Read Online The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns by Margaret Dilloway - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Dilloway
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
Ads: Link
her, even if I have her just three weeks? She can’t sit here alone. “Science is where it’s at for girls, though. This country needs more female scientists. Heck, more scientists in general.”
She chews, her bored expression speaking volumes.
“Come on. You can be good at whatever you want to be.” My standard rah-rah teacher speech, mostly aimed at girls whose scientific and mathematical aims got squashed someplace south of the sixth grade, when they didn’t get to be on the Lego robotics team.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t good at science. I said art was my favorite.” She has finished her burrito.
“You’ll have to meet my friend Dara. Miss Westley. She’s the art teacher.”
“I probably won’t take art, though.” She swipes her mouth with the napkin, leaving a swath of darkness.
I wait for her to continue and she doesn’t. “Miss Westley is an excellent teacher.”
“They always make you do the art like they want it to be done, and then I get marked down for doing it my way.”
I’m not entirely sure what she’s talking about. I haven’t attempted a real piece of art since I threw out my Crayolas in second grade. My rose sketches hardly count. “I’m sure Miss Westley wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Yeah. Never mind.” She gets up and puts her plate in the sink. “I suppose you don’t have a dishwasher, either?”
I decide not to press her about the art. I’m a biology teacher, not a guidance counselor. I point to the dishwasher. “I do like some technology.”
She puts the dish in the appliance. “I’m going to hang out in my room.”
Good idea. There are purple bags under her eyes that are not a result of the otherwise heavy cosmetics. “Better wash off that makeup first. And you know you can’t wear it to school.”
“I figured.” She slumps off into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on. I hope she doesn’t use my towel. I can’t have other people’s germs rubbing off on me. It’s hard enough avoiding them at St. Mark’s.
I sit back in my chair, feeling tired even though it’s supposed to be one of my good days. I should probably call my mother on her cell phone in France and discuss what to do with Riley and my sister, but the thought of that makes me feel like I need to go to bed for the next thousand years.
Besides, I don’t want to disturb my parents. I know, even if I tell my mother not to, she will cut her vacation short. No one has perished. No one is even ill. This is a momentary bump.
I can handle this.
I have to go out and see if a rose I prepared a few days ago is ready to give me its pollen. It’s not something I can skip, nor do I want to. The thought of the greenhouse reinvigorates me. “I’ll be out in the yard!” I call to Riley’s closed door, and get a muffled response.
I pull on a sweater and go outside. Immediately, the air and the scent of grass and roses and pollen makes me feel better. I count my blessings that I don’t have allergies.
My neighborhood is covered in shade trees of varying heights, spreading out as far as I can see, which is not very far, considering the tall houses blocking the view in my suburb. The greenhouse air is balmy and dense, tropical compared to the dry California air. I pull up my stool, turn on my worklight, and consider the anthers in the plastic cup I’ve pulled out a few days earlier. The pollen has built up and looks like orange dust on the anthers.
Meanwhile, the mother plant’s stigmas have gotten sticky, ready to receive the pollen. I transfer the pollen to the stigma. Now all I can do is hope for the best.
I go look at the plants I’ve grafted onto rootstock. These are the plants I’ve hybridized successfully and am now propagating. Propagating is different from breeding. It’s creating more specimens of the rose you want to keep. To propagate, you could also cut off a six-inch stem of the parent at a forty-five degree angle and dip it into some rooting powder. Then you stick it into
She chews, her bored expression speaking volumes.
“Come on. You can be good at whatever you want to be.” My standard rah-rah teacher speech, mostly aimed at girls whose scientific and mathematical aims got squashed someplace south of the sixth grade, when they didn’t get to be on the Lego robotics team.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t good at science. I said art was my favorite.” She has finished her burrito.
“You’ll have to meet my friend Dara. Miss Westley. She’s the art teacher.”
“I probably won’t take art, though.” She swipes her mouth with the napkin, leaving a swath of darkness.
I wait for her to continue and she doesn’t. “Miss Westley is an excellent teacher.”
“They always make you do the art like they want it to be done, and then I get marked down for doing it my way.”
I’m not entirely sure what she’s talking about. I haven’t attempted a real piece of art since I threw out my Crayolas in second grade. My rose sketches hardly count. “I’m sure Miss Westley wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Yeah. Never mind.” She gets up and puts her plate in the sink. “I suppose you don’t have a dishwasher, either?”
I decide not to press her about the art. I’m a biology teacher, not a guidance counselor. I point to the dishwasher. “I do like some technology.”
She puts the dish in the appliance. “I’m going to hang out in my room.”
Good idea. There are purple bags under her eyes that are not a result of the otherwise heavy cosmetics. “Better wash off that makeup first. And you know you can’t wear it to school.”
“I figured.” She slumps off into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on. I hope she doesn’t use my towel. I can’t have other people’s germs rubbing off on me. It’s hard enough avoiding them at St. Mark’s.
I sit back in my chair, feeling tired even though it’s supposed to be one of my good days. I should probably call my mother on her cell phone in France and discuss what to do with Riley and my sister, but the thought of that makes me feel like I need to go to bed for the next thousand years.
Besides, I don’t want to disturb my parents. I know, even if I tell my mother not to, she will cut her vacation short. No one has perished. No one is even ill. This is a momentary bump.
I can handle this.
I have to go out and see if a rose I prepared a few days ago is ready to give me its pollen. It’s not something I can skip, nor do I want to. The thought of the greenhouse reinvigorates me. “I’ll be out in the yard!” I call to Riley’s closed door, and get a muffled response.
I pull on a sweater and go outside. Immediately, the air and the scent of grass and roses and pollen makes me feel better. I count my blessings that I don’t have allergies.
My neighborhood is covered in shade trees of varying heights, spreading out as far as I can see, which is not very far, considering the tall houses blocking the view in my suburb. The greenhouse air is balmy and dense, tropical compared to the dry California air. I pull up my stool, turn on my worklight, and consider the anthers in the plastic cup I’ve pulled out a few days earlier. The pollen has built up and looks like orange dust on the anthers.
Meanwhile, the mother plant’s stigmas have gotten sticky, ready to receive the pollen. I transfer the pollen to the stigma. Now all I can do is hope for the best.
I go look at the plants I’ve grafted onto rootstock. These are the plants I’ve hybridized successfully and am now propagating. Propagating is different from breeding. It’s creating more specimens of the rose you want to keep. To propagate, you could also cut off a six-inch stem of the parent at a forty-five degree angle and dip it into some rooting powder. Then you stick it into