Forget-Her-Nots (14 page)

“Huh?” Kate shook her hair. “Read it again.”

Rose read more slowly.

Laurel sat up. “If you dote, you love that person like you’re obsessed, right?”

“Exactly,” said Rose.

“Wow. So, Shakespeare’s talking about a flower juice that makes people fall in love,” said Laurel. “Who says those lines in the play?”

“Oberon, king of the fairies,” said Rose.

“Fairies?” Kate’s face lit up. “You think Laurel is part fairy?”

“Kate, puh-leeeze,” said Rose. “Lay off the fantasy novels and live in
this
world. This is Shakespeare, and these lines seemed relevant.”

Kate scowled at her.

“So Shakespeare believed in flower magic?” said Laurel.

“At least in fairyland,” said Rose. “Oberon has the
fairy Puck squeeze the flower juice into Titania’s eyes—she’s his queen—while she’s sleeping. When she wakes up, she sees this mortal who has a jackass’s head. She falls in love with him and makes a total fool of herself until Oberon gives her the antidote.”

The antidote, Laurel repeated to herself. Like basil.

“Wait. The mortal has a jackass’s head?” asked Kate.

Rose nodded. “He’s under a spell, and his name is Bottom.”

“Bottom?” Kate laughed.

“And in another scene,” Rose went on, “Puck—he’s like Oberon’s head fairy—is supposed to put the love juice on this guy Demetrius’s eyes so he falls for Helena. But he also accidentally puts it on another guy’s eyes. So then they both act like they’re in love with Helena, and the other girl’s out in the cold. It’s total chaos.”

“Then everyone’s in love with the wrong girl?” asked Laurel.

“Yeah, but it gets straightened out in the end.” Rose closed the book. “I’m not saying this is proof of anything, but it’s interesting.”

“Very,” Laurel said. Greek mythology, the Victorians, and now Shakespeare. Flowerspeaking was woven throughout human history.

Kate turned to Laurel. “That’s kinda like what
happened on May Day, isn’t it? With all those guys hangin’ around me?”

Laurel didn’t want to be reminded. She hadn’t managed to talk to Justin since then.

Rose hopped off the desk. “But all this messing around with people’s emotions seems kind of risky. And now quizzes?”

Laurel held up her hand. “Don’t tell anyone else about this, okay?”

“But we all need some special flowers for the wedding,” said Kate. “Rose, too. I’m sure Miss Spenser’s invited Willowlawn guys.”

Rose shook her head. “Uh, no, thanks.”

Kate’s foot nudged Rose’s leg. “C’mon, you could use a spicy romance.”

Laurel pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. “Rose has too many equations to solve, too many diseases to cure, too many—”

“
Shut
up,” said Rose. “Just because I have a master plan for my life doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.”

“So have some,” said Kate.

“I will.” Rose slung her pack over her shoulder. “I do. And I don’t need any of your forget-her-nots.”

Laurel shrugged at Kate as Rose closed the door behind herself. Is my genius cousin actually jealous? she wondered.

J
ust
before the bell rang on Friday, Miss Spenser called Laurel to her desk. After all the other girls had left, the teacher shut her door and turned around with her arms folded. Her face was strangely grave.

“Earlier this morning I intercepted a note that’s troubling me, Laurel. It mentioned ‘Miss Spenser’s magic flowers.’ Have you heard anything about this?”

Laurel’s mind raced. “I—uh—I think people noticed how quickly you and the professor fell in love, and then they saw that you had flowers with you. And you two just seem like magic together, you know?” She tried to smile convincingly.

Miss Spenser shook her head. “That’s not what the note’s implying. Maybe people assume I need nothing short of magic at my age.”

Laurel shook her head. “No. You
deserve
happiness.”

“Do I?” Miss Spenser said. “Falling in love is a kind of magic, but that’s not what these rumors mean, is it? And I’ve seen girls carrying flowers around campus lately.”

