The Hard Count(91)

“Absolutely,” Valerie says. “I’ll put it on eBay, become a millionaire, and hire my own damn gardener for my house in Malibu.”

“Pssshhh, Malibu is overrated. You want to go to Santa Fe,” Maria says, taking the marker and actually signing the copy of her magazine article. “That’s where all of the new rich people are going.”

Valerie takes it and pins it to the front of the refrigerator with four mismatched magnets.

“Reagan, have you heard about Nico and the roses?” Maria says, taking her seat again at the table.

“No,” I smirk, my mouth twitching in curiosity. I scoot my chair closer to hear her better.

“When he was a little boy, he used to sneak into my front yard with his kiddie scissors, the kind that barely cut paper, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I answer.

“Well, he would cut a rose on his way to school. Only, I didn’t know he was doing this. And every morning I would inspect my roses, feeding them and watering them, and always there would be one or two missing, almost ripped from the bush. It was the ugliest cut, and the petals would be sprinkled around the yard. I thought maybe it was someone’s puppy, or a cat. So one morning, I got up extra early, and I lay down by my back fence, real low so no one could see me. And here comes little Nico with his school bag over his shoulder. He pulls out his sad pair of scissors and cuts a red one from the bush, sawing at it and eventually ripping it free, and I jump out and scream, ‘Aha!’”

I jump a little in my chair, and the women laugh at me.

“You know what he was doing?” she says.

“No,” I smile, shaking my head.

She leans forward in her chair, her arms folded on the table.

“That little stinker was taking the flowers to school to give to some girl he liked. He would bring her one every day. Of course, after stuffing it in his backpack and dehydrating it for most of his trip to school, it was always sad and pathetic-looking by the time he handed it to the poor girl, I’m sure. But he still did it.”

“That’s…” I sit back. “That’s…really sweet.”

The rest of the women all have the same expression, even my mom.

“It is,” she says, closing her eyes briefly at the memory. “I started meeting him out front every morning after that. I would cut the rose for him, trim it up and wrap the stem in a paper towel. He’d always say, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Mendoza.’ He’d head off to school with a flower to deliver. This went on for a few weeks, and then finally I had to ask him, ‘Nico, what does your girl think of all these flowers? Is she your girlfriend yet?’”

She stands, pushing in her chair and moving toward the kitchen, and we all turn, engrossed by her story.

“You know what he told me?” she asks.

I shake my head no again.

“He said she told him she thought he was ugly, and he should stop bringing her flowers,” she chuckles.

My mouth drops to a frown fast, and my mom gasps a sad noise.

“That’s horrible,” I say, imagining a heartbroken Nico being told he’s ugly by a girl he liked enough to bring flowers to.

“I thought so, too. But then I thought, he’s still taking the flowers. So, I asked him what he was doing with the flowers now, and he said he was bringing them to new girls. He said he was going to give a flower to a new girl every day instead, to make them feel nice. And we kept up our deal, every morning. He took flowers to teachers, to the woman that ran the cafeteria, to the principal, to girls in his class. It didn’t matter who they were, he said. They all deserved flowers. And one day, there would be a girl that he thought deserved them all.”

My breath is gone when she lifts a vase from the sink, blooms of purple, pink, orange, white and red stuffed inside, each hand-cut carefully, stuffed and fit together in a clear-blue vase with a ribbon tied around the center. My eyes mist as she brings the vase close to me, and I rub my thumbs to blot away the tears. My mom does the same.

“Thanks, Mrs. Mendoza,” Nico says from behind me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, pushing them down deep, his shoulders hunched in a shrug, his smile crooked. The sweetest boy I’ve ever known.

“You’re welcome, Mijo,” she says. I stand and take them from her, breathing in their scent before turning slowly and walking over to him.

“You’re something, you know that?” I say, shaking my head and setting my flowers down on the corner of the table. I push my hands beneath his arms, wrapping them around his waist until he finally lets his free from his pockets and pulls me close to him, squeezing me against his chest and kissing the top of my head.

“They’re beautiful,” I say.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, letting out a small breath with his shrug and crooked smile.

“What’s going on in here?” my father asks, a little looser after what I’m guessing is his third beer. He steps in through the back door and Nico lets go of his hold on me out of habit.

“Not much, Chad. Your daughter’s boyfriend is just raising the bar really high, making all you men look bad,” my mom says.

My father’s brow wrinkles, and the entire table of women laugh, some reaching across to high-five my mom.

My dad turns his focus to Nico next.

“I just gave her flowers sir,” he shrugs, keeping his shoulders high like he’s waiting for the punch.