Tahira in Bloom Read online

  I had just dug out my cookie tin filled with scissors, machine needles, bobbin thread, and other notions when my Instagram notification went off. I checked my phone. Of course—it was Sunday, and I had an alert set up for the Indie Fashion Weekly roundup. The account was run by the DashStyle fashion blog, and every Monday they posted a prompt. Emerging designers like me could post an outfit or a fashion illustration inspired by the prompt, along with the hashtag #IndieFashionWeekly. Then on Sundays the DashStyle people picked about five highlights of the best entries and posted them on their page. I wasn’t entirely sure who picked the posts that got highlighted, but it was a major boost for an indie designer’s visibility. I’d been doing the prompts for months, but my work had never been picked as a highlight.

  I sat on the sofa and opened the page. The prompt this week was gray scale, which was so perfect for those shirts I’d made for that Graffiti Alley shoot. The photo I’d hashtagged #IndieFashionWeekly had over three hundred likes. For sure I’d be highlighted this time.

  But I wasn’t. My stomach clenched. Why wasn’t I there? What was I doing wrong? I texted Matteo.

  Tahira: Do you actually think I’m a good designer?

  He wrote back immediately—which was so sweet of him because I was pretty sure he was still at that kid’s baptism.

  Matteo: Of course. You’re amazing.

  Tahira: I didn’t get featured on the Weekly Indie thing again.

  Matteo: Ugh. You’ll get it next time. We can build up your profile, get you more followers. I’ll help you babe. Anyway, can I call you later? I’m still in church.

  Tahira: No worries. Talk soon. Tell G I’ll see her tomorrow.

  I rubbed the back of my neck as I stared at the picture of Matteo and me in our gray and white shirts. I had a healthy twenty thousand followers on Instagram. Maybe that wasn’t enough to catch the attention of this style blog?

  I checked out the accounts that had gotten profiled this week. Most had more followers than me, but their designs weren’t really better than mine. Okay, maybe that one was pretty spectacular—but I could see puckering on the seam on one of the others.

  So maybe it wasn’t my platform, or my talent. Maybe there was something else I was missing. A certain . . . spark. It factor. Originality.

  I worked hard. Really, really hard. But without that certain something, it was all for nothing.

  I sighed, chewing on my lip. This was ridiculous. My day had already been bad enough. Self-loathing wasn’t going to help with my Plan. I grabbed my iPad and opened the illustration of the shirt I’d been working on in the car. And it hit me.

  Bell sleeves.

  I quickly erased the Juliet sleeves and drew new sleeves that were tight around the upper arms and widened under the elbow. Yes. It was perfect. I could do this. No more self-doubt allowed. Only confidence that the Plan would work.

  After putting away my iPad and the rest of my sewing stuff, I hurried back out to the yard, where Mom and Sharmin Aunty were having tea.

  “Sorry I took so long,” I said. “I was finishing a design.”

  Sharmin Aunty waved me over. “Tahira. Come meet Juniper!”

  A girl stood up from the garden on the far side of the patio. She held a trowel. I guess she’d been crouched, digging.

  When she saw me, she squealed with glee, and, well, the only way to describe the way she headed over to me was she bounded. Like Bambi.

  “Yay! You’re here, you’re here!” She stopped in front of me and wiped the dirt off her hand. “I was so excited when Shar told me someone my age was moving in all summer! I’m Juniper Jessica Johnston.” She shot her hand out to me. “Terrible, right? My parents think alliteration is sooo cute. I go by either June or Juniper, and I honestly have no preference. I’m sixteen, my pronouns are she/her, and I’ll be in grade twelve in September. Ooh, I forgot. I have something for you.” She grinned and skipped off toward the greenhouse at the far end of the yard.

  Juniper was a bit too perky but still kind of adorable. Tight curls in a low ponytail and wide, dark, round eyes. She was wearing cutoff black shorts, an open flannel shirt with a fitted black camisole under it, and a ribbon choker with a heart locket in the middle. Also, she was Black, with smooth medium-brown skin. In fact, her skin tone, eyes, and cheekbones were exactly the same as the grumpy nursery guy’s . . . and Sharmin Aunty said Juniper’s brother, Rowan, worked at the nursery. Which meant he was probably Mr. Flower Stormtrooper.