“Really?” Laurel said, trying to think quick. Who? “Maybe it’s all part of a prank. Avondale girls love pranks.”

Miss Spenser took a step closer. “Laurel, I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for all your lovely bouquets, and I know you’ve been through a very painful experience. I can understand how you might wish for something extraordinary to happen. But flowers are just flowers; there’s nothing magical about them.”

Laurel frowned. “But you’re always saying that poetry can ‘stir the soul.’ Can’t flowers, too?”

“Of course,” said Miss Spenser. “Just as a Mozart symphony or a Cézanne painting does—because of artistry or beauty. That has nothing to do with magic. Promise me you’ll discourage any talk of magic on this campus. It’s silly.”

Someone knocked insistently, and an upset student burst in. Avoiding Miss Spenser’s eyes, Laurel escaped without another word. She couldn’t believe her teacher didn’t believe. The irony was stunning.

After practice Laurel split off from her teammates and headed to the conservatory. Kate was on her way to
Willowlawn’s movie night with Tara. Laurel had given them both purple lilac and said her words, but she couldn’t get Miss Spenser’s comments out of her head.

“Ms. Suarez?” Laurel called out as she pushed the door open, but no one answered. Tucking the key back under her shirt, her eyes scanned the dense greenery. She recognized some leafy plants in little black containers on a table: basil. Laurel lifted one of the plants to her nose. Basil for Whitney.

There were lots of other herbs, too: lemon balm, oregano, fennel, and dill. Laurel walked the length of several tables and then paused. In the corner of the building, there was an odd metal enclosure she hadn’t noticed before. There wasn’t any glass in the frame, so it looked like the skeleton of a room within the larger, airy space. Lush leaves and rich colors seemed to beckon to her from inside. She stepped to its edge, marveling at several sprays of exotic blooms.

“You should
still
avoid the orchids,” said a voice behind her.

Laurel pivoted. “Oh! You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Suarez said. “Did you use your key to get in?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t, but you left the door ajar. You need to lock it even when you’re inside. I have rare and valuable blooms,
and sometimes Mrs. Westfall allows gardening groups to tour the grounds. Orchids, especially, have been known to disappear at flower shows.”

“Really? I’m sorry.” Laurel’s heart still thumped from the fright, but she sensed something else, too: the beginnings of a long and delicious vibration. It was this promise of tingling, of spinning, that turned her body back to the orchids, toward their soft petals, which were so bold, so alluring . . . .

She felt Ms. Suarez’s hands grip her shoulders. “Not
yet
,” the teacher said. “You need more control.” She steered Laurel away from the enclosure.

“I—I didn’t know they were orchids,” Laurel protested. “They aren’t labeled.”

Ms. Suarez rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I’d love to chat, but I’m swamped. I’m making centerpieces for a donor brunch tomorrow, and I can feel a migraine coming on. Did you need something?”

Laurel shook her head reluctantly. “I just wanted to be with the flowers.” And you, she added to herself. “Can I help out with the brunch?”

Ms. Suarez hesitated. “I’m tempted, but these arrangements are subtle. I’m afraid I’d spend too much time teaching you and not get them done.”

“So, what are you trying to do? Make people donate more money?” Laurel said.

The teacher almost smiled. “Let’s just say I can put them in a generous mood.”

“Cool,” said Laurel. “Money power.”

“Yes, but with that power comes responsibility, right?” The teacher pressed her fingertips to her temples. “There’s one more thing, Laurel. I wish the rumors about Sheila’s bouquets hadn’t spread so quickly.”

“Why?”

“People who hear about your flowers—Avondale girls—will ask you to do things you’re not ready for,” said Ms. Suarez. “Please don’t demand too much of your gift. It’s fine to make a bouquet or two for Sheila, but you can’t give flowers to every girl who asks. And you certainly shouldn’t be playing around with basil in crowds.”

Basil?
Laurel dropped her eyes to the ground. How did she find out about that?

