Flower Page 2

  TWO

  A KNOCK THUMPS ONCE AGAINST the classroom door and the whole class jerks in their seats.

  Mr. Rennert, who has taught English at Pacific Heights High for longer than my grandmother has been alive, sighs and drops the dry-erase marker onto his desk. “Enter.”

  The door swings open, and Misty Shaffer, a junior with short, cropped hair and a constant grin that shows off her braces, steps into the room. I expect to see a note in her hand, something private to be delivered to one of the students. But instead she holds an enormous bouquet of roses.

  Purple roses.

  Lacy Hamilton and Jenna Sanchez gasp from their seats a row over, their faces ignited in hope, and chatter breaks out at the back of the room.

  “Quiet down back there. You’re still on my clock,” Mr. Rennert warns in his usual dry tone. “Ms. Shaffer, you seem to be lost. Last time I checked I was teaching AP English, not Intro to Botany.”

  “Special orders from the front office, Mr. R,” Misty says, unrepentant as she edges past him, all purple-and-green teeth. “The delivery guy said these couldn’t wait.”

  Time seems to slow as she makes her way down the aisle. I think she’s going to stop at Jenna’s desk, and Jenna’s posture says that she thinks so, too. But Misty stops in front of me, the bouquet nearly blocking her face. I blink up at her, the pencil in my hand stalled on the half-finished sketch of a winding vine I’d been drawing in the margins of my notebook.

  “Charlotte,” she says grandly. She holds the roses out to me—their purple petals nearly the same shade as her braces—and I can’t seem to react, to lift my hands to take them from her.

  It can’t be.

  Carlos jabs me in the side from his seat next to mine, prodding me to do something. The entire class is staring at me, including a clearly annoyed Mr. Rennert. I hurriedly yank the bouquet from her hands and set it on the desk. Misty stands for another moment in the aisle, her eyes wide, expectant, like she thinks I’m going to tell her who they’re from.

  “All right, Ms. Shaffer, you’ve done your job.” Mr. Rennert eyes the flowers while I pretend I’m invisible. “Now perhaps you’ll let me get back to doing mine?”

  Misty spins around with one last grin, leaving as promptly as she arrived.

  “Show’s over, people. Let’s focus,” he adds, picking up the marker from his desk. But before he can say another word, the bell buzzes from the speaker over the door and everyone springs up from their seats. Mr. Rennert glares, first at the bouquet and then at me.

  I rise slowly, as if the force of gravity is too strong. I can’t even speak. It’s all I can do to block out the whispers and lingering stares as people pass me on their way out the door. Jenna Sanchez throws me one last look over her shoulder, disbelief etched on her face. Probably the same expression is carved on mine.

  “What are you not telling me?” Carlos asks, his tone almost accusing as the rush of the hall swallows us. We never keep secrets from each other—not that I’ve had any to keep. Backpacks and shoulders slam against me as I weave through the crowd, Carlos close behind. “Who sent you those?”

  My fingers tremble as I pull out the card from the center of the bouquet, examining the envelope. It’s definitely from our shop; I recognize the thin gold border around the edge. Charlotte, it reads in plain lettering on the front. The tiny card slips easily from the envelope, and glitter spills out with it, sticking to my fingers and raining down to the floor, dusting the tops of my navy-blue flats.

  Because roses shouldn’t try to be something they’re not, the card reads.

  “Um, explain?” Carlos asks, reading over my shoulder and brushing the dark shock of hair away from his forehead. Carlos is a good foot taller than me, and when he’s standing up straight, the top of my head could actually fit beneath his chin. “And what’s with all the glitter?”

  I shove the card back into the envelope, my heart thumping inside my chest. Tate. He bought the flowers for me. What kind of insane person buys roses for a girl he doesn’t know? And how did he find me here at school?

  “Hello?” Carlos says beside me, waving a hand in front of my face. “Has my little Charlotte found herself an admirer at last?”

  “Of course not.” But my cheeks burn at the thought. “It’s just some guy who came into the shop yesterday.”

