Too Many Blooms Read online

  Poppy stepped up to Mom. “For luck,” she said, handing her something.

  “Oh, Poppy!” said Mom as the tears began to flow again. “Thank you!” She held up Poppy’s gift — a tiny, plastic windup dog that did flips. “I’ll keep it on the counter where I can see it all day,” she said.

  Poppy looked very pleased.

  After Mom hugged and kissed each of us (she has been known to give us kisses when we leave the living room to get a glass of water, I swear), Dad and Poppy took off for the elementary school. They were followed by Rose and Aster, who linked arms, their blonde and dark brown heads bent together. I felt a slight twinge of envy at their closeness. But then, I reminded myself, they had to share a room. Not so fun. Not to mention a birthday. Even worse.

  I headed in the opposite direction toward my middle school, sticking my cold hands in my jacket pockets. I was so distracted that morning, I had left my hat and gloves at home. And now I was paying for it.

  I arrived at school, walked up the granite steps, and pushed open the front door. It was still on the early side, so my shoes made hollow sounds as I walked down the empty hallway toward my locker. I breathed in the baby aspirin smell of the cleaning spray the janitor used. I love that sweet orangey aroma. If someone created a perfume called Freshly Cleaned Sarah Josepha Hale Middle School Hallway, I’d be first in line to buy it.

  I came to a stop in front of my locker and opened it with a snap. I smiled. Neat as a pin, just the way I liked it. I hung my jacket and placed my books in the top section, in alphabetical order, of course: English, health, history, math, science, Spanish. I selected the books, notebooks, and folders I needed for my morning classes. I was about to swing the door closed with my hip when I had a thought: Spinach and Swiss cheese omelet for breakfast equals possible green stuff in teeth. Middle school suicide. I placed my books on the floor and checked myself out in the magnetic mirror I had stuck in the top of my locker. I smiled widely and spotted a largish piece of green in between my two front teeth. Nice catch, Del! I thought, relieved. I removed the piece of spinach and bared my teeth again. All clear.

  “Dental hygiene is a very important part of my day, too,” said a voice behind me.

  Startled, I swung my head around, clocking it on the edge of the locker door. Oof! Clutching my forehead, I blinked at the person who had spoken. It was a boy. An unfamiliar boy. A very cute, unfamiliar boy. A very cute, unfamiliar boy who had just seen me picking my teeth! I stared at him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Though I wished the freshly polished floor would open and swallow me up, I found myself taking in his longish, sandy brown hair, lazy smile, even teeth, and piercing blue eyes. That’s right, I said piercing.

  “Hey,” I managed to squeak out. And then, what did I do? I scooped up my books and took off down the hall.

  Not one of my finer moments.

  As I got farther down the hall, away from Mr. Dental Hygiene, I had to laugh at myself. Imagine me, Delphinium Bloom, getting all flustered by a boy. That just doesn’t happen to me. Or to my best friend, Becky. We’re not like some of the other girls in our grade who have a different crush every day, who doodle hearts and arrows in their notebooks when they should be taking notes in class.

  Not, I must mention, that Becky and I are social misfits or anything. We may be serious about school, but we are fashionable. Becky is definitely the prettier of us two: she’s tall and slim, with dark brown skin, brown eyes, and black curly hair that comes to her shoulders. But I’ll admit that I can pass for cute, too. I have wavy light brown hair, hazel eyes, and pale skin that freckles in the summer.

  Still, being distracted by boys has always seemed kind of … frivolous. So I was surprised that I felt like I was about to burst if I didn’t tell Becky what had just happened.

  When I reached the cafeteria table we sit at each morning, my heart sank. Becky, who sat across from our friend Heather Hanson, was studying from her Spanish flash cards, which meant she was having a quiz that day. Which also meant Becky would only want to converse in Spanish. I generally humor her, but today was not the day to be hampered by my less-than-stellar foreign-language skills.

  “Hola,” said Becky. “Siéntese.”

  I sat.

  “Spanish quiz,” Heather told me, flipping through the latest copy of Us Weekly.

  Heather looks like a porcelain doll, with her heart-shaped face, corkscrew curls, and dimpled cheeks. She’s tough, though, and doesn’t think twice about telling you exactly what’s on her mind, which always surprises people who are expecting a sweet girly girl.

