Free Pure Red by Danielle Joseph Page B

says.
    I pull back a little and look at his face to see if he’s serious.
    “Do you think I’m going to let one tiny spot ruin my whole outfit?” He holds up the corner of his shirt. “I doubt your coach would, either.”
    I laugh. “But you should see the way Ms. Parker dresses. She’s no jok e.”
    “And neither are you.” Lucien gives my shoulder a tap and helps me up.
    Dad sprays his painting with matte finish, and the aerosol smell quickly fills the air. I cough.
    He gathers his stuff. “Ready to go, cheri e ?”
    “She’s ready.” Lucien smiles at me.
    –––––
    Dad and I pick up takeout for dinner from Pasta Genie and eat in front of the TV. We end up twirling our spaghetti and watching Deal or No Deal , which turns into a conversation about what we’d do with the prize money. European travel is on both of our lists, surfing lessons for me and a new studio for Dad. We both agree a maid would be nice, too.
    After the show, an ad comes on for the Miami Heat.
    “We should go to a game sometime,” Dad suggests.
    “Sure. That’d be fun.” If it would ever really happen.
    Dad gathers the dishes. “What got you interested in basketball, anyway?”
    “Well, I felt like doing something physical this summer, so I asked my P.E. teacher if he knew of a place I could play and he suggested the Y. He said I’m a good ball player.” I fold up the extra napkins.
    “That’s great. It’s a good game,” Dad says.
    I can’t tell him I’m on a passion-seeking mission. He was practically born with a paintbrush in his hand. He’d never understand.
    After dinner I call Liz, but her voicemail picks up. I’m sure she’s with Harry. I flip the channels on the TV in my room but nothing grabs me. There are only so many matchmaking and self-help shows that one can take. Maybe a book will keep me occupied. I always find something good to read from the bookshelf in the living room. As I run my hands over the bindings, I see the book Mom made. Well, it’s not really a book, but a collection of pressed flowers bound into a scrapbook. I grab a copy of Of Mice and Men and the pressed flowers and head back to my room. I open Mom’s book first and run my fingers over the crinkly paper. Next to each flower she wrote the common name, scientific name, and its origin.
    The first one is an Amaryllis belladonna or, as I like to refer to it, the Naked Lady. It’s from San Diego. The stem has no leaves and the pink petals are spread pretty wide apart. I wonder if my mom ever visited California. It’s a place I’ve never been, but I can imagine the naked ladies strutting their stuff; not much different than South Beach, really!
    On the next page is a more subtle flower, the lemon bacopa o r, scientific name, Bacopa caroliniana . It has four purplish-blue petals and a yellowish center. I flip past the bladderwort, African violet, and marigold and go right to my favorite, Cassia fistula , a native of South Florida. It’s hard to believe Dad named me after a plant in the pea family, but circumstance prevails. He first saw Mom when she was standing in front of the plant, waiting for a bus. He was eighteen, barely out of high school, and she was sixteen. I should be thankful they didn’t name me after the naked lady or the bladderwort. The common name for this yellow plant, with small delicate petals, is golden shower.
    Naturally, when I learned my name’s meaning, I tho ught it meant a shower of pure gold. However, about five years later, a psycho kid in my fourth grade class, Allen Farnsworth, told me a golden shower is when you piss all over someone because you really like them. I thought he was a total liar until he asked if I wanted a demonstration. I didn’t stay past him unzipping his fly, but cried all the way home. I couldn’t pee for the rest of the night. My dad was sure I had a bladder infection. He bribed me with a trip to the toy store the next day if I went to the bathroom. It worked. Needless to say, I