Menace #45: The Flower Shop
There were many flower shops in New Monmouth City, but none quite so dear to Courtney as Martha’s. Just off of South Street, Martha’s Flower Emporium stood relatively firmly as a soft, pastel pink exterior. The doors were made of firm plastic (Courtney would say they were made of glass), and the roof — once shiny and golden — now showed signs of wear and tear through holes and dark spots. Still, Courtney had nothing but fond memories of Martha's; it was her mother’s flower shop of choice, and so Courtney had spent many days sitting in the lobby, surrounded by more types of flowers than she could name, while her mother shopped. It was a place that rung with a sort of cheap nostalgia: she could not remember a single fun experience she had had in the building. Instead, she felt the hours of time that had passed, along with the simple warmth of being a kid, and this was enough to get her back through the doors of Martha’s Flower Emporium.
“Hey, Pink!” Max called to her immediately as she stepped in. She quickly checked herself for any pink on her clothing, having forgotten about the damned flower boy. Every time she’d walk in, he’d call her “pink,” ever since they were both little kids. She ignored him mostly, but, having been away for so long, she felt some fondness for the nosy boy who pestered her so insistently as a child. She was unsure she was wearing pink the first day they met, but every day since then that she’d been forced to come to the flower shop, she would intentionally not wear pink. Still, Max was undeterred. She noted that her sleeveless top (not her idea, trust her) was a soft shade of lavender atop a black skirt and shoes. She silently praised herself for not wearing pink instinctually before turning to the boy.
“Hi, Max, still tending to the flowers, I see,” Courtney said, intending to sting him in some way with the remark, but realizing that what she said could easily be misinterpreted as a pleasant greeting. He smiled and nodded in response. The lobby of the shop was the most magnificent part, Courtney believed, lined with rows of different flowers in similar pots with their seeds in front of them in small packets for scale. The flowers were arranged by color, not species; frequently Courtney would watch Martha go through the rows to pick out a perfect assortment to decorate a lawn or porch. She had always been impressed, and still was as she looked across the lobby now. Her eyes caught on the the roses, as they always did account her middle name, and she smiled as she turned her focus back to Max. “I was wondering if I might speak to Martha?”
“You might and you might not,” Max answered, hiding a smile. “She’s home sick this week, left me to run the place. Is it something I could help you with?” He grinned at her, and she hated that. The two were friends, sure, as much as anyone is friends with the children of their parents’ friends. They knew enough to ask about each other whenever they were forced to meet, and had laughed together once or twice amongst all the teasing, but that was about it. Courtney looked at Max intently; her focus was elsewhere, otherwise the sight would have bothered her more. Does he know? Courtney asked herself. She shrugged and figured that a try would not hurt.
“I’m looking for some special flowers, one’s generally reserved for more inclined guests?” She asked the same way her mother always had, and bit the inside of her cheek afterwards. She was unsure why.
“Oh, you’re here for magic stuff then?” Max replied, unfazed. Not much got to Max, Courtney knew, despite the occasional bruises she’d notice they shared on her occasional visit. “Sure, no problem. We can go to the back now, if you like. There doesn’t seem to be any other business going on.” Courtney nodded as she followed the boy — dressed in green overalls and a black shirt of all things — into the backroom. The backroom was off limits for kids, her mother told her. Nothing important was going on back there anyway, she insisted. The lobby was far more interesting, she assured. Boy, was Mom a liar! Courtney thought as she entered the room.
The first idea that ran through her head was that the room reminded her of a volcano. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the back corner where large red-and-orange roses grew along the wall, curved in a way that almost looked like the red was flowing, dripping down from flower to flower in vibrant, neon colors. These were supported and accented by a series of charcoal-gray which made the colorful asters which made the vibrant shades of red and orange pop out more, almost as though they were back lit. Leading down from this explosion of ferocious color, she noticed deep, blue irises spurting from the ground, revealing a small path through the room. The blue, upon further inspection, was not one consistent shade throughout rather, a bright blue rim traced the top and edges. The overhead lights were off, Courtney realized, which meant that the flowers were actually glowing. Across the room she noticed so many more vibrant and unnatural shades: green daisies, pink freesias, black carnations, and so many more. The room looked marvelous. She felt like she was standing in a painting.
“What are you looking for, Pink?” Max asked her.
“I… I don’t know,” Courtney admitted. “I was hoping to learn more about magic, and I figured Ma’s friend Martha could help me work through some things — but I never imagined something like this existed. Magic flowers?”