  Great. I’d be living next door to that guy all summer. I’d been wrong. It was possible for my day to get worse.

  4

  SO THEY’RE NAMED AFTER TREES?

  She is probably going to give you flowers,” Sharmin Aunty said as Juniper disappeared into the greenhouse. “I should have told you: June likes to give meaningful bouquets to everyone.”

  “What a thoughtful neighbor,” Mom said. “Tahira, don’t get the flowers too close to your face.”

  Sharmin Aunty nodded. “Juniper and Rowan are both so thoughtful. I’m so lucky to have such great neighbors here. Bakewell’s not completely white, but they are one of the only Black families in town. They’ve had to deal with some intolerance and microaggressions . . . not a lot, but any is too much. The kids are so well adjusted, though. You’ll love living next to them, Tahira.”

  I was sorry to hear about the racism, but honestly? I doubted this guy was going to be happy to see me here, assuming he was the “These aren’t the plants you’re looking for” guy.

  Juniper reappeared then, holding a bundle of flowers wrapped with a yellow ribbon. I took them, keeping my eyes and nose away from the blooms.

  “This is a welcome bouquet,” Juniper said. “I used chrysanthemums and sunflowers to symbolize friendship. Did you know that sunflowers are really called helianthus? I added some daffodils to symbolize new beginnings. Their real name is narcissus. Oh! I hope you don’t think I’m calling you a narcissist! Although it’s the white ones that are commonly called narcissus . . . the yellow ones are daffodils, even though the scientific names for both are narcissus. They’re one of the earliest spring flowers—that’s why they symbolize new beginnings.” She beamed, proud of her arrangement.

  “Thank you,” I said. They were kind of pretty—I liked the yellow with the deep burgundy. The girl could have had no idea I was allergic to flowers, so this was a nice gesture. A little weird, but nice. “I . . . um . . .”

  “They’re lovely,” Sharmin Aunty said, taking the bundle from me. “I’ll put them in my kitchen so Tahira can see them when she comes in for dinner. Come have some chai, Tahira.”

  I sat on the outdoor sofa while Juniper went back to her digging. Sharmin Aunty asked me some questions about school and my sewing classes. Mom was, of course, glued to her email on her phone, even though it was a Sunday.

  Mom suddenly stood. “There’s a crisis in the Ottawa hotel. I’m going to have to call in. I’ll go inside; you keep catching up.” She headed to the house.

  I sighed. Mom was always on call if an HR emergency came up at the hotel company she worked at. She was a workaholic, like Dad. It was a Janmohammad family trait.

  Juniper turned from her digging so she could face me. “What grade are you going into?” she asked.

  “Twelve. I just turned seventeen,” I said.

  “Same grade as me! Except my birthday’s in December, so I’m still sixteen.”

  She seemed younger than sixteen to me. Small-town kids just weren’t as sophisticated.

  “My brother Rowan’s eighteen,” Juniper continued. “He’s going to university in September. He’s excited you’re here, too.”

  I stifled a snort. That wasn’t likely.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, a sister, Samaya. She’s a year younger.”

  “I wish I had a sister. You’ll miss her this summer—hope she can come up for a visit.”

  I shrugged. “We’re not really close.” I mean, I liked my sister fine, but it was
hard to relate to her since we had nothing in common. She went to a high school that specialized in math and science, while I went to the best art-focused high school in the city. Still, I did need to remember to call Samaya tonight to congratulate her for getting that math camp position that she wanted so much.

  “I’m trying to dig out this garden bed before Row gets home,” Juniper said. “He’s been in a shitty—sorry,” she said, glancing at Sharmin Aunty. “He’s been in a bad mood all week.”

  Sharmin Aunty snorted. “You know you don’t have to sanitize your language for me, June. Is your brother okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just the usual. Dad and him were”—Juniper made air quotes with her fingers—“‘discussing his options’ again this morning. More like Dad was talking and Row was sulking.” Juniper turned back to me. “Dad refuses to see that we’re not little kids who want to be just like him anymore. He still calls us his ‘little saplings.’ You’d think he’d be okay with his oldest sapling wanting a career in gardens.”