  Carlos’s mouth dips open, revealing the slight gap between his two front teeth. “You met him yesterday and he’s already sending you flowers?” He touches one of the perfect buds, the vintage black ring he found at a garage sale two months ago glinting in sharp contrast to the purple petals. Carlos changes his style monthly: Today he’s wearing a herringbone vest over a slouchy gray T-shirt and plaid loafers he took from his dad’s closet.

  “I don’t even know how he found me,” I say.

  “Okay, back up. Start from the beginning. Was he cute or creepy?”

  I frown at the memory of his perfect face, his dark eyes, and the easy way he leaned across the counter to wipe the glitter from my cheek.

  “So he was cute,” Carlos says with a grin, folding his arm over my shoulder. “It’s okay, Char, you can think a boy is cute. Thinking won’t ruin your life.”

  I scowl at him. “He was more than cute, if you must know, but—”

  “How much more are we talking about?” His hand at my bicep tightens reflexively. “Handsome? Heartbreakingly gorgeous? Off-the-charts bangable?”

  Leave it to Carlos. “—but it just seems arrogant,” I continue, “to send me flowers when I don’t even know him.”

  “Maybe he’s slightly overconfident,” Carlos agrees, spinning the combo of our shared locker—every year, after our lockers are assigned, Carlos and I choose whoever’s is in the best location and the least beat-up, and that becomes our base of operations. This year, our locker has only two elbow-sized dents in the door, and the lock actually works sixty-percent of the time. Pacific Heights High is severely overcrowded, underfunded, and much less glamorous than its name suggests. There is no view of the Pacific Ocean—instead it’s situated smack in the middle of Hollywood, surrounded by throngs of tourists and apartment buildings. All the wealthy, academically superior high schools are farther west, closer to the ocean. What I wouldn’t give to have the opportunity to attend one of those schools. “But don’t take it out on the flowers,” Carlos adds.

  I shove the massive bouquet into the locker, trying to seem indifferent, even though I’m careful not to let any of the stems bend or split. “Change of subject. Tell me about the party last night—did you see Alan Gregory?”

  Carlos gives me a look, but accepts the shift in topic. “Last night was a total fail. Alan texted me that he had a physics test to study for so he couldn’t make it to the party after all. I ditched out early and went home to watch old SNL reruns on my laptop.”

  I wrap my arm through his and squeeze. “I’m sorry. It’s his loss. Maybe he’ll call you for a date this weekend.”

  “Maybe.” Carlos shrugs. “And maybe Mr. Gorgeous and Mysterious will send you another dozen roses tomorrow.”

  “Let’s not get carried away.” Today was mortifying enough.

  “Hey, now.” Carlos pauses at the end of the hall, forcing Sophie Zines to swerve around us. Sophie is pretty in that overly done, too much makeup, perfect hair and clothes kind of way. I’ve always felt plain and washed-out next to people like her, like a cardboard cutout, void of any color. My clothes are all from thrift stores or hand-me-downs from my sister. Thankfully I have Carlos to help direct my style choices, but I still can’t compete with the Sophies of the world. “I like my sweet Charlotte just as she is,” Carlos says, his tone serious. “The eternal virgin.”

  I wince, glancing ahead at Sophie, hoping she’s out of earshot. Carlos may be comfortable talking about my sex life—or my lack thereof—in public, but me...not so much.
“Not eternal,” I correct softly. “I’m just waiting until after college—at least.”

  “So basically until the end of time?”

  “Stop,” I say, shaking my head even as I grin despite myself.

  “You’re some kind of saint, Charlotte Reed. And like I said, I love that about you, I do.”

  We push out into the daylight through the heavy double doors, the midday sun blinking down bright and hot.

  “But someday,” Carlos adds, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as we survey the front lawn, which is dotted with clusters of students sitting on the brown sunbaked grass or on the faded blue benches.

  “Someday what?”

  “You’ll fall madly in love and I won’t be able to tear you away from some primo male specimen with abs like a Spartan god.”

  “I think that’s your dream guy,” I shoot back, squeezing his arm. There is no dream guy fluttering around inside my head.

  He winks down at me and pulls me across the lawn to our usual lunch spot. “You’ll see, my pure, uncorrupted Charlotte. One day you’ll meet someone who will turn your perfect world upside down.”

