Flower Feud (6 page)

“I have good news and bad news,” Mom said the next night as we were loading the dishwasher after dinner. “The good news is that Del’s work has paid off. We’ve finally gotten some middle-school orders.”

“Whew,” I said. “But what’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that both of our high school orders were
canceled
.” Mom said.

“Canceled?” I cried, my spirits sinking.

“Yes,” said Mom grimly. She bit her lip. “Do you think this means all the high school kids are going to Fleur?”

“It has to,” I said. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“I wish I knew some high school kids,” Mom said, her shoulders sagging. “We could ask them what’s going on. Why they prefer Fleur. Why we’re being replaced.”

I had an idea. “I’ll text my friend Amy,” I said. “Her big sister is a junior at the high school. She’ll know what’s going on.”

Mom looked relieved. “Good idea, Del,” she said. “Maybe if we know what we’re up against, we can do something.”

CAN U ASK YR SIS Y EVRY1 IS GNG 2 FLEUR 4 PROM FLWRS? I texted later. I pressed
SEND.
And waited.

In a couple hours, my phone rang. “Sorry it’s taking me so long to get back to you,” Amy said. “But Amber’s still not home yet. She’s at a pep rally. Cheerleading, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

“So if I don’t get to ask her tonight, it will have to wait till tomorrow. That okay?”

“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “It’s not like we can do anything about it tonight, anyway.” I held the phone against my ear with my shoulder and worriedly peeled a strip of pink nail polish off my thumbnail. Now I’d have to take all of it off. What a mess. “So what’s the latest on the Jimmy/Brian front?” I asked.

“Well, Jimmy asked me,” she said with a sigh. “But I said no. I just have this feeling that Brian will come through.”

I grimaced. “That must have been awkward.”

“Kind of,” she admitted.

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” I said. It came out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying.
How very Dad of me,
I thought.

“Huh?” asked Amy.

“It’s from
Aesop’s Fables.
Kind of like an invitation from a guy you think is nice is worth more than a possible invite from someone else. You know?”

“I guess so,” she said slowly. “But I already said no. And Jimmy already asked Eleni Nikolopolous instead. And she already said yes.”

Eleni was in my math class. “She’s really nice,” I said.

“I know,” Amy said glumly.

None of this was making very much sense to me. Heather wanted to go with someone for the sole reason that he was popular. Amy had turned down a real invite from a nice, funny guy (who was also cute) for a phantom date.

Amy and I said good-bye and she promised to text me if she had news.

I pressed
END
and sighed. This prom date business was getting out of control. I needed to talk to someone who understood. I pressed number one on my speed dial — Becky. It rang once and went straight to voice mail. I knitted my brow. Had Becky just ignored my call?

I hung up without leaving a message.

I woke up the next morning to a text from Amy. GOT THE 411! it said. MEET ME IN CAF THIS AM.

I got to school bright and early. I was the first one at our table in the cafeteria. I sat down and waited. And waited.

Amy finally showed up, her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, Del. I was hanging out by my locker for a little bit thinking Brian might pass by, but he never did.”

I shook my head with a grin. You had to hand it to her — she wasn’t giving up so easily. “It’s fine,” I said. I leaned forward eagerly. “So what’s going on?”

Amy placed her palms on the table. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Couldn’t I ever just get some plain old good news? I considered it. “The good news,” I said. Might as well postpone hearing the bad for a moment or two.

“The good news is that Amber and her friends are not going to Fleur for their prom flowers.”

“Really?” I cried, my mood instantly brightening. “That’s great! So everyone must be procras —”

“Here’s the bad news. They’re not going
anywhere
for their flowers. Amber says that corsages are just not cool,” Amy explained. “And if Amber says they are not cool, nobody thinks they’re cool. That’s the way it works when you’re cohead cheerleader.”

“Oh,” I said. It felt like someone had punched me in my stomach. How could
flowers
not be cool? They were the most amazing, beautiful things ever. I just didn’t get it.

“I’m sorry, Del,” said Amy, breaking the silence.

“Thanks, Amy,” I said, remembering to be polite. But I kind of wanted to put my head down on the table and cry.

