Page 4 of Dead Love
“Yes, Miss Shea?”
“Did you read the date on the printout, or did you forget to check that part?”
Nyla’s nostrils flared, and she subtly shook the yellow hair out of her face. A gold ring with a giant onyx stone flashed on her finger as she tightened her fists at her side. Almost as if she wanted to use that ring to punch my mother.
“These are yesterday’s orders,” Shea continued. “Did you read the computer?”
Nyla’s eyelids fluttered, holding in her frustration. “I must have missed it.”
“Try a little harder next time, then. I already made a boutonniere when I realized that the school dance was yesterday,” Shea said. Which, of course, meant that my mother hadn’t been reading the orders either, but it was easier for her to blame everyone else, to give her a false sense of control, than it was to admit that she was wrong too. She peered at me. “That arrangement looks lovely, sweetheart,” she said. “You’ve really developed an eye for it.”
“Thanks,” I said quietly. My head hurt; a braid went across the top of my head like a headband, the rest tucked into a fat, messy bun at the nape of my neck. I liked having long hair, and my mother told me I would regret it if I cut it, but I always kept it in a bun anyway. I straightened the stem of the white rose. The baby’s breath stunk in the air, but if you skipped it, the customers always noticed. Especially the brides.
Once Shea was in the storeroom, I turned to Nyla. “You know she didn’t read it either,” I muttered.
“Uh-huh,” Nyla said. “But it’s probably my fault that she forgot her reading glasses again.”
“Yours, or mine.”
Nyla knocked into my shoulder. “Watch it.” She nodded at my hands. “You cut yourself again.”
My palm was bleeding, a knick from a tool.
“Maybe it was the scissors,” I said. I grabbed a bandage from my dress pocket and slapped it on. The only thing good about a mother-boss that picked all of your clothes, was that when I said Ineededpockets for work, she listened.
“Your dress is cute by the way,” Nyla said.
The dress was mauve and flowy. I beamed. “Thanks!” Like my mother, Nyla cared about style, but I tended to like Nyla’s clothes better than my mother’s, and it wasn’t often that Nyla actuallylikedthe stuff my mother picked out for us. We were usually wearing the same thing.Like mother, like daughter,Shea often said.
I opened the drawer underneath the counter and got a handmade card with a pressed daffodil on the front.
“Happy Birthday,” I said.
Nyla grinned; daffodils were her favorite.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said. “Thank you, Kora.” She tucked it out of the way so that my mother wouldn’t see it. My mother had a way of making things weird when it came to my friends. Nyla leaned over and whispered: “You know I got her a mocha, right?”
A smile spread across my face. “What? Not a chai latte?” I reached over and shoved her arm. “How dare you get a mocha for the Queen of Poppies & Wheat!”
“Off with my head!”
“She just might kill you,” I joked. Nyla’s eyes flicked back to the computer as she printed out the correct order list, her chin sinking lower. “Or, more likely,” I added, “fire you.”
“I’m not even sure if I want this job anymore.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’s what I should do: get her the wrong coffee drink so many times in a row that she fires me over a latte.”
“Don’t quit yet,” I pleaded. Two years ago, when Nyla had first been hired, I had begged my mother not to fire Nyla. My mother went through assistant managers like tissue paper; no one was ever good enough for the store, or to watch over me. But unlike the others, Nyla and I quickly became best friends. I knew my mother would never fire her after I asked her not to. It was easier to do the simple things that I wanted, than it was to try and appease my bigger dreams. “At least wait until you can open up your own place,” I said.
“Won’t that affect your mom’s business?”
It was true; there wasn’t enough room for two florists in Punica, but that didn’t matter. My family would find another way.
“A little competition never hurt anyone,” I said. “You know she’s only hard on you because you remind her of herself.” Nyla looked up at me, a question in her eyes. “Seriously. She thinks you’ll be better than her one day.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you already are.” My mother was good, but her style was traditional, where Nyla’s was adventurous. “Don’t quit yet though, okay? I’ll cover for you.” I nodded towards the storeroom. “I’ll tell her that I ordered the coffees today.”
“Got it.”