  “¿Qué pasa?” Becky asked, taking in my flushed cheeks. She picked up a carton of orange juice and took a swig.

  Hmmm. I didn’t know how to say I was picking my teeth in Spanish, but I decided I knew enough words to say, “I was stupid in front of a cute boy.”

  “Era estupido antes de un”— I searched my brain for the Spanish word for handsome —”guano muchacho,” I finished triumphantly.

  Becky promptly spat out her orange juice, showering her flash cards. And me.

  “You were stupid in front of a poopy boy?” she told me when she could finally talk. “I guess you meant to say guapo instead of guano?”

  “Sí,” I admitted, my cheeks flaring again.

  “Sorry, Del,” she said, shaking her head, a huge grin on her face. “But you have to admit, that was really funny.”

  Heather put down her magazine and leaned forward eagerly. “So tell us about Señor Guapo!” she said.

  All thoughts of studying went out the window as Becky, along with Heather, peppered me with questions, thankfully all in English. Before long, the whole embarrassing story was out.

  Becky bit her lip. “Well, that’s not so bad …” she said. Heather gave her a dubious look.

  “What planet are you from?” I asked. “I picked my teeth and bumped my head. Maybe if I had some toilet paper stuck to my shoe, that would have made my humiliation complete.” I quickly glanced down at my ballet flats. No trailing TP. Thank goodness.

  “Yeah,” said Heather. “That’s about as bad as it gets!” She grinned, showing her matching dimples.

  “Thanks, Heather,” I said sarcastically. “As if today wasn’t bad enough, having to say good-bye to Gran and Gramps.”

  Becky’s face fell. “Oh, Del,” she said. “That’s right. I’m so sorry.”

  “And right this very moment Mom is opening the store by herself.” I sighed. “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Don’t obsess, Del,” said Heather with a wave of her hand as she returned to her magazine. “She’s a grown-up. She’ll be fine.”

  But Becky gave me a sympathetic look. She knew how important the store was to me. And how worried I was that Mom wouldn’t be able to handle it. I gave her a grateful smile back and checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to the first-period bell. I grabbed some money from my bag and walked up to the counter. It was definitely feeling like a hot-chocolate-with-whipped-cream kind of morning. The nice breakfast lady noticed my wan expression and smiled as she gave me an extra squirt of whipped cream. I was just about to take a big spoonful of creamy deliciousness when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I nearly dropped my hot cocoa.

  Just my luck. It was Ashley Edwards, flanked by her two handmaidens — I mean best friends — Sabrina Jones and Rachel Lebowitz. Sabrina and Rachel look almost exactly alike — only distinguishable by a slight difference in the shade of their straight brown hair and the fact that Sabrina says the word “like” like all the time.

  Way back in preschool, Ashley and I were inseparable. But then we had what Becky and I like to call The Teletubby Incident. Ashley and I both showed up on Halloween dressed as Tinky Winky — you know, the tall, purple one. My costume was much better. (Ashley didn’t even have the red purse — what was up with that?) And Ashley has never gotten over it. She apparently likes to be one of a kind, fashion-wise. Rumor has it that she texts her handmaidens her outfit choice every morni
ng so there will be no inadvertent clothing cloning.

  And talk about boy crazy. Ashley played spin the bottle at her fifth-grade birthday party. (And no, I wasn’t there. But everyone talked about it for months.) Ashley is also spoiled rotten — she has all the latest clothes and accessories. Despite myself, I realized I was admiring her outfit that morning. Midnight blue crushed-velvet leggings, tall suede boots, and an off-the-shoulder crocheted sweater over a tank top. A cute beret completed the look. I once tried wearing a hat indoors and the whole time I walked through the halls thinking, Look at me, I am wearing a hat. I stuffed it into my backpack in third period. And that was the end of the Great Hat Experiment.

  I am so not jealous of Ashley, though.

  Okay, so maybe I’m a little bit jealous of her clothes, her Brazilian-straightened blonde hair, and her social life. So sue me.

  “Hello, Ashley,” I said coolly.