“I ran into Rose on May Day. She reeked of basil and told me you’d given it to her.” Ms. Suarez put her hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault, but your education is backward. Most Flowerspeakers have worked quietly and anonymously throughout history, but we are known because of one woman. She was one of us but used a pseudonym—Charlotte de Latour—to spread our secrets.
Le langage des fleurs—The Language of Flowers—
was first published in 1819. Some of us considered her
a traitor. Her list was copied and translated into many languages as more and more people learned about our gift and tried to master it.”

Ms. Suarez’s hand hovered over the herbs on the table and pulled a leaf off. She held it to her nose. Laurel craned her neck to see which one, but the containers were so tightly clustered she couldn’t tell.

“But flowers don’t perform in ignorant, untrained hands,” said Ms. Suarez. “When people didn’t understand true meanings, they invented preposterous ones. The language became a game, and our book—our
bible
—was nothing more than an elegant coffee table decoration. That’s how we’re seen even now: as quaint relics of a bygone age. Not as women and men of insight and power, not as mistresses of an ancient and vital wisdom.”

Wisdom. Power
. The words reverberated through Laurel’s head.

“Be careful not to treat this as a game, Laurel. You can memorize long lists; you can learn the powers in a bloom, but if you can’t sense the right or wrong time to use your gift, it will create only heartache.”

“But Miss Spenser’s getting married,” Laurel said. Stepping backward, she slipped on a damp spot and threw her hands out. A tall plant tottered, and Ms. Suarez lunged to catch it.

“Sorry,” said Laurel as she straightened.

“Careful,” Ms. Suarez pleaded. “
Please
be more careful.”

“I—I will,” said Laurel.

“There’s one more thing. Sheila has asked me to make her bridal bouquet.”

Laurel felt a sudden spasm of hollowness.

“Such an occasion requires the hand of an expert.” Ms. Suarez met Laurel’s eyes. “It’s not for fun.”

Laurel’s hands tightened into fists. “My flowers aren’t just for fun. My magic made this wedding happen.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” said Laurel, holding the teacher’s gaze. “I’m sure.”

“Uh-huh.” Ms. Suarez crossed her arms. “So you’re the expert now? You know
all
about the language, all that it means to have this gift and exactly how to use it?”

Panic rocketed through Laurel’s body. Ms. Suarez was the only Flowerspeaker she knew, other than Grandma—the only one who could teach her more. “I mean no,” she said contritely. “I have tons to learn. I know that. I’m sorry.”

Ms. Suarez sighed heavily. “Socrates said that knowing you know nothing is the beginning of true knowledge.” Her fingertips lifted Laurel’s downturned chin. “You have
so
much to learn. Be patient with your gift.”

“I’ll try.”

“Try
harder
,” Ms. Suarez said. “In the meantime I
could
use your help with Sheila’s wedding bouquet.”

“Really?” Laurel blinked in disbelief. “I’d love to!”

Ms. Suarez pressed her palms together. “I don’t have a minute to think about it right now, but I’ll let you know as soon as I’m ready.”

“Awesome.” Laurel hesitated but then threw her arms around Ms. Suarez’s waist. The teacher took a step back to balance and then wrapped her arms around Laurel.

“Thank you,” Laurel whispered as she let go.

“It’s nothing,” said Ms. Suarez. “I’ll see you soon.”

Laurel walked toward the door and then turned to see where Ms. Suarez was. She was looking at some papers with her back to Laurel. Power, Laurel thought as she tiptoed back. Whitney needs the power of basil. Laurel was a little surprised that the senior never acknowledged her when they passed each other on the quad, but Laurel wasn’t about to ignore her request. She found the label she was looking for, quickly pinched off several leaves, and stuffed them into the side pocket of her duffel bag.

That night Laurel willed herself to dream about her mom. She rubbed rosemary and said her words, but her sleep was restless and shadowy.

