Mom and dad were poor. So, so poor. They couldn’t
find jobs in Oregon
That’s
why they dropped Jamie and me off at Grandma’s house and left for New Mexico Albuquerque
Jamie is
my brother. He’s a genius. And before you ask, yeah, it looks like he’s headed
in the direction of Evil Genius.
He’s at
university right now, studying something Evil-Genius-ish. He’s kind of
closed-mouthed about his plans for the future, actually…well, he’s
closed-mouthed about everything these days. And he’s not coming home for the
summer, either. He didn’t even bother making excuses like I’m too busy; he just sent a letter saying Not coming home. I’ll come for my furniture the last week of August.
Maybe
he’s just a Douchebag Genius?
It
wasn’t always this way. Back when mom and dad were still around, he used to be
nice to me. Of course, sometimes being nice to me meant things like stealing
candy for me – but still, he could have stolen the candy and kept it all to
himself.
These
days he doesn’t share anything, ill-gotten or otherwise. Not with me, anyway.
He doesn’t even e-mail or update his Facebook page any more.
Wow,
this is getting depressing. Anyway…I just graduated from high school. I’m no
Evil Genius, but I was in the top ten. I had my name in the paper –
Jessica Henley, 3.7 grade point average.
Jamie
didn’t make it to graduation.
BUT! Now
it’s summer, and I’m working at the flower shop in town, and Gran helped me buy
a car, and in the fall I’m going to college. (Not the same school as Jamie. Who
wants to be the less intelligent Henley
I guess
I’m feeling a little lonely. My friends Sarah and Amy are both away for the
summer, camp counsellors in the
mountains, and I have two days off per week and no one to hang out with. I’m
spending a lot of time in the woods taking pictures. I’m going to study botany.
Plus, photography is very therapeutic.
Today is
the hottest day of summer so far. It’s hard to tell with June: sometimes it
rains all month and the temp barely rises above 50 degrees Fahrenheit, while in
other years it’s suffocating by the middle of the month.
This is
one of those suffocating years. Another reason to spend a lot of time in the
woods – shade. And there’s a creek about a half mile down the trail from Gran’s
back yard. It’s mostly fed by snowmelt from up the mountain, so it’s freaking
cold. It’s shallow, but sticking your feet in ice water will cool you off no
matter how hot it is.
Jamie
used to splash me mercilessly every time we came to the creek together when we
were younger. Once he got into high school, though, he wouldn’t come into the
woods any more. He said there was nothing interesting happening there.
Sometimes
Evil Geniuses are kind of dumb.
Anyway.
Hot, muggy, and the mosquitoes are swarming. Gran makes me this special
insect-repellent with essential oils and stuff, because she says she won’t
cover her grandchildren with poison just to keep the bugs away. It smells
really good, and it works almost as well as the kind in the aerosol can.
Sometimes Gran is awesome. Of course, she’s really strict, too, but I figure
that’s because she’s old.
I’m on
the trail, wearing jeans and boots because there’s poison oak. The trees are
creaking and shaking their leaves, and there are about a million crows arguing
up in the highest branches. Even though I’m only halfway from the house to the
creek, I can already hear the water in spite of the crows. I’ve got my camera
in my backpack, and a notebook, and (thanks to Gran) two apples, a bottle of
water, and a Granola bar. Gran is a fervid believer in healthy snacks.
I’m just
about to the place where the trail forks – the left fork goes to the creek, and
the right fork goes straight through the woods to the elementary school
playground – when I hear a sound like aluminium cans clinking together.
Maybe
it’s just because I’m bored, but righteous indignation at the thought of people
trashing my woods with beer cans makes my whole body tingle. I step off the trail
and pick my way through the ferns and fringecup toward the noise.
I don’t
stop to wonder why I don’t hear any voices or human noises until I step between
the trunks of two red cedars and see…not an underage-drinking party at all.
It’s
stunning. It’s…a sculpture, I guess. It looks like a stand of flowers – sort of
like sunflowers, but not exactly. The flowers are made from metal, I think –
but I have no idea how the artist found so many colours of metal, or fused them together so
seamlessly to create the dappled petals.
The
flowers are all in different stages of the bloom cycle – some are
tightly-closed buds, some half-open, some fully-opened. One of them is even
sculpted to look like it’s wilting, and a petal has fallen off. It lies on the
soil at the base of the twisted silver stem.
When the
breeze picks up again, I discover the source of the clinking. The flowers sway
and knock against each other like any flowers would – but with a lot more
noise.
Who
would make a piece of art like this and leave it in the middle of the woods?
Why isn’t it installed somewhere public?
I put my
backpack down and dig for my camera.
I look
up again just in time to see another petal fall from the wilting flower.
I clutch
my camera and shiver in spite of the heat.
After a
few minutes, I step forward and touch the fading blossom with one fingertip.
The rest
of the petals fall to the ground, clicking against each other as they land.
What will I do now? I broke someone’s art project! If that’s what it is. I pick
up one of the fallen petals. The metal between my fingers is so thin I could
tear it like aluminium foil.
Each petal is a deep coppery shade at its base, fading to a pale bronze at the
edges. The disk flowers remaining on the stem are pale gold. I run my fingers
over them, and a few fall off. I crouch in the soft soil beside the flowers.
I grab
my pocket-knife and dig at the base of the wilting one: it has roots.
Impossible.
Completely freaking impossible.
If this
is an art project, the artist is a genius to rival Jamie.
Jamie.
He’s the person I would go to about this, if I could.
Would he
listen to me if I took one of the flowers to him? Would he believe me if I told
him I thought they were GROWING here somehow, in defiance of every natural law
ever? Or would he tell me not to waste his time, like he did last summer when I
wanted him to help me clear garlic mustard out of the back yard because it’s so
invasive?
This is
definitely a little more exciting than garlic mustard. But I don’t know if
Jamie will listen.
And for
some reason I don’t feel like I should talk to just anyone about this. I don’t
know if it’s because they’re in my woods or what, but I feel sort of protective
of these crazy plants. If that’s what they are. I don’t want people crashing
through the woods to look at them, trampling the wildflowers.
In the
end, I take 127 pictures and trudge home.
I load
them onto my computer and Google metal
flowers, metallic flowers, copper flowers, and finally alien flowers. By the end of the evening, I’ve found a lot of
references to The Little Shop of Horrors, and expensive steampunk jewellery, but
nothing that looks like my flowers.
I dream
of carnivorous plants and wake up with a killer headache.
It’s going to be a long day at work.