  THREE

  OUR TINY, SINGLE-LEVEL HOUSE ON Harper sits tucked back from the street between two towering and slowly dying palm trees. A rusted Buick rests up on blocks in the neighbor’s yard. A dog yips from behind a chain-link fence two houses up, and a siren screams down a side street. Yet a mere five blocks away, tourists converge on Sunset Boulevard; after snapping photos of gold stars sealed into the pavement, they ride tour buses to see the homes of rock stars and movie stars and reality stars up in the Hollywood Hills. So close, nearly tangible, yet a world away from the dilapidated, paint-peeling, sun-scorched neighborhood where I live.

  The house is quiet when I step inside. I unwrap the bouquet of flowers over the kitchen sink, tearing away the clear cellophane and arranging them in a vase with lukewarm water. They’re even prettier here at home, the soft petals like a breath of springtime against the dingy yellow walls.

  “Who gave you those?” My sister’s voice rises from the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. The house is a claustrophobic rectangle of three narrow bedrooms, a combination kitchen/living room and one impossibly tiny bathroom. When I shave my legs in the morning before school, I’m forced to stick one leg out through the shower curtain and prop my foot up on the edge of the sink for balance.

  “No one,” I answer quickly, positioning the vase in the center of the kitchen table.

  Baby Leo is balanced on Mia’s hip and his little fingers clutch the fabric of her white shirt, stained from some sort of baby goo. She moves across the linoleum, and I tickle his chin. “They’re nicer than the leftovers you usually bring home from the shop,” Mia says.

  “They were a special order that no one ever picked up.” The lie slips out easily, surprising me. I never lie; I never have reason to. I wait for Mia to see through it, to grill me on why I’m bringing leftovers home before I’ve even gone to work for the day. But she’s fussing with Leo’s dandelion-fuzz hair, the roses already forgotten.

  Mia lifts Leo away from her hip and his blue eyes turn to me, a gummy smile forming on his lips. I take him from her arms and watch as Mia runs her hands through her wavy hair, an exhausted motion, like she hasn’t had a moment all day without Leo in her arms. Her sunken eyes betray a lack of sleep, and for a moment I feel like I’m looking at my own reflection. Mia is two years older than me, and even though we don’t share the same father, we could almost be twins with our green eyes and caramel-colored hair.

  “I don’t know why you still wear that thing,” she says, walking to the refrigerator.

  “What?” I ask, bouncing Leo a little, smiling as he gives a gurgling laugh. Pressing my nose to his neck, I inhale his sweet baby scent—formula and talcum powder. At nearly eight months, he’s more active and playful than he was just a few months back—his hands reaching out to snag a strand of my hair, legs wriggling in delight. He’ll cry like a demon when he needs a nap, filling the house with his outraged wails; even Carlos has been known to preach the wisdom of abstinence whenever we babysit Leo. But even when I see how much having a baby has derailed my sister’s life, I can’t imagine our house without him. He is bright rosy cheeks and sticky fingers and giggles when he’s seated in his high chair eating breakfast. I adore him more than I can say.

  “Mom’s ring.” Popping the lid on a Diet Coke, Mia nods down at my left hand where the turquoise ring has slid slightly off-center. My father gave it to our mom when they first started dating, and she gave it to me once I was old enough not to lose it.

  “It reminds me of her,” I say, although that’s not the whole story, and Mia knows it. It’s a reminder of how she ended up—crashing into love again and again, the rest of her life burning in the rearview mirror—and how I want to be different.

  “Hi, girls,” Grandma says, stepping through the front door with two grocery sacks balanced in her arms. She kisses the top of Leo’s head, earning a drooly grin. “There’s my little man. Lovely flowers, Charlotte,” she adds, stopping to breathe them in as she passes the table. I tense, braced for questions, but she’s moved to the counter, unpacking the contents of the green-and-white reusable bags with her usual efficiency.

