Free The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns by Margaret Dilloway

“St. Mark’s only allows lip gloss. And I agree.”
    “I like to express myself. I suppose you’ve never tried it.” Riley picks up the cold cream.
    “Everything I need is up here.” I tap my temple. “Not on the outside.”
    “My appearance is a manifestation of my personality.” Riley heads into the bathroom. “I thought you, with your roses, could understand that.”
    I’m kind of impressed by her use of the word “manifestation.” “I suppose I do understand. But roses can’t help how they look.”
    “Because you make them look how you want.” She shuts the door.
    • • •
    I HEAD OUTSIDE, intending to lock up the greenhouse. The air is cooling. A gnat buzzes by my face. As I walk to the greenhouse, my clogs crunching on the path, I hear a noise from the roses. To my surprise, Brad is in the garden, pulling weeds on his hands and knees. I’m more surprised to see how many weeds I’d missed. “Hey, Miss Garner.” He isn’t surprised to see me, on the other hand. He pushes his floppy hair out of his face. The boy hasn’t broken a sweat though his wheelbarrow is full.
    “Brad. I didn’t know it was your day to come. Were you here earlier? I was just outside.” How had I missed him, squatting in the bushes?
    “Just got here.”
    I accept this. “Have you heard from any colleges yet?” Brad plays football and baseball, but our school is too small for scouts to bother. Instead, I’ve advised him to apply for science scholarships, ones for children of veterans and first-generation college students, and whatever else I’ve ever seen cross my path.
    He shakes his head. “Not yet. Ms. Garner? I can’t come tomorrow. Practice. So I came tonight to work.”
    “I have dialysis tomorrow night. Who’s going to water the greenhouse?” Tomorrow is their day for watering.
    Most people would suggest watering today instead, but Brad knows better. These roses need water when they need it, not sooner and not later. Otherwise you can kill them. “I can get my dad to come.”
    I think of Brad’s dad, the school janitor, heading here after his long hours of cleaning up after the private school kids, some of whose weekly allowances are more than his pay. Mine too. I don’t want Brad’s dad to do it. “I’ll think of something else.” Dara, maybe. Or Riley. Of course. Riley’s here.
    “Riley!” I bellow toward the house. I have a really loud voice for someone so small. It’s the kind of voice that cuts through all other noise and chatter. Dara says when I try to whisper, it’s louder than most people’s regular volume. Never try to gossip with me quietly in public. Everyone will hear.
    Riley comes out, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, her dyed hair bound in a neat ponytail. Wearing her Abercrombie sweats with a pink Abercrombie T-shirt, at last she looks more like the niece I remember, more like a little girl, the opposite of what she wants. “Giving that company plenty of free advertising, I see.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” She nods at Brad, who finally gets up from his weeding.
    “This is your niece?” Brad wipes his hand on his jeans. “I’m Brad.” He smiles in a friendly way, but she kind of looks off to the side again and offers her hand back, floppy as a fish.
    “Did the kids talk about it today?”
    “You better believe it.”
    Kids always know more than the adults do when it comes to gossip. “Riley, come here. I’m going to show you how to water the roses tomorrow night.”
    She nods once, reluctantly. “Um, yeah. Don’t I just turn on the hose?”
    “They have to be watered the right amount. And they’ll need food, so we have to use the sump pump.” I consult my rose book, Winslow Blythe’s
Complete Rose Guide
. Blythe is an octogenarian rose grower who’s written volumes of works. Sometimes I modify what he does, but he often has some good detail. If it weren’t for him, I would have used pesticide at full strength on my new blooms, burning them.
    “Wait a second.”