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Chapter 9: Wildflowers

Wildflowers

Jack, October

I'm sitting in flower arranging class trying not to fall asleep as Ms. Pickle demonstrates how to use a pumpkin shell as a vase for special holiday centerpieces. This is not something I ever thought I'd need to know.

Ms. Pickle teaches floral design in the fall and home economics in the spring. I'm signed up with her all year long. Word is, if you get on her good side, she'll give you an A no matter how banged your bouquets or biscuits turn out.

She might be an easy grader, but she's like a drill sergeant in the classroom. When she's done with her demonstration, she barks instructions for us to get started.

"Grab your gourd! Remember, it doesn't have to be orange. Dare to be different. Be bold! You and your partner determine what to use as the vessel based on the size of the shell. Big gourds require wide mouth Mason jars—either a pint or a quart, depending on the gourd. Baby gourds get the half-pint. And don't forget the frog! Frogs are essential." 

I turn to Bree who is clearly not engaged. She's writing in her little notebook thingy again. I lean over to try to read what she's working on, but she immediately closes it.

"Your secret diary?" I ask, grinning.

She smiles faintly, shrugging. "Sort of."

"You wanna small baby or a big baby?"

"What?" Her eyebrows draw together as she looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Pickle wants us to pick a pumpkin," I explain.

"Oh," she says, kind of spacey. "You sound like you're reciting nursery rhymes."

"Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater?" I ask.

"Had a wife but couldn't keep her," she responds. "So, he put her in a...pumpkin shell?" She tilts her head and gives me a puzzled look.

"That's kinda fucked up. Never really thought about it before..."

"Chaplin! Barnes! What's the hold-up?" Pickle calls from across the room.

"Not a thing, Ms. Pickle. Just debating what size gourd to employ. It's not a decision to be taken lightly."

"Okay smarty pants, just pick a pumpkin." She sniffs. She's serious about this shit.

By the time I get to the station, gourd selection is limited. I choose a small white pumpkin with a half-pint jar while Bree picks out some flowers. She comes back with a collection—all white.

"You forgot your frog, Chaplin. Essential," Ms. Pickle says, sashaying across the room. She stops when she gets to our table. "Chrysanthemums, lilies, and carnations, Barnes? Interesting."

Bree smiles weakly. "I like monochromatic. Should I have chosen something else?"

"No, no. They're an expression of your personality—they suit you. Elegant. Cultivated. I always advise my students to listen to their inner floral designer. Yours seems to be telling you to plan a wedding or baby shower." Pickle laughs. "Kidding, kidding." She waves her hand back and forth. "It's not a particularly autumnal color scheme, but it goes perfectly with this little baby," she says, patting my pumpkin affectionately.

Bree simply nods. She doesn't even snark when Pickle walks away, which is not at all like her.

"You okay, Bree?"

"Yeah," she says. "But I don't understand what frogs have to do with fall."

Lord, this girl. She obviously hasn't been paying attention all semester. She's always got her nose in that diary or whatever it is she's writing.