Leaving Paradise by Simone Elkeles Page B

popular girls did a cheer right in front of him. I could have sworn he thought the cheer was just for him.
    As if that wasn’t bad enough, I heard Tristan Norris say in earth science that Caleb is going out for wrestling this year.
    Not only did I lose Leah as a friend and everyone else thinks I’m a walking freak, I have no hope of joining the tennis team or playing sports ever again.
    I’m chastising myself for comparing myself to Caleb as I ride the bus to Hampton for my first day working for Mrs. Reynolds. I just wish it was easier for me . . . or less easy for him. I realize I’m bitter, but I can’t help it. I’ve been through such pain and agony the past year, and going back to school has only emphasized what an outcast I’ve become.
    I reach Mrs. Reynolds’ house and ring the doorbell. She doesn’t answer. I keep ringing, hoping nothing bad has happened to her. Just my luck she decided to fire me before I even started the job.
    Placing my book bag on the ground, I head to the back of the house.
    Mrs. Reynolds is sitting on the porch swing. Her head is slumped over, but her chest is rising and falling with each breath. Okay, the woman is sleeping. Phew. Balancing in her hand is a glass of lemonade.
    This job is going to be a piece of cake. I feel ashamed for taking so much money from Mrs. Reynolds for doing nothing.
    I tiptoe toward the swing. I have to take the glass out of Mrs. Reynolds’ hand before it spills all over or, worse yet, shatters when her grip loosens and the glass hits the ground.
    Slowly, silently, I reach out and slip the glass out of her hand.
    “What do you think you’re doing?”
    The old lady’s voice startles me and I jump back. Mrs. Reynolds has one eye open like that guy from the cartoon monster movie. “I, uh, thought you were napping.”
    “Do I look like I’m napping?”
    “Right now you don’t.”
    Mrs. Reynolds sits up straight, her grey hair perfectly styled on top of her head. “Enough chatter. We have lots of work to do today.”
    “Do you want me to refill your lemonade? Make you a snack?” Fluff your pillows?
    “Nope. You see those bags over there?” Mrs. Reynolds says, her crooked finger pointing to the side of the yard.
    About ten huge paper bags are lined up in the grass. They’re all labeled with strange names: Apricot Whirl, Chromacolor, Decoy, Drift, Yellow Trumpet, Lemon Drops, Rosy Cloud. “What are they for?”
    “We’re going to plant them. They’re daffodils. Well, they don’t exactly look like daffodils right now. They’re only bulbs.”
    Plant? I peer inside the bag marked “Drift.” There must be more than thirty bulbs in it. I limp over to the next bag, “Lemon Drops,” and there’s more in this one than the first.
    “Don’t look so startled, Margaret,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “It doesn’t suit your face.”
    I grab a few bulbs from the next bag, the one marked “Audubon.” Behind me Mrs. Reynolds says, “Don’t even bother picking them up right away. You need a plan first.”
    “A plan?”
    “Of course. Have you ever planted before?”
    “Just some herbs in preschool. But that was in a little planter we took home for Mother’s Day.”
    “No bulbs?”
    I shake my head.
    Mrs. Reynolds looks worried. “Let me tell you something about daffodils, Margaret. They’re fragrant, beautiful, and hardy.”
    I scan the eight bags lined up. “These are all daffodils?”
    “Oh, yes. But they each have their own unique scent and personality.”
    Wow. I don’t know much about flowers in general, let alone details. My favorites were dandelions, because when we were younger, Leah and I used to search and pull all the dandelions from our neighbors’ lawns, sing Mama had a baby and her head popped off, and flick the tops of the flowers off of the stems as we sang the word popped . Although, to be technical, dandelions aren’t flowers. They’re weeds.
    “You’ll need a shovel to start with,” my employer says, interrupting my