  I must have looked confused, because Juniper grinned. “Rowan and I are both named after trees.”

  Ah. Cute.

  “Tahira is a cool name,” Juniper continued, dropping her trowel and joining me at the table. “Do you ever shorten it? Because I don’t want to call you something you don’t like.” I shook my head, but Juniper was still talking. “It’s funny—we’re kind of a flower family since my grandma was a florist, but Dad used to work more with trees when he was starting out in botany, so we got tree names. But now he’s working at the nursery, and Rowan and I are all about gardens and flowers. Can you imagine if Dad named us after flowers? We’d have been Chrysanthemum and Clematis. Chrissy and Clem! Maybe we would have fit in here more . . . did Shar tell you I’ll be working at Lilybuds with you this summer?”

  I cringed. I’d been making a genuine effort not to think about the fact that the store I was depending on to get fashion experience for FIT was called Lilybuds. Terrible name.

  Sharmin Aunty picked up the teapot. “Can I pour you a chai, June?”

  “Ooh, yes, please. Is it from Hyacinth’s?” She grinned at me. “Hyacinth’s is this café downtown that has custom tea blends and these amazing Bakewell tarts. Did you know that Bakewell is named after a village in England? And Bakewell tarts are named after that village. Hyacinth’s Bakewell tarts are sooo good. I want to see the real Bakewell one day. There’s this big house there that was used as Mr. Darcy’s house in the Pride and Prejudice movie. Not that I’m into Jane Austen or anything; I’m more of a contemporary or urban fantasy reader myself. But I hear the gardens are spectacular. Row and I want to go one day.”

  I raised my brow. On one hand, I liked Juniper’s innocence, and she seemed nice enough. On the other hand, considering I’d be both living next door to and working with this girl, it kind of sucked that we had nothing in common. Also, her chattiness might get exhausting after a while.

  Sharmin Aunty and Juniper started asking me about my art school. It got a little intense, with both of them peppering me with questions about what courses I was taking and what programs they offered, so at a lull in the interrogation, I stood.

  “This garden is so pretty. I’m going to look around,” I said. I pulled out my phone as soon as I was ten feet from the patio and texted Matteo.

  Everything in this town has flowers on it. People drink tea from flowered teapots and train rabbits and fantasize about visiting gardens in England.

  When there was no answer, I tried Gia.

  The backyard we’re living in makes your Nona’s garden look like a parking lot. Flower overkill.

  But even for flower overkill, I had to admit it was impressive. The garden had three clusters of plantings, each with different flower varieties in them. Even though there were so many different types, the colors in each bed were all coordinated. In one corner was what I assumed was a vegetable garden, based on the round cage things like the ones Gia’s grandmother used on tomato plants. In front of the greenhouse was a big weathered-wood workbench with some trays of plants on it. Maybe Juniper was planning to plant those in the garden where she was digging.

  As a whole, the garden was very full, very colorful, and it was obvious a ton of work had been put into it. It was probably even more work to maintain. Honestly, if someone was into the whole English country garden vibe, this place would be a dream. I knew more than a few Instagrammers who would kill to do a photo shoot in the wildflower-looking spots near the greenhouse. Me? I was worried about sneezing. I was normally okay outdoors, but this was far from a normal amount of flowers.

  Sharmin Aunty turned to me when I was at the back of the yard. “Everything you see is Rowan’s doing. He redid all this last summer. He has a real eye for landscape design.”

  Interesting.

  My phone vibrated with a call in my pocket. Probably Matteo. When I looked at it, though, it was Gia calling.

  “I’m going to take this inside.” I rushed into the granny flat and accepted the call. “Hey, Gia. What’s up?”

  “Is the pool saltwater or chlorine? That turquoise suit I bought in Miami will fade with too much chlorine. It’s really for the beach.”

  I plopped on the sofa/bed thing. “What pool?”

  “The pool at the house.”

  “What house?”

  “Your aunt’s house. Did you forget I’m moving in with you tomorrow?” Gia giggled.

  I frowned. “There’s no pool here.”

  That made the giggles stop. “Yes, there is.”

