother, Gladys du Valle, brought from England. Girls have been dancing on this green on May Day for more than a hundred years.”

The professor nodded. “I believe that Maypole dances originated in the ancient Roman holiday of Floralia, honoring Flora, goddess of the flowers. A May queen was chosen as a symbol of fertility to promote a bountiful harvest.”

Goddess of the flowers.
The words echoed as Laurel watched and realized that her mom must have danced on this green. And she kept dancing all her life, she thought.

The tempo of the music quickened, and the senior girls nearly tripped over one another to keep up. Then one did. One of the popular seniors, Whitney, plummeted forward, dropping her ribbons. Several girls almost fell on top of her, and the tambourine player stopped jingling.

“Oops,” whispered Rose. “That doesn’t bode well for the harvest.”

A loud guffaw escaped from the professor, who cleared
his throat and smiled appreciatively at Rose. Principal Westfall came tearing across the green, and Ms. Suarez appeared out of the crowd with a large pink flower behind one ear. Like puppet masters, they set the dance in motion again.

Laurel had a sudden thought. “Professor, do you know anything about Native Americans doing flower dances?”

“That’s not my area of expertise, but I’d be interested in knowing more,” he said.

“I think they’re called the Hupas. They do flower dances to welcome girls when they—” Laurel hesitated. “When they become women. Ms. Suarez told me about it.”

The professor nodded. “Cultures in all times and places have drawn connections between maidens and flowers. Most of their ceremonies include dancing, too.”

Ceremonies, thought Laurel. My mom made up her own on the vernal equinox.

“Look, there’s Robbie,” said Rose. “He’s such a goober. What’s he doing, eating Tara’s flowers?”

Uneasiness rippled through Laurel as she stood on her tiptoes to see. “What?” Robbie was standing close—too close—to Tara. Tara stepped away, but Robbie followed like a smitten puppy.

“Uh-oh,” said Laurel. “I think Robbie might—um—need us.”

Rose squinted at her. “He’s irritating the heck out of Tara. No worries there.”

“I have to check it out,” said Laurel, jogging down the steps. The crowd was swarming in every direction now.

“So, what’s the deal with all these flowers?” said Rose, right on her heels.

“Later. This way.” Laurel shot through an opening, twisted around clusters of people, and froze.

Robbie, a dreamy smile glued to his face, was centimeters away from Tara. When she moved, he followed as if attached by strings.

“Robbie, man,” said Rose. “Whassup, dude?”

“Hey,” Robbie said in a deep voice that didn’t sound like his own.

Tara scowled at Rose. “Call off your brother. He’s like Velcro.”

Rose grinned. “You should be flattered.”

“Hardly.” Tara looked at Laurel. “Did you put him up to this?”

Laurel shook her head, but she thought it served Tara right for wheedling the gardenia from Kate. From her.

“He’s messing up all my plans.” Tara tried to pull away. “Call him off.”

“I’m not my brother’s keeper,” said Rose. “Hey, Robbie, you hungry? I’m buying.”

“Sure.” Robbie’s eyes didn’t leave Tara’s face. “I want a hot dog.”

“C’mon, dummy.” Rose pulled his arm. “You have to come with me to get it.”

“Can Tara come, too?” said Robbie.

“No! Can’t you turn it off?” Tara yelled at Laurel.

“Wow.” Rose put her hands on her hips. “Tell me this is not my brother. Do you understand what’s happening?”

Laurel’s shoulders rose toward her ears. “Kind of.”

“Then make it stop,” said Rose.
“Puh-leeeze.”

Tara tried to hide behind a huge oak tree, but Robbie chased her around it. “Go away!” she shrieked at him.

“Okay. You tackle him, and I’ll tell her to bolt,” Laurel said to Rose.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” the principal’s voice boomed across the quad. “IT IS NOW TIME TO ANNOUNCE THIS YEAR’S MAY QUEEN. THE AVONDALE MAY QUEEN EPITOMIZES THE VIRTUES . . .”

“Now!” Laurel whispered.

Rose grabbed Robbie and locked him in a half nelson as Tara dove into the crowd.

“Let go or I’ll scream,” hissed Robbie, trying to twist away.

“THIS YEAR’S MAY QUEEN IS . . .”

Robbie opened his mouth, but the cheering drowned
his cries. As soon as Rose loosened her grip, he took off after Tara again.

“Um, Laurel,” Rose began. “Why is my brother acting like a total moron? Be straight with me now.”

“I will, I will.” A brilliant idea was taking shape. Maybe Laurel
could
turn it off. “I’ve got to check on something—for Robbie.”

She spotted Justin with his friends as she hurried across the quad, but she couldn’t stop now. Robbie had fallen deeply under the spell of her flowers, and Tara’s anger could be dangerous. The silver conservatory key bounced against her chest as she ran into her room and grabbed her flower book. There had to be something in the garden that could help—some antidote to her love flowers. She sped out of the dorm, past the cedars, and into the center of the garden.

A heady, plumlike fragrance scented the air, and Laurel’s nose led her down a windy path to a tree. Its branches held hundreds of white blossoms, and its perfume streamed into her like mist. All her worries seemed to loosen as she exhaled. She wanted to lose herself in this scent and flit from flower to flower like a butterfly. She wanted to dance on May Day.

Spreading her arms, Laurel pointed her toes and sprang lightly down the path. She felt free and floating as she whirled in a blur of color and sensation. Again! she
thought. Again! She was dancing—like her mom and the maidens. Again! Again! She spun and spun, but suddenly there was only brownness. Her hands barely caught her before she fell face first. She stared at the dangling key and tried to remember why she was in the garden.

May Day!
She brushed the mulch off her hands. Robbie was making a fool of himself, and Rose would be livid. Tara would be out to get her. Laurel dug her fingernails into her palms, held her breath, and headed away from the tree.

A shiny watering can sat near rows of tender plants in the herb garden. She knelt and read several names on the markers: lemon thyme, marjoram, basil. She picked one of each, rubbed its leaf, and lifted her fingertips to her nose. The scent of basil was the most familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d last smelled it. She flipped through her paperback. Basil was for “hatred.”

“Hatred?” Laurel said in astonishment. Her mom had cooked with the herb and grown it outside their kitchen in the summer. How could it mean
that
? But it might be perfect for Robbie. She plucked several leaves, sniffed them again, and remembered. Basil was the herb on her plate in the diner with her dad.

Weird, she thought as she sprinted back to the quad. Rose was scouting from the library steps.

“Where’s Robbie?” Laurel said, panting.

Rose shook her head despondently. “I lost him. He’s possessed.”

“Not exactly.” Laurel pressed some of the basil into her hand. “Here. Find him and make him smell this.”

“What is it?” Rose lifted the leaves to her nose, but Laurel pushed her hand down.

“Basil, but it’s for him, not you,” Laurel said.

Laurel took a direction opposite Rose’s. Just ahead, a girl shrieked, and Laurel was nearly knocked over by Everett, who zipped through the crowd holding a senior wreath above his head like a trophy. A flowerless Whitney was chasing him.