walls, writhing and twisting strand over strand. Climbing nightshade clung to a moon-shadowed trellis in dozens of brilliant purple droplets. In the soft dusk, her handful of red and orange poppies were as bright as if the sun were shining on their flared petals.
But for as dangerous as the poison garden was to the outside world, Olivia herself was far more dangerous than any one of her deadly plants. Unlike them, she had human desires.
She ran her hands along the top of her rhododendron. She could not—not for one moment—allow herself to think she could spend any more time with Sam. Nor could she let herself think that he would want to spend time with her, if he knew what she was. She needed daily exposure to her garden’s miasma of various alkaloids in the same way that a normal person needed vitamin D from the sun. She was a freak, a monster—and if she ever forgot it, her garden called to her, claimed her, roped her back in. Mine, it seemed to whisper. And most of the time, Olivia whispered back: Yes, I am.
Tonight, however, she longed to see her garden set on fire, or plunged into a sinkhole, or hit with an asteroid. Tonight, she wanted something other than what she had.
It was Sam’s fault, of course. The questioning. The wondering and wanting. She’d known him again immediately, even before he’d turned around. He was taller than she might have expected him to be. He had a kind of poetic and not unattractive slouch, thin for his frame. His jaw was of average prominence above his big Adam’s apple, his eyebrows were not too thick, and his nose was straight and good-sized. His hair, so black it was almost blue, was buzzed close to his head, and it made his robin’s-egg eyes stand out in a way that made her think he’d seen things in life that he wished he hadn’t. The Sam she’d remembered was frenetic with all the energy of a young boy; the new Sam moved slowly now, as if underwater or carrying some invisible new weight within his bones.
She’d met Sam when she was six and he was eight; he and his parents had moved from a house over in Briscoe to Green Valley. One afternoon Sam had shouted to her from across the road, his toes daring the edge of the pavement: “Hey! Hey you!Can I come over?” He’d been wearing a shirt with a toadstool on it, Amanita muscaria, he told her proudly. And she knew they would be friends.
When they were very young, they’d played the way so many Green Valley children played—wildly, without supervision, their imaginations leading them to build kingdoms and exotic lands in the Catskill hillsides. She’d felt perfectly in sync with him: She was fascinated with the world of plants, and his personal fascination was with fungi. Where they were different, they complemented each other. The hard work of farm life meant that Olivia prized efficiency above perfection, practicality above precision. Sam, on the other hand, would get frustrated and even a little obsessive if the kite they were building together did not meet his exact specifications. Olivia knew when to leave him alone to work out his desire for absolute accuracy and when to give him a nudge toward a more practical approach, saying, The only thing that matters is that it gets up in the air.
Growing up, he was part of her family, as fundamental to her life as the fields and trees of the farm. She expected it would be that way forever between them, easy and effortless as breathing air. But then one autumn day when she was fifteen, Sam had wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up—he was thrilled that they’d just found a dainty white destroying-angel mushroom growing in Chickadee Woods—and the world went spinning in many ways. He twirled her around, she held on to his neck, the trees blurred, the wind gave one great, sweeping gust that kicked up the leaves beneath them, and in that moment, everything changed. He put her down and blushed hotly red. He excused himself abruptly and went home. At night in
But for as dangerous as the poison garden was to the outside world, Olivia herself was far more dangerous than any one of her deadly plants. Unlike them, she had human desires.
She ran her hands along the top of her rhododendron. She could not—not for one moment—allow herself to think she could spend any more time with Sam. Nor could she let herself think that he would want to spend time with her, if he knew what she was. She needed daily exposure to her garden’s miasma of various alkaloids in the same way that a normal person needed vitamin D from the sun. She was a freak, a monster—and if she ever forgot it, her garden called to her, claimed her, roped her back in. Mine, it seemed to whisper. And most of the time, Olivia whispered back: Yes, I am.
Tonight, however, she longed to see her garden set on fire, or plunged into a sinkhole, or hit with an asteroid. Tonight, she wanted something other than what she had.
It was Sam’s fault, of course. The questioning. The wondering and wanting. She’d known him again immediately, even before he’d turned around. He was taller than she might have expected him to be. He had a kind of poetic and not unattractive slouch, thin for his frame. His jaw was of average prominence above his big Adam’s apple, his eyebrows were not too thick, and his nose was straight and good-sized. His hair, so black it was almost blue, was buzzed close to his head, and it made his robin’s-egg eyes stand out in a way that made her think he’d seen things in life that he wished he hadn’t. The Sam she’d remembered was frenetic with all the energy of a young boy; the new Sam moved slowly now, as if underwater or carrying some invisible new weight within his bones.
She’d met Sam when she was six and he was eight; he and his parents had moved from a house over in Briscoe to Green Valley. One afternoon Sam had shouted to her from across the road, his toes daring the edge of the pavement: “Hey! Hey you!Can I come over?” He’d been wearing a shirt with a toadstool on it, Amanita muscaria, he told her proudly. And she knew they would be friends.
When they were very young, they’d played the way so many Green Valley children played—wildly, without supervision, their imaginations leading them to build kingdoms and exotic lands in the Catskill hillsides. She’d felt perfectly in sync with him: She was fascinated with the world of plants, and his personal fascination was with fungi. Where they were different, they complemented each other. The hard work of farm life meant that Olivia prized efficiency above perfection, practicality above precision. Sam, on the other hand, would get frustrated and even a little obsessive if the kite they were building together did not meet his exact specifications. Olivia knew when to leave him alone to work out his desire for absolute accuracy and when to give him a nudge toward a more practical approach, saying, The only thing that matters is that it gets up in the air.
Growing up, he was part of her family, as fundamental to her life as the fields and trees of the farm. She expected it would be that way forever between them, easy and effortless as breathing air. But then one autumn day when she was fifteen, Sam had wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up—he was thrilled that they’d just found a dainty white destroying-angel mushroom growing in Chickadee Woods—and the world went spinning in many ways. He twirled her around, she held on to his neck, the trees blurred, the wind gave one great, sweeping gust that kicked up the leaves beneath them, and in that moment, everything changed. He put her down and blushed hotly red. He excused himself abruptly and went home. At night in
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