I spent the rest of the day with a heavy heart. I had asked Becky why she hadn’t returned my call the night before, and she gave me some lame excuse, so I was feeling weird
about that. I dreaded telling my family the news from Amy. I also dreaded going to gym class. I had successfully avoided Hamilton all week. But there would be no escaping him in gym class. Plus, my new lab partner, Bob, would be there, too. He was unable to participate thanks to his crutches, but totally able to make fun of everyone from the sidelines. What a way to end the week!

I changed into my gym clothes morosely. My mood certainly did not match the garish purple-and-yellow outfit I was wearing. Dad had fallen behind on his laundry duties again, so I had no gym socks and was forced to wear the not-meant-to-be-seen knee socks I’d had on under my jeans — and they were red-and-white striped. I shouldn’t have, but I looked at myself in the mirror before I headed out the door. I totally looked like a clown.

When I walked into the gym, Ashley took one look at me and shrieked, “Where are my sunglasses? Del is blinding me!”

I barely even glanced her way. I had more important things on my mind.

“Hey,” Ashley went on in a loud whisper. “How are things with Bob?”

I gave her a quizzical look. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could feel Hamilton’s eyes on my back. I didn’t turn around to confirm.

“You know, your
partner,
” she said meaningfully.

I opened my mouth to reply. But then, said partner spoke up and added insult to injury. “Did you get dressed in the dark, Del Frito-Lay?” he shouted.

Tweet!
Our gym teacher, Mr. Rolando, blew his whistle and we all looked his way. “I thought we’d take a break from basketball today,” he said. Some kids cheered and others groaned. I decided to withhold my reaction until I heard what the alternative was.

“So instead I have a treat — an oldie but a goodie. Today we are going to play Steal the Bacon!” he said cheerfully.

This time
everyone
groaned. Myself included.

“A fine, friendly game that tests your speed and agility,” he boomed. He smiled. “I used to love to play Steal the Bacon in gym class back at Saint Nicholas of Tolentine School,” he said. He divided us into teams and gave us each a number from one to twelve. Then he placed a gym towel on the floor. “This is the bacon,” he said solemnly.
He explained that he would randomly call a number and the two kids with the same number would walk up to the towel and circle it. Then one kid would grab the “bacon” and try to run back “home.” If that kid made it back, that team got a point. If they got tagged, the other team got the point. It was simple, he said.

And awful,
I thought.

The only game I could think of that was worse than this was musical chairs. Not too long ago, that game had been a staple at almost every birthday party. I can still remember making it to the bitter end, circling the remaining chair, warily eyeing the boy or girl who, until that moment, had been a friend and was now a mortal enemy. Then the dive for the chair. And one person triumphantly sitting, the other unceremoniously ending up on the floor.

“Number four,” called Mr. Rolando. I watched as two kids ran up to the towel and begin circling it.

“Grab it, grab it!” called Bob from the sidelines. “Do something!”

Finally, Rob Chambers grabbed the “bacon” and ran back “home” as fast as he could. Maria Gonzales didn’t stand a chance.
My team is losing at Steal the Bacon,
I
thought.
And my family is losing business that they really need. What are we going to tell Gran and Gramps?

“Number ten,” called Mr. Rolando.

I watched as Fred Jacobs, a kid from the other team, approached the towel — I mean bacon. Then I watched as he grabbed it and ran away.
Uh-oh,
I thought.
Some dummy forgot their number.

“Del, what are you doing?” one of my teammates yelled.

Oh no.
That dummy was me! I stood up but it was too late. Fred was jumping up and down, having scored a point for his team. I hadn’t even tried to stop him. How humiliating.

“Way to go, Del!” shouted Bob sarcastically. Ashley, who was on the other team, saluted me. I couldn’t even look at Hamilton, who was also on the other team.

Mortified, I stared at the floor. I hated Steal the Bacon. I hated Bob. I hated Ashley. And I definitely hated the prom, too. It was totally distracting me.

At the end of the class, I trudged out of the gym, my eyes on the scuffed floor.

“Hey, Del!” said a voice. I groaned. It was Hamilton. I had almost made it.

