Chapter 8

On Tuesday, I end up working in the flower shop alone. It’s slow, and there are too many loose flowers and no walk-in customers to take them off my hands. We don’t even have deliveries—imagine that! And since no one is here to make a mess for me to clean, I sit at the front desk and twirl my newly trimmed hair in my fingers, messaging Gretchen, hoping that something will happen so Tracy has to come in to work.

I sit idly for an hour before my gaze is drawn to the cooler by three tiny yellow roses, the last of their dozen, sitting alone amidst a dozen red and a dozen purple. They’re several days older than the rest, which means Tracy will likely throw them out before she can use them.

What’s the worst that could happen? I ask myself. Tracy telling me off for using a few bad flowers? I’d never do it again and she’d forget about it in less than an hour.

I glance at them several times, my heart thudding, before taking matters into my own hands. Leaving the front desk, I enter the cooler and gather the roses hastily, along with some leftover stock, a couple of mums, and leather. I grab a vase to go with it, too, something tall and yellow, one of the mismatched vases somebody donated to the shop. Tracy won’t miss it, and if she does…well, this arrangement is just an experiment. Tracy can dump the flowers if she wants.

Laying everything out on the table, I start by cutting the leather stems. The first time they’re too tall, and the second time they’re too short, so I grab another bunch and cut them to an almost perfect length. Because I don’t want to try again and mess it up, I organize the leather into the vase around the edges to create a frame, and then start on the rose stems.

A few minutes later, I take a big step backward so I can see the full piece. As adorable as it is, I’m almost tempted to take it apart. What if it’s not as good as I think it is right now? What if Tracy sees it and hates it? What if I come back to work tomorrow and want to pretend I never made it?

But…look at it, Bee, I argue with myself. I set the arrangement at the back of the cooler, away from customers but exactly where Tracy puts her ice coffee every morning. With any luck, it will make her smile.

With a glance at the clock, I realize I’ve spent an hour on this arrangement. I hurry to clean up the leaves and petals that now grace the worktable and floor, then finish the last items on the checklist. At six o’clock sharp, I lock the front door behind me, my hair whipping in the oceanside wind, my mouth curving with a smile.

I don’t see Tracy at all the next day when I open the shop later in the morning at her insistence. I do see all the signs of her early morning escapades: freshly brewed coffee in the kitchenette, new flowers in the cooler, ribbons strewn across the tables. To my surprise, the arrangement I made is no longer at the back of the cooler, but in the front.

Tracy made a few adjustments, adding pink spray roses to complement the yellow—and she’s selling it at a discounted price because the flowers are older—but it’s there. And when the arrangement sells at noon, the buyer complimenting it again and again, I find the flowers I want next, make myself at home at the worktable, and I do it again…

…and again and again and again. Every new day, Tracy puts the arrangement at the front for a discounted price, and by closing it sells. On the fourth day, when Tracy comes by the shop in the evening for weekend wedding prep, she immediately checks the cooler’s front display.

I know she’s looking for my arrangement, but she won’t find it. It sold twenty minutes ago to an elderly lady looking for something small to brighten her kitchen.

Tracy waves, but passes right by me. “Meet me in the back in five minutes, young lady.”

Hands jittery, I close the cash register and finish hanging ribbons on their rack before joining Tracy at the worktable. She gives me a once-over, as if deep in thought, arms crossed over her chest. I take a drink of water while I wait, pretending I’m not vexed by her seriousness.

Then she asks, “Do you want a promotion?”

I almost spew water across the table. I choke it down, coughing. “Um.” I cough again, covering my mouth until it passes. “What…what do you mean?”

Tracy taps her fingernails along the worktable. “You have a real gift, Bee. I want you to be my on-call designer. I need help with designing throughout the week so I can focus on weddings. I’d pay you more, of course. And train you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, split between shock and excitement.

“How about thank you and yes. Those will do the trick.” She pauses, then adds, “If you don’t mind.”

If you don’t mind. As if! But of course, I try not to seem too overeager. (I fail.) “This is…amazing.” My eyes are bugging out, I just know they are. “Seriously, you think I’m that good?”

“You totally are, and I think you know that already. Take some time to study all the different types of flowers this week—I’ll send you home with some flash cards—and on Monday I’ll raise your pay.”

I squeak out my thanks while she flips through the order pages for the wedding. (Shh, Bee, shh. Stop talking.) When she pauses, looking up at me expectantly, I lunge at her with a hug.

She pats my back, laughing. “Get back to work, Bee.”

I let her go, fisting my hands around the hem of my apron, jumping once before heading to the sink. I’m too excited to care that there are a million buckets to wash.

I scrub quickly enough to blister my fingers.

I spill my news at the dinner table. My sisters don’t have ballet tonight, my dad’s off on time, and even Tom is home. But since we’re all here for dinner, everything is loud. Chaos is our middle name. (Erm…something like that.)

