Second Nature by Alice Hoffman

place, one of the first of the old shingled houses. This was a job the Doctor had turned down, since Cheryl Feldman took no one’s advice but her own, and that was hardly worth heeding. Robin somehow managed to tolerate even the most obnoxious clients, but then, she’d had plenty of practice with her grandfather. If a client insisted on pansies or gladioli, Robin would nod, then go ahead and plant one or two in among the masses of lilies and cornflowers she’d suggested in the first place. The Doctor had taught Robin well, and he was proud of her. As his helpers raked up the cut grass, he decided that he’d better have a long talk with his son. He’d better do it soon, maybe as soon as tonight, because even from this distance, the Doctor could see that fellow who was staying with her didn’t mind the thorns on the Feldmans’ roses. He wouldn’t notice the blood on his hands.
    “Floribunda,” Robin said, pleased to discover the rose Stephen handed her didn’t wilt as soon as she touched it. She’d been foolish to think she’d been cursed. Some plants died and others lived, and human touch had nothing to do with it. “The old name for it,” she explained to Stephen. “From the Latin.” She pulled her hair back into an elastic band. “We have to cut this all back. Pronto.”
    It was good to work with Stephen; he worked hard and he didn’t say much, and at noon he walked down to the bakery to get them both lunch. They had agreed he needed as much practice as possible going to stores, making small talk, waiting for the light to turn red before he crossed the street. But sitting on the Feldmans’ lawn, waiting for him to return, Robin realized that she was almost sorry he was such a good student. He had learned to read more quickly than she’d ever imagined possible; he was already on chapter books. A few days ago he had asked for an atlas, and it wasn’t until she had brought one home from the library that she understood why he’d wanted it. She’d had the urge to take the atlas right back, but then he’d been so grateful when she gave it to him she’d felt silly and selfish. She opened the book and showed him the blue curves of Michigan and watched as he ran a finger over the lines that signified rivers and roads.
    He brought back two tuna salad sandwiches and two bottles of spring water, and handed her the change, which he had tried his best to count. They unwrapped their lunches and didn’t speak as they ate. They moved only to wave away the bees. Robin tilted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. Of course he wanted to go back; at night he was memorizing all the routes leading west, he was sounding out the numbers and the names. The mission had always been to let him decide his own fate, but that didn’t mean Robin had to think about it. She didn’t have to think about the atlas, left open on the oak dresser in his room. She would not think about how close they were sitting, or even allow herself to wonder if, by this time in her life, she shouldn’t have a little more sense.
     
 
Michelle Altero rarely got angry, and when she did, those who knew her could tell something was wrong after one look. Her face puckered and grew flushed; her mouth formed a hard, straight line. The students she counseled at the high school thought she was a pushover; they liked her generous spirit and knew she wasn’t in the least bit dangerous, unless someone was bullied or mistreated and that angry look of hers took over, which meant there’d be a price to pay.
    Working in a high school meant never hearing anything straight-out; information just sort of filtered down. Who was dating, who was flunking out, whose father had missed his AA meetings, whose mother had hit the roof over a Master-Card bill or a dented fender. Snatches of conversations drifted through the hallways, whispers arose in the study hall, messages were scrawled in lipstick on the bathroom walls. And so it happened that Michelle was hearing