“Hey, Hamilton,” I said weakly.

“I hate Steal the Bacon,” he said with a grin. “We used to play it all the time at my old school. One time I stole it and this kid tackled me and almost pulled down my gym shorts.”

I laughed despite myself. He may have been the enemy, but he was still very funny.

“So I wanted to ask you a question,” he said.

My heart flew to my throat. Oh no! What if he was going to ask me to the dance? I quickly changed the subject.

“You know what’s worse than Steal the Bacon?” I asked. “Nothing! Well, maybe square dancing. Remember square dancing?” I rattled on. We had just completed our square dancing unit, so the chances that he didn’t remember it, quite vividly, were slim. “That was not much fun, was it? Boy, I really didn’t enjoy that class. Basketball, I don’t mind. But Steal the Bacon and square dancing are the two worst. For sure.”

Hamilton was looking at me bemusedly. By this point we were at the girls’ locker room door. “See you!” I said as
I yanked the door open and scooted inside. As the door swung shut, I caught a glimpse of his face. He looked confused and could it be … disappointed?

I got dressed slowly, taking my sweet time. It was the last class of the day so I had nowhere to be. When I left the locker room, I checked to see if the coast was clear. Uh-oh. Hamilton was still there! But then I realized he was deep in conversation with Ashley. He looked pretty serious. I opened the door and sidled out. He didn’t even notice me. I told myself I didn’t care and headed to my locker.

But I did care. Just a little.

That night after dinner, I told my family what Amy had said that morning.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” said Mom, blinking in confusion. “A whole school full of kids who don’t like flowers?”

Aster, Rose, and Poppy looked puzzled. I knew how they felt. When your family has been in the flower business as long as ours, when a vase of fresh cut flowers on the table is a staple, like milk in the refrigerator, you just don’t get it when someone says they don’t like flowers.
Some people don’t like cats. I may not agree, but I get it.

Some people don’t like broccoli. This I understand. But flowers? It’s like saying you don’t like sunshine. Or chocolate cake. Or babies, for heaven’s sake.

“So the question is,” I said, trying to keep our conversation on track, “how
do
we make flowers for the prom cool?”

“How about using fruit?” suggested Dad. “Like your centerpieces?”

Mom shook her head. “Too messy. One slow dance and there’s fruit salad squashed all over the front of someone’s tuxedo.”

That made me laugh, in spite of everything.

“How about using exotic flowers?” said Rose. “Like … birds of paradise!”

“Or hibiscus,” said Aster.

I was impressed that my sisters could name exotic flowers. They had definitely been paying attention at the store.

Mom frowned. “Even if we use the most amazing exotic flowers, I don’t think that’s going to make prom flowers seem cool,” she said. “It’s still a wrist corsage on an elastic band, you know?”

Nobody knew what to say. So instead, we moved
to the family room and watched two episodes of
Cash Cab.
We yelled out answers, but other than that, we didn’t talk.

When it was over, Mom yawned. “Delly?” she said.

“Yes?” I said warily. She always calls me that when she wants me to do something she thinks I won’t be interested in doing.

“Would you mind reading to Poppy before bedtime? Daddy and I are really tired tonight.”

I sighed. I was just about to ask why Rose or Aster couldn’t do it, but the look of excitement on Poppy’s face kept my mouth shut. “Sure,” I said.

Upstairs, I rifled through the books on Poppy’s bookshelf as she brushed her teeth and washed her face, and got changed into a ruffled pink nightgown. She had so many of my old favorites.
Harry the Dirty Dog. Charlotte’s Web. Ruby the Copycat. Pippi Longstocking. Ramona the Pest.
Then I spotted an old battered copy of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Poppy had been disappointed when she hadn’t been allowed to see the Tim Burton version, so I thought she might get a kick out of reading the real thing.

“What about this?” I asked as Poppy sat down heavily
on the rug and began peeling off her socks. She always saved them for last.

“Cool,” she said. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

I sat on the edge of her bed, opened the book, and began to read the first chapter. “‘Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do …’” Right away I could feel Poppy relaxing as the story caught her attention.

I read on. “‘… So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes —’”