  Ashley stared at me for a moment, then spoke. “My cousin tells me that she’s considering letting your family do the flowers for her wedding,” she said as if this had to be a mistake.

  “Um, your cousin?” I said.

  Ashley rolled her eyes. “Well, this is totally awk,” she said to her friends. Ashley is always talking in shorthand. Terrif. Gorge. Fab. You get the picture. It is so totally obnox, as she would say. “Olivia Post?” She looked back at me. “Um, the biggest wedding of the year?”

  Suddenly, it all made sense. No wonder Bridezilla had seemed so familiar. Of course, the two most spoiled rich girls I had ever met were related!

  Ashley stepped closer to me. “This is the most important wedding this town has ever seen,” she added, sounding just like Olivia had yesterday. She smiled. “And I’m going to be a junior bridesmaid!” Sabrina and Rachel oohed and ahhed as if they were hearing the news for the first time, which I was absolutely certain they were not. Ashley narrowed her eyes at me. “So do you think you can handle it, Delphinium? Hmmmm?”

  “Don’t you worry, Ashley,” I said, as dignified as I could be. “Flowers on Fairfield has been serving your floral needs since 1912.” I cringed as I said it. Good one, Del, I thought. You sound like a brochure! A lame brochure.

  Ashley rolled her eyes. “Whatev.” Her two handmaidens nodded their heads. Then, in unison, they turned and flounced off.

  “What a jerk!” I muttered under my breath, frustrated that I hadn’t come up with anything good to say back to her. I never can. It annoys me so much.

  I sighed. As if this big wedding without Gran and Gramps wasn’t bad enough. Now I had the added pressure of my enemy watching over the whole thing. Yikes!

  By the time I got back to the table, I was disappointed to see that the whipped cream had already dissolved into my hot chocolate. I gulped the cocoa down just before the bell rang. My friends and I gathered our books and headed to class.

  Thankfully, my day ended up getting better. I got a tough answer right in math class. My teacher handed back our English papers, and I got an A-minus. And the cafeteria served pepperoni pizza at lunchtime. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the wedding. And Ashley. And Mom all alone in the flower store. What a recipe for disaster!

  Finally, it was the last class of the day. Most of my friends think I am lucky because I have gym last period. That means I don’t have to go back to class all sticky and sweaty. Which is good. But the bad part is that both Ashley Edwards and a bully named Bob Zimmer are in my class. Luckily, the two of them are paired together for square dancing. I’ll take Rodney Franklin and his sweaty hands over mean Bob any day.

  As always, we were sitting in rows on the uneven, wooden gym floor, waiting for class to begin. I glanced down at the world’s most unattractive gym uniform. I know what you’re thinking — gym uniforms are supposed to be ugly. There’s practically a rule about that. But are your school colors yellow and purple? Didn’t think so.

  Mr. Rolando, my gym teacher, stood in front of us taking attendance. I was idly wondering which state Gran and Gramps were in by then. It was a long trip, and I hoped they wouldn’t try to drive too far on their first day. I was startled back to reality when Mr. Rolando blew his whistle. I looked up. And there stood Señor Guapo, the cute boy from that morning.

  Are you kidding me? I thought. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ashley leaning forward with interest. For some reason, this totally irked me.

  “Class, please welcome our new student, Hamilton Baldwin,” said Mr. Rolando. Everyone mumbled a halfhearted hello.

  That was why I hadn’t recognized him. New kid. I stared at the boy formerly known as Guapo. Despite my mortification, my next thought was: He looks good in yellow and purple. And let me tell you, that is not an easy feat.

  Mr. Rolando consulted his attendance sheet. “And since … Rodney Franklin is out today, you can partner up with Delphinium Bloom,” he told Hamilton in his booming gym teacher voice. “Del, will you raise your hand?”

  My heart immediately started pounding like crazy. Why me? I thought. I waved my hand weakly at my new dance partner. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me in my uniform. It was my only hope.

  Hamilton grinned as he walked over. He flopped to the ground beside me. “Dental Hygiene Girl!” he said. “What’s up?”

  I smiled despite myself. And my face, once again, turned hot.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you this morning,” he said. “By the lockers,” he added.

  As if he had to explain!