Both the varsity and JV soccer teams at Warrenton Prep were undefeated, the coach told them on the bus ride
to the away game Saturday morning. Laurel had never played before so large and rowdy a crowd. Avondale was down by one goal, and it was nearly halftime. Heavy gray clouds hung over the mountain ridge in the distance, and the wind was picking up. A flowery scent swept across the field with every gust, but Laurel couldn’t see what was blooming.

The ball had stayed on the far side of the field so far. Laurel ran up and down, up and down, waiting. Finally, an Avondale forward missed a shot and Prep’s goalie boot-kicked the ball Laurel’s way. She trapped it and took off up the sideline while Kate sprinted down the center of the field.

Control . . . control . . . Laurel dribbled around Prep’s halfback. It was too soon to pass to Kate, but she didn’t want to get stuck in the corner, either. The crowd pressed close to the field—too close. A defender was headed her way, but Laurel knew she could beat the girl and charged forward.

The sidelines were a blur of movement and color, but one bright image came suddenly into focus: a strangely familiar flash of silky pink and yellow flowers next to brown hair.

Mom?
Laurel’s thought caught in her chest, and she hesitated, trying to slow it all down, to focus. The ball stopped dead, but Laurel flew. She somersaulted and landed hard on all fours, jerking her neck. She blinked at the thick
grass under her palms, too shaken to stand. Rolling onto her butt, she scanned the line of spectators. Her mom had never missed her games, but this wasn’t possible.

“You okay?”

Laurel squeezed her stinging eyes to shut out the world.

“Hey, Laurel, you okay?”

She knew that voice. Justin, wearing a tie and a forest green blazer, was crouched in front of her. She blinked, but he was still there. Dazed, she took his outstretched hands, and he pulled her up. He held on to her hands a beat longer than he had to.

“Thanks,” she managed.

“That was a spectacular flip,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Laurel dusted some grass off her knees. “Um, why are you here?”

“We just finished a debate meet,” said Justin. “Alan and I wanted to catch the game before our bus left.” He pointed at her head. “You have some grass in your hair.”

Laurel touched the top of her head. “Here?”

“No,” said Justin. “Here.” His fingers lightly brushed the grass out of her hair, sending shivery thrills through her skin.

“Thanks,” she said softly, not wanting to break the spell of his touch.

“Laurel!” Coach Peters was jogging across the field. “I
was yelling, but the ref didn’t see you were down.” Coach put her arm around Laurel’s shoulders. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Laurel smiled at Justin. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“Anytime,” he said.

“You need a break?” asked Coach as they walked back to their side.

“I’m fine,” Laurel said. Her emotions whirled. Turning back, she waved to Justin, and he lifted his hand. Alan stood next to him now, but there was no sign of a flowered scarf anywhere on the sideline.

“Prep is tough,” said Coach. “We’ve got to ramp it up a notch.”

“Yep,” said Laurel, but the ball stayed on the other side until the referee blew the long whistle for halftime. By then Justin and Alan had disappeared. Grabbing a water bottle, Laurel sat apart from everyone else. Her knee had started to bleed, so she reached into the side pocket of her duffel for a Band-Aid. Instead, her fingers found the basil leaves she’d taken from the conservatory, and she lifted them to her nose. They were still pungent.

Perfect, she thought. Maybe these can help us win.

“Hey.” Kate sat down a few feet away. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Laurel hid the basil.

“What’s up?” Kate asked. “Your eyes are, like, huge.”

Laurel gulped her water. “I thought I saw my mom. On the sidelines.”

“Wha-at?” said Kate.

“I thought I saw my mom.” Laurel stared at the grass between her muddy cleats. “My mom had this scarf with pink and yellow flowers that she wore all the time, and she had brown hair. I saw that scarf next to that hair.”

They were silent for several seconds as Kate sipped her water. “It had to be someone who looked kinda like her. Right?”

“Yeah.” Laurel wiped her sweaty face on her shoulder.

“Hey . . . um . . . does this happen a lot? Seein’ your mom and all?”

“No,” Laurel said. “I’m not loony.”