SUNFLOWER
While growing, sunflowers tilt their faces to follow the sun throughout the day. So if a mother is like the sun and her child is like the flower … Well, the analogy speaks for itself. Mothers are super important.
I leaned against the side of the flower van, my notebook open in my hands, my pencil furiously scratching away. I was attempting to sketch a skirt. I wanted a variety of pieces for my design portfolio, and so far I felt like I only had one or two really strong options.
I paused and studied what I’d drawn. It wasn’t good. I growled and scribbled through it, making it completely impossible to fix later. I hadn’t designed anything useful in the past couple of months. It felt like my inspiration had dried up somewhere between Presidents’ Day and Easter. I slammed the book shut and threw it on top of my backpack just as Caroline came back to the van for more centerpieces.
“Is your mother coming today?” she asked, lifting out two tin watering cans filled with sunflowers. “You should take a break to sit with her at some point. I think I can spare you for an hour.”
I grabbed two centerpieces as well. “She picked up a morning shift at the diner so she might be a little late, but she’s coming.”
“Oh, good.”
I carried the centerpieces across the park to the tables set up between two big oak trees. I set the flowers down and stared at them. I wasn’t a fan of the tin. If it had been up to me, I would’ve arranged the big yellow flowers with small white daisies and white roses in painted mason jars. Or maybe clear jars filled with water and sliced lemons. But as Caroline had said, the organizer of the annual Mother’s Day Brunch, Ms. Jewel Jackson, would love the watering tins.
I spotted Micah standing at a long table, lighting the fuel can under a chafing dish. I wondered what was on the menu. Last Mother’s Day it had been muffins, apple-cinnamon French toast, fruit, sweet tea, and lots of bacon. If Jett Hart was in charge, which he was, I had a feeling there wouldn’t be any bacon under those silver lids today.
I walked across the grass to join her. “Hey, friend.”
Micah twirled the lighter around her finger once and clicked the trigger.
“Looks like you’re feeling better,” I said. She’d missed school on Friday with some stomach bug that I was glad I hadn’t caught because we’d shared a drink at lunch the day before.
“Because my lighter-twirling skills are back?” she asked.
“That was the main clue.”
She smiled. “I feel so much better. Thanks for bringing me history notes last night.”
“Of course. I mean, once I heard your dad made cookies, I was going to use any excuse to come over.”
“And here I thought you were just worried about me.”
“Right. That too.” I ran a hand through my hair, which had grown long past my shoulders.
She tilted her head. “What’s on your hand?”
“What?” I looked and saw the smeared pencil from the sketch I’d been drawing. I rubbed at it. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Caroline,” I heard a guy’s voice say from behind me. “The decorations are even better than last time.”
I turned to see Andrew carrying a dish to the table. I hadn’t seen Andrew Hart—or his dad—since Valentine’s Day, and in the intervening months I’d convinced myself that I had overreacted. That Andrew probably wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d made him out to be.
“Thank you,” Caroline said, arranging another centerpiece.
“What?” Andrew asked when he noticed me staring. “Can’t a guy give a compliment? For example: Nice skirt.”
My skirt was black with little oranges on it, and I’d paired it with a short-sleeved orange cardigan that I’d sewn lace along the bottom of and buttoned all the way up to wear like a shirt.
“Did my dad tell you to try to match a menu item today?” he continued.
Or, I hadn’t overreacted at all.
“Does your dad actually talk to people he thinks are beneath him? Or only growl at them?” I shot back.
After the Valentine’s Dinner, I’d gone home and Googled Jett Hart. Micah was right; he had connections. He’d been photographed with plenty of celebrities—from movie stars to models. Then I’d rewatched some episodes of Cooking with Hart on Netflix and was reminded of how gruff and obnoxious the chef could be. So my hopes were pretty low that he would actually use those connections for me.
Andrew didn’t take my bait but his jaw tightened, so I knew it had bothered him.
Micah waved the lighter in the air like a flag. “Really? Are you two going to be annoying at another event? Can we live in peace, please?” Unlike me, Micah had seen Andrew at three private catering events in the past few months. Events that hadn’t required flowers. She’d been the one to tell me he was nicer than I was remembering. She was wrong.
“I’m busy working,” I said. “I will keep to myself.”
“Promise?” Andrew asked.
Micah elbowed him and he let out a grunt followed by a “What?”
I shook it off and went back to the van for the last couple of centerpieces. You can handle Andrew Hart today, I told myself. You’re a professional.
As I set the last sunflower centerpieces on their tables, Caroline handed me a piece of yellow paper. “The game!” she said, her voice full of excited anticipation.
Right. I’d forgotten that the Mother’s Day Brunch always included a game of some sort. At the top of the page were the words: How strong is your mother/daughter bond? That title was followed by a list of questions, from favorite foods to favorite movies to nighttime rituals.
“So you answer one side for yourself and the other side for your mom, or daughter,” Caroline explained. “Then you match up answers. The team who gets the most right wins our annual prize.”
“Hank’s Barbecue gift certificate?”
“Of course.”
Because nothing says mother like a gift card for barbecue. But I couldn’t be too harsh. While my pick would’ve been a gift card to a spa, we didn’t have a spa in town. The closest thing we had was a nail salon and even that was a thirty-minute drive.
“Fun, right?” Caroline asked.
“Yes, that should be fun.” I handed her back the questionnaire.
She did a last-minute sweep, taking in the tables and flowers. “We have extra flowers in the van, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good, because the food table could use a little something. Will you take the stems off a dozen sunflowers and place them strategically around the chafing dishes?”
I nodded.
The tall sunflowers sat in a big bucket in the back of the van. I pulled one out and turned it bloom down to cut off the stem, then set it off to the side. I retrieved another flower. I flipped it and smoothed the petals down. I twirled the stem, watching the petals extend like a little flower ballerina. An image twisted through my mind: a dozen ballerinas flitting across a stage in airy, bright yellow tulle skirts with yellow ballet slippers, ribbons twisting up their legs, the stage blanketed with flower petals. I shook my head; I was so easily distracted.
I finished the flower-beheading assignment and carried the fifteen sunflowers over to the food table, where Andrew and Micah were laughing about something.