Must the Flowers Die

Chapter 1: Americana

Mia and Alex walked towards the school.

"Hey, Alex!"

"Alex!"

"How was your summer, Alex?"

Mia frowned. "Do I not exist?"

Alex pulled her hair lightly, "You are too intimidating. Plus, you insist on wearing that mask. If I didn't know you, I would think you were a sourpuss too."

Mia shrugged his arm off her shoulder as they entered the school and pulled on her mask. She was one of a handful of students who abided by the school's mask policy. She wondered if it was at all helpful to anyone, given the compliance at the school was close to zero. She thought about not wearing it sometimes, but she just couldn't allow herself to. She apparently just enjoyed being unpopular.

She had caught a few annoyed glances from some girls on the cheerleading team, and she put a few extra inches between her and Alex. She did not need to attract the ire of those lusting after Alex so early in the semester. "Did you just say sourpuss?"

"Yep. Coach is making us run laps this year when we cuss, so I'm practicing."

"What about your First Amendment right?"

At that point, Alex spotted the basketball team congregated at their usual spot outside the cafeteria and lifted his chin slightly. As if robotic, the whole group of fifteen boys, ranging in constitution and appearance from mangy, post-puberty to slightly above average, returned the gesture.

Alex, like any self-respecting high school dreamboat, played several sports – football in the fall and basketball in the spring. While the football team, with its impeccable record, was the toast of the town, the underperforming basketball team had a much lower status.

Alex turned to Mia and remarked calculatingly, "I got to go say hi. You should come."

Mia glared at him. "For the nth time, not interested."

Mia turned on her heel and marched away. For a seventeen-year-old boy, Alex could meddle like an eighty-year-old grandmother. She was cognizant enough of her own single status without her best friend attempting to continuously play matchmaker and farm her out to any specimen with legs and a penis.

*

Mia slid into a seat besides Krystal Turnbull a minute before the bell rang. Krystal turned, and her slightly gap-toothed smile emerged under her curtain of straight brown hair. Krystal looked like a model, but runway, not Victoria Secret. In Piston, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was especially bad when the runway, gap-toothed model lived in a trailer and walked a little bit like a hunch-backed man.

Mia smiled back. Though she didn't know Krystal very well, Mia really appreciated the girl. Somehow, the girl had the grit and tenacity to withstand all kinds of bullying and remain chirpy.

Mia glanced around to take in the students in her first period beginners' photography class. It was the same faces she had been looking at since the eighth grade. It was a bit disappointing that there was no new blood, but that was to be expected in Piston. Transfers were rare and far between. Even when they did show up, they were rarely interesting. Well, actually, never. They were never interesting. Not really, not in a way that would fundamentally change the miserable mundanity of Leslie Mann High.

The new teacher was late. Mr. Smith, who had been the photography teacher the last three years, decided to move to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, to pursue his passion for jewelry design. Mia had taken other art classes with him, and they had grown close. Mia wished him luck, though she would miss him. His designs, the few he showed Mia after school, were actually really gorgeous. Semi-precious stones – jade, moonstone, rose quartz, agate – in controlled geometric splatters and gold-toned metals like spun candy. Somehow the designs incorporated chaos and restraint, modernity and timelessness at the same time. Mia did suggest before he left that he change his brand though. Mia doubted anyone wants to buy Matt Smith jewelry, no matter how detailed the craftsmanship or luxurious the material.