Free Forget-Her-Nots by Amy Brecount White Page A

glowering down at them.
    “That one’s mine,” Tara said, holding out her hand.
    “Uh, sure.” Laurel thrust the flower up at Tara, who walked off in a huff. One of the petals had fallen into Laurel’s lap.
    Laurel’s eyes flicked back to Everett, who was laughing loudly with his friends. “Is he drunk or something?” she whispered as she stroked the soft petal.
    “Who knows,” said Justin. “He’s almost always a jerk.”
    “Always,” added Rose.
    “Great,” said Laurel. “And he’s weird about flowers, too.”
    “Hey, my mom’s pretty into flowers,” Justin said. “I should get her that book you mentioned. What’s it called again?”
    “ The Language of Flowers ,” said Laurel.
    “Can I get it online?” asked Justin.
    “I think so. It would make a great gift, like for Mother’s Day. And you could give her a tussie—” She stopped.
    Justin was saying something else, but Laurel couldn’t focus on his voice because of the sudden and searing pain in her chest as her own words sank in like a hatchet. I don’t ever have to buy a Mother’s Day present again, she thought. Ever.
    Clutching her stomach and pressing her spine against the wall, she managed to stand up. Merde . She’d embarrassed herself in front of this crowd too many times already.
    “Laurel? You okay?” Justin looked up at her. His hand reached toward her, but if she took it, she might disintegrate.
    “I—um—” Her eyes burned as she pushed through a forest of bodies.
    “Laurel!”
    Rose’s voice was behind her, and she heard Mina call too, but tears already streaked her face. No one could see her like this. She ran outside and collapsed behind a wide tree to gulp the cooling darkness and wait for the pain to weaken.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Wild Orchid
    S aturday morning passed in a fog, but that afternoon Laurel crisscrossed the gardens in search of the feathery plant that somebody had included in her mystery bouquet. She had no luck there but was determined to resolve this once and for all. Finding an illustrated guide to herbs in the library, she narrowed it down to two: dill and fennel. She was pretty sure she’d recognize the smell of dill—like in pickles. Fennel, the flower book said, meant “worthy of all praise . . . strength.”
    “Hope, excellence, praise and strength.” Laurel closed her eyes, but she couldn’t barricade herself against the tidal wave of disappointment. Absolutely no one would choose those flowers for a luv bouquet. She blew out the last glimmer of hope she was still carrying for a secret admirer. All day long a tiny piece of her kept hopingJustin would get in touch with her—to check up on her—but he didn’t. I have too much baggage for anyone, she thought that night.
    The next morning she was so wrapped up in her own misery that it wasn’t until chapel was almost over that she noticed Ms. Suarez sitting in the pew next to Miss Spenser and the professor. Staring at the backs of the teachers’ heads, she determined one thing: Ms. Suarez had to tell her more about her mom.
    After dismissal from chapel Laurel waited by a large holly tree near the back door, but then she saw Ms. Suarez’s golf cart already heading toward the garden. I’ll look like a dork if I run after her, she thought. Miss Spenser’s laugh rang out nearby. The professor was standing close to her, almost whispering in her ear, and her lips seemed about to smile.
    My tulips rock, Laurel thought. Her favorite lines from the E.E. Cummings poem Miss Spenser had read bubbled into her mind:
    your slightest look easily will unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
    What would that feel like? Laurel wondered. To be opened “petal by petal”? Miss Spenser was definitely blooming under the professor’s attentions.
    “Looks like their romance is—uh— budding .” Kate gave Laurel a knowing look.
    “I think