Flower(4)

“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.”