  When we were younger, Carlos dubbed her “Grandma Garbo,” after the stunning Greta Garbo, who was a cinema actress and Hollywood starlet during the twenties and thirties. Grandma has always loved that comparison. And watching her now, it’s easy to see why. Grandma’s dark auburn hair sweeps over her shoulders in gentle waves; her figure is still trim, her face free of wrinkles. Unlike other grandmothers, she’s always seemed ageless. Beneath the crisp white collar of the maid’s uniform she wears, I can just make out her favorite gold necklace—the one she got as a wedding gift from her mother-in-law when she walked down the aisle at seventeen. She was six and a half months pregnant when she said her vows and married my grandfather—because it was the right thing to do back then. You didn’t have a baby if you weren’t married to the boy who knocked you up. But they never had a honeymoon, never even saw their first wedding anniversary. Her husband left her shortly after the baby—my mother—was born.

  And like some predetermined, screwed-up twist of fate, all the women in my family have made the same mistake. When my mom was seventeen, she got pregnant with Mia. And Leo was born before Mia even graduated high school. Already I’m beating the odds just by having made it to my eighteenth birthday without a kid in tow.

  Grandma places two new boxes of cereal in the cupboard, folds up the grocery bags, then goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of water, slices of lemon bobbing at the surface. “There’s chili in the fridge for dinner when you get hungry. I’ll be gone until ten,” she says, taking down a glass from the cupboard and filling it, a single lemon slice slipping into her glass at the last moment.

  “You’re working?” Mia asks. Grandma works long, often late hours cleaning offices downtown. She might be young for a grandmother, but at her age, she shouldn’t be lugging heavy cleaning carts down hallways or bending over a vacuum for hours on end. Yet she refuses to let me help pay any household expenses with my Bloom Room paychecks; she says that everything I make should be for college. And whenever I protest her latest double shift, when it’s obvious she’s exhausted and her body aching, she waves me away. “How do you think I stay in such good shape?” she’ll ask. “This job keeps me young.”

  “Amelia called in sick, so I’m covering for her,” Grandma explains now. If she’s unhappy at the prospect of another five hours on her feet, she doesn’t show it.

  “But I already made plans,” Mia whines, and I wonder how she can even want to go out, given the shadows under her eyes. “My date’s picking me up in an hour.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Grandma says, her voice slightly strained. “I can watch him tomorrow,”
she offers placidly, setting the pitcher back in the refrigerator and reaching out to take a squirming Leo from me. Even though she disapproves of Mia’s mistakes—mainly getting pregnant so young—she loves Leo every bit as much as I do. And she tries to be supportive of Mia whenever possible—including watching Leo so Mia can get out of the house when she grows restless. Which is more often than she probably should.

  “We’re going to see a band. They’re not playing tomorrow.” When Grandma sighs and shakes her head, Mia turns to me. “Charlotte,” she pleads, drawing out my name. “Please? I really like this guy.”

  “I can’t, Mi,” I say. “I have to be at work in twenty minutes.” I feel a pang of guilt. Maybe I should help my sister, call in sick. But it also might be better if Mia stays away from guys for a while. Isn’t that how this all happened in the first place? A careless party hookup that resulted in pregnancy, the guy vanishing from her life just as quickly as he entered.

  Mia turns on her heel, her mouth pinched shut in irritation, and marches back into her room, kicking the door closed behind her.

  Grandma nuzzles Leo, who’s busy trying to cram her necklace into his mouth, and shoots me a reassuring smile. “She’s just upset,” she whispers. “It’s not easy with the baby.”

  “I know.” Mia used to be my world, my best friend. We were the only two planets in each another’s orbit. Queen Honeydew and Princess Poppyseed we called ourselves when we were little. We belonged to each other. But now Mia belongs to whichever boy will tell her that he loves her and give her extra money for diapers and new clothes. They don’t realize it, but she uses them more than they use her.

  I glance back at her bedroom door and wonder, not for the first time, how we could have ended up so different.

  * * *

  It’s a slow night at the shop and I find myself staring out the front windows at the fading sunset, the sky dissolving into ribbons of pinks and orange. I check my watch: ten minutes past closing. Holly left thirty minutes ago and asked me to lock up. But not before we spent nearly the entire shift talking about my mystery admirer.