“That sounds dangerous,” she says, her voice now calm and soothing, like a healing salve. “Being out like that all day. With the virus and all.”
“Yeah,” I admit, letting my deep desire to brighten the mood a bit take over. “What about your mom? You said she’s out all day too. What’s she do?”
“She’s an EMT. So she’s out all day, especially now.”
“Oh.”
Definitely didn’t lighten the mood much. The awkward silence quickly takes over, and I worry I’ve gone and mucked this up, royally. Who would want to see a killjoy like me again? I turn my eyes down to my little plants, who despite all the things they must overhear out of me at their place at the windowsill, still don’t judge me. I tried, Mrs. Rosemary, I think. But then I hear it. Her voice again.
“Tell you what,” she says, straightening again. “Since you’re right, and I don’t have much to do up here, I’ll cut you a deal. You have twenty-four hours to prove you’re a better gardener than me by giving me something that you make with them, and I likewise. We’ll have to get creative, with quarantine and all, but if you’re really deserving of the ‘master gardener’ title, you’ll find a way. If I win, you keep your dog quiet, by any means necessary. Training, or even a muzzle.”
“Ouch,” I say, wincing in emotional pain. “Just gonna muzzle my best friend like that? Just gonna box in his greatness?”
She nods nonchalantly.
“As long as I’m boxed in across the alley.”
“And if I win?” I ask, my heart pounding, wondering what she’ll say.
She sighs.
“What are you hoping for?” she asks. “Help with homework?”
“Would you, uh…” I balance all my weight on one foot nervously. “Would you think less of me if I asked for your number?”
A car horn beeps just as I say the word number, and I worry she didn’t hear me right. But then I see red creep into her face, and she doesn’t seem to notice her cat walking under her arm and out onto the planter box until it’s too late. Reflexively, she grabs at the ball of fluff with claws, just as one of her back paws scoops out a shower of soil and sends it plummeting to the ground.
“Ruby!” she hollers, pulling the cat back through the window despite her incessant meowing. “You know better!”
When Billie pops back through the window again, she takes a long, deep breath.
“Deal.”
“Deal?!” I ask happily, hoping I didn’t sound thirsty. But the smile she gives me tells me she knows I’m walking the line.
“I said what I said, so now we’re even.” She smirks. “Almost. Matilda.”
Matilda?
“What?” I ask in confusion.
“Billie is short for Matilda. Now you know my real name like I know yours.”
I smile, glancing up at the sky and realizing it’s getting hazy and warm orange behind the purple clouds. Sunset will be here soon.
“Does that mean you want to see me again?”
“Don’t push it, Sebastian.” She smiles, leaning back into her apartment and shutting her window. Is it just me, or do her eyes linger on me for just a little longer than I expected before she draws the curtains?
“Yes!” I cry, turning and bolting for my door, sprinting barefoot past Oscar, who’s wagging his tail and bouncing around, freaking out, understandably. I scoop him up and let him lick my face.
“Oscar, you gotta help me, boy! We’ve got a gardening contest to win! Mom!” I holler out to the living room as I hear her keys jingle. Oscar runs to greet her, but I dart down the hall toward the bathroom. “Where is the beeswax?”
“What?” I hear her yell back as I rummage through cabinets of half-empty shampoo bottles and drawers of molds and bottles of oil.
“Where’s the beeswax?” I holler louder.
“Top cabinet!”
“Thanks!”
I’ve got something wonderful to make.
BILLIE VS. LASAGNA
Okay, he may be a little forward, and a little rough around the edges, but when I heard that he has to eat takeout every night…like, every night? Nobody deserves that. He potentially has never had a homemade lasagna. Just the ready-bake frozen stuff with the wood pulp cheese.
I have to help.
Besides, this is a nice first way to use my new herbs—all of them. In fact, I’ll make a chicken lasagna, which pairs nicely with the tarragon. I can always garnish with parsley and cilantro, and I’m currently mashing up the basil in my mortar, grinding the pestle against the stone, smearing green along the inside and pressing fragrant scents into the air.
Normally, pesto should sit overnight to let the flavors marry and the olive oil to turn green with basily essence, but if he—Bastian—thinks I’m about to lose a twenty-four-hour challenge over some pity, he’s sorely mistaken. Not pity, that’s the wrong word. Compassion? That sounds better.
Ruby rubs up on my ankle and meows.
“Come on, Rubles, it’s not like that,” I insist, tucking a loose curl that slipped out of my puff behind my ear. “He’s just a nice kid who deserves some homemade lasagna.”
A nice kid who wants your number, comes a voice in my head that I do not welcome.
I sigh and roll up my sleeves, because this is hard work.
Okay, fine. A nice kid who wants my number. But I won’t have to give it to him if I can just focus on folding this pesto into this shredded chicken, and this mascarpone into these eggs, and layering these pasta sheets between them into one large dish for us, and one miniature ceramic dish for him. Rubles slinks herself between my legs, weaving in and out like she’s saying she doesn’t believe me.
“Of course I want to win, Rubles. Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. But I keep glancing at the open window, relieved he can’t see this far into my