  I glanced out the window to where Sharmin Aunty and Juniper were sitting and not swimming at all. “Seriously, Gia. No pool. Just flowers. We did buy a fountain on the way up, but you wouldn’t fit in it. By the way, do not stop at the garden center right outside town.”

  “Stop messing with me, Tahira! There is a pool! You said we’d be living in a pool house!”

  “I said ‘granny flat.’ It’s like a pool house, but without a pool in front of it. It’s a guesthouse.”

  “Why’d you call it a pool house if there’s no pool!” Gia was really distraught about this lack of pool. Which was fair. I’d prefer a pool to flowers.

  “Gia, you misunderstood. There’s no pool here. I mean, there is probably a pool somewhere in town; it’s not that small. I don’t know where—”

  “But I was going to spend the whole summer sunbathing by the pool!”

  “I thought you were coming here to work?” I loved Gia, but I wasn’t about to pick up her slack if she just wanted to lie in the sun instead of working.

  “Of course I’m going to work, but when I’m not working, I wanted to be sunbathing. But now the pool’s gone . . .”

  “It’s not gone; it was never here! Besides, you don’t actually need a pool to sunbathe. It’s just sitting in the sun.” As a brown girl, I didn’t do a lot of intentional tanning, but as far as I knew, you needed UV rays, not water, for the process.

  “You’re supposed to dive in when you get too hot!”

  “Like you’d dive into a pool, Gia. Not when you spend five hours a week on your hair.”

  “Seven. But seriously, I’d like the option if I wanted to.”

  I laughed. “Well, maybe we can put a kiddie pool outside the granny flat.” Although, honestly, I wasn’t exactly sure there’d be space. Maybe next to the patio?

  “Ugh, fine, there’s no pool, but do we seriously have to call it a ‘granny flat’? Especially since I already said ‘pool house’ on my Insta.”

  “Gia, you’re being ridiculous.” From my view on the daybed, all I could see was the pine wall in front of me, brightly lit by the window behind me. All this wood didn’t scream “granny” to me. Then again, it didn’t scream “pool house,” either. It looked like a cottage in the country, but smaller. “Call it a Bunkie,” I said. “Or an outbuilding. A tiny house. A—”

  “There! That. Tiny houses are cool. There’s a whole Netflix show about them. There was even this Instagram model who lived in one. Or was
that a camper van? What are those silver trailer things called? Anyway, maybe I can do a whole ‘Gia in a Tiny House’ series in my Insta. Might help me finally break five thousand followers.”

  I laughed. “Be warned, though: there’s a ton of pine in here.”

  “Not a problem for me. Chris Pine is my favorite Chris. I love that whole dad vibe.”

  I laughed again. Gia was constantly ranking actors named Chris. Today she liked Pine; tomorrow it would be Evans.

  “Tell me everything about the tiny house,” Gia said. “I don’t want any more misunderstandings.”

  So I did, not holding back on the extreme spatial limitations of it. Gia did perk up when I described the garden, though. She didn’t share my flower aversion.

  “Ooh, that’s why you were texting about my nona’s garden! You think I should pop out and get another floral romper? I only have two.”

  “Juniper and Rowan are probably the only ones who’ll see you in the garden, and they won’t care what you’re wearing,” I told her. “They—”

  “Wait, what are Juniper and Rowan?”

  “They’re trees, apparently. Also, the names of the neighbors. Sixteen and eighteen.”

  “Wait, there are neighbor teenagers? They cool?”

  “Yes and no. Juniper seems all right. Very . . . talkative. She’s a bit naive but nice enough. She’ll be working at the boutique, too. But Rowan, her brother, he’s another story—pretty sure he hates me.”

  Gia paused a few seconds. “He cute? Single?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I told you he hates me. You can’t go after someone who hates your best friend.”

  “But if we dated, then he’d have to like you, because I wouldn’t put up with any boo dissing my bestie. This is all in service to you, T.”

  “Gee, thanks, G.”

  “So, he is cute, then?”

  “You do not want to go there. Seriously. He hates influencers.”

  “Ah! I like a challenge! And you owe me after I found you a boyfriend, even though I’ve been looking for one forever,” Gia said.

  “Gross. It’s not like you could have dated your cousin.”