Page 18 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls
Three days had passedsince an unexplained bout of insanity possessed Skye to beg June to reverse the van. And, out of her logical mind, she’d gifted the fuchsia to Celene.
Celene Vale,pronounced likeveil. The Yielder rumor mill delivered. Luce didn’t normally repeat gossip shared amongst her friends, but Skye breadcrumbed enough interest to weed out a last name. With that was hearsay about “Daddy Vale” having multiple partners and children with all of them, which Skye shrugged off. Every family had its stuff.
A full name could lead to a wealth of information. Yet, Skye hovered a thumb over the search function on her phone, conflicted. Her eyes could be opened to unfavorable details, tostuff challenging the mythology Skye had built in her head. Because Celene swept in and out of her life like an apparition. Or a dream. Some dreams weren’t meant to be woken up from.
Pivoting, she’d researched symbolism on gifting fuchsia plants and wanted to vaporize into the stratosphere. While certain themes—hospitality, creativity—softened the blow, the top results ranged from resilience to trust to freakinglove. It didn’t help that she’d hurt June’s feelings, regifting it right before her, but they made up the next day.
Skye crossed her ankles on the low, sturdy branch of a white pine, a go-to in the brief walk behind Yield For Art. She finished the butt end of her baba ghanoush wrap, her back snugly aligned with the tree trunk. Summers in Yielding were temperate, meaning beneath the copious shade, the summer breeze stirred chill bumps. She welcomed them, though. Sensations of the outdoors grounded her, regardless of her two feet off the actual ground.
From between her knees, she pulled out her water bottle and washed down the last bits of carrot and sunflower seeds in long, languid sips. This Friday moved as slowly and listlessly as the clouds. Every evening that week, she’d get home, heat leftovers from the night before, and spend hours sorting bowls from the mosaic shipment. Whenever she saw light at the end of the tunnel, Luce shuffled in and added another task. Her sights would land on a bowl—of blue pieces, for instance—and she’d jut her jaw like, “Separate the sea foams from the teals, the ultramarines from the cobalts. It’s how Walter does it.”
Skye allowed a black-capped chickadee to land on her covered arm, pecking at scraps of wheat wrap. She frequently wore long sleeves for these magical moments, no matter how uncommon.
She reflected more, breath shallow.
The glimmers of excitement happened on her drives to and from work, where she’d pass by the Vale house quickly enough to go unnoticed and slowly enough to catch a glimpse of Celene. She’d lucked out a few times. Once, Celene was directing two teenagers she probably paid to do some yard work. Another time—Skye smiled at the bird shaking the foil for more crumbs—Celene had been on her rickety deck, deep in a yoga routine. Wearing a light hoodie and those same mid-thigh shorts on toned, elegant legs. Absorbed, Skye almost swerved the SUV into the mailboxes, and the last thing she needed was to hear her grandma’s mouth about denting their business vehicle.
Once the chickadee took off with his fill, Skye balled up the wrapper separate from the paper bag, intent on using the proper recycling receptacles, and smoothly slipped from the branch. These days, old memories revealed themselves little by little.
She’d been in a tree when she first saw Celene. On a branch much higher because Skye had been agile, more courageous back then.
At eight years old, neighborhood children struggled to relate to Skye—a young anomaly of Lake Harrier Reserve. They called her every name befitting of the weirdest kid on the block.
They weren’t entirely wrong. Before Luce’s fame, her grandparents’ unorganized bulk orders of art supplies inspired hoarder rumors. Skye’s bohemian parents homeschooled her, so the loose schedule gave her free rein to roam the natural world for hours.
Wooden hair beads slapping her face, young Skye would fill her jeans pockets with stones, twigs, and funny-shaped leaves. She picked up any nonvenomous snake she could catch. Her free-range alone time scared Luce at first, but once they established a home-before-dark system, she loosened the grip. Preteen Cosmo was too surly to be fun, but he did help Skye pick ticks from her socks.
So when Skye saw a girl dash to the birch she’d climbed, fishtail braid swinging after her, she couldn’t decide whether to hop down and say hello or stay put above her, on a branch. Celene sat at the base of the tree, crying. It was an unusual, muffled sob, Skye remembered to this day. Like someone who didn’t release their feelings often.
After speaking up, Skye did her best bird imitations. No rhyme or reason—a free-range child’s manner of breaking the tension. Celene looked up, black lashes wet and stuck into triangles, and Skye leapt at the opportunity to make a friend. Finally.
At twelve, Skye began attending public middle school, and the names stopped for the most part. Celene’s summer visits stopped, too.
“I sense misery in you.” Was how Thalia greeted Skye, wind chiming into the shop after lunch.
Skye held the door for a customer leaving with their purchase, smiling after them. Then, she stalked to the counter. “What’s that?”
Thalia shook her head, not giving her a chance of denial. Walking fingers through over twenty necklaces falling into the crook of her frilly top, she retrieved her target, detangling the thin silver chain from her neck with a satisfied smile. Dangling from her hand was a dark gray charm—a cabochon shaped like a marquise.
“This is labradorite,” Thalia explained, the gemstone gleaming iridescent silver as it rotated. “I sense emotional turmoil in you, Skye. This will reduce your stress and boost your mental clarity, but you must,mustdo more to deliver yourself of this energy.” Her stare went heavy until Skye fastened the necklace without complaint. “It’s been a low hum since we started working together, but now I’m compelled to intervene.”
“Coming through with the metaphysical.” Skye smiled her widest, kissing the new addition. She didn’t know if she believed in these mineral powers, but Thalia believed in them and that was good enough for her. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Forgive the name pun, but rid yourself of thiscloudiness,” she emphasized too ominously not to shrink back a tad. “Who’s the woman that helped you earlier this week?”
“Uh—uh, she’s uh,” Skye stammered, “Celene. Why?”
“She’s the only new factor I can think of. On Tuesday, you returned from getting flowers with June, looking forlorn. What happened?”
The trays were askew again. Skye followed the line of them, busying her hands. “A disagreement. June gave me a little potted fuchsia, and I passed it on to Celene.”
“Ah. You transferred something of emotional and spiritual significance to someone who’s not your friend because...”
“I don’t know. To welcome her.”
“Are you into Celene? Have you spoken to her again?”
That suggestion frustrated Skye. As beautiful as Celene was, how come her only connection to someone had to be romantic?
