I light the candle sitting on the sheet music stand and watch the flame flicker while the scent of citronella fills my room. That scent always chills me out. Reminds me of sitting around in the communal garden and staving off the early summer mosquitoes. My mom got me into aromatherapy for a science project I did in the fifth grade, and it just kinda…stuck.
I sigh and look just past the candle, at Hopscotch in his terrarium.
“You don’t care, huh?” I smile at the frog. “Long as I have one good hand so I can play with you.”
I reach in and pick him up gently, feeling his slippery little body settle into the palm of my right hand as he blinks one eye, then the other, in hello.
He doesn’t ribbit much anymore since he’s old now, but I can look at his eyes and know when he’s smiling at me.
And right now, he’s smiling.
“Yeah, man, you’re right,” I say, setting him back inside next to his water pot. “Gotta keep positive.”
As if on cue, the fluffy little mop of chaos in the family bolts through the door and jumps up on my leg, panting up at me.
“Yo, Oscar, I’m a little laid-up now, you cain’t just be runnin’ up on me like that.” But I laugh and floof his snow white fur. I can’t stay mad at him.
And then I look up at the windowsill, at my third species of little ones to take care of. My plants. Specifically, my herbs—sage, rosemary, lavender, and oregano. I’ve never taken care of plants before. But they’re quieter than dogs, they’re cleaner than frogs, and they only need three things: water, sunlight, and company.
I scoot my keyboard seat up to the planter box outside the window and look down at them all. Arthur—my therapist, and feelings organizer extraordinaire—told me that talking to them can help fill in the gaps he can’t fill virtually, especially now that I’ve gone and injured myself and can’t go out for walks as often as I’d like. It just hasn’t been the same meeting with him over video call. I can’t sit on that huge emerald couch in his living room with the peach walls and the fresh plants, the soft sound of running water in the fountain on the coffee table, or the faint scent of eucalyptus—he’s into aromatherapy, too.
But here, in my almost-empty room, where all my anxieties sit with me 24/7, where I lie awake at night catastrophizing everything while Mom is out driving for people all day? How am I supposed to relax here?
So I fold my arms on the sill and look at my little green friends. Mr. Lavender is coming in nicely, but he grows slow so he won’t be ready until the end of summer, while Mrs. Oregano is already sprouted and ready to go. I lean down and smell her—that herby, delicious smell that I’m used to sprinkling in dried form over pizza.
“But that’s a disgraceful fate for a plant as pretty as you, huh, ma’am? You deserve to be used for something greater, fresher. Not sure what that is yet, but—”
The sound of a sliding window catches me off guard, and I look up to see—for the first time in three weeks—the girl across the gap. That’s what Mom calls the space between our buildings—the gap. The girl looks about my age, with the bell-shaped curls that brush her shoulders when she turns each page of whatever book she’s reading. The one with the round face and the eyes as big and dark as wine grapes and sparkly as marbles.
“Hey,” she says, leaning on the windowsill and clasping her hands together as if she has more to say. She’s looking down at me with a piercing stare, and I can’t tell if she’s mad or nervous or something else.
“Hey,” I say back, leaning on my windowsill, too, and nodding at her planter box. “Nice plants. What kind?”
She seems to prickle at my question, but then she glances down at them.
“Just…some starters I picked up at the nursery,” she says with a sigh, cradling her hands around her elbows. “I came out here to say uh…sorry.” She pauses for a minute, and I must stare in confusion for long enough that she realizes I have no idea what she’s talking about, because she shrugs and continues. “For…your arm.”
“Oh.”
I don’t hold it against her. I know cats aren’t easy to control. It’s why dogs are better. All they want to do is eat and play. I can relate. Unless…this girl sicced her cat on me? Or, for all I know, she might’ve been trying to flirt with me. I’m historically bad at realizing when someone’s flirting vs. messing with me.
“It’s fine now,” I lie with a smile. “Had time to recover. Enough to take up planting these guys. I was just out here talking to them, by the way. You ever talk to yours?”
“Nah.” She smirks. “Mine are too young. Don’t think their ears have grown in yet.”
No idea what she’s talking about. They look like they’re bursting right out of the planter box like a miniature jungle.
“They look almost ready for harvest to me,” I say, craning my neck to get a better look at them. “What is that, basil?”
“That was a joke,” she says, a bit coldly. “Why are you so interested in my plants anyway? Thought you had your own to worry about.”
“Well, I think that joke was pretty corny,” I say, with the hollowest silence between us in reply. “You know, because…I thought you meant you were growing…ears of…corn…Never mind.”
“Anyway, I just came out here to apologize,” she says, turning to pull the window closed. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“Doesn’t it?” I ask, before she can leave, “Or…wait…ohhhh, I get it.”
This seems to pique her interest.
“What?” she asks with a frown.
“You must be intimidated by my awesome gardening skills,” I say. Playing with her is strangely entertaining. It’s like poking a bear
