Love and Other Unknown Variables by Shannon Alexander Page A

picks up a tray of young plants. “Harvest Moon roses. My own breed.”
    I can tell she thinks I should be impressed from the way her eyes are lit from behind, but they look like plain old roses to me.
    Dimwit purses her lips and shoves the tray at me. “Plant the roses, and don’t screw it up.” She waits for me to leave then turns back to the other plants.
    Kneeling in the soil I tilled yesterday, I snatch a plant from the tray and wince as its tiny thorns bite into my fingers. I stare at the rose in my hand for a second and cram it in the hole I’ve dug.
    “Christ, Charlie, a turkey could do a better job than you.”
    I mumble to myself, “I’d like to see your ancient butt do a better job.”
    She may be old, but her hearing is seriously intact. From three yards away, she hears me and counters, “My ancient ass had planted perfectly good roses before you drove over them.”
    Should have said ass. Your ancient ass is some sweet alliteration. Or is it assonance? Crap. Ms. Finch is a bad influence.
    I roll my eyes and attempt to push dirt around the prickly rose. The thorns lash out at me once again, drawing fresh blood. Frustrated, I swat at the beastly plant with the trowel.
    “There you go again,” she says. “Messing it all up.”
    Exasperated, I snarl, “Show me then. Teach me, Obi Wan.”
    Mrs. Dunwitty snatches the trowel out of my hand and waggles it in my face. “All right, jackass. Let’s get to work.”
    Kneeling next to me in the dirt, she lovingly lifts the rose out of the hole I’d shoved it in. Her nimble fingers brush the dirt off the roots. “These right here are the life of the plant. The soul.” She checks to see that I’m paying attention. “These hold the power to regenerate life year after year. This here is the beginning.”
    She prepares the hole with compost and gently places the plant inside. She covers the roots with more dirt and soft, black compost. The plant is spindly now, but it has one big-faced flower open on it, a deep orange rose with petals smooth as velvet. Mrs. Dunwitty breathes in the scent of the rose and sighs.
    “Nothing like it. Reminds me of my momma and her garden. Of late summer and fireflies and big orange moons hanging in the sky. That’s what a rose smells like to me.”
    She rocks back on her heels, her face grimacing like something hurts. Getting old does not look fun.
    “Funny how it works,” she says. “The scent of this rose is made from one chemical compound, but it smells differently to each of us.” She pulls off her garden gloves, stretching her long, dark fingers out to touch the rose. “It’s a rose, plain as day, but what I smell is so much more. Perception is a powerful tool.”
    My mouth is hanging open out of pure shock. I know about plants and roots and growth patterns from botany classes, but this is something different. Something alive. This is poetry. Dimwit is a poet.
    “Close your mouth, son. You’ll swallow a fly.” She stands, her joints sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies. “How about you perceive yourself planting the rest of these?”
    I watch her back as she shuffles to her rocking chair. She closes her eyes, and I guess she is remembering the smell of her youth and the big orange moon.

3.1
    T he clouds let loose as I pull into the driveway. I jog into the mud room, shaking off my wet jacket, and see Charlotte leaning on the kitchen counter thumbing through an MIT course catalogue that I had left out. I was inspired to finish my short answers after watching the movie with her (forty-seven days to spare), and am just waiting for all my transcripts, scores, and recommendations to come in before I double-check that everything is in order and hit send. Greta says she’s proud of me, but every time I think about it, I feel like I’ll puke or crap my pants or maybe both at the same time.
    I push the application and MIT from my mind.
    “Hey,” Charlotte says, smiling and closing the booklet. Her face looks pale with