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

geezer public displays should be banned,” Tara whispered behind them. “Who’d want to kiss someone that ancient? And if I have to listen to another one of her stupid luv poems—”
    Laurel spun around on Tara. “I love her love poems,” she said. “They’re sweet.”
    Tara smirked. “Like anyone cares what you think. You’re psycho.”
    Nicole laughed, but Kate cleared her throat. “I like the love poems, too. It’s not like we all have to like the same thing all the time.” Kate went on. “That’d be lame.”
    All trace of triumph had vanished from Tara’s pale face. “Whatever. Are you coming already, Nicole?” Nicole was trying not to smile, but followed her anyway.
    Laurel met Kate’s eyes. “Thanks,” she mouthed.
    Kate took a step forward. “I am not her puppet.”
    “I know,” said Laurel. “Are you hungry?”
    “Always,” said Kate.
    After brunch they walked back to the dorm together, and so Kate was standing at her side when Laurel found a note taped on her door:
    Laurel:
    Please come to the conservatory for dinner tomorrow after soccer .
    —G. Suarez
    “G.?” said Laurel, unlocking her door.
    “Geneva Suarez,” said Kate. “Must be nice. No teacher’s ever invited me to dinner.”
    “She knew my mom,” said Laurel. And she’s going to tell me all about her.
    “Really?” Kate followed Laurel into her room. “But you’re not gonna eat inside the conservatory, are you?”
    Laurel slipped off her uniform skirt and pulled on a pair of jeans. “Why not?”
    Kate frowned. “’Cause there’s this rumor it’s haunted.”
    “The conservatory? You’re kidding.”
    Kate shook her head solemnly. “ Tons of people think so. Just get out before dark.”
     
    Every winter after the lights and warmth of Christmas had dimmed, Laurel’s mom would stare out at the browns and beiges dominating her garden and throw up her hands.
    “I can’t take it!” her mom would cry. “I need colors! I need scents!” As soon as possible, she and Laurel would head to a conservatory. Their color-starved eyes would feast on shades of pink, red, lavender, and green on their“winter pilgrimage,” as her mom called their road trips.
    Over the years Laurel had visited so many conservatories on the East Coast that she wondered, as she walked to meet Ms. Suarez, why her mom had never mentioned Avondale’s. In fact, her mom hadn’t talked about the school much at all, other than to shake her head at the drug scandal that had made national headlines the year before Laurel arrived. They never once discussed her applying, maybe because both of them were clinging to hope for a cancer miracle that never came.
    Outside the Avondale conservatory a tall woman dressed in shorts and hiking boots was cutting faded blooms off some bushes. Laurel’s shoes crunched across the gravel driveway. “Ms. Suarez?”
    “Excellent,” Ms. Suarez said. She had a smudge of dirt across her cheekbone. “Thanks for coming.” Taking off her gardening gloves, the teacher pulled the conservatory door shut and locked it. She picked up a backpack and handed it to Laurel. “Let’s hurry so we have time to picnic.” Ms. Suarez slipped another pack over her shoulders and walked around the building toward a path into the woods.
    Laurel hurried to catch up. “But I thought you were going to give me a tour.”
    Ms. Suarez’s pace didn’t slacken. “It can wait. I want to show you something that can’t.”
    “What?”
    A smile flickered across the teacher’s lips. “You’ll see.”
    The trail sloped upward through a meadow and into cool, shady woods. The surrounding silence was broken only by the snap of twigs underfoot and the twitter of birds scattering before them. Laurel’s legs were exhausted from soccer, and her stomach was tight with hunger, but Ms. Suarez’s excitement was catching.
    At the crest of the hill the teacher finally stopped and took out a water bottle. Laurel did the same and gazed at the vista spread