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

She disappears into the house.
    Brad raises his eyebrow at me. “Guess you have your hands full.”
    It’s such an adult thing to say, but typical from Brad. “Do me a favor tomorrow. Help her find her way around.”
    “Yeah. No problem.”
    She hasn’t reappeared. “Riley!” I yell.
    “I needed my shoes. Sheesh.” She has put on a jacket. The sky is darkening.
    Brad follows us into the greenhouse. I could tell him to run along home, but I figure he’ll have something helpful to say. Riley barely deigns to acknowledge either of us.
    I get out the measuring pitchers and show her the rose food. I show her how to use the sump pump, sticking one hose into the rose-food mixture and the expelling end out over the roses. “Don’t forget to plug it in.”
    Riley crosses her arms over her. Her stomach grumbles audibly. It’s been hours since that burrito. I’ve got to get her dinner. “So. Is that it? Each plant gets water? What a revelation.”
    Apparently sarcasm runs in our family. I change the subject, pointing to one of my speckled red Hulthemias. Not unlike the one Byron has. “What do you think about this plant?”
    She screws up her nose. “The spotting makes it look diseased.”
    Brad snorts.
    “Thank you for your opinion.” I decide to e-mail Byron about it.
    “It’s true.”
    Brad scribbles something down in the notebook on the table. “The formula.” He rips the page off and sticks it onto the tack board above.
    “I can remember. Three cups of food. Water to the line.” Riley glances around as if seeing the room for the first time. Her lips purse. “I knew you did this, Aunt Gal, but I didn’t know you were so, like, into it.”
    “It’s pretty much her whole life.” Brad sits on the stool and assesses my niece. I believe the term is “checking her out.” I frown at him, but to my relief Riley does not notice.
    “Cool.” Her tone says it’s anything but. “So, uh, can we go eat?”
    I glance toward Brad. He nods. “I’ll lock up after I put away the wheelbarrow.”
    “Thanks.” I point to my car. “McDonald’s all right?”
    “Not really, but I’ll eat it.”
    “Good job not complaining.” I unlock the car.
    Brad stands in the driveway, waving to us as though he owns the place. Of course he does. He spends so many hours here. If I’m home, I feed him chicken nuggets or pizza rolls and give him soda. I’m like his aunt. But for some reason I feel peculiar. Uneasy. It must be because of Riley and how he looked at her. I’ll have to be careful with her. Teens and their hormones. My own were too weakened by illness to torment me.
    “Do you have a boyfriend back home?” I said.
    “No, I do not. Did not. I don’t want one.” She crosses her arms. In profile, in this burgeoning evening, I could mistake her for Becky. I don’t tell her that, guessing my sister probably isn’t Riley’s favorite person at the moment, as she is not mine. In school, teachers would ask if I was related to Becky, and I’d always say, “Yes, but only by blood.” They would laugh every time. It wasn’t long before they discovered I was the studious one.
    “That’s good. Keep it that way until you’re forty.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Thirty-six. That must be why I don’t have one yet.” I laugh.
    “Your jokes are as corny as Grandpa’s.” She relaxes visibly, stretching her long legs out in my space-limited compact vehicle.
    “I learned from the best.” We pull into McDonald’s.

5
    I N THE MORNING, I HAVE MY TEA IN THE KITCHEN, LISTENING to the unfamiliar sounds of Riley getting ready. It involves a lot of banging doors and running water and loud music. Finally she appears, and I nearly spit out my tea in surprise. Her hair is in a French braid, and she didn’t reapply her makeup. No makeup at all, in fact, which makes me see the dark circles haven’t yet entirely disappeared from under her eyes. A plain white blouse and navy blue pants complete the look.
    “I’ll get you some