After a few attempts to get everyone’s attention, I clang my fork onto the edge of my plate a little too hard. It’s like the butterfly effect: My mom stops talking to Tom, Astrid stops singing Les Miserables, and my dad stops flicking Millicent on the forehead while trying to steal her last piece of steak.

I grin, too wide to fit my face, and say, “Tracy’s giving me a promotion. I’m going to design floral arrangements.”

The babble that follows—oh, my gosh, now my ears really hurt, because it’s worse than before. They’re all congratulating me, asking a million questions about things I don’t have answers for. Amidst it all, I see my mom’s face light up as she listens in rapture. She squeezes my hand across Tom, who leans back to let us have a moment. “Bee,” she says, “that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

Those words mean so much to me, I could cry. But I’m distracted by Millicent asking, “Can you make me a flower crown? I’ve always wanted to wear a flower crown!” She slaps Papa’s hand away from her plate again.

I laugh. “Maybe Tracy can teach me that next.”

“Make one for me, too,” Papa says, with all the innocence of a dog who’s eaten too much toilet paper.

Everyone laughs, even though we’re all rolling our eyes at him. Millicent is suddenly indignant about Papa trying to steal her food (again), so Tom uses the moment to lean in close to me. “You up for a little promotion celebration?”

I eye him with suspicion. “Um…”

“You should come to the beach with me tonight. Bonfire with some of the guys.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.”

I squint at him. “Just…the guys? What about Andrea?”

His smile falters. “She’s not coming.”

I accept this with a shrug and start clearing the table with everyone else. Tom’s on dishwasher duty, but with our combined force, we finish cleaning in record time. While he stacks the last of the clean dishes in the cupboards, I grab my purse, and then we both holler goodbye to our parents as we make our escape.

Outside, the sky is clear and full of a thousand stars, a perfect summer evening, with a slight breeze coming down the hill in our neighborhood. I laugh for no good reason and for every reason all at once. Something about today is just…happy. I’m not even mad when Tom pulls his car onto the main road (going in the opposite direction of the beach) and asks, “Hey, mind if we pick up Levi first?”

Of course, I have to pretend to be mad, as all good little sisters do. I groan, sinking into my seat. “You tricked me into this.”

Tom pats my knee. “You’ve got to get over your fear of…whatever you’re afraid of.”

I don’t deign to answer that, so instead roll down my window and let the night wind wash over me. (WhyamIblushingwhyamIblushingwhyamIblushingwhyamIblushing—)

It turns out Levi lives on 10th Ave., about two minutes from my house, and he’s already waiting for us. He slides into the back seat and slaps Tom on the shoulder. “Great timing, man, my mom’s baking again and—”

He sees me.

I smile.

He grins. It cracks his face in the most adorable way. “Bee! I was expecting Andy.”

The way he says it--like he’d rather see me than Andy--makes me far happier than I expected. “Nope, just boring old me.”

“Never boring.” Levi gives Tom a sidelong look. “Where’s Andy?”

Tom sighs and pulls out onto the road. “Not here.” Levi and I exchange what (I think) could be called a “knowing” look, and—fine, I’ll admit that it thrills me.

Eventually, Tom turns up the music, and we ride in silence for a few minutes. I lean with my left elbow on the console, my head tipped back, my eyes closed as I sing along softly. Then I feel someone tapping my arm. It’s Levi, straining against his seatbelt to get closer to me, and he’s pointing up.

The open moon roof displays a wide variety of stars. Out here on the highway, there are no streetlights or neighborhoods—it’s just a straight shot around the mountain, on the side of the cliff over the reservoir, and then through the hills—so it’s very dark and quiet. I look up with Levi, our heads semi-close, and smile.

He asks, “Do you know the stars?”

“Not really.”

“Me, neither.”

“It’s a shame,” I sigh.

“I can be rather stupid.”

Embarrassed, I hurry to say, “That’s not what I meant.”

He laughs, and I laugh, and find that it is incredibly difficult to keep my eyes on the stars when Levi’s sitting next to me.

“I meant,” I add, “that I wish one of us did.”

“Yeah.”

I adjust in my seat, to make the conversation easier. “Stars are almost…like…moments. To me.” As soon as these words come out of my mouth, I start to feel stupid. Do I sound stupid? I don’t know where this is coming from; I’ve never consciously thought about it before. It’s always been a thought at the back of my mind, like I like chocolate ice cream, and I would marry Matt Smith if he asked me, and My mother wants me to go to college.

Somehow, The stars are like moments to me fits on this list. “It’s like…they’re twinkling and staring us right in the face, but we have to be brave enough to grab hold of them. You know?”

Levi looks at me, then sits back in his seat, still looking, still studying. Like he’s pondering. Somehow, this puts my nerves to rest.

“You’re right,” he says, finally. “You’re absolutely right.”