“Maybe I should take you home,” said Jake.
Photo by David Clode on Unsplash
Flora must’ve looked like some Christmas-horror movie, the spreading red rash on her face competing with the creeping shade of green from accidentally inhaling through her nose, a thousand smells invading her already overloaded senses. She just didn’t want to throw up in front of Jake.
She turned abruptly and fast-stepped toward her house, still coughing violently. To her surprise, Jake caught up with her, even ran ahead to open her front door.
“Will you be alright?” he asked.
She wanted to speak but could feel the bile forming. She gave him what she hoped was a friendly wave as she bolted up the stairs to her bathroom. Just in time.
Thank goodness her mother arrived home just a few minutes later to give her the “serious” meds, help her into the shower and into bed, where she slept for nearly 14 hours.
Waking the next day, Saturday, she was drowsy but felt a lot better as she contemplated her close encounter with the one and only Jake DeMeola.
A lawn mower sputtered to life outside. Flora rushed to her window seat. Jake was pushing the mower in one direction and then the other across the grass in front of his house, making neat stripes. His white t-shirt, half-tucked, had a tear on one side. The muscles in his arms were defined from the weight of the old machine. As he cut the engine and rolled the machine over to Mrs. Johnson’s lawn, he looked up at Flora’s window. She threw herself off the bench and hunched on the floor, then crawled back to her bed.
Oh, what was the use? A boy like Jake would never be interested in a girl like Flora, damaged goods, defective packaging, limited use and no warranty.
But still, she wanted to see those topaz eyes again. To hear his voice.
She sat up. Of course! She had the perfect excuse to talk to him again, to ask about Mrs. Johnson. She’d never forgive herself if she let this moment pass.
She dressed in the trendiest clothes in her closet, high-waisted baggy jeans, a short tee with a daisy on it—her mother’s—and her whitest tennis shoes. She took an antihistamine tablet and applied her hypo-allergenic lip gloss and brushed her dark hair while waiting for it to take effect. It didn’t stop reactions completely, but it helped. Because of her sensitivity to smells, she couldn’t take the nasal sprays that were most effective.
“You can do this, Flora,” she told herself in the mirror. Jake had moved on to the Cameron’s lawn next to Mrs. Johnson’s.
She rushed down the stairs, past her mother’s closed door. Her mom was most likely still asleep, exhausted by her caregiving last night.
At the front door, Flora took a practice breath through her mouth and out she went.
Jake had his back to her as she crossed the street, but when he turned the mower around at the Camerons’ jasmine hedges by their house, he saw her standing on the sidewalk. He smiled and cut the motor.
“Hey.” He walked over to meet her. “How you doing?”
“Better, thanks. Um, how’s Mrs. Johnson?”
“Oh yeah. I talked to a nurse. She has a concussion and a lot of bruising but no broken bones, miraculously. She’ll be home in a couple days.”
“Oh good.”
Flora realized with slight terror that her one reason to talk to Jake was now gone. In nearly one sentence. And the cut grass was already making her eyes water.
“Is it true?” Jake asked hesitantly.
“What?”
“That you’re hypersensitive to smells?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“All smells?”
“Pretty much.”
Great. Even Jake DeMeola is going to think her a freakshow like all the rest. Flora’s shoulders fell slightly, her whole demeanor seemed to fall. But Jake’s next sentence completely surprised her.
“It’s kind of like having a superpower, isn’t it.”
Photo by Braydon Anderson on Unsplash