Forget-Her-Nots (21 page)

The crowd gradually grew quieter. Laurel was wondering when the scent would dissipate when Whitney’s
bouquet flashed into her mind. Basil, she thought. The antidote. It had been hidden under a table when she said her words, but all these flowers in one place seemed like Pandora’s box. Laurel had no idea what she’d released into the world. She lifted the tablecloth again to see the professor now standing in the principal’s place. She crawled out and smoothed her dress.

The professor shook his head. “You, young lady, are full of surprises.”

Laurel kept her back to the dance floor. “Where’s Justin?”

“I believe he’s on his way back to campus.”

“What?
Why?
”

“Sheila and I thought Geneva should get some fresh air, and Justin went outside the hotel to give her the orchid.”

“I don’t understand,” she cried. “Why did he go back to school?”

“He had no choice,” said the professor. “Anyone who departs the site of a dance may not return. Those are the school regulations, and this has been an odd evening.”

“But he wasn’t drinking or doing drugs,” Laurel protested. “You know that.”

“I’m sorry, Laurel, but Mr. Rodriguez saw him go
outside
the hotel. He can’t make exceptions, not even for Justin.”

Laurel wanted to scream. He could have thrown the orchid in a trash can, but she’d whispered for him to give it
only
to Ms. Suarez so she could see it and keep it alive longer. Laurel trudged toward the bathroom, where she’d left Whitney’s bouquet.

“How dare you?” a familiar voice shrilled behind her.

Every cell in Laurel’s body tensed as she turned around.

“How
dare
you take my flower?” Tara’s face was red with anger.

“It wasn’t
your
flower,” Laurel said. “You stole it.”

Tara was on the verge of tears. “I was dancing with the prom king,” she said. “He was kissing me and—”

Laurel stepped closer. “You don’t even know him. He’s not what you think.”

“Shut up!” Tara’s fists were tight balls. “Just shut up!”

“Is there a problem here?” Mrs. Featherstone was at Tara’s elbow. “May I help?”

Tara let out an exasperated groan and ran back toward the ballroom.

“Thanks,” Laurel said. “She’s—uh—a little upset.”

“You’d better come back to the dance, too,” said Mrs. Featherstone. “Luckily Mrs. Westfall missed some of the excitement, but she’s asking about a flying flower.”

“Great,” said Laurel under her breath. “May I use the rest room first? Real quick?” She walked into the ladies’ room, but Whitney’s bag was gone. Laurel met her own eyes in the mirror and touched the blooms in her hair. Romance and fun. She couldn’t believe what she and Justin felt was only lust. I’ll keep this alive as long as I can, she thought.

D
aylight
pressed against her eyelids, but Laurel’s body still buzzed with the vibrancy of her dream world. Closing her eyes, she pulled the pillow over her head and . . . 

pushed open a wooden door, which was carved with flowers and vines. Her bare feet stepped onto the cool bricks of a courtyard. At its center a fountain gushed, and its splashes tumbled like laughter through the air. She plunged both hands into the warm water and cupped it to her mouth. Redolent of honeysuckle, the water streamed into her body. Its energy radiated to her limbs and zapped out from her fingertips. In a flash the courtyard was transformed. Two staircases opened before her. One descended into a cool, dark cave. Gnarled brown roots and yellow leaves covered the railings, and down there someone was crying.

The other, a white staircase, ascended into swirling mist. Vines
heavy with red and white blooms twined around its railings, and strains of lively music beckoned from above. Laurel had had enough of tears.

She grabbed hold of the rising banister and climbed the smooth marble steps. At the top a huge white blossom hung just above her nose. She stood on her tiptoes to breathe its fruity essence . . . and the mist was blown away to reveal an enormous ballroom.

Ladies in billowing gowns waltzed with men in black tuxedos. Vases brimming with flowers hung from every wall and decorated every tablecloth. The dance floor was paved with rose petals that spiraled up with each spin of the dancers. Bright blooms adorned the women’s hair, and the men had flowers in their buttonholes. Laurel’s lungs swelled with the scent of lily of the valley.

One, two, three . . . one, two, three . . . The couples danced to music full of light and structure. One, two, three . . . One, two, three . . . An elegant woman, her chestnut hair swept up, emerged from the crowd and extended her white gloved hand.

“Come, Laurel,” Violet said. “Come dance with us.”

One, two, three . . . Laurel took her hand and entered the ballroom. The pastel gowns swished and glided. The rose petals swirled, but the dancers spun by her without pausing. Laurel held out her hand, but no one took it. She stepped forward and backward, turned this way and that, but she couldn’t merge into the pattern.

She left the dance floor and met Violet’s eyes through the whirling bodies. Violet blew her a kiss, and when she mirrored Violet’s smile, Laurel was transported into an enormous light-filled room.