  “No problem,” I said, studying his black Converse Hi-Tops. They were as long as surfboards, I swear. “So you’re new?” I added lamely.

  “Yeah, we just moved here. My mom, stepdad, and me.” He frowned for a moment. “Hey, if I say something, do you promise not to get offended?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “It depends,” I said warily.

  “I’ve gone to a couple of different schools in my life,” he said, “and I can honestly tell you that I have never seen a gym uniform as ugly as this one. We all look like Easter eggs!”

  I couldn’t help myself. I snorted. Loudly. “You’re right!”

  Ashley, who was sitting directly across from me in the next row, leaned over. “Very ladylike, Del,” she said, giving Hamilton a big smile.

  To my delight, Hamilton ignored her. He leaned closer to me. “Who’s that?” he whispered. “The captain of the manners police?”

  I laughed like it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Ashley gave me a dirty look.

  As I searched for something witty, or at least not lame, to say to Hamilton, Mr. Rolando blew his whistle again, signaling the beginning of class. We were learning a new dance today. Mr. Rolando put his hands on his hips and began to demonstrate the steps. I had to give him credit, for a muscle-bound gym teacher, he was certainly light on his feet.

  Then it was our turn. “Ladies to the gents’ right,” Mr. Rolando instructed.

  “Yee-hah,” I said weakly, and Hamilton chuckled.

  As we formed our square, Hamilton said, “I have to warn you, I am totally uncoordinated when it comes to dancing.”

  “You couldn’t be any worse than my regular partner,” I said as the music started.

  But I was wrong. Very wrong.

  Hamilton was the most terrible square dancer ever. But he laughed every time he stepped on my feet. And so did I. When he accidentally bumped into me and I went flying into Ashley and Bob, and she said loudly, “As smooth as ever, Delphinium,” I didn’t even care. Very strange.

  And the weirdest part of all? This time it was my hands that were sweaty.

  Chapter Four

  On the walk home, I finally thought of the perfect Ashley comeback. Just after she’d said, “So do you think you can handle it, Delphinium?” I should have held up my palm to her, smirked (a very important detail), and said, totally seriously, “Calm down, Tinky Winky.”

  Why do I always think of the perfect response about twenty-four hours after the fact? I hate it when that happens. Which is always.

  I was about
to head straight for my house, but I stopped. I knew I should give Mom a break and not show up at the store on her first day, but I just couldn’t stay away. As I turned and started the familiar walk toward Flowers on Fairfield, I told myself it was to fill Mom in about Ashley and Olivia being related. But deep down I knew the truth: I was checking up on her.

  It was my favorite time of day. The late afternoon sun bathed everything — houses, storefronts, trees, even mailboxes — in its reddish-golden light, making Fairfield Street somehow sharper and more beautiful. When I approached the shop window, at first I couldn’t see inside from the glare. Then I got closer and squinted. My heart sank. The window was crammed with bud vases, and each one held a different colored gerbera daisy. It was very colorful.

  And very disorganized.

  The bell rang as I pushed the door open. The store was empty. No hello. No “Welcome to Flowers on Fairfield.” Where was Mom? I felt a pang of worry.

  She came running out from the back, Gran’s flowered apron tied around her waist. “I’m so sorry …” she started. Then she laughed. “Oh, it’s you!” She pointed to the front window. “What do you think of the new display?” She nearly bounced on her toes with anticipation.

  I sighed, no longer worried, but a little bit frustrated. “Mom, you should really greet the customers the minute they walk in the door!” I said. “And did you use every bud vase in the store for the display?”

  Mom’s face fell. Shut up, Del, I thought. It’s her first day. Give her a chance. But I kept going.

  “What if we need one for an order?” I asked.

  Mom sank back onto her heels, looking disappointed.

  “You have to think about these things, Mom!”

  Then I caught sight of the worktable, and I gasped. I struggled to keep quiet, but the words just flew out. “Mom!” I cried. “This is such a mess! Gramps would have a fit if he saw this!”

  Mom sighed. “I was busy all day doing the weekly arrangements for Oscar’s, and didn’t get to clean up yet,” she said.

  I wondered how those had turned out. Oscar’s was the fanciest restaurant in town, and had been a client of Gran and Gramps’s for years.