Forget-Her-Nots (5 page)

T
he
next Tuesday Laurel was ready and waiting. Every time anyone walked by her, she pretended to look for something in her backpack, but the landing where she stood had a perfect view of the sidewalk below. She’d see Justin before he saw her, jog down the stairs, and step right into his path.

But her plan was failing dismally, because he hadn’t materialized. Her next class was on the other side of the quad and started in three minutes. Stifling a cry of exasperation, she grabbed her backpack and took off. The grassy quad was draining of students, and she heard a shout just as she reached the door of her building.

“Wait up, man!”

Justin and the guy with curly hair were dodging girls
as they ran toward the spot she’d vacated moments ago. His hair flew back from his shoulders, and he was laughing, taking long, steady strides. Laurel’s heart beat as if she were running at his side.

The bell rang just above her head, and she covered her ears. “
Merde
.” Excessive crushing wasn’t an accepted excuse for tardiness.

After class Laurel’s Latin teacher asked to see her, and then she had to switch books at her locker. At every chance her eyes darted to the door Justin would use and down the sidewalk he’d come along, but she didn’t see him again that day.

Nothing was going smoothly this week. Kate was the only person Laurel felt comfortable talking to about the flowers, but whenever she approached her, Tara or Nicole instantly appeared to whisk Kate off for some “emergency.”

Laurel’s rosemary experiments were failing, too. Since that evening in the garden, she’d tried to resurrect more memories of her mom. She tried rosemary with her special words, rosemary without her words, rosemary in the morning, rosemary at midnight, wet rosemary and dry, but she couldn’t replicate the tingling or humming. Her paperback didn’t list any other flowers for memory. Surfing online, Laurel had found long lists of flower meanings and sites about the language, but
none mentioned tingling or humming or poetic words.

When she’d researched her English presentation, she’d had time only to glance through an antique flower book she’d found at the last minute. That book in the library tower was much larger and more detailed than her paperback and definitely deserved another look.

Soccer practice was canceled the Friday before spring break, so after class Laurel headed up the spiral steps of the library tower. Standing still in the quiet, turret-like room, she could almost feel her mother’s sweet smile. Her mom had collected first editions of books, which were now prominently displayed at her dad’s town house. The collection was one of the few relics of his former life that any stranger could see.

Setting her backpack on a desk at a narrow window, Laurel removed the heavy leather-bound book—
The Language of Flowers
—from its place. It was shelved in the reference section, so she wasn’t allowed to check it out. Strips of ribbon, like the bookmarks found in the Bible, protruded from its bottom. Randomly she lifted one of the ribbons, turned to the marked page, and skimmed the list of floral meanings.

Liberty
Live oak

Love
Myrtle or rose

Love, forsaken
Creeping willow

Love, returned
Ambrosia

Maternal affection
Cinquefoil

Maternal love
Moss

Melancholy
Dead leaves

Mental Beauty
Clematis

Laurel guessed that moss might be for maternal love, because it hugged the coldest part of a tree. What were cinquefoil and ambrosia, though? How was a live oak different from a regular one? And
memory
wasn’t even on the list. She reopened the book to another page marked by a ribbon: the author’s acknowledgments. She was about to flip the page when a name caught her eye.

“What?” Laurel said, too loud. Violet Evelyn Mitchell was her great-great-grandmother’s maiden name on her mom’s side. Laurel flipped back to the title page; this
edition had been copyrighted in 1899. Jotting numbers in her notebook, she calculated back through the generations. In 1899, Violet would have been about twenty years old.

Laurel felt a mix of curiosity and hope churn inside. Only one person would know if it was the same Violet, and that was Grandma. But Grandma lived like a hermit now, consumed by grief. She might as well die and get it over with, Laurel thought, but felt an instant spasm of guilt. Grandma had been a different person before. She was quiet and dignified, but her garden was like an exuberant extension of her true self. When they were young, Laurel, Rose, and Robbie would spend hours chasing one another and playing hide-and-seek on its paths. Hopping on a rope swing, they’d sail out over banks of azaleas. In spring it was like swinging over a rainbow.

Laurel slumped back and threw down her pencil. Grandma had checked out of life, and there was no point in asking her anything. Still, Laurel browsed the ribbon-marked pages, but she couldn’t find a clear pattern or anything that seemed like a clue. The illustrations of the tussie-mussies were as elaborate as her mom’s botanical prints. She took out a notebook and copied down the entire text of the author’s acknowledgments before she replaced the book on the shelf.

“Violet Evelyn,” she whispered as she descended the
tower stairs. Did anyone ever leave flowers outside your door?

“Pssst.”

The whisper startled her. Nicole was peering up through purple-rimmed glasses.

“Oh,” Laurel said. “Hey.” Her eyes darted around, but she didn’t see Tara.

“What were you doing up there?” Nicole asked.

“Just some research.”

Nicole leaned around her to look. “I’ve never gone up.”

Laurel shrugged. “It’s just a bunch of old books.” She stepped aside to let Nicole pass up the stairs. “See ya.”

“Later,” Nicole said.

Laurel leaned against the heavy wooden doors of the library, which opened into the warmest day yet this spring. Girls were in shorts playing Frisbee on the quad, and a few had spread out blankets. Patches of daffodils and pastel hyacinths brightened the fronts of several buildings. Closing her eyes, Laurel raised her face to the streaming rays.