Music rang through this house—her music—both loud and soft, swift and slow, measured and unpredictable. Flowers cascaded from nooks in the walls, and Laurel took a deep breath of the richly scented air. She knew without looking that every person she cared about, every person she would ever care about—was somewhere in this sprawling, scented home. But she had to find them all, to make sure they’d stay . . . . They wouldn’t leave her alone . . . on the dark staircase . . . down . . . .

Laurel woke up panting and squinted at her clock. It was almost noon, but they were allowed to skip chapel twice a semester. She rolled onto her side and hugged her knees close. It had been ages since she’d dreamed about the big house.

“The house that you dream is your life,” her mom had once explained. “Picture your own life like a house with many rooms. You always dream of a huge one, so you’re capable of loving many people, of filling many rooms.” But this morning Laurel’s rooms felt lonely. She might have driven everyone away.

A scent was strong in her memory: lily of the valley. It was the fragrance of Violet’s long-ago world, but it was also part of Laurel’s here and now. And she desperately wanted happiness to return. Outside her dorm room someone ran down the hall giggling, but Laurel’s head pounded.

As she filled a glass with water, Laurel wondered if anyone she loved would speak to her today. She could blame the mess on basil, but that wasn’t entirely accurate. Flowerspeaking didn’t create something from nothing. It drew out and magnified the feelings and emotions that were already there. She usually kept her ugly parts better masked.

Laurel dialed Grandma’s number, but no one answered. Turning on her computer, she typed a quick e-mail.

Her words seemed ordinary, nothing like the drama she was feeling inside. Justin liked poetry, so she pasted part of the E.E. Cummings poem that reminded her of him:

“Petal by petal”: it was perfect, but did she have the guts to send it? She didn’t know if he ever wanted to touch her
again. She squeezed her eyes shut and clicked
send
.

The buzz of her dream was fading, but Laurel didn’t want to forget it. She found a blank notebook and wrote down every detail. Yet, even full of words, the page looked bare. Grabbing colored pencils, she quickly sketched a bunch of blue flowers in the corner: forget-me-nots. She tucked the book into her special stuff box. Then she climbed the steps to Rose’s room, rehearsing what she’d say.

“Who
is
it?” Rose asked in a high, fake voice, but Laurel said nothing until her cousin opened the door wide enough for her to slip in.

“I’m an idiot,” Laurel said. “You’ve got to be one of the top ten cousins in the entire history of the planet, and I treated you like crap. Please forgive me.”

Scowling, Rose twirled a pencil between her fingers. “Yes, you did. You aimed for the jugular.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurel took a small step toward her. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

Rose stared at her for several seconds. “Look, Laurel. Anybody can be a bitch. That takes no skill at all. It’s all about self-control. Do you have any idea how many times a day I hold my tongue? It’s
not
easy.”

“I know.” Laurel bumped her gently. “So, we’re okay now?”

“Okay,” said Rose. “But I’m putting you on probation,
and you have to do everything I say for a week. And don’t even try to use any of your flowers on me.”

Laurel pressed her palms together and bowed. “Your wish is my command.”

“Excellent. First, let’s do brunch,” said Rose. “Second, tell all. What’s this I hear about you kissing Justin on the dance floor? Major PDA. I want details.”

Laurel’s face felt hot. We might be history already, she thought, but she forced a shrug. “We danced. We kissed. Who told you?”

“I’m not about to divulge my sources . . . but Kate says you’re—”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Laurel whispered, following Rose out the door. “I
really
screwed up. He may despise me now.”

“Highly unlikely.” Rose shook her head. “Young love. I’ll try not to be nauseated.”

There were a few stragglers in the dining hall. Their voices, the whole campus seemed muted, as if everything the night before had been too loud, too colorful, too much. Rose and Laurel filled their trays and sat at an empty table.

“So, spill,” said Rose.

Laurel shook her carton of orange juice. “I’ve heard that prom never lives up to anyone’s expectations. It’s totally overrated, especially if you’re just a lowly hostess.”

“Okay, okay,” said Rose. “I deserved that. Now shut up and tell.”

Kate came over and slid her tray next to Rose’s, and Laurel unburdened herself of every last detail, including the orchid’s history and Justin’s abrupt departure.

“So, that’s why Ricky was all over Tara.” Kate threw up her hands. “He was bewitched. How’d I miss that?”

“You’re in love,” said Rose. “Being in love decimates your powers of observation.” She tapped a spoon on her tray. “Okay, so you smooched and played catch with an heirloom orchid, but are you in love, floral Laurel?”

Laurel wanted to bask in Justin’s smile. She wanted to know his thoughts, what books he adored—every last detail of his amazing life. She wanted to touch him and be touched. “Maybe. I invited him to dinner tonight.”

“Awesome.” Kate clapped her hands once. “I’ll call Alan. We can—”

“No,” Laurel said forcefully.

