Page 105 of Cackle

“I made this!” I tell Ralph, letting him taste a small spoonful. He gives an enthusiastic squeal.

I get dressed and sail out to my car. I run into Lynn on the driveway. She’s walking up with a coffee cup I recognize from the Good Mug.

“Good morning!” I call out to her.

She gives a quick wave, then puts her head down and cuts across the yard, beelining toward the front door.

It occurs to me that the last time we saw each other, I was dancing barefoot in the backyard. For some reason, this compels me to say, “I made bone broth, if you’d like some! It’s broth from bones.”

If my goal was to let her know that I’m not weird, shouting the word “bone” at her twice before sunrise probably wasn’t the best move.

She gives another wave and then disappears into the house.

I save the broth and take it to Sophie’s on Saturday. She doesn’t think I’m weird. She thanks me and teaches me how to make soap from wood ash and pig fat.

“Don’t worry about Lynn,” she says when I tell her about our encounters. “She travels, sees a lot. She has an open mind.”

Lynn doesn’t seem that open-minded to me, but I guess it’s a lot to ask of someone to shrug off their upstairs neighbor frolicking around the yard on a cold November night, singing to herself.

“I’m glad for you, pet,” Sophie says. “It’s a nice thing, to cook for yourself. To be good to yourself. To commit to and feed your own happiness.”

“Yes,” I say. “I used to think, ‘Why put in all that effort just for me?’ But I get it now.”

“Mm,” she says, straining some strawberry juice for the soap.

The next weekend, Sophie teaches me how to make rose petal salve, how to make ginger oil. We roast and grind cinnamon. We dehydrate mint and make tea. We slice open vanilla beans with sharp knives and scrape out their insides. We bake cakes we adorn with fruit.

I teach myself how to make lamb stew. I teach myself how to bake salmon so it’s well-done, the way I like it. There’s no one else to consider, and for the first time, that feels like a gift. I dance around the kitchen to music of my choosing.

One morning, I wake up and there are flowers at the foot of my bed. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I picked them in my dreams.

I take them to school and display them in a vase on my desk.

“Who are those from?” Madison asks, picking fuzz from her glossy bottom lip.

“They’re from me,” I say.

She doesn’t bat an eye. “Nice.”

“You’re a special person,” I say. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She sits up a little straighter.

“Thank you,” she says, the compliment coaxing a rare smile.

When I get home, my apartment is crowded with flowers. A hundred floating bouquets. Pink and yellow roses, cobalt delphinium, pastel snapdragons, white calla lilies, red carnations.

I pick one of the carnations for Ralph.

“This is for you,” I tell him. At first he’s sheepish, but then he accepts it. He cherishes it the rest of the evening. He carries it with him to bed, cuddles it as he sleeps.

—

“I grew my own flowers,” I tell Sophie.

We’re in the conservatory watering plants. It’s balmy in here, and the humidity clouds the glass walls, the glass ceiling. Without any view of the world outside, the room is claustrophobic, overcrowded with plants and kneading fists of hot air. I draw a flower in the condensation on a window. It’s gone in seconds, engulfed in fog.

“You did?” she asks, spritzing a leafy fern. “That’s lovely.”