the sticky summertime air, then pushed it out. My heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm.
Six white roses dotted the newly formed branches. I took stock of the rest of the garden. The chaste tree had sprouted new roots like tentacles, cracking open its plastic planter. Its bright lavender blooms craned toward me. I couldn’t chance growing another set of roses to give Mr. Hughes the dozen he wanted. These would have to work.
Taking a pair of pruning shears from my apron pocket, I clipped the roses and hurried back inside. As I handed them to my mom, Mr. Hughes’s face lit up.
“First you tell me you don’t have any, then Briseis goes and finds the best-looking flowers I’ve ever seen,” he said happily.
“I was keeping them special, just for you,” I said. “I only have six. I hope that’s okay.” The smile on his face made the little white lie worth it.
“They’re perfect,” he said.
Mom flashed me a tight smile. “I’ll wrap them up.”
She tucked the roses inside a layer of ivory tissue and brown paper, then pulled a length of white jute from the big spool on the counter and tied a knot in three turns.
“Angie and I are here if you need anything,” she said, handing him the flowers. “Don’t hesitate to call us.”
“I don’t want to bother you,” he said.
“Don’t,” my mom said firmly. “Don’t do that. It’s not a bother and neither are you, understand?”
He nodded, dabbing at his eyes. “Tell Mo I said thanks for dinner the other night. I owe you.”
“I’ll tell her,” my mom said. “And you don’t owe us anything—except maybe some of your world-famous peach cobbler.”
Mr. Hughes laughed, his eyes still damp with tears. “I got you covered. I make it from scratch—my grandmama’s recipe. Nothing like it in the whole world.”
He beamed. My mom went around the counter and gave him a hug.
I ducked back behind my flower arrangement and took a deep breath. I’d been able to help this time, but it couldn’t be a habit. The last time I’d pushed my abilities to their limit was after an argument I’d had with my mom. I didn’t even remember what it was about, but my overdramatic ass was upset and decided to sit in the garden and grow some chamomile as a distraction. I took a handful of loose-leaf tea and scattered it in the dirt.
And then, I’d pushed too hard. I grew dozens of the daisy-like chamomile plants, but I also brought the roots of our neighbor’s Norway maple tree up through the ground, tearing apart the landscaping and busting a hole in the fence. Mo told the guy next door that sometimes trees go through a growth spurt, like kids when they hit puberty, and for some reason that was beyond me, his dumb ass believed her.
I helped Mo patch the fence, but every time I looked at the new, pale pickets, a stab of shame coursed through me.
The flowers in my arrangement craned their soft petals toward me. Any time I was sad or scared or happy, they took notice, reacted in kind. Grief and sadness made them shrivel; happiness made them perk up; and fear and anger made them lash out.
I’d been growing plants in recycled plastic milk cartons and empty glass jars since I was a kid. Mom said I had the greenest thumb she’d ever seen, even as a toddler. She found out exactly how green when she left me in the sunroom of my grandma’s house when I was three. She went to grab her purse, and when she came back, I was tangled in the vibrant green vines of a velvet-leaved philodendron—a plant that had been dead and withered when she’d stepped out.
From that point on, Mom and Mo gave me little tests. They’d put me near a dead plant, and it would turn green and grow new sprouts if I paid attention to it. When I was older, they gave me seeds that I would plant and bring to bloom in minutes. They didn’t know how or why I could do the things I did, but they accepted it, nurtured it, and let it grow, just like the plants—until I was about twelve.
Everything changed after that. I had a harder time keeping my power in check. Everywhere I went, if there was something green and growing, it was like an alarm went off, alerting it to my presence. The flora wanted my attention, and if I was being honest, I