The Scent Keeper(28)

“We’ll let you settle in,” they said, one after another, and even in the clamor of scents I could smell their disappointment.

At lunchtime, when the other kids shouted their way down the hall toward the odor of hot oil and potatoes, I turned my head in the opposite direction. I caught the scent of grass and followed it outside. I saw small children, climbing on something that looked like a metal memory of trees. To one side was a row of the blue-green plants that grew in front of the boardinghouse—rosemary, Henry had taught me. I went over and sat down, letting their fragrance sweep the morning away.

Please don’t make me go back inside. Please don’t make me go back inside.

I wanted to run, to find the road, a boat, go back to the island. I didn’t care what was or wasn’t there. I just wanted the silence of the trees, the comfort of my loft.

One of the girls from my class walked across the playground toward me, half a sandwich in her hand.

“Hey,” she said, sitting down, smiling, “where are you from?”

I couldn’t read her well; she was one of the strawberry girls—the smell seeming to come from her lips. The cloying sweetness took over the air like a wave of pollen.

“Secret Cove,” I said.

“Before that,” she prompted. When I didn’t say anything, she lowered her voice.

“Everybody knows you came from the islands. What was it like?” Her eyes were bright as she leaned forward, but she didn’t look dangerous. I inhaled deeply, searching for the scent of who she really was.

“What’re you doing?” the girl asked, pulling back.

My thoughts scrambled. Panicked, I picked a sprig of the rosemary.

“Here,” I said, offering it to her.

“What?”

“You can rub it between your hands.” I fumbled. “It’ll balance out the pink.”

“What?”

“The strawberry…”

“You’re telling me I smell bad?” The girl stood up. It was strange, I realized—anger was actually a good counterbalance to pink, too.

“Sorry for trying to be nice, freak,” she said.

And then she was gone.

I sat there, shaking, until the bell rang and a teacher rounded up the smaller children.

“Do you know where you’re going, honey?” she asked me, and I could have cried at the softness in her voice.

She took me with her, leaving me at my room. I didn’t realize my mistake until I saw the other students look up from their desks and notice the little kids in the doorway. I saw the strawberry girl lean over and say something to the boy next to her. I heard the whispers running up and down the aisles of the classroom like gritty sand through my fingers. Saw the grins.



* * *



“How was it?” Colette asked that afternoon when she picked me up.

I looked at her face, still tired from the summer. I smelled the damp wool scent of worry. I couldn’t go back to the island, I knew that; Colette and Henry were all I had. What would happen if I became too much for them?

“Fine,” I said. “It was fine.”





FISHER


In the second week of school, the red-haired boy appeared.

“Look who came out of the woods!” the kids chorused as he entered the room.

The boy ducked his head and walked quickly to the only available seat, the one next to me. He sat down, and I saw that he wore long sleeves, even though the day was hot for September and most of the kids had on T-shirts. I could smell nervousness on him, but beneath that was the scent of alderwood smoke, clean and honest.

The boy looked over and saw me watching him. He watched me back for a moment, and then he cocked his head. His eyes were astonishingly green. Like trees in the spring.

“I’m Fisher,” he whispered.

“Emmeline.”

He didn’t laugh. I smiled. It was as simple as that.



* * *



Like me, Fisher was an almost silent presence in the classroom, but his silence was the most active I’d ever seen. He was like a squirrel or a mouse—constantly watching everything around him. It was a skill he took with him wherever he went. I knew what that was like, although I used my nose instead of my eyes.

“What do you see?” I asked as we sat on the side of the playground one day during lunch. We’d found it was easier to be outside—anywhere, really, except the cafeteria, which felt like a beach full of hungry seagulls. It was there that I’d learned Fisher was a year behind.

“He’s so slow he can’t even make it to school half the time,” Dylan had joked. Fisher had turned red. I felt sorry for him, but a part of me swelled with relief to find someone else who was odd like me.

Now Fisher pointed over to the swing set on the playground. A little girl was working her legs hard, but not getting much momentum. A boy about her age was waiting, shifting his weight from side to side.

“That boy there is going to shove the girl on the swing.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at his mouth.”

The little boy’s lip curled, just on one side.

“Now check out his hand.”

I looked. At the boy’s hip, his hand curled into a fist. I caught a whiff of something, sharp and hungry.