Renata Santos doesn't expect her heart to flutter when she catches a boy stealing flowers out of her backyard. But as she unravels his reputation, she realizes puppy-eyed delinquent Isaac Marshall may just be the sunshine she needs to turn her life...
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B U T T E R C U P
[verticordia aurea] ➳ childishness.
"DAD?"
Isaac's fingers clenched as I gaped at my father's face. I almost didn't recognize him; the chase had wrinkled his collared shirt, and his face contorted with anger. But it was unmistakably him, with big eyes like mine and the dorky jacket that my mother loved and he insisted on wearing even in the spring.
"Ren?" Dad's shoulders slumped as he ran a hand over his chin, his jaw slack with confusion. "Why aren't you with Jackie?"
"Um." I squirmed out of Isaac's grasp, climbing to my feet and brushing the dirt off my jeans. I gritted my teeth, feeling utterly screwed. "She let me leave a few minutes early. We're on our way to school."
Dad watched us orient ourselves. "And who's 'we'?" he asked, arms crossed. His messenger bag hung across his chest, which meant he had been on his way to work.
"This is Isaac." I kicked him lightly, forcing him to stand up next to me. "He's a new friend."
Isaac rubbed the nape of his neck, bouncing on the soles of his shoes like he wanted to make a run for it all over again. I jabbed him with my elbow and he eked out a very small greeting.
"Hi," he said again moments later, voice meek. "I'm so sorry, sir."
Nobody said anything else for a long moment. Then Isaac turned his backpack around and pulled a hardcover book out of the front pocket.
Dad accepted the book. I tried to be subtle as I strained to read its title, but it didn't take long for me to realize exactly what it was. One look at the wrinkled spine kick-started the frantic thrumming in my chest all over again and the tension between us multiplied. "Where's my wallet?" my father demanded.
Isaac shrugged, his eyes on the ground. "I - I don't know," he said. "It should still be in your pocket."
Rather than scream, I watched Dad stick his hand into the back pocket of his khakis and produce his leather wallet, which looked no worse for wear. He rifled through it; all of his cards and twenty-dollar bills were still neatly tucked inside.
"I don't understand," he admitted. "Ren? Help me out here."
It was my turn to stutter. I glanced at Isaac, who now more than ever looked like a little kid put into time-out, or forced to pay a visit to the principal's office. Then I looked at Dad, who was probably literally on his way to the principal's office to check-in at his substitute-teaching job for the day.
"I dared Isaac to steal the book from you," I blurted out. "Just the book."
Dad choked out a laugh. "What?" He flipped the book over, studying the title I saw so often on our coffee table: Seed to Plant. His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