Kate’s face fell. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not sure we’re together,” said Laurel. “It’s all my fault he had to leave.” And if it was just the orchid . . . .

“Puh-leeeze,” said Kate. “I saw you two dancin’. Alan can explain it all to him.”

Laurel shook her head. If they were going to be a couple, she didn’t want it all grapevine and gossip. “I need to talk to him first. Alone. Don’t tell Alan anything.”

“Uh, Laurel, hon?” Rose drummed her fingers on the table. “How are you going to ‘be alone’ in the Avondale dining hall?”

A purple note was taped to Laurel’s door when she returned from brunch.

Please come to the conservatory at 4:30.—G. S.

Her stomach plunged; the tone sounded so formal and distant.

“Are you in trouble?” Kate asked.

“I hope not.” Laurel pulled the key from under her shirt and rubbed it.

“It wasn’t
your
fault Tara cut it.” Kate shook her head. “I still can’t believe she went after Alan.”

“I should have been more careful.” Laurel folded the note into a tiny purple square.

Kate squeezed her arm. “Everything’s gonna be all right, okay?”

“Okay.” Once inside her room, Laurel quickly dialed Grandma’s number, but there was still no answer. There
was a new message in her in-box, though. Her stomach plunged, and she steeled herself before opening it.

OK. See you at 5.—J

Laurel reread it, but there were hardly any lines to read between. And Justin had said nothing about the poem. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking, she thought. She showered, finished some homework, and decided that Ms. Suarez would have to lecture her earlier than four-thirty, because Laurel
had
to be at the bus stop when Justin arrived. She was leaving the quad when she heard a guy’s voice call out. Her heart jumped, but it was Everett who ran toward her.

“
Merde
,” Laurel whispered, feeling panicky again. He had to be furious about the Tara episode, and he was a master of wicked pranks.

“Laurel, wait up!”

At least he got my name right, she thought. She stopped and turned around. “What?”

“Top o’ the morning to you, too,” Everett said in an Irish accent. “A little hungover, are we?”

“Hardly. But I’m supposed to be somewhere.”

“It can wait. I have an amazing business proposition. Let’s chat.” He sat down on a bench and patted the space beside him. Laurel sat at the far end, but he scooted closer.

Everett pushed his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes. “Last night was frickin’ unbelievable,” he said. “I was totally into Tara, and normally I can’t stand her.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that.” Laurel stumbled for an explanation. “It was all part of this—this huge prank. It didn’t go exactly as planned.”

“Prank?” Everett waved his hand. “No way. It was sweet, a total high. See, Tara just explained your flowers to me. I stopped by to see if the effect had—uh—worn off.”

“Had it?” Laurel couldn’t help asking.

“She looked like hell.” Everett did a fake shudder. “She
scares
me.”

Laurel bit the inside of her lip. She had to find a way to stop all this gossip about her flowers. “So, what do you want?”

“I told you: my awesome business proposition.” Everett rubbed his hands together and leaned forward. “Get this. We’re going to sell your fussy-wussies on the internet.”

“What?”

“It’s genius. We’re going to make a frickin’ fortune. I’ve even got a name: Laurel’s Florals. I’ll register the domain as soon as I get back to my room. We can start with a web-based, mail-order business and build. It’ll be our own little cottage industry.”

Laurel looked around for a video camera. She’d heard about some Willowlawn guy who uploaded his prank to YouTube. “You’re insane.”

“No, I’m genius.” His hand was on her shoulder. “People are always lookin’ for
luv
. If your flowers can make me jump Tara, they can make anyone do
anything
.”

“That’s not how they work,” Laurel protested. “My flowers can make your feelings stronger or draw them out, but they don’t create something from nothing.”

Everett squinted at her and pulled back. “Wait a sec. So you’re saying the flowers don’t work unless a person is actually
attracted
to another person.”

“Exactly,” said Laurel. “At least a little.” Tara was a total pain, but she wasn’t ugly.

Everett shook his head. “That’s troubling.”

“See what I mean?” Laurel stood up. “It’s sooo much more complicated than it seems. I have to think about tons of things before I can even begin to make a tussie for anyone—ever again. And definitely not on the internet for people I don’t even know.” She started to walk away, but Everett jumped up and followed.

“You have to see the potential here.” He grabbed her arm. “All we need to do is make people
think
your flowers will work. Most crap on the internet is a hoax, anyway. Hell, people will buy pheromone aftershave—like that’s going to get them laid.”

Laurel twisted away from him. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“Then how about some flowers for me?” he said. “You know, just to hook up with someone. Other than Tara, I mean?”

Laurel had to turn around. “You want me to make you a ‘hook-up’ tussie?”

Everett nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”

Laurel felt her anger rise. “You think I feel no sense of responsibility?”

“Well, you gave all those girls flowers for prom. Isn’t that what they wanted?”

“No!” Laurel said. “They wanted love, not some cheap, one-night freebie.”