“It’s an old technique,” Max told her, “but it’s not very hard. Most people who know about it call it ‘sewing,’” Max explained. “I think it sounds a bit too much like ‘sowing,’ especially when applied to agricultural situations, but, hey, I don’t get to pick.” He smiled and laughed at what he said.
“How is that different from any other magic?” Courtney asked as she reached out and brushed one of the irises with her hand. It felt unnaturally cold to the touch, and she quickly brought her hand back as she continued to walk through the garden.
“Well, most people just blend.” Courtney stopped to look at him.
“Blend?”
“You really don't know anything, do you?”
“I had a bad teacher,” Courtney defended, blushing furiously and slowly grabbing her left arm with her right. “I’m not dumb or anything.”
“No, of course not,” Max teased, but, seeing the look on his face, pulled back. “Well, most people who use magic tend to utilize magic that comes to them naturally — ever wonder how the magic is ‘naturally’ assigned? It’s based on something like a color grade; some people burn brightly one color,” he lazily gestured to the roses, magnificent against the wall, “but others have more unique, natural inclinations,” he pointed to the irises lining the walkway and the green daisies, which had intricate patterns dancing across their petals. “My family has maintained some of the greatest magical gardens in the world for hundreds of years based on a few simple tricks that let us see the color itself, apart from the magic.”
“Can you teach me?” Courtney asked. It was Max’s turn to look askance.
“I don’t think Ma would like that,” Max told her.
“You said it was simple,” she reminded him. “And our families are close, Max, it’s not a huge deal. I just need to know — it could be life or death.” She felt as though she was exaggerating slightly, but she didn’t care. She figured that would hook him. He seemed to be hiding something, though, as far as Courtney could tell. Something beyond the usual hiding they did.
“I guess I could… we don’t have to tell her, I guess,” Max justified. “You sure it’s life or death?” Courtney nodded. “Well, I guess I don’t have a choice then… plus, I guess it gives us an excuse to spend time together again,” Max said, smiling at her. “Excuse me?” She asked, eyeing the boy.
“It’s just nice to see you, Pink,” he said. “We dejected-magicians have gotta stick together, right?”
“Oh, good, for a second there I thought you were flirting,” she said, flatly. He ran a gloved hand through his messy, brown hair and smiled at her awkwardly.
“If I was?”
“Then I’d let you know I’m not interested," she said, (again) flatly. “Now, colors.”
“Colors, right,” his eyes clicked back into focus as he started talking. “It’s real simple, and once you see it, you won’t be able to unsee it. I just have to show you the stem of one of the flowers,” he took her over to the red, pulsing flowers. He plucked one from the wall. “A rose for the lady?”
“Not interested,” she repeated, (once more) flatly. “The stem?” She asked.
“Look,” he brought the stem close to her eyes. “What do you see?”
“A plain, old green stem,” she commented.
“Look closer.”
“Is that — I see some, er, rings? I guess, rings. Of bright red and some mustardy yellow color. Is that it?”
“You got it, Pink,” he congratulated, setting the rose back in place.
“So how is this supposed to help me?”
“When you see magic now, just look at the stem of it. The source of it, underneath the pizazz You’ll probably see something similar. That’s the color. Once you see it, you can try playing around with it. Most people can blend without knowing the colors; blending is quick, easy. It’s basically a fifty-fifty color split. In contrast, when you sew, you're choosing a base color and developing it before intertwining it with another color. Sometimes it makes the magic stronger, sometimes something completely different happens. I have to close up shop soon, would you like a flower, on the house, and, maybe, a walk home?”
“No thanks,” Courtney said, offering a hug and teasingly planting a kiss on his cheek before leaving. As she walked out of the store she called back, “Thank you!” and then wiped her lips as she kept moving away from the store. Walking back down South Street in her heels and sleeveless shirt, having kissed Max on the cheek, she felt very much like her mother. She felt squirmy. Why do boys have to hit on me? The child in her thought to herself. You're beautiful, dear, her mother’s voice snuck into her head. Shut up, she thought at herself. Now he’s gonna keep flirting, Courtney realized. Great. She frowned as she continued down the street, wondering about sewing and blending and all of the weird magical terminology that she had learned. If I have to kiss another boy again, Courtney thought, the kiss staying with her and returning over and over again as something she’d seen her mother do a thousand times, I’ll just deem the whole project not worth it.
She rushed home to change into something more comfortable as the sun began to set.